“Don’t threaten me,” he’d warned. “ ’Cause you’re in the big leagues now and I swear to you if you try to take my son away from me, I’ll kill you!”
And then . . . and then what? Her memory eluded her once again as she sat and shivered on the bed. “Oh, God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. What had she gotten herself into? Who was she? What kind of person would bargain with her husband about the fate of her child? Don’t cross me, he’d warned just last night, that would be a big mistake.
She’d stumbled into the bedroom, lain in the dark and stared up at the lacy, spider weblike canopy and waited until she’d heard him leave. Just as he always did. Where had he gone? Whom did he meet? What was he doing? She’d finally dozed off without any answers, sleeping fitfully as in the waking moments that peppered her sleep, she’d tried and failed to come up with some kind of plan to wrest her children from their tyrant of a father, to save them.
From what?
From whom?
Alex and the woman he was involved with?
If only she could remember.
Damn it, somehow she would. She reached under the mattress. Alex’s cold pistol was right where she’d put it. Close. So she had a weapon and Eugenia’s keys—surely there was a key to the ignition of one of the cars, and with enough digging through documents, she might be able to access some of the bank accounts. She needed to find her checkbook statement and some kind of ID—then she could draw out some cash—maybe from one of those automated cash machines . . . if only she could come up with a password.
Her head pounded.
She had to do it. She had to find a way out of this mess.
This is the first day of the rest of your life. This is the day you escape and start living.
The door to the suite cracked open.
She jumped. Reached for the gun.
Her fingers surrounded the cold metal as the door to her room inched open. Her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Beads of sweat ran down her temples.
You won’t take my kids from me, you son of a bitch, she thought, expecting Alex. Holding her breath, she narrowed her eyes as a man’s head was thrust into the room.
“Marla?”
“Nick!” She sagged in relief. Nick. Thank God. She wanted to crumble into a million pieces.
Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. Stripped bare to the waist, he wore only a pair of disreputable jeans. “Are you all right?” His voice was a balm. Tears burned behind her eyes. “I thought I heard you cry out.”
“I—I probably did. I mean, I’m sure of it.” She slid her hand free from between the springs and mattress, leaving the gun. “I had a dream, a nightmare, but it seemed so real.” Still sitting in the bed, she plowed both sets of fingers through her short hair. “I dreamt that Alex . . . he accused me of trying to take the baby away from him, he . . . he threatened to kill me. But it really happened. I know it did. We were standing in the foyer and he was . . . he was . . . so angry. Ruthless.” Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard. “God, it was horrible.”
“But you’re sure you’re okay?” he asked again. Gently. As if he really cared. She heard him approach the bed and felt the mattress sag as he sat on the edge. He touched her shoulder and she fought the urge to tumble against him and sob like some stupid, weak female. No, that would never do, but a part of her melted as she felt his fingers, so strong, so warm, touching her shoulder through the thin fabric of her pajamas. “Are you okay?” he said again, and she opened her eyes.
“I think so.” Her voice was lower than usual, raspy as she fought to control herself at his tender gesture. Deep in her heart she knew that no one in her life had ever been this concerned about her. This kind. Not her father, not her husband, no other man in her life . . . She swallowed hard, refused to fall apart.
“I was just checking on you. Why don’t you go back to sleep?” he suggested, and in the darkness she saw the outline of his face, noticed how his eyebrows pulled together in concern, sensed the tension in his muscles.
“I can’t. I have too much to do today.” She cleared her throat and admitted, “I have a lot to tell you, Nick. A lot.”
His fingers tightened over her arm. “What?”
“I, um, I need to get my thoughts together,” she said, as deep inside she felt a yearning that she had to ignore. He was so close. Too close. She smelled his skin, felt his heat . . . oh, Lord, she couldn’t be distracted. Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she said, “Listen . . . just give me a few minutes to shower and look decent, then I want to tell you what I found out.”
“Promise?” he asked, his teeth flashing white.
“Promise.” Oh, God, she’d love to kiss that cocky smile off his face.
She scooted to the far side of the bed to break contact with him. This was much too intimate, too tempting, too erotic . . . too dangerous.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“I only need ten,” she shot back and winked at him as she dived for the bathroom.