He took a step away from her. And then another. It was safer that way, given the rage surging through him. “Someone more easily controlled might even fall for this scene. Of course, a more honest woman would never have set up such an elaborate ruse to manipulate a man, but hey, whatever means necessary, right?”
Hurt mingled with determination in her expression, but he wasn’t going to allow it to affect him. Not when it appeared that he’d been the biggest fool of all time. Had he given it a thought, he would have found it ironic that the greatest betrayals in his life had been perpetuated by frauds and fakes who’d pretended to love him.
But he wasn’t much in the mood to appreciate the irony.
“Shane, you have to listen.” There was desperation in Cassie’s voice, in the clutch of her fingers when she laid them on his arm. “If you go through with that assignment, I’m afraid you may not come home alive. I told you about my dream—”
He jerked away from her touch. “You told me. What you didn’t tell me was the lengths you’d go to get your own way.”
“This isn’t about me! It’s about—”
“Finally something we can agree on.” His jaw was tight, his chest felt as if a vise squeezed it. “This isn’t about you at all. Not anymore.”
The older woman was speaking again, but he couldn’t hear her. There was a roaring in his ears, and a fist punching his heart as he turned to leave. The first step felt like a surgical slice, neatly peeling away a part of his life he’d begun to think of as permanent. With the second step, a blessed sort of numbness settled in and he welcomed it, even knowing it wouldn’t last. The lack of feeling made it possible to take the next step. And then the next. Soon he was striding rapidly toward the parking lot where he’d left his vehicle. Away from the charlatan spouting her cryptic psychic nonsense.
And away from the only woman he’d ever loved.
Chapter 2
Three months later
Shane pushed open the door of his house and was immediately assailed by the dual odors of Pine-Sol and stale air. Although his housecleaner had been instructed to keep the place clean in his absence, she’d obviously neglected to air it out regularly.
He walked through the entryway to drop the bundle of mail he’d collected from the Post Office, then went back to the porch to retrieve his bags. He set them down in the hallway, nudging them out of the way with one foot. Leaving the door open, he went back to deal with the mail that had accumulated in his absence.
The place felt foreign, distant somehow. Which was amazing, considering the places he’d been living for the past several months.
Living. That was the operative word. He’d come back to the States alive. There had been times he’d been convinced that would never happen.
Without any real interest, he began sorting through the mail. Half of it was junk, which he set aside to be discarded later. There was an oddly disorienting feeling to be reading advertisements guaranteeing financial success, and catalogs featuring malnourished, scantily clad models, when only twenty hours earlier he’d been in a country where a man was routinely killed for the dollar in his pocket or the half-worn boots on his feet. Where a baby died for lack of ample penicillin. Where the medications that could save lives were bartered by warlords and thieves as lucrative items on a thriving black market.
Like a flick of a switch he turned that memory off and concentrated on the task at hand. Three piles—for junk, professional and personal. The latter was woefully thin, consisting of only a letter that looked to be from his lawyer. Until… His hand faltered when he came upon the plain white envelope without a return address. He didn’t need one. He recognized the handwriting.
Cassie’s.
A memory of her face flashed into his mind, its appearance a bit too easily summoned for comfort. With slightly more difficulty, he pushed the mental image aside. She was out of his life. Had been for three months. Nothing contained in the message would change that.
He let the letter drop from his fingers to land on the top of the third pile, and continued sorting. The wound in his shoulder had stiffened up on the plane and throbbed dully. The bandage needed to be changed, and he’d have to get a new prescription now that he was home. Somehow he couldn’t summon the interest or inclination to do any of that at the moment.
The phone rang, the sound startling in the silence of the house. Shane answered it and, upon hearing the voice on the other end, felt his blood go glacial.
“Shane? Oh, thank the goddesses. Where have you been?”
“Gran.” His voice was flat. “How did you find me?”
He could almost picture the careless wave of her hand. “Oh, that doesn’t really matter, does it, sweetie? What matters is that you’re finally home. Someone at the hospital where you work told me that you were out of the country. Did you enjoy your vacation? I always worry about your working too hard.”
Shane’s mouth twisted wryly. “The vacation was fine. What do you want?”
Her voice went persuasive. “Now, dear, don’t sound like that. I just wanted to say hello, that’s all. Family should keep in touch, and with your dear mother gone we need each other more than ever.”
“Difficult to figure, considering I never needed you at all.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror hanging above the hall table. A stranger stared back at him. Hair that hadn’t been cut in months, three days’ growth of beard on his face, partially hiding a fresh scar that began beneath his chin and zigzagged down three inches to the right. Surface changes, for the most part, with the exception of his eyes. Ghosts lurked there, haunted fragments of memory that he doubted he’d ever shake. But for all the changes, he was still Dr. Shane Farhold.
He just wasn’t certain who that man was anymore.
“Shane? Are you still there?”
“Yes.” With a mental jerk, he shifted his attention back to the woman on the other end of the line and answered her question.
“Well, that’s good, then. I wanted to tell you about the sweetest little shop I’ve set up. I’m selling Wiccan items and teaching some classes. You can’t believe the response I’ve gotten. With my ability for summoning the spirits, there’s a never-ending stream of people who are lonely for a long departed loved one. But not all people are open-minded about that, as you recall.”
He read the underlying message in what she didn’t say. “Run a little afoul of the local law, did you?”
Her tone was just right. A little bewildered, with a touch of the shakiness one might expect in a seventy-year-old woman. Except that Genevieve Fleming had never exuded signs of her age in her entire life. She didn’t admit to it at all, unless it could help her in some way. “They’re hounding me, Shane, treating me like some common criminal. They want a payoff, of course, a bribe to leave me alone to conduct my business in peace.”
“Really.” When he noticed his fist clenching, he consciously relaxed it, continued sorting the mail. “Are you sure it’s a bribe they want, Gran? I believe it’s more commonly referred to as bail.”
There was a moment of silence, while she rapidly regrouped, but only a moment. She’d always been quick to recover. Quick to assess any situation and milk it for all she was worth. Then she gave a martyred sigh, like a woman trying her best to be strong. “You have caller ID, I suppose. Well, as a matter of fact, I hadn’t wanted to alarm you, but for some reason I’ve been put in jail. I don’t know how to handle this. I feel so alone.” Her voice broke.
There had been a time, even a few months ago, when the sound would have tugged at his conscience. Guilt was a habit decades in the making, difficult to break. But right now he felt nothing. No guilt. No compassion. Nothing but a weary sort of irritation that he might have felt for a particularly annoying stranger.