A Cry In The Dark. Jenna MillsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the kind that came from hard knocks and foster homes. She’d learned how to read between the lines. She knew how to recognize trouble, how to know when to stay and when to go, how to take care of herself. Her sister had insisted Danielle could make a nice living setting up at carnivals, charging a fee for the intuition that came to her naturally.
There wasn’t much that got by her, wasn’t much she didn’t understand.
But standing there with a gun pointed at this grim-faced stranger, with her heart racing and her knees trying not to knock, she watched his mouth move, heard the deep tenor of his voice, but didn’t understand. She didn’t understand what he was saying. She didn’t understand why his badge looked so real. Didn’t understand how her life could shatter in the space of only an hour, not after all the measures she’d taken to protect her son. He was just a little boy. Only six. Innocent.
But worst of all, most damning of all, she didn’t understand the dizzying desire to believe this man, to trust him, to think that the badge was real, that somehow he could help.
One word about this to anyone, and your son will pay the price.
“You’re lying.” That had to be it. He was fabricating a story to gain her trust, her cooperation. Or maybe he was testing her, trying to trick her into disobeying his instructions.
His eyes locked onto hers, dark, commanding. “Why would I lie?”
The gun grew heavier, like a weight on her heart, but she kept her hands steady. “You tell me.”
He answered not as she’d expected, as she’d hoped, but with a low stream of curse words. “I’m too late,” he said again, and this time his voice cracked on a hard edge of frustration and disgust and remorse.
Danielle wanted to step back from him, from the crazy way he made her feel, the confusion, the hope. But she forced herself to stand very still, even as he took a step closer, so close that the barrel of the gun jammed against his chest.
“What has he done to you, Danielle?” The question was soft, laced with a vehemence that chilled her blood. “Tell me what that bastard has done to hurt you.”
The walls, the certainty, started to crumble. “No one has hurt me.”
His face hardened. “Don’t lie to me, damn it.” The words were hard, not at all preparing her for the way he lifted a hand to skim a finger beneath her lashes. “I see it in your eyes.”
Naked. She suddenly felt completely exposed, as though she stood before this man without a stitch of clothing on. The way he looked at her, with that dark, penetrating gaze, made her feel as though he could see beyond the fabric of her uniform, deeper than the flesh, to the fear snaking through her like cold slime.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said in a voice that no longer resonated with anger but soothed like a warm summer breeze. “Not anymore. Not of me.”
Her throat tightened. For almost two hours she’d been holding all the jagged pieces together, the fear, the uncertainty, the desperation, willing herself to be strong, to stay in control. For Alex. But now, in the face of this man with the hard eyes but soft words, who offered her a gift she couldn’t accept, the gift of help, everything started to slip, and it sliced to the bone.
“What do you want?” she asked with a valiance she no longer felt.
His dark eyes narrowed. “Right now,” he said very slowly, very softly, “I want you to put that gun down.” The hand at her face, the fingers that feathered along her cheekbone, lowered, dropping to the Derringer.
No! someplace deep inside screamed. Fight him. Don’t let him have his way with you. But she could no more move, no more look away from him, than she could push time backward and bring Alex home.
“I’m going to help you,” he murmured, uncurling her fingers and taking the weight of the gun from her hand.
She watched him, saw his square palm, his long fingers, the bronze of his tan against her pale wrist, but just like earlier at the hotel, when she’d stared at the patrons milling about the lobby, she couldn’t bring the moment into focus.
“See?” His voice was low, soothing. “We’re putting the gun down.” In a svelte move he removed the clip and shoved the barrel into the waistband of his jeans. “Good.”
A trap, she told herself. A trick.
No, came the voice deep inside, the voice she’d once staked her life on but could no longer trust.
“Now we’re going to go inside,” the man was saying, and before she could pull away, he had a hand at her waist and was guiding her into the cool confines of her small foyer. She knew she should fight him, stop him, but lethargy stole through her, numbing like a sweet, forgotten drug.
The man, Liam he said his name was, an FBI agent, led her into the cluttered family room, where the puzzle of the United States she and her son had been working lay unfinished on the old pine coffee table. He guided her to the denim sofa, the one Alex had picked out, and encouraged her to sit.
She did.
He sat beside her, didn’t release her hand. She hadn’t realized how cold she was, hadn’t known she could be so cold while the sun still blazed outside and blood still pumped through her body.
Ty.
Ty had been this cold. But then, her son’s father had been dead. She’d stared at him in his casket, a tall, lanky man in dark gray trousers and a black dress shirt, sandy-blond hair combed obscenely neatly for such a perpetually unkempt man, the soft lines of his face, the whiskers she’d begged them not to shave. Ty wouldn’t be Ty without his scruffy jaw.
Anthony had been by her side, strong and protective as always. He’d stood to her left with a steadying arm around her waist, Elizabeth to her right, also lending an arm in support. They’d held her up, tried to stop her when she stepped forward with a picture of her son in her hand. She’d meant only to lay it on Ty’s chest, but she’d lifted her hand higher, skimmed it over his mouth, his cheek.
Cold. So horribly cold.
But there was no cold now, not from the man seated next to her. The heat of his body blanketed her, soaked through her palm and into her blood, fighting with memory and reality.
The desire—the need—to lean into him stunned her. It would be so easy. There wasn’t that much space between them. She had only to let go, lean against his chest.
She pulled back abruptly, putting as much space between them as she could while he still held her hand.
“Talk to me,” he said in that darkly magical voice of his, the one that both threatened and coerced. “Tell me what’s going on. Tell me what he’s done to you.”
She wanted to. God, against every scrap of sanity and caution, she wanted to. The forgotten force of need burst through her like a punch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes,” Liam said, never releasing her hand, her eyes, “you do.”
She watched him, much as he’d watched her earlier, noting the lines at the corners of his eyes, laugh lines on some men, but not this man. These lines carved deeper, screamed of life and lessons that had nothing to do with humor. His face was tanned, not quite leathery, but not smooth like Alex’s. At his jaw she saw the gathering of whiskers and wondered when was the last time he’d shaved.
He wasn’t her friend. He wasn’t her ally. No matter how strong the temptation to lean on him, trust him, the possible consequences screamed through her. She didn’t know who he really was or what he really wanted. Badges could be faked. Compassion forced. He could be involved.
Or he really could be FBI. Which would almost be worse. The caller had made it clear what would happen if the authorities got involved.
“It’s just been a long day,” she hedged.
“And that’s why you pulled a gun on me?”