“It’s been rumored that you set this up,” the same reporter called out. “Is this some kind of publicity stunt to improve your ratings?”
Tad, you sonofabitch.
Beside her, Gideon stiffened but continued to say nothing, allowing her to run the show. For now. She had no doubt that if either of the reporters came closer, he’d be on them before they could blink.
The other reporter, a woman who had kind eyes, stared at the loudmouth in surprise before stepping forward. “Miss Frederick, do you have any words of advice for women who might be nervous walking the streets at night alone?”
Daisy smiled at her. “I trained in martial arts and self-defense for years, but that’s not possible for a lot of women in your viewing audience. There are moves they can learn, but the truth is, when you’re in that situation, you get scared. You forget. Some training is better than none, and if they can take just one class, by all means do that, but realize the limitations. Take the class again, every year or so. Renew your skills.”
“Do you have any recommendations?”
Daisy shook her head. “I’m new to the city. But I’ll find out and I’ll share those on my morning show, if my management agrees.”
The woman studied her shrewdly. “Do you know of a specific person who’s disappeared in the city?”
“I’m sure you have ways of getting all that information,” Daisy told her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m super tired.” She smiled at them politely. “And if you come back, I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing. Have a good evening.”
Gideon sent her up the stairs, waiting in the rain at the sidewalk until she’d opened the front door. He backed up, keeping his eyes on the group below, not even pausing when the obnoxious reporter shouted, “Who’s the muscle, Poppy? Why do you have a body—”
“You have thirty seconds,” Gideon barked at the man. “Vacate the property or you’ll be under arrest for trespassing.” To the nicer reporter he said, “Take your time, ma’am.”
He pushed his wet hair away from his face when he came into the house. “That fucker you used to work with has been spreading those rumors.”
Daisy began to tremble the moment he shut and locked the door, closing them off from the rest of the world. “I know,” she whispered.
Gideon took the umbrella from her hand, collapsed it, and set it in the umbrella stand by the door before removing his coat and then hers and hanging them on the coat tree to dry. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. “You were amazing out there.”
Shaking her head hard, she took a step forward and his arms came around her, drawing her close. “Daisy, honey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
The tears started to come and she couldn’t hold them back. Her teeth were chattering, so she clenched them and burrowed her face into his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you say you’re sorry,” he ordered softly. “That was hard, but you were wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“Tad is a bastard,” she whispered.
“I should have punched him in the mouth when I had a chance this morning.”
“I wish I’d let you. Dammit, Gideon, I didn’t even get that jerk reporter’s name.” She’d been far too rattled.
“It’s okay. I got the station call numbers of both vans and their license plates, plus photos of all of the reporters and their cameramen. Rafe has security cameras as well.”
“I know. That’s why I asked them to come closer. They weren’t in camera range.”
He chuckled, low and deep, and she wanted to hear that sound forever. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She tilted her head, something he’d said just sinking in. “What do you mean, the fucker I used to work with?”
“Rafe said that Tad got fired.”
“Good. I’m glad.” She burrowed closer, sliding her arms around his waist. “Thank you for having my back out there.”
His arms tightened around her. “Thank you for having my back when I had my little meltdown earlier.” He laid his cheek on top of her head and she wanted to sigh because it felt so damn good. “What are we going to do now, Daisy?”
There was only one answer to that question. “We are going to paint.”
“We are?”
She could feel him nuzzling the top of her head with his cheek, his beard catching on her hair. “Yes, we are. We’ll paint and you’ll tell me about Eden. Okay?”
His chest pressed against her as he drew a deep breath. “Okay.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:15 P.M.
His skin hurt. He winced as he pulled his shirt on. It always hurt when he left Sydney’s bed. His back burned from where her nails had dug deep trenches. His chest and arms were raw because he’d scrubbed a layer of dermis off in the shower.
She’d marked him once again. And he hated her. So much.
Why do you always say yes? he asked himself for the one-millionth time. Just tell her no. But he never did. And probably never would.
I wish I’d killed her when I’d had the chance. He stared at his reflection in her bathroom mirror, knowing the truth in his mind. He’d never really had a chance. Not with her. He’d been too young. She’d been too . . . much. Too much of everything.
But the truth had never seemed to make a difference. He always came back. He always said yes. And he always hated himself afterward as much as he hated her.
“Sweet boy.” Her voice drifted to him through the open door. Because she didn’t permit him to close it. She never had.
It wasn’t an endearment, her “sweet boy.” It was a call to heel. Because I’m her personal dog. Still he answered dully, “Yes?”
There was a beat of silence and he felt her disapproval, even from the next room.
“Yes, Sydney?” he amended.
“Come here.”
He obeyed, buttoning his shirt as he walked from the bathroom into her bedroom, where she lounged in a peignoir, looking like a movie star from the 1940s. “Yes, Sydney?”
Her lower lip pushing out in a pout, she held out her hand. “You broke my nail.”
No, she’d done that while laying trenches in his back. His feet kept him moving to the side of her bed because he knew what she expected.
And he always ended up doing what she expected. Just get it over with and you can leave. He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to touch her anywhere, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the finger with the broken nail.
“I’m sorry, Sydney,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying to me. You’re not sorry.”
But he was. He was so sorry. Sorry that he couldn’t break away from her. From whatever invisible chain bound him to her. Sorry that he couldn’t be a real man and strangle her the way he wanted to. The way he dreamed of doing.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated with more force. He swallowed, then kissed her finger again. “Really sorry, Sydney.”
It was her finger today. It had been her hip last time, because he’d held on too tightly and left a bruise. The time before he’d “made her” knock a wineglass from her nightstand to the floor, staining the carpet red.
How he’d wished it had been her blood.
Each time there was something he’d done. For as long as he could remember. Each time he’d dutifully apologized. In the beginning he’d even meant it.
In the beginning he hadn’t known anything. In the beginning she’d held all the power. In the beginning she’d been in control.
Not much had changed. She still had the upper hand.
She patted his cheek. “I forgive you,” she said as she always did, then relaxed into a mountain of pillows. “I’ll have it fixed by the manicurist tomorrow. Lock up on your way out and set the alarm. Paul won’t be home until late.”
And he was dismissed. No thank you. No words of affection. She never uttered them. Not that he’d have believed them anyway.
He stood up and tucked his shirt in his pants, stuffing his tie in his pocket and grabbing his shoes and socks from the floor, his rage beginning to boil. “Yes, Sydney.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:20 P.M.
Daisy leaned into Gideon’s arm, peeking at his painting. “You’re not half bad for a G-man,” she teased. “Getting rid of the tie allowed oxygen to the creative area of your brain.”
He laughed gruffly. After much encouragement—and a little bullying—on her part, he’d finally picked up a brush and begun to cover the canvas she’d set up on one of her easels with cheerful daisies, which made her happy.
He’d added a little girl to the painting, but she wasn’t blond with blue eyes. She appeared very young, with dark hair pulled into pigtails. And green eyes. “Stop peeking,” he said, “or I’ll stop painting.”