Listed: Volume III (7 page)

“Your
current job. Did you get that job through manipulation?”

“Yes,
it was a kind of manipulation. I didn’t break the law. I just applied an
unorthodox kind of persuasion.”
Emily was so proud of
Paul. His voice and expression never wavered, and he wasn’t letting Barton
fluster or confuse him in the slightest.

Barton
continued, “If you were willing to go to such unorthodox lengths to get a job,
why should we believe you aren’t doing so now in fabricating a murder case
against your father?”

“You
can believe it because I haven’t done so.”

“You
were the one who approached the authorities with the detailed information about
your father’s alleged illegal activities. Not the other way around.”

“Correct.”

“But
you only did this after Mrs. Marino had gone to the authorities first with her
story about being threatened?”

“Correct.”

“How
did you know she’d gone to the authorities at all?”

“It
was quite clear that my father had been threatening her for some reason, and
then it was quite clear that the FBI had some basis for a case, since they’d
started sniffing around. I put two and two together.”

“You
weren’t in collaboration with your wife before she went to the FBI?

“She
wasn’t my wife at the time. And, no, I wasn’t in collaboration with her.”

Emily
held her breath again, certain that Barton was going to pursue the same line of
questioning he had with her—painting Paul into a heartless, manipulative
seducer of teenage girls.

But
he didn’t.

Maybe
the dramatic conclusion of her testimony had convinced him that it wasn't an
effective card to play with the jury.

Instead,
Barton began, “Hating your father as you do—”

“I
don’t hate my father,” Paul interrupted.

“I’m
sorry,” Barton said, feigning confusion, “I thought you just testified that…”

“I
said I resented my father. I never claimed to hate him.”

“Ah,
I see.” Barton smiled. “Resenting him as you do, would you be happy if your
father was convicted in this trial?”

“I
would be pleased that justice was done.”

“You
wouldn’t be happy?”

Paul
met Barton’s eyes evenly. “I don’t think any scenario regarding my father has
the power to make me happy.”

“Why
not?” For once, Barton seemed to be asking an honest question, as if he really
wanted to know the answer.

And,
for the first time, Paul looked away from the defense attorney. In that moment,
Emily knew why.

“Mr.
Marino?” Barton persisted, looking faintly pleased that he’d finally managed to
flap this unflappable witness.

Paul
didn’t respond. He briefly moved a hand to his face, covering his mouth in a
characteristic gesture. His eyes were focused on an empty spot in the air.

“Your
honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mr.
Marino, please answer the question,” the judge instructed.

Paul
looked back at Barton. His eyes were absolutely heart-breaking, even from as
far away as Emily was sitting. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, and there
was no way not to believe him.

“Because
I still love him,” Paul admitted, “But he’ll never love me.”

The
courtroom was dead silent for a long time.

Emily’s
eyes burned, and she raised a hand to her chest—instinctively trying to hold
her heart in place because it just hurt so much. She could only imagine how
hard those words had been for Paul to say. They must have been ripped out of
him.

Barton
asked Paul a few more questions, but Emily barely heard them. They didn’t
matter. They weren’t important. And she was so relieved when Barton concluded
his examination, and Hathaway said there would be no redirect.

Paul
got up from the witness stand and walked back to where Emily was seated. He was
wearing another sleek black suit—and he held himself with the same confidence as
always, his shoulders straight, his eyes steady.

Emily
was almost shaking with emotion when he sat down beside her. He hadn’t really
even looked at her. He hadn’t looked at anyone.

His
body was tense beside her, and his eyes focused blankly on the courtroom proceedings.
She wanted to hug him. She desperately wanted to hug him, but she knew she
couldn’t do it.

Paul
would never be able to accept her affection openly, in public like this—not
after what he’d just been through.

But
she couldn’t bear not to do anything, so she reached over and picked up the
hand that he’d rested on the seat beside him. His hand had always been really
warm, but it was cool right now. Far too cool.

She
squeezed his hand, focused forward, not wanting to make him feel awkward by
even looking at him.

She
almost cried when he squeezed her hand back.

She
didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull his away. So she held his
hand—the only thing she could do—until the judge announced the trial would
recess for lunch.

*
* *

Emily took a long bath
that evening and then pulled on a white camisole and pink cotton pajama pants. She
felt restless and upset, and she wanted to just hibernate. But Chris called, so
she had to talk to him.

She
ended up crying on the phone, since she was already emotionally exhausted. He
was her friend, but he didn’t understand any of her choices, and she couldn’t
make him understand.

When
she finally hung up, she went to find Paul. She needed comfort, even just from his
silent presence. She found him in the media room, but this time he didn’t have
his laptop. He was sitting on the couch, wearing the black trousers to his suit
and the French blue dress shirt without the tie or jacket. He was staring at
the television, but she didn’t think he was really seeing it.

“Are
you okay?” he asked, when she came into the room.

She
gave her head a little nod and sat down beside him, folding up her legs beneath
her. She was afraid if she said anything, she would start to cry again.

“You
were talking to Chris?”

She
nodded again.

He
didn’t reply, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was far away.
His shoulders were tense, and that muscle was twitching in his jaw. “How are
you
doing, Paul?” she asked. When her voice came out too hoarsely, she cleared her
throat.

“I’m
fine.”

“Don’t
tell me that. I don’t believe you.”

Paul
met her eyes, and his mouth lifted at one corner, almost bitterly. “It’s
nothing new, Emily. It’s just the same stuff I’ve dealt with for years.”

“But
that doesn’t mean it’s not hard.”

He
didn’t reply. He just stared at the television. Emily wanted desperately to hug
him, to comfort him, to show him that she was there for him.

But
he still looked so stiff and guarded. She was afraid he would pull away, reject
her, and that would hurt.

She
sat for a while and tried to decide what she should do. She just didn’t have
any experience in dealing with men, particularly with someone as profoundly
private as Paul.

But
she was sure—she was absolutely sure—he needed something, and she was the only
one here to give it to him. If he rejected her, he rejected her. She didn’t
have very long left to live with memories of rejection anyway.

So
she pulled herself up on her knees and reached over to wrap her arms around
him.

He
froze, as if he were surprised or reluctant, but then, after a tense moment,
his arms went around her too. Then they tightened, like he’d let down some sort
of barrier, let himself go.

He
felt so warm and hard and needy that she couldn't pull away, and she ended up
halfway in his lap, with her legs draped over his thighs and her upper body
pressing into his chest. They hugged for a long time, tightly, nakedly needy.
Then Paul’s arms loosened some and she relaxed against him, resting her head on
his shoulder.

The
television was still on—it sounded like sports—but Emily was barely aware of
it.

She
breathed in the smell of Paul, warm and masculine, and took comfort in the fact
that he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.

After
a long time, she kind of wanted to say something, but she had no idea what to
say. She idly stroked his side over his soft shirt and looked up at his face.

He
was gazing down on her, and his eyes were so tender they took her breath away.

Her
lips parted. She was trapped by his gaze, and something deep inside her started
to shudder.

Paul
lifted a hand to her face. He brushed her hair back and then cupped her cheek.
His eyes were the most beautiful, hypnotizing things she’d ever seen.

A
rush of feeling swept through her body and then rose up in her chest. She
thought—she thought—he was going to kiss her. It looked like he wanted to, like
he thought she was precious to him.

And
Emily desperately wanted to kiss him.

So,
without thinking, acting only by instinct, she stretched up and pressed her
lips against his, very lightly. Then she pulled back just slightly, letting her
mouth hover in front of his, feeling his breath on her skin.

Then
they were kissing again, deeper and more hungrily. Paul’s hand slid backward to
cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair and holding her steadily against
his mouth. She fisted both of her hands in the fabric of his shirt, reeling
from emotion and sensation, needing to hold onto
something
.

Paul’s
mouth moved urgently against hers—more hungry than skillful—and now his tongue
slid beyond her lips, licking the underside of each in turn. It felt so good
she gave a silly moan at the back of her throat, and then his tongue was all
the way inside her mouth. Stroking. Fluttering. Tangling with hers.

Her
eyes squeezed shut, and her back arched instinctively, pressing her breasts
against his hard chest. She could feel the kiss so deeply—in her mouth, all
through her body—that she started to squirm.

Paul’s
mouth tore away from hers without warning, and she let her head fall backward,
gasping for air. He immediately took advantage of the exposure of her neck and
mouthed a hungry line down her throat.

“Oh
God!” she gasped, clutching, almost clawing at his shirt. The sensations overwhelmed
her, pulsing through her body with her blood.

Paul
slid his hands down to span her ribs, holding her steady and easing her into a
deeper arch of her spine. He was sucking the pulse at her throat, and it felt
so good she moaned helplessly.

She
could feel her nipples tighten and rub in delicious torment against the cotton
of her camisole. One of Paul’s hands shifted to stroke over the swell of her
breast, teasing the shameless peak of her nipple with the heel of his hand.

“Eh
heh!” she gasped out as the stimulation tugged with exquisite pleasure between
her legs. She let go of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying
to hold on and hold his head in place at the same time.

He
made a rough sound against her skin that absolutely thrilled her and caused the
throbbing to intensify between her thighs. She squirmed eagerly in his lap,
trying to feel as much of him as she could.

“Oh
fuck,” Paul rasped, raising his head and drawing back. When she tried to pull
him toward her again, he said, “I’m sorry. Emily, wait.”

She
was so disoriented from the sensations and so disappointed in the abrupt
interruption that she gave a little whimper. She blinked at him, her skin
flushed red, her body aching with arousal. “You don’t want to?”

Very
carefully, he eased her off his lap and back over to the seat of the couch.
“I’m sorry, Emily. I shouldn’t have…I can’t do this.”

She’d
fallen into an awkward flop, but she managed to sit up. Her body was still hot
and pulsing, and it was all she could do not to grab Paul’s tense body and pull
him down on top of her. “Oh.”

“I
shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, sitting stiffly and staring down at
the floor. His skin had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

“But
I wanted to,” she told him, hoping it would make a difference.

“I
know. I’m sorry.” He’d been breathing heavily, and she could see him trying to
even out his breath. “But we can’t…I don’t want to do this just because we both
had really bad days.”

“Oh.”
She swallowed hard, finally understanding. “Okay.”

He
looked over at her searchingly. “I’m sorry.”

She
nodded at him, fighting not to look as crushed as she felt. “It’s okay.”

She
understood. He’d been weak. He’d needed solace, company, somebody’s warm
presence. And she’d been there to give it to him. It hadn’t mattered, at the
moment, that she wasn’t the kind of girl he was attracted to. It was a weak moment,
and he’d succumbed to it.