I Dream of Danger (2 page)

“Rental,” he said tersely and held open the passenger side door for her.

A thousand questions jostled in her head but she simply sat, holding her jacket tightly around her while he got into the driver’s seat and took off. A minute later, warm air was washing over her and the trembling she hadn’t noticed eased off.

He knew exactly where to go, of course.

He might have forgotten her, he might have forgotten her father, but he wouldn’t have forgotten where they had all lived together. That was another thing about Nick. His amazing sense of direction. The last few years before he ran off, whenever they went on an outing together, her father had counted on Nick to guide them. And for the last two years, after he got his learner’s license, to drive them all where they needed to go.

The judge had probably started dementing already, though there were no signs of it then. He had been, as always, ramrod straight, with iron gray hair brushed back, always elegant and collected. The opposite of the shambles of a man she’d buried.

It helped to think of Daddy and not to concentrate on Nick, driving with careless expertise. He’d always been superb behind the wheel, right from the start. The instructor had told Daddy that he hadn’t had to teach Nick anything. It was as if he’d been born knowing how to drive.

Elle stared straight ahead, doing her best not to take peeks at Nick. It was almost impossible. He was like a black hole, pulling in gravity toward him. Impossible to ignore, yet impossible to look at directly.

A thousand words were on the tip of her tongue.
How are you how have you been where do you live now do you like it there . . .
Empty words really. Because what she wanted to know, she couldn’t say.

Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me?

The unspoken words choked her. She was afraid to open her mouth because they would come tumbling out. She had no filter, no defense mechanism. Plus, she’d lived alone so long with a father who could neither understand her nor respond to her, she’d grown used to saying exactly what she thought.

She wasn’t even fit company anymore.

But
something
should be said. They hadn’t seen each other in five years. Five years, seven months, and two days. Each minute of which she’d missed him. Even in her sleep.

She concentrated on practicing the words. If she said them slowly, one at a time, surely nothing else would escape her mouth.
How have you been?

How. Have. You. Been?

There, she could say that. Four simple words. And he’d answer and she’d try really, really hard not to push. She could do this. She could—

“We’re here,” Nick said and swerved so that the vehicle was parked outside the garage.

She hadn’t even noticed that they’d made it home.

She swallowed. The garage had been left open. Her mistake. She’d rushed in to get slippers for Daddy’s last visit to the hospital, and in her haste hadn’t closed it. There were no cars. Daddy had always kept a Cadillac and a Toyota, but both had been sold two years ago. She took the bus to the few places she had to go.

Nick didn’t bother putting the rental inside the garage.

He wasn’t staying.

Elle swallowed the pain and turned when he opened the passenger door. He held out a big hand. She didn’t need help. But . . . this might be her only, her last chance to touch him.

She put her hand in his, and in a second, he guided her down to the gravel, dropped her hand, then held it out again, palm up.

She looked at it blankly, then up at him.
He wanted to hold her hand?

“Keys,” he said tersely.

Oh.

Numb with cold and pain, she opened her purse and gave him the door keys. She didn’t have to rummage. Her purse held a now-empty wallet, a cellphone with very few minutes left, an old lipstick, and the keys.

In a moment, Nick had the door open and was standing there, waiting for her.

He watched her walk the few short steps to the porch and up to the portico. Lucky thing he wasn’t looking around.

The grounds had always been a showpiece. When Nick disappeared, Rodrigo was still coming twice a week to take care of the extensive gardens. The drive had been flanked by seasonal flowers in large terra-cotta vases. The vases and flowers were long gone. There were no flowers anywhere and the hedges had long since lost their shape.

Elle had received three official notices of “abandonment” in the past six months.

Nick didn’t seem to notice, thank God.

Inside the house, though, it was worse than outside.

The house had always been immaculate. Ever since her mother had died, when she was five, the house had been ruled by a benevolent tyrant, Mrs. Gooding, who kept it polished and fragrant with the help of a maid several times a week.

Mrs. Gooding was long gone, as was the maid.

Elle had done her best, but the house was big and the last months of her father’s life had required round-the-clock care from her. She napped when she could, exhausted, and did the best she could to keep a bare minimum of cleanliness.

Her father had taken ill during the night, and they’d rushed to the hospital. She kept vigil by his side for four days and four nights. Then the funeral.

The house was a mess. A freezing cold mess, because she hadn’t turned the heat on, knowing she’d be away all day.

This time Nick noticed.

He stopped inside the foyer and she stopped with him. His neck bent back as he looked up at the ceiling of the two-story atrium. Once there had been a magnificent Murano chandelier with fifty bulbs that had blazed as brightly as the sun. Now there was simply a low-wattage lightbulb hanging naked from a cord.

The rest of the foyer was naked too. Watercolors, the huge Chinese rug, the console with the ornately carved mirror atop it, the two Viennese Thonet armchairs on either side of the Art Deco desk with the enormous solid silver bowl full of potpourri—gone.

Nick didn’t react in any way. His face was calm and expressionless.

What was he thinking?

Later, after he’d disappeared, one of her high school classmates said that he’d been earning extra money playing poker with lowlifes, and that he always won because he had the best poker face anyone had ever seen.

She was seeing that now. There was no clue to his thoughts.

Perhaps— Perhaps she’d hoped to see some softness or gentleness when he looked at her. But no.

She gestured awkwardly toward the back of the house. “Would you . . . Would you like something to drink?”

He nodded his head briefly without saying anything. She turned and walked into the kitchen, knowing he didn’t need her direction. He knew the way.

His showing up had scrambled her brains, but now she forced herself to think, to reason things out. Where had he come from? Had he traveled a long time? Would he stay the night?

Her heart gave a huge thump in her chest at the thought.

“So”—once in the kitchen Elle turned to face him, plastering a smile on her face, making a real effort not to wring her hands—“what can I offer you?”

Oh God.

Too late she realized that there was very little to offer. If he wanted alcohol, there was none in the house. Her father had had a fine collection of whiskeys, but they had gone years ago and she had never bought another bottle. There was no food, either, she suddenly remembered. Only a last frozen pizza in the freezer.

“Coffee would be fine.” His voice and eyes were so calm. She tried to cling to that, to calm herself down, but it was hard. This was
Nick
. Nick was here, right now, in her kitchen.

“Coffee. Right.” There was coffee. Enough for one cup at least.

She turned and tried to keep her hands steady as she opened the cupboard to get the coffee. To her horror, except for the glass canister with an inch of grounds, the cupboard was bare.

Exactly like in some horrible fable.

She closed the cupboard, making a louder noise than she wanted, then set about making coffee with trembling hands for Nick.

Nick.

Who was here.

Preparing the coffee, setting out the pretty Limoges cup and saucer, part of a set that she hadn’t sold because there were only four pieces, setting out a silver spoon and the Wedgewood sugar canister calmed her down a little.

He was still standing, and that was another blow to the heart.

This had been his kitchen once too. He had once been completely at home here. She remembered the thousands of evenings Nick had teased her and made her father laugh in here while Mrs. Gooding prepared dinner.

Now he was standing, needing her permission to sit. Tears blurred her eyes but she willed them back. She’d had a lot of experience at that. She could do this.

“Please sit.” She pulled out a chair.

He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat. Underneath the jacket he had on a heavy flannel shirt.

Oh God. She should do the same, of course. Except she was still cold, and underneath the jacket she had on only a thin sweater. She did still have a few thick sweaters, but her mind had been so befogged by the exhaustion of the last days of her father’s life, and the funeral arrangements, that she’d simply grabbed the first thing that came to hand. As luck would have it, it was a thin cotton sweater.

But she could pretend with the best of them. She hung her own jacket over the chair and sat down across from him.

They looked at each other mutely.

The coffee machine percolated. Elle sprang up and poured him a cup.

Nick hesitated. “What about you? Still don’t like coffee? You always liked tea. Can I make you some?”

“No!” Elle cleared her throat. “No, thanks.” She’d kill for a cup of tea, but it was in the cupboard above the stove and that was bare too. Two bare cupboards—it was too much for Nick to see.

Nick blew on the cup and sipped. As always, the delicate china looked out of place in his large hand, but she knew from experience that it was safe. His hands were huge, had always been huge, but he was far from clumsy.

They sat in silence until he finished half the cup, then looked up at her. “How long had he been ill?”

Elle didn’t sigh, but she wanted to. “Several years. But his doctor thinks, with hindsight, that the illness started five years ago, only he managed to hide it.”

Something—some faint expression crossed his face.

Oh God.
He’d left them five years ago. It sounded like she was accusing him of precipitating her father’s decline.

“Must have been hard. For you.”

Elle simply dipped her head.
Yes, hard. Very hard.

“So—what will you do now? Go back to college?”

“I wasn’t enrolled in college.”

That surprised him. It took a lot to surprise Nick, but she’d done it. “What do you mean you’re not in college? You were a straight-A student, always had been. Or have you already finished college?”

She had to smile at that. She’d had anything but straight As while she struggled to deal with her father’s eccentricities. It would be another year before she understood he was ill. She’d missed almost every other day her sophomore year.

“No . . . I, ah—it’s complicated.”

Nick was frowning. Okay. That was easier to deal with than that look of pity he’d had.

“Well, now there’s nothing holding you back, is there?”

Well, if you didn’t count no money and medical debts, and put like that . . .” No, there isn’t.”

The answer seemed to relax him. He looked around again, then back at her, his dark gaze penetrating.

“You’re too thin. And too pale. You need to eat more and get outside more.”

That
hurt
. Nick had been in her heart always, since he had first come into their lives. She’d only been seven, but she loved him the moment she laid eyes on him. She’d been a girl then, but she was a woman now—and everything womanly in her was concentrated on him, his handsome face, those broad shoulders, the outsized hands.

Every female cell in her body was quivering. And he spoke to her like an elderly aunt would.

Eat more, get out more. Don’t be so pasty-faced and thin.

Yeah.

Next thing, he’d be telling her to bundle up warmly.

“And Christ—what’s the matter with you, going out in this weather dressed like that?”

There you go.

How she’d
dreamed
of this moment! For years. And now here he was, sitting across from her, so close she could touch him if she simply reached out—and they were talking about her wardrobe.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “I had to get dressed in a hurry. But I don’t want to talk about this. I want to hear how you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been.”

And why you disappeared without a word.

But she couldn’t say that. He was here. Right now she wanted to fill the empty years with images. She could only do that if she could imagine where he’d been, what he’d been doing.

Once upon a time, he’d told her everything.

Nick settled more deeply in the chair, frowning. “I can’t really talk about that.”

“Because you’re in the military?”

He straightened, shocked. “How did you know that? Who told you?”

Nick sounded actually angry. It had slipped out of her mouth without her thinking about it, which went to show how tired she was. She never let slip things she shouldn’t know, but did. She’d learned that the hard way.

She’d seen him. In her dreams. Not normal dreams—that floating phantasmagoria of disconnected images most people had during the night. She had those, too, like everyone else. But she also had
Dreams
. She went places in these Dreams, and it was like being there. Frighteningly,
exactly
like being there.

She’d visited Nick, without a clue as to where he was, but so real she felt she could touch him. He was exercising with a hundred other men, doing jumping jacks and climbing ropes and crawling under barbed wire. Shooting. Shooting a lot. Jumping out of planes.

And with women. That had been the worst of all. She’d watched, helplessly, as he made love to a series of women, rarely the same one two nights in a row. Elle would be looking down from the ceiling, watching the muscles of his broad back stretch and flex, his buttocks tightening and releasing as he moved in and out of the woman. Usually, he held himself above the woman
du nuit
on stiff arms, touching her only with his sex.