Without a Trace (28 page)

“Fairly adequate?” She sat up straight again. “I’ll have you know, O’Hurley, your father said I could go on the road with him and your mother anytime I wanted.”

“Packing your trunk?”

She sat back again with a sigh. “I don’t think I could keep up with either of them. They’re all wonderful. Every one of them. Thank you for bringing me.”

“I think I’ve figured out who brought whom.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, leaving her speechless. “Thank you, Gillian.”

“I love you. I just wanted you to be happy.”

When he let her hand go again, she curled her fingers into the palm he’d kissed. “You said that before.” Rising, he walked to the window. From there he could see the tables ladened with food and wine, and hundreds of people milling around and dancing.

“That I wanted you to be happy?”

“That you loved me.”

“Did I?” Very casual, she studied her nails. “Isn’t that interesting? As I recall, you didn’t have much of a reaction then, either.”

“I had things on my mind.”

“Oh, yes, saving my brother and Caitlin. We haven’t quite finished there.” She reached in her purse and drew out a piece of paper. Standing, she offered it to him. “The hundred thousand we agreed on. I had my lawyers send the check.” When he didn’t move, she walked over and pushed it into his hand. “It’s certified. I
promise it won’t bounce.”

He wanted to jam the check down her pretty throat. “Fine.”

“Our business is over, then. You’ve got your retirement fund, a house, your family.” She turned away, knowing she was very close to murder. “So where do you go from here, Trace? Straight to the islands?”

“Maybe.” He crumpled the check and jammed it in his pocket. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Now
there’s
good news.”

“Watch your mouth. Better yet, just shut up.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her hard. As he hadn’t, Gillian thought, in much too long.

The door opened. Abby took one step in and stopped. “Oh, excuse me. Sorry.” Just as quickly, she was gone again.

Trace swore lightly. “Maybe you
are
in love with me. And maybe you’re plain stupid.”

“Maybe.” This time she swore, too, and made his brow lift. “Maybe I’d like to know how you feel.”

“We’re not talking about how I feel.”

“Oh, I see.”

Before she could move away he had her close again. It was amazing how quickly panic could come to someone who’d lived his life one step ahead of danger. “Don’t turn away from me.”

She gave him a straight, level look. “I’m not the one who’s doing the turning, Trace.”

She had him there. And, damn it, his palms were damp again. “Listen, I don’t know how attached you are to New York, to that place you work. I could sell the house in Chicago if it doesn’t suit.”

She felt the gurgle of laughter—or triumph—but swallowed it cautiously. “Doesn’t suit what?”

“Doesn’t suit, damn it. Gillian, I want—”

This time Maddy burst through the door and halfway into the room. “Oh, hi.” At the expression on Trace’s face, she rolled her eyes. “You didn’t see me,” she said as she began to back out. “I never came in. I was never here. Now I’m gone.” And she was.

“Some things never change,” Trace muttered. “I never in my life had a minute’s privacy with those three
around.”

“Trace.” Gillian put a hand on his cheek and shifted his face back toward hers. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I’d like to muddle through this in my own way, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Very solemn, she sat on the window seat. “Please go on.”

Did she think one of her long, quiet looks was going to make it easy for him? He could write down how he felt, he could put it to music. The words would come then. But now, just now, he was fresh out.

“Gillian, I think you’re making a big mistake, but if you’re set on it, we could try it. I’ve got some ideas about what to do with myself now that the ISS is history.” His hands were in his pockets again, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “Maybe I could pitch some of my songs—but that’s not really the point,” he went on before she could speak. “The point is whether or not you could handle—that you’d be willing to— You know, you really have no business getting tangled up with me.”

“This time you shut up.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Just shut up and come over here.” He scowled, but crossed over to her. “Sit,” she said, then gestured to the seat beside her. She waited until he sat down, then took his hands. “Now, I’ll tell you exactly what the point is. I love you, Trace, with all my heart, and I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. It doesn’t matter where. The house in Chicago is special, I know, and there are laboratories in the Midwest. What I have to know is that you’d be content. I won’t start the rest of my life by holding you down.”

There was no one else like her. And there would never be anyone else for him. He wished he had the right words just now, something soft and sweet. One day, he thought, they might come easily.

“I told you when we first met that I was tired. That’s the truth. I don’t need to climb mountains anymore, Gillian. I already know what’s at the top. I’ll probably be a lousy husband, but I’ll give you the best I’ve got.”

“I know that.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him lightly. “Why do you want to marry me, Trace?”

“I love you.” It was a great deal easier to say than he had thought. “I love you, Gillian, and I’ve waited a hell of a long time to make a home.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “We’ll make one together.”

If you liked
Without a Trace
, look for the other novels in the O’Hurleys series:
Skin Deep
and
Dance to the Piper
, available as eBooks from InterMix. And see where it all began with the first book in the series,
The Last Honest Woman
, available as an eBook in March 2012.

June 2000

Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued
directives
, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

That was about to change.

She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist,
neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans
and
a hoodie
and
some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

“Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

“Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

“And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr.
Dusecki at the conference.”

“You could have said no.”

“That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”

“If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”

Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly
needs
a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”

“I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”

“Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”

“And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”

“Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”

As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

“You don’t listen to anything I say.”

In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”

“Listening’s different than hearing.”

“That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”

“It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”

Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”

“What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.”

She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books
I
want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”

Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”

“Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”

“I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who
listens
, who gives a shit about how I feel.”

“That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”

Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be
wild
. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”

Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”