She moved into the room, pulled the key from the lock and faced him.
He stayed where he was, a gentleman despite his jagged edges.
“Thanks for watching my back, cowboy,” she said.
“Anytime.” No pushing, no prying, just accepting as he stepped back. She closed the door. He didn’t leave till she locked it behind herself.
Darcy sighed, more with relief that she hadn’t done something stupid than at the prospect of a hot shower and some rest.
She dropped her bags and headed straight for the bath.
For nearly a half hour, she let the hot spray of the shower beat down on her body, washing away the tension in her muscles. With her hands braced on the wall, head down, she forgot about Mary Jo, about Eli Archer, and let her mind wander.
It was a mistake.
Her thoughts went immediately back to Rainy. The last time she’d seen her. In a coffin. Knowing Rainy was gone forever. Having to face it. Her heart broke all over again, and she relented to her pain, sinking to the floor of the stall and sobbing like a baby.
She missed Rainy. She missed her Athena sisters. And she felt very alone and worn.
Rainy had been the best, leading the Cassandra squad when they were young, coaching them, pushing them to be stronger, better. Without Rainy, the chain felt broken. Darcy didn’t have many people in her life, even fewer who knew who she really was, but Alex, Josie, Tory, Kayla and Samantha were the people she could count on in a crunch. They were bound together by more than an oath to each other. They were bound by the trials of Athena.
Pushing her hair off her face, she tipped her head back. Her heart felt like a wounded prisoner in her chest. Captured and hurting.
Turmoil boiled inside her and exploded.
She smacked the tile floor.
She wanted her life back, dammit! She wanted to hear her name spoken aloud, to stop being suspicious of everyone new in her life and constantly looking over her shoulder. She wanted to tell the Cassandras the whole truth about her marriage and wash away the shame of her weakness. She deserved better.
Charlie deserved better. Yet her own fear of losing her son kept her from finding a way to take her life back with both hands. It was by skill, caution and a hell of a lot of luck that Maurice hadn’t found her yet. There was no telling what he’d do if he did. He had it in him to kill her. She’d seen that when he put a knife to her pregnant belly and threatened to kill his own child if she didn’t behave. For the sake of her unborn child, she’d backed down then, smothering the urge to hit her husband.
Charlie was nearly four now, a happy, lively little boy and her entire world. He was the reason she’d planned her escape from Maurice’s estate. Charlie was the reason she had bitten back her pride and called Rainy for help.
Her throat tightened, knotting like old rope.
I can’t live like this anymore. With this crippling fear. Because without her freedom, she was just a shadow hiding in Piper Daniel’s clothes.
Maurice Steele strolled through his home, inspecting the staff’s work, then setting the alarms for the night. He was reluctant to go to bed just yet, with the house feeling extraordinarily empty. He supposed he should have gotten used to it, and a starlet in his bed would have eased his solitude, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he didn’t want to look at some well-used wanna-be in the morning.
He tightened the sash of his silk robe, walking into his library, then to his desk. He collected his papers, sliding them into his briefcase and setting it precisely to the right of his desk before pouring himself a brandy. He lit the warmer and set the snifter in the holder on its side, counting off the seconds toward perfection. The TV droned in the background.
He lowered himself onto the sofa, propping his feet on the table, and supposed that he was anxious for the reviews of his latest production. He’d have to wait. He had a fortune riding on it, and though he was certain it was spectacular, critics had their heads up their asses most of the time and rarely understood the entertainment potential of an action-spy thriller.
He sipped, holding the brown liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He rarely drank more than one and never drank in public. Some people speculated that he was a recovering alcoholic because no one saw him drink liquor. Maurice never responded to the gossip. It was his personal feeling that too much explanation gave them more to speculate about, and too much drink took away the edge on the brain, the command he had of deals and productions, on or off the set.
He was leaning forward for the TV remote to turn off the set when the news anchor, relaying the recap of lead stories for the past few weeks, said one word that made his attention snap to the screen.
Athena.
He turned up the volume and listened.
Attorney Lorraine Miller Carrington was dead, a car crash. Police didn’t suspect the death of the Harvard alumni attorney was more than an accident, yet gave no significant details. Maurice’s eyes narrowed when they flashed a picture of “Rainy,” as his wife used to call her. A pretty thing. The last time Maurice had seen her was at his wedding. They showed pictures of her in life, then one in death.
A film clip of the funeral appeared, but he didn’t hear the commentary. He only saw a group of women standing outside the church. His attention focused on one, a little boy clasped in her arms. He watched, his heartbeat gaining speed. She didn’t turn toward the camera, in fact, as soon as she spotted the camera she avoided it and left immediately. But Maurice had already recognized the woman’s delicate profile. Her stance.
Darcy.
Well, well. The little rebel has surfaced.
He hadn’t had time to study the child and he watched the clip roll to its end, hoping for another glimpse. He switched channels and after a few moments, it appeared again on another late-night station, the kind that had nothing to report but other stations’ news.
Maurice leaned back, tossing the remote on the table. So. Darcy had been in Phoenix two weeks ago. With his son. Maurice had sent a half dozen private investigators after her, giving them the story that he didn’t want the press to know. That she’d left in the night, with his son. But the press had found out. So had his friends, and he was left with the humiliating task of explaining away his very pretty wife’s disappearance. He’d complained to his friends that he’d given her everything he had and it wasn’t enough. And yes, he wanted her back. They believed him, thankfully, and he still wore his wedding ring to keep up the pretense. Maurice never hurt for feminine company—women found affairs with married men enticing—but seeing Darcy on the TV, he suddenly wanted her back under his control. Desperately.
She was too much of a rebel under all that beauty. He blamed Athena Academy and those Cassandras for that. He should never have married her, but she was poor and struggling and so lovely. He’d seen her as an uncut diamond, just waiting to be shaped and molded. He’d had to compete with a couple of men for her attention, but money made it easy. He’d seen her clothed by the finest designers, her hair styled by Hollywood’s star makers. For a time, she was the perfect wife, a beautiful, sexy bride to show off.
In the back of his brain the reminder that he’d been cruel to her—that he’d shoved her down the stairs and threatened her—tried to push to the surface. But it was overshadowed by the sight of the woman who’d dared defy him. Who’d run off with his son.
She was nothing but white trash, he thought with a flash of sudden sharp anger. With a drunk for a mother and no father she could claim. And look at her—that long black dress and dark wig. Haggard, skinny. Frail. Yes, yes, it had to be her. Clearly she couldn’t function well without him. He smiled slowly, pleased, knowing there was a lush, shapely body under that shapeless dress, plump round breasts on a petite frame. Dove-blue eyes in a delicate face. His little elfin princess, he thought,