Trust (14 page)

“CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING, ED?” Heather's father asked jovially. “Soda? Water? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Ed said. “I'm fine.”

Heather stared at Ed as he sat in her kitchen, unable to believe how composed and collected he was. But then, Ed had always been a class act when it came to impressing older people. He was just always so relaxed, so natural. He never tried to put on a front. And he never tried to kiss anyone's ass. He
earned
the respect of adults. A smile crept across Heather's lips. She was proud to have him here again — proud to be able to show him off with nothing to hold her back. Sam Moon was a thing of the past. Ed Fargo was the boy of the future.

“Okay, then, I'll leave you two kids to your studying,” her father said. He headed back into the living room.

Ed grinned at Heather.

She smiled back and wordlessly led the way down the short hall to her bedroom. His wheels made no sound on the hallway floor. She'd been surprised when Ed had called after dinner, asking to come see her. And the truth of the matter was that she'd been too weak to say no. She hadn't been sure if she felt like dealing with him — not so soon after the whole Sam disaster — but now that he was here . . . she
definitely
didn't regret her decision.

“Too bad I forgot my books,” Ed whispered as she opened her bedroom door.

She giggled, then turned and frowned at him, putting a finger over her lips to indicate silence. Ed rolled in ahead of her. She closed the door behind them, then turned on the light and sat on her bed.

“I have something for you,” he said.

Heather raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

“This is yours,” Ed said, pulling a bra out from his jacket pocket. He had a perfectly straight face.

Her jaw dropped, and instantly she blushed.
Oh, Jesus
. She quickly lurched forward and snatched it from him. She'd known she must have left it behind that night, but it was still mortifying to have the evidence of her actions right here in front of her. Somehow it made her feel weak, vulnerable.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “Your mom didn't find it, right?”

Ed shook his head. “Nope.”

“Whew.”

“So, anyway,” Ed said pointedly. “How are you?”

She shot him a sharp glance, then collapsed back on her bed. Never one to beat around the bush, was he? “I'm . . . kind of a mess,” she admitted, closing her eyes.

Ed said nothing.

“Yes, Ed,” she grumbled. “I broke up with him.”

“How was it?” he asked gently.

“It was weird. Bad. He acted like I was breaking his heart, like I had been two-timing him.” She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Even the memories were making her nauseated. “He was a jerk.”

Ed let out a deep breath. “Did you tell him about us?” She swallowed, suddenly frightened of where this conversation was heading. Would they get into another fight? She didn't know if she could handle that. She only wanted everything to be okay, to
forget
. . . .

“Sort of,” she said finally.

For a long moment Ed was quiet again. “Well, I'm glad you broke up with him,” he said eventually.

“Me too,” Heather whispered. God, it
was
a relief. She'd been banging her head against that wall long enough. He'd been totally obsessed with Gaia, anyway. “I always felt like second-best,” she added. Maybe she shouldn't have admitted that last part — but by acknowledging her weaknesses, she would show him he had nothing to fear from her. Not anymore.

“No one could ever think you were second-best,” Ed whispered. His voice was strained, hoarse.

Heather bit her lip. All she wanted right now was to lie in Ed's arms, have him hold her, feel his heart beating beneath his chest. And as if in answer to her silent prayer, Ed pushed his coat to the floor and rolled closer to her until their knees were touching. She sat up straight and looked into his eyes. Those deep, soft, sensitive eyes. He reached out and stroked her arm. She sat very still. Then she lowered her head gently and met his mouth with hers, and she felt so happy that she wanted to cry.

THE TINY, INFRARED BINOCULARS were pressed so firmly against Tom's face that his eye sockets were starting to ache. But he couldn't tear himself from the awful vision before him. Through the stained glass of the Cloisters' front window, he saw his brother reach out and touch Gaia's hand. He saw Gaia smile — her face blooming like a flower, her crystalline blue eyes glowing like stars as she gazed happily into the face of the man who Tom hated most in the world. His brother. His twin. His nemesis.

A bitter, acrid taste rose in the back of Tom's throat. He swallowed, shivering — but not from the cold. Loki and Gaia. Together. Since the murder of his wife five years before, Tom had gone to inconceivable lengths to keep Gaia safe and out of harm's way. He had even forsaken his relationship with her — cut off contact with his only daughter, his jewel, his only living link to Katia, in order for her not to be drawn into the web of deceit and betrayal that had taken Katia's life. To find her now, being lured into the tiger's lair so effortlessly, was more than he could handle.

Maybe he should just end it now. Maybe he should just burst into that restaurant and pump a bullet into Loki's brain. It would be so easy —

No!
He almost said the word out loud. He had to control himself. If he did something rash, he would lose Gaia forever. No . . . he had to plan his moves perfectly, strategically. It was like a game of chess — only far more intricate and devious.

He saw Loki's lips move, saw Gaia nodding, looking . . . what? Hopeful? Excited? Intrigued? What was Loki suggesting to her? These last few days Tom had been so concerned about the immediate threat that Ella posed to Gaia that he hadn't stepped back to consider the big picture. But did Loki want Gaia dead? It certainly didn't seem as if he did. No, as George had told him, Loki wanted Gaia for himself. So why was Ella trying to kill Gaia? Was it possible that Ella was trying to trick Loki? That she had betrayed him in some way?

The questions squirmed in his mind again and again. He had underestimated his brother. But he'd done it for the last time. The moment was drawing near. Tom had known it would have to come sometime. For his entire adult life, in fact, he'd known that he and Loki would face each other one day — and that one of them would have to die. When Loki had gone underground for so many years, Tom had hoped he'd somehow disappeared for good . . . been killed, been consumed by crime.

But then Loki had surfaced, and Katia had been murdered. And now Loki had come back for Gaia — the child Loki had always hoped he'd have with Katia.

The child Katia would never have allowed to be born.

Tiredly Tom lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. Soon this game would end. Tom would see to that. It would end . . . and Tom and Gaia would never have to worry about Loki or the ghosts of the past ever again.

“YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO,” PEARL said coaxingly.

“I do,” Ella said. She tried frowning but ended up giggling instead. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so relaxed and comfortable. Her head felt perfectly numb. She and Pearl had been sitting in a small, cozy wine bar (Ella was actually surprised she'd never heard of it) for the better part of four hours now, and Ella knew there was something she was supposed to do but couldn't think what. “This wine has gone straight to my head,” she confessed. “Usually it doesn't affect me so much.”

For some reason, Pearl started laughing. So did Ella. Before she knew it, the two of them were in hysterics, leaning together on the small velvet couch.

“Shhh!” Ella whispered, unable to control herself. She felt like a schoolgirl.

Finally Pearl took a deep breath. “I think the only solution is to have some more.” She refilled Ella's glass again with the dark red liquid. In the dim light of this secluded corner, the wine glowed like rich velvet.

A few last giggles escaped Ella's lips, and she took a sip. Each glass was better than the last. “Oh, this is so good,” she whispered, settling back against the couch. “I wish I didn't have to go, but I do. I just can't remember why.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. She couldn't believe how
wrong
she'd been about Pearl at first. Pearl might look conservative, but she wasn't at all. And it was so much more relaxing to be with another woman, a woman on her level, than to be with some stupid man or some enraging teenager. She
needed
easy, comfortable times like this. Even Pearl's
name
was perfect: a hidden jewel, something wonderful that you discovered only after you had peeled away layers of protection.

“Let me order another bottle,” Pearl suggested. She rested her hand on Ella's shoulder.

“No, no, I have to go,” Ella said again, looking deep into Pearl's warm topaz eyes, shining now with wine and candlelight. But the longer she thought about it, the more fuzzy her mind became. Why did she
have
to leave, anyway?

To go kill Gaia
, an inner voice replied.

The thought seemed so absurd that she started laughing again. To leave this lovely, warm, comfortable, intimate scene just to go take care of that stupid brat . . .

“What's funny?” Pearl asked softly.

“Nothing,” Ella said, taking another sip of wine.

“So are you going to stay?” Pearl pressed. Her fingers lingered on Ella's shoulder.

“I want to,” Ella said. “I guess I should call my husba — oh, no!”

“What?”

Ella suddenly bolted upright, swishing the wine in her glass. “My husband went out of town tonight, and I was supposed to see him before he left. What time is it?”

Pearl checked her tiny gold watch. “A little after ten.”

“Damn.” Ella gathered up her coat, irritation flowing through her veins and counteracting some of the effects of the wine. She put her glass on the low coffee table, then slid her purse over one arm and rose unsteadily to her feet, teetering for a moment on her heels. “I'm sorry, Pearl, I have to go.”

Pearl arched her eyebrows. “If you must . . .”

“I must.”

“Just finish this, then,” Pearl said, handing Ella her glass once more. “It will keep you warm out in the night air.”

Ella hesitated, then thought,
What the hell?
She was already buzzed. She accepted the wine from Pearl's hands and took a deep sip. She wrinkled her nose. For some reason, it tasted heavy, sour. Maybe it was just tainted by the thought of going to see her husband and foster daughter. “I can't even enjoy it anymore,” she complained.

“Oh, come on,” Pearl coaxed in a seductive tone. As if to demonstrate, she picked up her own wineglass and drained its contents, her smooth throat working as the liquid went down. Ella watched, mesmerized, but shook her head regretfully.

“I — I have to leave,” she stammered. She buttoned up her coat and started toward the door.

“Wait,” Pearl called. “Do you want to meet me tomorrow?”

Ella hesitated, glancing over her shoulder.

“Come to La Cocina, in the West Village,” Pearl said with an inviting smile. “Do you know it?”

“Yes.” Ella stared into the topaz eyes.

“Then meet me there. Promise.”

Ella nodded. “I promise.”

“Nine o'clock.” Pearl's voice was like music.

“La Cocina, nine o'clock,” Ella repeated as she swayed slightly. Yes, she would be there. She would
definitely
be there.

IN SOME WAYS IT WAS EASIER for Ed to be with Heather here — in
her
house, with her parents right down the hall — than it had been back in Ed's house when they were alone. They couldn't just rip off their clothes and throw themselves on the bed. They couldn't get themselves in too deep right now, and maybe that was a good thing.

Ed just needed to keep telling himself that. Right now his lower back was killing him from leaning forward at this angle for so long — but he didn't want to stop kissing Heather. It just felt too good, too perfect.

There was a noise in the hall: the sound of a closing door. Ed jumped a little, pulling back.

Heather smirked. “Relax,” she whispered. “It's just Dad. He'd never come in here without knocking. He probably just went to get his slippers or something.”

Ed nodded but didn't make a move to pick up where they had just left off.

“Heather?” he heard himself ask. “What are we doing?”

She sighed and lifted her shoulders, smiling sadly.

“I don't know, either,” he admitted. “Getting to know each other again?”

“Something like that.” Her eyes searched his face. “Maybe we're moving a little fast,” she said hesitantly.

He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe we're not moving fast enough,” he joked. But Heather didn't smile. He could feel the air thicken with tension, as if a thick, poisonous smog were slowly filling the room, choking them. Too many issues had been left unaddressed. Sam. Gaia. The accident . . .

“Maybe we
should
do some studying,” Heather murmured.

Ed nodded.

Heather pushed herself off her bed, then began pacing around the room — agitatedly, running her hands through her hair. Ed didn't move. Not that there was really a place for him to go. He could either spin in a circle or pop a wheelie. All at once his wheelchair felt bulky, awkward. It was too big for such a small space. It was in the way.
He
was in the way. Or was that just in his mind? Heather
wanted
him here. She didn't care about the freaking chair. That's what she'd been trying to tell him all week. So why was he still afraid, still unsure, still feeling inadequate? A voice was screaming in his skull:
Say something, you moron! Tell her how happy you are
. But he couldn't. That would be a lie. And he had no idea why.

“Ed?” Heather suddenly whispered. Her voice was shaking.

“Yes?”

“Do you still blame
me?
”

He bit his lip. That was the question, wasn't it? It was the only question in the end. And it had a thousand answers, an answer for every day he lived with paralysis: yes, no, not really . . . He couldn't bring himself to speak. He didn't know what he would say even if he could.

Heather marched to the door and opened it.

“It's been nice studying with you,” she said as tears spilled from her eyelashes. “I'll see you later, okay?”

Ed nodded, then picked up his jacket and rolled into the hall. The real tragedy wasn't that he'd hurt Heather — although he honestly didn't mean to cause her any more pain. No, the real tragedy was that he knew he'd never be able to give her an answer. Ever.