Stolen: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (19 page)

In her bed.

Elliot was in her bed.

Shay gulped.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice a low, sexy rumble.

She gulped a second time and managed to squeak out, “Morning.” Then, as terror and nerves gripped her, she scrambled out of the bed and took off for the bathroom.

Halfway there, she realized she wasn’t wearing a shirt. But she was wearing her jeans.
What the
 …

Forget about it. She’d figure it out in the bathroom.

She slammed the door behind her and sagged against it, covering her face with her hands. She stood there trembling for a minute and then she stormed across the bathroom floor and turned on the water, washed her face. As she was brushing her teeth, she tried to think; she needed to think. The entire night was nothing but one black pit. She didn’t remember much of anything …

Not much of anything … Slowly, Shay lowered her hands. She didn’t remember the nightmares. That was almost always the first thing on her mind when she woke and they weren’t there.

Wait …

She spit out a mouthful of toothpaste and rinsed her mouth out, staring into the black bowl of the sink. “No nightmares,” she whispered.

And Elliot’s words from the past night came back to her … 
I’ll be here if the nightmares start …

She put the toothbrush down and then rested her hands on the black marble. It felt cool and solid under her hands, and without it, she might have sagged to the floor.

Slowly, she made herself straighten, made herself stare at her reflection in the mirror. She rarely looked at it for more than a minute or two while she brushed her teeth and combed her hair. But now she stared at herself, saw the scars on her still bared chest.

Scars she could now remember showing Elliot.

And he hadn’t flinched.

She’d asked him to hold her, even though she didn’t dare hope he still had those kinds of feelings for her—he’d walked away from her, after all.

Now, those words from last night came back to her, a warm whisper that echoed around and around inside her head.

You think I don’t have anything in me for you? Baby … everything I have in me is for you. You’re my everything
.

And then she’d told him what had happened, and he’d stayed. Had held her through the night.

Tears burned her eyes and she reached up, pressing her fingertips to them. “God,” she murmured. “Did that really happen?”

There wasn’t an answer, though.

Everything after the phone call with Darcy was a dazed rush of adrenaline, fear, and nerves. She couldn’t remember it clearly, but she was pretty certain he’d said that.

Pretty certain wasn’t good enough.

Before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed a towel, clutching it to her bare chest before opening the door. The room was empty.
Shit—

Modesty forgotten, she dropped the towel and took off running.

Only to stop halfway down the hallway as she smelled coffee. Swallowing, she took a deep breath and glanced back. Okay, she needed to get a grip. Turning around, she went to her room and grabbed the first shirt she could find—it was one of her workout tanks—and she tugged it on and left the room. Already, her courage was fading and she needed to do this. Needed to ask, before she chickened out and spent the next week wondering and worrying and—

“Hey.”

She came to an abrupt halt as she saw Elliot in the middle of the living room.

He had a hesitant smile on his face. As if he wasn’t sure exactly what to do or say.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. He glanced past her toward her room, then back at her. “I thought I heard you running …”

“Ah. Um.” She shoved her hair back and shuffled her feet. “I thought you might have left.” Then she shrugged and gestured toward the kitchen. “Then I smelled the coffee, and …”

Hell. She
sucked
at this. Turning away, she stared at the floor, curling her toes into the carpet and eyeing the badly chipped polish on her toenails. She hadn’t given herself a pedicure since her accident—she liked painting her nails. Odd little thought, that.
You’re procrastinating
, she chided.
Stop it
.

Spinning around, she stared at him. “Did you hold me last night?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously. His gaze was guarded.

She swallowed and looked down at her chest, at the scars hidden by the thin, ribbed tank—horrified, she realized it was
too
thin. She could see the outline of her nipples, stabbing into the cloth. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she crossed her arms over her chest, embarrassed.
Turning away, she stared at the cold, dark fireplace.

“You …” She stopped, her mouth painfully, achingly dry.
Shit
. Turning back to him, she gestured to her chest. “I showed you, didn’t I? And you …”

“Shay.” He came to her then.

The words she was reaching for died and she looked at him, lost.

As he cupped her face in his hands, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to her mouth. “Yes, you showed me. And the only thing about it that bothers me is how much you suffered … and how much I want to hurt the bastard who did it to you.”

She sagged against him. Out of reflex, she reached up and grabbed at his waist, her fingers curling into the belt loops of his jeans. “So that means … the other stuff I thought you said …”

He smiled against her mouth. “Yeah. I said that, too.”

“Oh.” She pulled her head back and stared at him. “Oh …” Blowing out a breath, she smiled at him.

“Oh?” He grinned at her. “Is that all you’ve got to say? I lay my heart out for you and you say … 
oh
?”

To her surprise, she giggled. Dropping her head against his chest, she sighed. “I thought maybe I’d … I dunno … thought I’d dreamt it.”

“No nightmares?” He skimmed a hand up her back, then down, resting it low on her spine, just above her butt.

“Not that I can remember.” Closing her eyes, she murmured, “You don’t know how rare that is. The only time I usually sleep without nightmares is when I work myself into exhaustion or go a few days without sleep.”

“Well, don’t take this wrong, but I don’t think you were that far off.” He nuzzled her temple. “How long has it been since you really slept, Shay?”

“Beats me.” She didn’t care, either. She felt halfway decent just then. Rested.

“Somebody’s been calling. Your caller ID said it was Darcy Montgomery.”

Shay grimaced and pulled back. His arms fell away and she almost wished she hadn’t moved, but the easy, relaxed moment had disappeared the second he’d mentioned Darcy’s name. Jamming her hands into her back pockets, she started to pace. “Darcy.”

“That’s who you were talking to last night.”

She slid him a look over her shoulder. “Yes.”

“The one who called you that name.”

Shay stopped. “Michelline,” she whispered, staring down into the cold fireplace. Abruptly, she grabbed the matches from the mantel and knelt down. She needed to occupy her hands and her mind, even if it was with something mundane—

Can you tell us what happened, Michelline?

“Stop it,” she whispered.

“Shay?”

She shook her head. “Not you. I …” She struck a match and touched it to the kindling. She always tried to keep a fire ready to go. She loved having a fire going in here. It was soothing. Calming. Once the flames were crackling away, she remained there, watching the flames as they danced. “I think I’m remembering something. Or trying to.”

“Remembering what?” Elliot asked.

She glanced back at him as he moved closer and sat down beside her.

“From when they took me away from him—when I was little,” she said softly. “I don’t remember much of
anything
. Not until Virna. Before that, everything else is blank. As far as I’m concerned, my life started when Virna … Mom took me home.”

She laughed sadly, the ache in her heart twisting. It
had been so many years and that ache was still there. By the time she’d escaped her stepfather, Virna had already died. No good-byes, no chance to say she was sorry. Nothing.

“It took me
years
to call her Mom, even though that’s who she was to me. And I still think of her as Virna. Up here.” She tapped her forehead. “But to me,
Virna
meant mother. I remember the cops asking me about my mom. Maybe that’s why part of me doesn’t like the word
mom
. It doesn’t have pleasant connotations for me or something.”

She licked her lips and looked down, staring at her hands.

“Sometimes I dream of blood. I dream of it, and I wake up thinking I’ll be covered in it.”

Elliot reached over, twining his fingers with hers. “You were hurt damn bad by him. Whether it was then, or when you were older, blood and pain often go hand in hand. Maybe it’s just from that.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged and shifted around, settling on her bottom next to him. “And maybe it’s because a very big part of me blames myself for Virna dying. He never would have gone after her if she hadn’t adopted me. Part of me still feels like her blood is on my hands—that could explain it right there.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Shay didn’t answer. No, she didn’t think so. Sometimes, she had a fleeting image in her head. As if she’d seen herself as they led her out of her house one last time … seen a mirror or something.

And there had been blood on her. A small, thin child … splattered with blood.

Shay closed her eyes.

Can you tell us what happened, Michelline?

The phone started to ring.

Her eyes flew open and she swore. Shooting to her
feet, she moved across the living room. Behind her, Elliot said, “You know, if you don’t want to talk to anybody, just ignore it.”

She glanced at him. “Can’t. I keep hoping it’s my agent.”

It wasn’t.

Shay stared at the display. Darcy’s number. And once the ringing stopped, her cell phone showed that she’d already missed a call this morning. Sighing, she hit a button and checked. Darcy.

There was also a text from Lorna. Shay frowned as she read it.

She checked her home number. No calls from New York. Right now, that was the only number that mattered. Well, that or North Carolina.

Turning around, she said, “Darcy called last night?”

“Yeah.” He half-turned to face her, long legs stretched out. “Her exact words … ‘Who the hell is this?’ ” Elliot shrugged. “I told her that wasn’t any of her business. Then she puts on this nice act and asks to speak to you. I told her you were asleep and hung up.”

Shay laughed. “Oh, she’s going to love that.”

“Like I give a fuck.” Then he winced. “Sorry. She’s a friend of yours, so …”

Then he stopped. “What?”

Shay looked away. “I … hell. I don’t know. She used to really
be
nice, you know. It wasn’t an act. Lately, though, I’ve been feeling like she’s working me. I’m being manipulated somehow. And that makes me even more suspicious that she’s behind this.”

Elliot’s eyes sharpened and he got up off the floor. As
he crossed toward her, she found herself staring at him, at the way his worn jeans clung to his thighs, the way his sweater stretched over his chest. She licked her lips, remembering the feel of his hands … the way it felt to touch him.

“Behind this … you mean behind the mess with your books?” Elliot asked.

She blinked and jerked her gaze upward. “What?”

“You think your friend might be the one impersonating you?”

“Well, if she’s impersonating me, she’s not exactly the friend I thought she was,” Shay said softly. “But … yeah. And it doesn’t make sense. She’s one of the few friends I’ve got. Lorna, my … ah. My sister. And Darcy. I
know
Darcy. I love her. She wouldn’t
do
this. But it’s the only thing that’s adding up, so I don’t get it.” She didn’t
want
to get it, she thought. It hurt too much.

“People can do crazy shit,” Elliot said sourly. “Stuff you never would have thought they’d do. Maybe something just pushed her over.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Easing closer, she reached out and curled her hands in the front of his sweater. Under it, she felt the warmth of his chest, the strength of him. It went straight to her head.

Elliot went still. It was amazing, she thought. He’d been all but vibrating with intensity—she had
seen
the anger burning in him, as if it had been coming off him in invisible waves. That was Elliot … 
life
came off him like that. It was something about him that had attracted her from the beginning. He was life … and she was emptiness.

But now, it was as though he’d cut himself off and he was so still. All the intensity that was Elliot was silent and still.

She shifted her hand just a little to the side until she
could feel the rapid
bump-bump
of his heart against her hand. “I don’t really want to talk about Darcy right now,” she said quietly, still staring at her hand on his chest.

The sweater was that weird, not-quite-white color. Off-white. She looked awful in that color. Like a washed-out corpse. Not Elliot. But Elliot looked amazing in anything.

For the first time, she thought she really, really might be ready to see what he looked like in
nothing
. Not in fantasy, but in reality. She’d fantasized about it plenty. But she didn’t want to fantasize. She didn’t want to think.

She wanted to live. She wanted to feel.

Elliot’s hand came up, curled around her wrist. “Shay …”

She shifted her gaze up, staring at him through her lashes.

Dull flags of color rode high on his cheeks and the gold of his eyes glittered hot and bright.
There
, she thought distantly. There was all that intensity. Her head started to spin a little and she swayed closer to him, bracing her other hand against his chest.

Elliot’s lids drooped low and she felt his chest rise and fall.

“Damn it, Shay.”