Wicked Burn (25 page)

Niall stood and walked stiffly to the visitors’ exit for the day room. A nurse with a concerned expression on her face buzzed her through the thick metal door. Niall heard Stephen’s voice behind her already becoming hoarse from his repeated, harsh rants.

“
It should have been you!
”

The security door shut behind her for the last time, and there was only silence.

FOURTEEN

Niall looked up from where she knelt on the floor of her office when she heard the knock.

“Come in!”

She smiled when she saw her boss, Alistair McKenzie.

“Don’t pack up too much,” he said with mock alarm as he glanced around her office, as if reassuring himself that all the major furnishings were still in place. “You’ll make me think you’re never returning from your sabbatical!”

“You’re not going to get rid of me that easy,” she said as she put the lid on a box that contained some materials that she’d collected from her files for her summertime teaching endeavor. It still amazed her a little to think that it had been over a half year ago when she’d sat in this very office and heard Anne Rothman first mention the prospect of teaching a class to high school students downstate. At the time Niall didn’t have the vaguest hint that she would end up being the teacher that the Institute hired for the job.

But that just went to show you how much could change in a half a year.

She stood and waved in invitation to one of the chairs in front of her desk. She sat in her chair and leaned forward, studying her boss with abrupt intensity. “I hope nothing is amiss with the Nakamura paintings. I saw to the packaging myself . . .”

“No, no, nothing like that, Niall,” Mac said as he gave a dismissive wave. “They’re wrapped up, snug as a bug and ready for shipment, just as the rest of the exhibit is. You really outdid yourself on this one.”

Niall smiled, warmed as usual by his praise and the twinkle in his brown eyes. Mac had always been supportive of her, but in the six years that Niall had been at the museum, their relationship had grown into a connection that more resembled a father-daughter one than that of employee-employer.

“I have to admit I was proud of it,” Niall conceded as she sat back in her chair and exhaled. “I only wish that Nakamura would have allowed me to have the paintings for longer . . . at least until the end of the summer.”

Mac shrugged elegantly. “We were fortunate to have them for as long as we did. It was a stunning show, Niall. Everyone is saying so. Besides, if the exhibit went on that long, you wouldn’t be able to take your sabbatical, would you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Niall agreed. Something about the pause in conversation that followed told Niall that Mac had something he wanted to say but was having trouble finding the appropriate opening. She waited while he resituated himself in his chair.

“You know, I was wondering—when was the last time you actually taught?” he asked.

“I haven’t officially since I was a graduate student, but you know that I give lectures here in the museum regularly about our collection.”

“It’s going to be quite different for you, teaching high school students, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “Yes, but I’m feeling up for the challenge.” She paused, experiencing a rush of gratitude when she recognized the truth of her words.

It might have taken her half a year of soul searching to get this way but Niall
was
, indeed, up for the challenge. And that meant a hell of a lot more than teaching art history to a group of high school students during their summer break. It meant reclaiming her life.

It meant going after Vic Savian—whether he liked it or not.

“Actually, Meg Sandoval says that they’re quite a talented, gifted group of kids,” Niall told Mac. “I’m sure it won’t be that different than teaching nineteen- and twenty-year-old undergraduates.”

Mac smoothed his pant leg distractedly. Her boss always dressed impeccably. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Niall shook her head and laughed. “Mac, why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”

His gaze met hers abruptly. “Can’t put anything past you, can I, Niall? It’s just that Kendra and I were concerned about you at the beginning of the year. All of that stuff with Stephen had to be enormously stressful for you. And of course”—his eyes flickered over her face cautiously—“I know that January has always been difficult for you anyway, seeing as how it’s the anniversary of Michael’s death.”

Niall tensed, more out of habit than anything else. When she realized that the mention of her son’s death didn’t strike her with the painful, resounding blow that it used to, she exhaled slowly. Her gaze settled softly on the tri-fold of pictures that she always kept on her desk—Michael in the blue knit cap and blanket that he’d been wearing when the nurse first brought him to her from the nursery; Michael grinning from ear to ear, holding a green dinosaur clutched in one hand on his third birthday; Michael with his light brown hair carefully combed and a much more sober, sweet smile as he stood by their front door at the house in Barrington before his first day of nursery school.

“It’s been three and a half years now since Matthew Manning shot Michael,” she said quietly. She thought Mac might have been as shocked as she was that she’d mentioned not only her son but his murderer’s name out loud. “It’s hard to believe that much time has passed. In many ways, it still feels like it was yesterday. And then my divorce was finalized in February,” she added softly. “So I guess you’re worried that I’m running off to the country for the summer in order to bury my head in the sand—or the fertile soil, more appropriately. You’re wondering if my taking this sabbatical is a good thing for me or if I’m running scared.”

Mac looked like he was going to deny it, but then he raised a hand. “Yes. I suppose that is what Kendra and I have been wondering. I’ve approved your sabbatical, Niall. I’m not changing my mind as your boss. But as a friend I’m worried about the abruptness of your decision, the . . . unexpected nature of it . . .”

Niall felt a pang of remorse when she fully recognized Mac’s concern. He and Kendra had obviously noticed that she was unusually preoccupied and tense since Christmas of last year. They’d assumed that it related to Stephen’s partial recovery, the finalizing of her divorce, and the anniversary of Michael’s murder. And they wouldn’t have been entirely wrong in their assumptions.

But they didn’t know that the primary reason for her emotional unrest related to the fact that the man that she’d so recently come to realize that she loved had disappeared from her life. Nor did they know that Niall, immobilized by a fog of uncertainty and guilt, had just let Vic go without a word of protest or explanation.

Maybe she’d deserved Vic’s scorn at that fateful moment when Alexis had blurted out the truth about her marriage. Niall wasn’t sure about that. The only thing that she knew for sure was that over the past few months her fog had lifted. It had taken her three and a half years to get here, but she’d arrived, nonetheless, at a state of acceptance.

She knew she’d grieve over Michael for the rest of her life. Her little boy’s senseless death—not to mention the fact that Niall had been there and witnessed it herself—had left a jagged, deep wound that had been extremely difficult to heal. Niall suspected that the psychic scar would pain her intermittently for her whole life. The subsequent loss of Stephen to madness had only exacerbated her grief.

But what had happened with Stephen back in January had helped her to understand the machinations of her husband’s insanity . . . and with understanding came healing.

She considered telling Mac about her lonely journey, but she refrained. For some reason, the first person she wanted to talk to about what she’d kept locked away for so long was Vic. Not that there was any guarantee that he would listen . . . but she owed it to both of them to try.

She leaned forward, elbows on her desk, and caught Mac’s eye.

“I want you listen very carefully. I can’t
wait
to go downstate to teach those kids art history. It will be a challenge to work with teenagers, but a refreshing one, I think. And I’m going to be boarding at Meg’s farmhouse. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to breathing the clean air, taking long walks . . . looking into the sky at night and actually being able to see the stars.”

Mac relaxed a little in his chair when he saw her enthusiasm.

“You’re fired up about the whole thing, aren’t you?” he asked with a laugh.

Niall sighed. “You have no idea.”

Once again, Mac hesitated. “And . . . and your decision has nothing to do with . . . what’s going to happen in late June?”

Niall’s eyes flickered up to Mac’s in surprise. “How did you know about that, Mac?”

“I read a blurb in the
Tribune
that Manning’s execution had been rescheduled.”

Niall exhaled slowly during the silence that ensued.

“It’s been postponed twice now since they made him the exception for the moratorium on executions in Illinois. Chances are it won’t happen.”

“So your leaving town this summer has nothing to do with—”

“No,” Niall said abruptly, shaking her head. But even as she answered so surely, she wondered if some unconscious part of her brain hadn’t nudged her to plan events so that she could escape the horror that just seemed never to go away . . . if she secretly wished to be near Vic on the fateful day of Matthew Manning’s execution.

She was so nervous and excited about leaving for Vic’s farm tomorrow that she practically hadn’t slept in a week. She also was scared witless that Vic would be so furious about Meg and Niall’s little conspiracy that he’d shut her out as efficiently as he had Jennifer Atwood when he’d discovered her betrayal.

Meg still didn’t know all the details of Niall’s past, but Niall had told her about her son’s death, not revealing exactly how he’d died. She’d also told Meg about Stephen’s condition, her divorce, and how Vic had found out in such a shocking fashion that Niall had still been married during their affair.

Meg had been nothing but kind and sympathetic. But she was also baldly honest and had told Niall that every time she talked to her brother about Niall, he went cold as a frigid Chicago winter wind. Vic had never actually forbidden Meg to speak about Niall in front of him. But Meg explained to Niall just a few weeks ago that she got the impression he’d done
just
that, given the fact that he turned and walked away every time Meg tried to plead Niall’s case.

Niall had felt awful about that, of course. She didn’t want to cause any arguments between Meg and Vic. And she doubted that she was sowing much fraternal accord by showing up on Vic’s farm to live for two months when he knew nothing about it, either. But Meg and Anne had been so convincing. And Vic’s sister had implied that she was worried about Vic’s state of mental health, as well.

Niall had prepared herself to weather Vic’s initial storm of fury at her unexpected presence on his farm.

She
had
to do this. She just had to. When she considered the fact that she hadn’t seen Vic’s face or looked into his magnificent, soulful gray eyes now for over six months, it caused a sharp, nearly debilitating pain to go through her. Not to mention the fact that the last time he’d been staring at her, it had been with an expression of stark disbelief, as if he had been watching her face morph into a stranger’s right before his very eyes.

But no, she wouldn’t dwell on that now. If she did, she’d sink back into that morass of hopelessness and despair that had overwhelmed her when she spent last Christmas alone in her depressing beige and white Riverview apartment. Maybe she’d deserved his anger back then, but she hadn’t deserved to lose him forever. Which is precisely what she’d almost let happen due to her own guilt.

But that was all over now, Niall vowed to herself as she lifted the box from the floor. She glanced back at her office, poignantly aware that she was about to embark on a new chapter in her life. Satisfaction surged through her when she turned the lock on the door and shut it with a brisk bang.

She was going after Vic. If fate had determined that he wasn’t meant to be hers, at least Niall would know that it wasn’t because her grief and guilt had kept her from trying.

FIFTEEN

A determined glint shone in Missy Shane’s green eyes as she tossed her tray on the bar. The man she studied so intently didn’t look up at the loud noise. She frowned and began to fill her own draft orders. Alex, the owner and bartender of the El Paso Lounge, must be in the back getting another keg. The El Paso would close in two hours, which meant it would be reaching its peak of Saturday night rowdiness any minute now.

Not that you could have guessed that by looking at the silent, morose man sitting at the bar. His dark, shaggy hair was in desperate need of a cut, although Missy had to admit that the wildness of it was dead sexy. The unruly waves fell forward on his forehead and brushed his lean cheeks and collar, casting him further into shadow. His elbows rested on the bar and his broad shoulders hunched forward as though he protected a bone from all potential comers.

Missy grinned slightly at her mental comparison of Vic Savian to a big dog. She was going to do her damndest tonight to get her hands on that bone. Ellie Sheerer, another waitress at the El Paso who had been lucky enough to get in Vic’s pants one chilly night last April, had informed Missy with relish that the beast’s bone was worth any sacrifice to taste. Her nose wrinkled distastefully at the thought of buxom, boisterous Ellie getting the privilege of sucking off Vic Savian’s big, delicious cock in the parking lot of the El Paso when he’d never so much as glanced twice at Missy.

Missy was Halver County’s Corn Queen for two years running, after all. Sure, it was ten years ago that she’d won those titles, but Missy was every bit as tight and voluptuous at twenty-nine as she had been at nineteen. She might not have tits as big as Ellie’s but she’d been told by quite a few of her lovers that she gave head every bit as fine as her rival did, although she didn’t have the experience that Ellie’s thirty-eight years granted her.