Unguarded (9 page)

But she'd already done that, had already spent days and weeks hiding from the world, letting her life pass her by because she was too depressed to deal. Too miserable to get on with a life that felt like it was no longer worth living.

Damn it, no. She forced her eyes open. She was finished hiding from herself, finished hating herself and her body because of what some madman had done to her. Though everything inside of her urged her to flee, Rhiannon held her ground and made herself look.

She started with her legs, which bore scars similar to those on her arms—wide bands around her ankles from the restraints, and shallow knife wounds on her shins and thighs, from where he had cut her and laughed.

Then she moved up to her breasts and abdomen, where deeper, wider scars marked where he had stabbed her—not deeply enough to kill her, but more than deeply enough to mark her for life.

Memories bombarded her, making her knees tremble and her breath hitch. She pushed them away, refused to give in to the fear that assailed her every time she thought of him. Oh, but it was hard, so hard to stand here, and look at the damage. To look at what he'd done to her simply because he could.

When she'd had enough, when her knees had finally stopped knocking together and her heartbeat had
almost returned to normal, she flipped off the light and made her way back into the bedroom.

After crawling into her pajamas, she burrowed under her covers but left the light on. Across the room, the TV beckoned, promising if not total oblivion then at least a momentary distraction. She reached for the remote, started to click the power button, but in the end, couldn't do it.

That's how she'd been coping for years. A sleeping pill combined with late-night reruns of her favorite sitcoms. Anything and everything to avoid the fact that she'd been hurt, simply because someone had wanted to hurt her, to scare her.

Anything and everything to avoid the fact that her husband had left her to deal with the aftermath of the attack on her own—all because he couldn't accept what she had become. But then, it was hard to blame him when she couldn't accept it herself.

Reaching out, she swept the empty wineglass off of her nightstand with one quick flick of her hand. It hit the wall and shattered into a million tiny pieces, irreparably broken, like her.

It felt so good to admit it, so good not to fight it anymore that she shoved the pile of books onto the floor next. Then her phone and alarm clock.

Rage swelled within her. Huge, towering, uncontainable rage that nearly smothered her with its intensity. Climbing out of bed, she grabbed the large, freestanding jewelry box Richard had given her for her thirty-fifth birthday and shoved it hard enough for it to tumble onto its side. The mirrored tray she kept on top of it came crashing down, along with her perfume bottles and hand creams. Its doors fell open,
earrings and rings, bracelets and brooches, necklaces and watches tumbling drunkenly out.

She knew she should stop, knew she should crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head like she had so many times before. But she was sick of hiding, sick of pretending all those horrible things hadn't happened to her. They had happened, and damn it, she was furious about it.

Rhiannon headed for the dresser on the other side of the room, picked up the beautiful vase she'd bought at her favorite furniture store and smashed it against the wood. Did the same to the tall, slender lamp and collection of odds and ends that rested on the dresser's other side. Then picked up the music box Matt had given her the previous year and heaved it, as hard as she could, against the wall. It hit a print she had hanging there, under glass, and both shattered, the picture frame crashing to the ground with a resounding thud.

She moved on to the chest of drawers near the door and did the same thing, until there was nothing left to throw. Nothing left in the entire room to destroy.

When she was finished, when the fury departed as suddenly as it had come, Rhiannon stepped gingerly through the mess. Closing her bedroom door firmly behind her, she sank onto the sofa and pulled the lavender afghan she had resting there over her. For the first time in a very long time, she fell asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

E
VEN THOUGH SHE'D SWORN
to herself that she was done with Shawn, sitting on a lounge chair in her brother's backyard, watching Matt flip burgers and flirt with his wife, Camille, it was hard for Rhiannon not to think of him. Harder still not to think of everything she was missing as she cradled Matt's newborn son, Cole, in her arms.

He'd burst into the world six weeks before with bright blue eyes and a full head of auburn hair and from the second she'd held him, Rhiannon had been one hundred percent in love. Cole was the first baby any of her siblings had had, the baby that had finally made her an aunt after she'd spent so many years longing to be a mother.

She loved his warm weight in her arms, loved his delicate rosebud mouth and his wide, alert eyes that were even now staring up at her with wonder. Loved everything about him from the tips of his tiny toes to the top of his little head. And she couldn't help wondering what it would be like if the attack had never happened, if she and Richard had gone through with their plans to finally have a baby of their own. She'd wanted one for so long, but had always let him put her off. There was never enough time, enough money, enough anything.

She had finally convinced him to start trying a
month or so before she'd been raped, and had spent hours daydreaming about what it would feel like to hold her own baby in her arms. That had been one more dream that had crashed and burned the day she'd been ambushed by a madman.

Cole burped, and a trickle of milk leaked from the corner of his mouth. Reaching for the burp cloth Camille made sure was never far from the baby, Rhiannon cleaned him up before lifting him to her shoulder and rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“I can take him if you want.”

She glanced up to find her sister-in-law watching her, an easy and relaxed smile on the other woman's face. “That's okay.” Rhiannon smiled. “I love to hold him. Go hang out with Matt for a while—I'm sure you two don't get much time together these days.”

“Yes, well, I've been banished from the grill.” Camille popped the top off a soda and handed it to Rhiannon before opening another one for herself. “Apparently, I'm too much of a distraction.”

Rhiannon could believe it. She was shocked at how good her sister-in-law looked six weeks after giving birth—currently, she was dressed in a skimpy pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top that showed off the fact that she'd already lost most of the baby weight. Plus, her skin was glowing and she had a huge smile on her face. Only the dark circles under her eyes told the tale of how little sleep she'd been getting lately.

“So, what's been going on with you?” Camille asked as she settled back in the lounge chair next to Rhiannon's. “Planning any cool parties lately?”

She felt heat crawl into her face and prayed Camille wouldn't notice. Keeping her voice steady was
an effort, but she managed to do it long enough to say, “I'm working on a few things. One of them is really cool—a sixtieth wedding anniversary, if you can believe that. They were seventeen when they got married and they've made it for longer than half a century.”

“That is amazing. Sometimes I wonder if Matt and I will even make it to our first anniversary. After our rocky start sometimes I feel like we're still really getting to know each other.”

Rhiannon sat up straighter. “Why? Are you guys having problems again?”

“No, nothing like that. Things are great. It's just, marriage is hard, you know?”

“Absolutely. It's really hard.”

“And yet I wouldn't give him up. He drives me nuts, but I love him and Cole more than I'd ever imagined it was possible to love anyone.”

Rhiannon froze, her whole world kind of caving in around her as she listened to Camille wax poetic about her new family.

It sucked, really sucked, that she would never have that. At the same time, if the night before had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that she needed to be content with what she had. A new career that she liked. An extended family that she was crazy about. A nephew that she adored.

It was enough, especially considering the state she'd been in two years before. She'd had no husband, no job, no way of interacting with the world around her. She'd come a long way and pushing for more was just foolhardy.

“Well, enough about the gripes of a newly married
woman,” Camille said with a grin. “Tell me more about the fabulous parties you're planning.”

“There's not much else going on. I am doing a carnival-type theme for another client—”

“A carnival? With games and everything?”

“That's what I'm hoping for.” She concentrated on the party, did her best to forget Shawn's part in it. “The whole thing will be based around a movie theme. The client just sold the movie rights to his graphic novel character and wants to impress a bunch of the Hollywood types that will be in town for the film festival next month.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“It should be—if I can bring it in under budget. He gave me a really large one to work with, but I keep having new brain waves and brain waves cost money.”

“You keep having new ideas because it's a great concept. Really original—I would love to go to a party like that and can't imagine that a bunch of actors and directors wouldn't, as well. I hope he's not giving you too hard of a time.”

“It's not like that.” Rhiannon felt her practiced smile start to freeze and turned her face away, hoping Camille wouldn't notice.

But her sister-in-law had eyes like an eagle, and before Rhiannon could think of a way to divert Camille's attention, she was leaning forward in her chair, eyes narrowed. “You look funny. Why do you look funny?”

“I don't!”

“Really, because from where I'm sitting it looks like you just ate a very big, very nasty-looking bug.”

“That's disgusting!”

“Yeah, well, if the shoe fits—”

“Hey, mind if we join you guys?” Rhiannon glanced up to find her friend Sarah standing there, her one-year-old son in her arms while her not-quite-three-year-old daughter clutched her pant leg. Sarah was the wife of Matt's partner, Reece, and she and Rhiannon had been friends for a number of years.

“Not at all,” she answered, grateful for the distraction.

“Hey, Rosie, why don't you take that ball to Daddy and your brothers?” Sarah suggested as she settled herself and her son in a nearby chair. “I'm sure they and Uncle Matt would love to play with you.”

“Ball?” Rosie asked around the two fingers she had jammed into her mouth.

“See it? It's right next to that plant.” Sarah pointed.

“I get ball, Mommy!” Rosie ran toward the beach ball on chubby legs, the bells tied to her shoes jingling with every step she took.

“Good girl, Rosie.”

They all watched as Rosie took off toward her father and the twin boys from Sarah's first marriage, as fast as her little legs could carry her. But once she reached Reece, Sarah turned her attention to Rhiannon. “Okay, spill.”

“Spill what?”

“You looked like you were going to puke when I came over here and I want to know what's up. Are you okay?”

“Nothing's up.” Rhiannon's cheeks started burning and she cursed her stupid redheaded complexion.

Sarah raised one blond eyebrow at Camille. “If she won't tell me, you had better.”

“Actually, I was just trying to pry it out of her.” Camille took a long drink of her soda. “We were talking about a party she's planning for a local graphic novelist and suddenly she started to look sick.”

“Really?” It was Sarah's turn to lean forward, even as she popped a bottle in her son's mouth. “So he's single, then. Is he hot?”

“I never said anything about Shawn being single
or
hot.”

Cole started to whimper, turning to root around on Rhiannon's breast, and Camille reached for him with a grin. “You didn't have to, honey. It's written all over your face.”

Rhiannon pressed her newly freed hands to her cheeks. “No, it isn't. Nothing's going on between us.”

“I think she's protesting too much, don't you, Sarah?”

“I think so.” Sarah slipped the bottle from her sleeping son's mouth, then reached into her bag and grabbed a blanket to tuck around him. “So, tell us about him.”

“There's nothing to tell. He hired me to plan a party and I'm planning it.”

“Yet you don't freak out when you talk about your other clients. Come on, Rhiannon,” Camille wheedled. “We're old married ladies. We need to live vicariously through you.”

“I'm older than both of you.”

“Yeah, but you're single and hot and really smart. Guys go for that.”

“This whole conversation is ridiculous. He's one of those guys who's never serious, who's always joking
around. I mean, he draws cartoons for a living!” Even as she spoke, Rhiannon couldn't help wondering if she was lying to herself. After all, Shawn had been extremely serious when he'd driven her back to her office after their disastrous date.

“You said he wrote graphic novels,” Sarah corrected.

“Is there a difference? I mean, his career choice is to draw pictures of men in tights and capes!”

“There is absolutely a difference,” Camille chastised softly. “One of my friends has been trying for years to get his graphic novel picked up. It's a grueling industry and very few people are good enough to make the cut.”

“Not to mention the fact that if he's doing well enough to afford a party like the one you described, it must be a pretty good career,” added Sarah.

“I know it is. I didn't mean to make it sound like I don't respect what he does. I do. It's just that I get the feeling that he's never grown up. That life's one big game to him, you know? He has every video-game console known to man hooked up to his TV, not to mention the built-in basketball court in his backyard. Plus he's always joking around—it's hard to get a straight answer from him.”

“That's not such a bad thing, you know, especially in a fling,” Sarah mused. “I like a guy who can loosen up and have some fun.”

“And yet you married Reece, who is wound so tight it's a miracle he doesn't bounce?”

“Hey, Reece can be fun. You just have to dig a little to get to it.”

“Yeah, well, you don't have to dig to find Shawn's
frivolous side. It's right there for the whole world to see. He has huge, antique video games—that he still plays—in the middle of his family room, for God's sake.”

“So what? Matt has a pile of video games ten feet high for his gaming system. Guys love that kind of stuff.” Camille tilted her head and the purple streaks she'd added after the baby was born glinted in the sunlight. Rhiannon wondered what it would be like to be that self-confident, that comfortable in her own skin. She had been once, but the past few years had made remembering the woman she used to be almost impossible.

“I think you should give him a shot. He may not be husband material—”

“I'm not looking for a husband!”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” Camille continued. “Why don't you just take things slow, see where they go? It could be a lot of fun.”

“I never said I was interested in Shawn.”

“Yeah, but you never said you weren't. Right, Sarah?”

Rhiannon couldn't believe she was having this conversation, especially with Sarah and Camille. Unlike some of her other friends who had tried to set her up after the divorce—despite her protests that she wasn't ready—neither one of them had ever so much as mentioned a man to her. Now, suddenly, they were encouraging her to jump into bed with a perfect stranger. It was almost surreal.

“Stop. This whole discussion is ridiculous. It's not like he's even interested in me.” He might have been once, but the look on his face when he'd stared at her
scars had told her all she needed to know about what Shawn wanted, or didn't want, from her.

Camille snorted. “What's not to be interested in? You're smart, funny, gorgeous—”

“And I have enough baggage to fill up the luggage compartment of a 747. Not to mention I'm way older than he is.”

Camille's eyes rounded. “You're older than he is? How much older?”

“He's still in his twenties.”

“His twenties?” Sarah repeated, mouth agape.

“Well, almost thirty. And I'll be forty in a few days. Now do you see why this whole conversation is completely crazy?”

“Crazy like a fox, maybe. Go, Rhiannon.” Camille curled her legs underneath her as she nursed the baby. “I think younger men are totally sexy.”

“Oh, really?” asked Matt, eyebrows raised, as he walked by, carrying a tray heaped high with burgers. “Exactly what younger man do you find so sexy?”

“Oh, not for me. I'm fond of tall, dark and serious architect types myself.”

“Good. Let's keep it that way.” He laid the platter of food on a nearby table, then leaned down and kissed Camille warmly. Very warmly, and Camille seemed to be enjoying every second of it.

“So,” Matt asked, when he finally raised his head. “If you aren't considering leaving me for a hot, younger guy…” He raised his eyebrows at Sarah. “Should I tell Reece he has some competition?”

“Oh, please, as if. We're talking about Rhiannon.”

The look of sardonic amusement slid from Matt's
face and was replaced by one of complete and utter shock. “Are you dating again?”

She tried not to be offended by the total incredulity in his voice, told herself that Matt had been with her through everything and had seen how devastated she'd been—first by the attack and then by Richard walking out on her. He was probably just surprised at the idea of her looking for another man.

Not
that she was looking, she reminded herself. It was all just silly conjecture on Camille's and Sarah's parts. But still, did her brother have to look like he'd just been poleaxed? Was she really so repulsive that he couldn't imagine a man being interested in her?