“You saw the photos?” His words were clipped, harsh. They were full of anger, but it seemed directed more at himself than at Muratti. “Saw the fucking hell I shoved you into?”
“You? You think this is somehow your fault? Dammit, Cole, this isn’t your fault any more than what happened to Bree was on your shoulders. It’s nobody’s fault except Muratti’s and the prick photographer who trespassed on my property.
“And,” I added, because I was on a roll, “if you think I did anything with you that I didn’t consent to one hundred and twenty percent—that I didn’t enjoy at least twice that much—then you are a fucking idiot.”
Some of the tension left his body then, and he sagged back to lean against the table on which the duffel bag lay.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Don’t go to Atlantic City,” I said, then tossed the envelope onto the table before handing him the stone. He took it, and as he did our fingers brushed. As always, I felt that shock of connection. More important, I saw in his eyes that he felt it, too. “Don’t kill him, Cole. Not even for me.”
He ran his hands over his head, then drew in a long breath. He had changed out of the tux he’d worn to the wedding and now wore jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that accentuated the muscles in his arms and chest. Even without a gun, he was deadly. With one, he was unstoppable.
I intended to stop him anyway.
“Talk to me, dammit,” I said. I wanted to shake him. To slap him. I wanted to kick some sense into him. But the moment was charged—hell, he was charged—and every ounce of reason in me told me that I needed to talk him down. That raging against a man who could so easily give in to rage would be like pouring gasoline on a flame.
After a moment, he held out the small green stone, his thumb rubbing it in slow, even strokes. “Jahn gave me this,” he said, without preamble and without looking at me. “Did I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“He left each of us a letter and a gift. More of a token, really. Something personal. Something that held some meaning for him.”
“Why was the stone important to him?” I asked.
Now Cole turned his head and looked at me directly. “He bought it on his honeymoon,” Cole said. “His first honeymoon,” he added wryly. “His wife said he fretted too much. That he needed something to absorb the stress.”
“But that’s not the whole story.” I’d known Howard Jahn. The man had about a million layers. And if he was giving a worry stone as a legacy, there had to be a deeper purpose.
“He knew me better than anyone,” Cole said. “Anyone except you,” he added, and something that had been cold and shriveled inside me began to bloom and grow. “He knew about my temper. About the crack my mother smoked. About the way I could snap. He knew about the gangs, and he knew what I’d done. More, he knew what I was capable of doing. And he believed that I could hold it all in. That I could control my temper rather than have my temper control me.”
“Smart man, Howard Jahn,” I said. “I knew there was a reason I always liked him.”
I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Just a hint of an instant, but it gave me another thread of hope to grasp.
“He told me that one day I would find a woman who fit me. Who soothed me. Who’d help me cling to control. I’d find her one day, Jahn said,” Cole continued. “But he gave me the worry stone to use until then.”
He’d turned away as he spoke, looking vaguely at the wall of weapons—pistols and shotguns, Tasers, and who knows what else. But even though he wasn’t touching me or looking at me, I knew that he was talking about me—that I was the woman Jahn had promised. And that simple knowledge filled me with a bittersweet joy.
That, however, wasn’t the end.
“Go on,” I whispered. “Tell me the rest.”
He turned to me, and his face was no longer closed off. I saw love. I saw adoration. And—god help me—I saw pain.