Nature Of Desire: Mirror Of The Soul Read online

  “What?”

  “I want to borrow your gun.” She managed it this time in her most polite tearoom voice. “The large one.”

  She couldn’t form the words to explain, could only hope by the expression in her eyes she was conveying what she was after. That the unusual ability he had to understand the breadth and depth of her, places she’d been unable to go herself, would be there. Her gaze shifted to her father’s body and then back to him.

  “Mac.” Tyler turned to the other man, who was frowning. “I think I understand what she wants. The coroner’s already pronounced him dead and he’s about to go to the morgue. Can you tell your men it’s okay? Please?”

  Mac’s attention moved between them, to the dead man, back to Marguerite. She simply waited.

  “You owe me for the paperwork,” he muttered to Tyler. “Mountains of it. And a job if they fire me. Wait right here.”

  He turned, went to the other officers on scene, spoke to them. After a few moments of deliberation, of raised eyebrows and raised voices, he glanced over his shoulder, nodded.

  Tyler gave her the Desert Eagle, butt first. “Do you remember how to use it?”

  She nodded. She felt all their eyes on her as she turned, walked across the crime scene toward the being who had spawned her. Who had nearly destroyed her mind but not quite, thanks to good friends, the strength that she had found in herself and Tyler. Especially Tyler.

  “It has a heavy kick,” he reminded her. He’d stayed right with her, just a step behind, protecting her back. She closed her eyes a moment, then slowly opened them, fixed them on her father.

  Impassively she observed how death had frozen the monstrous features into permanence. He’d soiled himself, a fragility even he had not been able to escape. It would have been her all those years ago if not for David’s arms around her, his body beneath her to take the force of the concrete. Just as Tyler had done, he’d been there to catch her as she fell. David, Tyler and Mac. A monster of a father should have destroyed her faith in men according to any psychological textbook, but men like that had broken the theory, stole its power.

  She felt Tyler’s heat and presence, a comforting wall. Mac had moved to her peripheral vision. She understood he was trying not to hover, but was likely concerned about allowing a rather emotionally uncertain woman to handle a weapon.

  The dark rage in her soul rose, screamed for this one last thing before she could go home. She lifted the gun from her side with her right hand, pointed it down at his body cavity. No. There was no heart there. The gun shifted and her finger squeezed the trigger.

  He was right. The gun did have a kick. It put the bullet into the concrete, knocking a chunk loose, spraying rock. She almost lost her grip on the butt. Tyler grabbed her, spun her away to shield her as Mac backed up, cursing. The other officers moved closer, voices rising.

  “Tyler, damn it…” Mac’s voice, warning.

  She sobbed in frustration but then Tyler was behind her, holding her, guiding her arms.

  “Two-handed, baby.”

  She sucked in a breath as he began to guide her left arm up, pain radiating through her shoulder. Adrenaline had fled and now there was only pain. Tyler stopped, gently pressed her arm back down.

  “I want to do it. His face. I want his face gone.”

  “Okay.” His voice was soothing. Putting his right arm along the outside of hers, his chest against her shoulder blades, he covered her fingers on the butt. As she stared down the barrel, his left hand came into her vision, settling over the tips of her fingers and overlapping his own. She was holding the gun still, but his hands curled over her one in a two-handed grip that had become three-handed.

  Holding her steady, just as he had done the day on his personal shooting range. It reminded her of the peace of that day and the other things she’d shared with him. The puddle stomping and the chapel. Those memories, as much as his touch, gave her the ability to steady herself.

  “Go.”

  She fired and the bullet punched through the corpse’s eye. The next took his cheek, his mouth. She turned his face into meat, shooting again and again while smoke filled her nostrils. Fire flashed before her eyes. She became aware of a rasping, sobbing sound coming from her, an animal in a trap. This wasn’t making it better. She had to stop. Couldn’t stop, not until…

  She was clicking an empty chamber, trembling. Mac’s hand came into view, carefully dislodged Tyler’s gun from her fingers, for Tyler was busy holding her, turning her into his arms while she shook so hard she knew she would have shattered without his strength. She was cold, colder than she’d ever been, the fire of pain at the center of her chest so solidly contained by ice she would never be warm.

  “It will be all right,” he murmured against her hair. “You don’t think it will, but it’s going to be. Believe me. Trust me.”

  “Mac,” she rasped.

  “Yeah, sweetheart.” His large hand touched her hair. She looked up into those silver eyes. The eyes of a good strong man, thank God and Goddess and everything in between for their existence. A man soon to be a father, who would deserve the title to be spoken with love and respect. She was sure of it, so much so that she knew what lay behind her could never have been called by the same title.

  “What do they do with unclaimed bodies? Like homeless people?”

  “Crematorium, I think.”

  “Tell the morgue…burn him. Let him burn forever.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Those were the last words she spoke. At first Tyler didn’t realize anything was wrong. He took her to the hospital, had her checked out. The clavicle break was set, her upper body put in a figure eight brace, the left arm in a sling to limit the pain that mobility would create for the next few weeks. Her two broken fingers were bandaged and taped together. As she sat on the examining table waiting on doctors and nurses, she shook. He asked for blankets, wrapped her up, held her. At length, she laid her head on his shoulder and let oblivion take her, a result of the sedative the doctor gave her for the pain, he was sure. But when he roused her to go home, her eyes were blank. That distant look he knew had somehow expanded as if she was on another continent, abandoned, remote, uncharted like the Arctic. He knew the signs of shock, knew how to handle it. So despite the uneasiness that gripped him, he took her home to the Gulf. Put her to bed. Lay curled around her through the night, listening to the shallow breathing, stroking her hair, her shoulder, murmuring to her occasionally, giving her his body warmth, willing her skin to warm, her eyes to focus.

  When she woke in the middle of the night, she rose and settled in his window seat, her legs drawn up as she stared up at the sky. Following her, he sat in a chair next to the window seat, his foot propped there, toes just touching her calf. She didn’t speak and eventually dropped back off, her temple pressed to the glass. He picked her up and took her back to bed.

  He let her sleep late. Sarah brought them up a breakfast. When Tyler brought the tray to the bed, he noted Marguerite lay in the same position he’d put her when he’d retrieved her from the window. On her right side, only now her eyes were open. Putting down the tray, he helped her sit up and noticed he had to move her like a doll. When he spoke to her, her eyes followed him, but he might have been a distant seabird. He was giving her painkillers to minimize the agony of the collarbone break, but he knew what he was seeing was not the effect of the drugs.

  “Marguerite, let’s get you something to eat, all right? You need to eat.”

  And to his relief she did, but only when he put the spoon to her lips and applied pressure. She ate a few mouthfuls, took a drink of the juice as long as he was holding the cup. Several moments later she turned her face away. Turned away, period, curling back into the covers. Folding into herself, she drew her knees up so she was an outer shell, protecting the inner core.

  He went to the intercom. “Sarah, will you come here a moment?”

  The woman responded quickly, meeting him outside the bedroom door. “I’m going to call K
omal Gupta. Can you sit with her? I don’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Certainly.” Sarah put a reassuring hand on his arm. “And Robert’s gone to get our things. We’ll stay in the guesthouse as long as you need us.” When he started to object, she tightened her hold on him. “You’re going to need to sleep and eat, shower, keep yourself up for her. We’re here for both of you.”

  He nodded, reached out on impulse to hug her. Instantly Tyler realized it as a mistake, because it was the first time he’d allowed himself a gesture of comfort. All of a sudden it was back, the sight of her against the sky, leaping, the child in her arms, the few seconds when it could have all been over. Only a lifetime of training to think in the worst situations had compelled him to act.

  Everything had stopped, had gotten quiet. That centering, that place of focus where he knew exactly where and who he needed to be at that precise second, had kicked in. Coordination, training and the total commitment of the mind to one thing came together for that all important life-and-death moment.

  Now he was holding tight to Sarah and she was stroking his back, murmuring to him. He realized a good couple of minutes had passed. He eased back, embarrassed, but she reached up and cupped his face, her fingers touching the haggard lines.

  Sarah thought he might have aged a decade since she saw him last. In his eyes she saw what was worrying him as clearly as if he’d shouted it. What was compelling him to call the counselor.

  Not again. Not another one I’ve failed.

  Tyler squeezed her hand. “Please keep her safe for me, Sarah. I’ll be right back.” He walked two steps down the stairs, turned back, his knuckles white on the rail, the harshness of his voice catching her attention. “If she stirs at all, Sarah, I don’t care, to go to the bathroom, whatever, don’t let her out of your sight. And call me immediately.”

  “Mr. Winterman, she wouldn’t—”

  He shook his head. “Nina’s last performance, when I intended to go to her, there was a look in her eyes. And I knew it then, in my gut. It wasn’t my fault, I know that, Sarah, but I know she did it because I couldn’t be what she needed. Didn’t matter if no one could or should have been asked to be so much, that’s the simple fact of it. I can’t lose Marguerite. And she’s got that same look in her eyes right now. So be as dramatic as you need to be to get me back in the room if she gets off that bed.”

  He turned, continuing down the stairs, not able to bear the tears that sprang to Sarah’s eyes.

  He dialed Komal’s number, explained the situation when the woman answered, was grateful when she said she’d leave now. He had the presence of mind to offer to send a cab for her, but was told she would drive her own vehicle because she could get to him faster.

  He went back to Marguerite. When he relieved Sarah of her duty, he lay down on the bed, curled around Marguerite’s cold body and put his arm over her, twining his fingers in her hands, clasped up against her chest. He rested his head just above hers, felt the signs of life and closed his eyes. I don’t deserve her, but she deserves to know there’s more to life than this. Please bring her back to me and I’ll never take her for granted. I’ll make every day about loving her, pleasing her, being with her… The ache was unbearable and he had to cut the prayer short. He pressed his lips to her ear. “Come back to your Master. He’s going to fall apart without you in his life. Don’t leave me, angel.”

  He tucked himself more closely around her, tried to give her his heat and everything she needed to crave life, hunger for it again. Though he despairingly wondered if it would not be “again”, but for the very first time, if he succeeded at all.

  * * * * *

  Sarah’s hand on his shoulder told him when Komal had arrived. Rising, he kissed Marguerite’s temple and straightened his clothing. His hand lingered on her still hip. She didn’t move and he had to force himself to turn away, to slide out the door where the quiet woman waited in the hall.

  “I don’t know what to do for her. I don’t know what’s best. Please help us. Help her.”

  Komal listened as he answered her questions, then she nodded. “Why don’t you go eat the meal Sarah has laid out for you and I’ll join you in a while? I’ll send Sarah out. I need some time to observe her, check some things, focus on what’s happening.”

  He couldn’t quite make it down the stairs. He paced, ended up at last sitting on the landing, his feet through the slats, head against the rail, half dozing. Listening to Komal’s murmuring voice, he strained to hear a response from Marguerite.

  Sarah brought him out of his concentration with a touch on his elbow. She sat the tray containing a sandwich, iced tea and an attractive bowl of fruit salad next to him. It all looked fresh like summertime and it hurt him to look at it. It made him imagine walking down his back steps in the morning to see Marguerite in summer white cotton, her head bent in concentration over a book, considering her tea samples. He wanted her to move in with him. He wasn’t so far from her business at his Tampa home and he could renovate it, make it more like the Gulf home if she liked it better. He’d hire security to keep an eye on her park twenty-four hours a day. He simply could not countenance being without her, not having her body next to him while she slept. She’d never wake alone from nightmares, never have to go to sleep worried or without someone to talk about those worries with. He was moving far too fast, he knew. He was scaring her with how quickly he was moving into her life. But she’d kept the ring. She had. No matter what else had happened, she’d kept it.

  He put his hand into his pocket, felt the smooth touch of it there. The bastard had taken it off her finger, died with it clutched in his filthy hands. Mac had retrieved it for him. He’d have it cleaned, the prongs retightened, make sure it was perfect before he put it on her finger again. He pulled it out, stared at it.

  “You should put it back on her.”

  “He’s touched it.”

  “So have you.” Sarah put the sandwich in his other hand. “Eat.” She held up her ring hand. “It becomes a part of you and you feel its absence. Keenly. She’ll feel better with it on.”

  Tyler swallowed a bite that he was sure was as delicious as anything Sarah made, but it had no taste. “I can’t right now. He broke her fingers. The knuckle’s all swollen.”

  She lifted her arms, unlatched the silver chain of the cross she always wore, held out her hand. Bemused, he put the ring in it and she strung it on the chain. Leaving the cross on the chain with it, she folded the necklace back in his hand. “Put that on her. She’ll know it’s there. It will make a difference.”

  “I don’t know what religion she is. She’s never said and getting information out of her is like pulling teeth. Contrary woman.”

  Sarah smiled. “It doesn’t matter. The cross is a reminder of faith. We all have faith in something. Otherwise, we wouldn’t go on living.” She rose, ruffled his hair and went back down the stairs.

  He held the necklace in his hand, closed his fingers on it as if it were her. With gentle possession, fierce need. All-consuming love. He was a man who’d lived enough years to know what love was and what it wasn’t. He’d loved his wife. He loved the woman behind the door and would do all he could to keep her well and safe, if only she’d trust in him to do so and come from the place deep inside her where she now hid. Well, whether the damsel was by his side or inside a fortress with him outside, she was still his to defend and he couldn’t let her down.

  He made himself finish the meal, rose and splashed water on his face in the hall bathroom, got himself a clean shirt and was shrugging into it when Komal emerged.

  “Let’s go downstairs and talk.” She gestured to the open sitting room, which was clearly visible from the bedroom door.

  He nodded. “Let me call Sarah to sit with her.”

  “I was going to suggest the same.”

  When they faced each other in the sitting room, Komal began without preamble, apparently recognizing from his expression he had no patience for any other approach.

  “
Everything looks fine. Normal. Remarkable, considering the physical feat she pulled off. Her body temperature is somewhat low.”

  “She’s always cold. Her skin’s always cold.”

  Komal put out her hand, her dark eyes warm with understanding. “I’m not a doctor but my gut and experience say she’s had a complete breakdown. She’s drained, so tired there’s nothing there. Exhaustion. Sheer and simple. She’s out there floating in the wreckage, the post-flood. I think she just needs time for the water to wash out and to feel the people who love her around her. You need to keep a close eye on her right now. Very close.”

  He understood from the emphasis, the sudden sharpening of her eyes, what she meant. He’d known it, suspected it, but it was difficult to hear from someone who was trained to see it.

  “But he’s gone. She faced him, annihilated him.”

  “The man who haunted her life is gone, but the evil that chose to manifest itself in the body of her father is not gone. It never is. Off to find another willing host, innocent prey. Will she ever annihilate the feeling of his hatred, his betrayal? His hands on her? See, that’s the thing.” Komal settled herself on the sectional sofa and drew him down next to her, giving him the seat that gave him a clear view to Marguerite’s room. “The nightmare wasn’t that he was still alive, but that he existed to begin with. With him gone, that hits all the harder, the truth of that. Will it ever be better? Will she ever not dream of the nightmare?

  “Think of the Holocaust victims. Hitler’s dead, the Third Reich is gone, but is it? When you’ve been touched by that kind of evil, you know that it doesn’t have a specific face. It’s an underground river in the subconscious of humanity, ready to rise up at the least crack in the soul of a willing host. And the only thing that makes life worth living when you really understand that is knowing there’s someone out there worth living for.”

  “I’m here.”