Dylan grunted noncommittally.
“You know . . . I have a cousin who lives in the Logan Square neighborhood in Chicago. He’s a cop—a big strong guy like you,” Maggie began in a conversational tone. “Four years ago, he was put on the night shift, and so he and his wife had to do some major resetting of their lives. They’d only been married two months at the time. One night while he was working, two assholes broke into their townhouse with the intent of burglary. Tony—that’s my cousin—had taught his wife, Sheila, how to use a gun. So Sheila confronts one of the men with the weapon, but she doesn’t realize the other jerk is behind her. He disables her. Long story short, these two end up pistol-whipping her within an inch of her life. It was brutal what they did, and what’s worse, they seemed to enjoy it.”
“Did they catch them?” Dylan asked.
“It took two and half years, but yeah . . . they did. My point is, Tony was in a living hell. He was the strong, powerful guy—a cop, no less—but he couldn’t predict that situation, he couldn’t protect his wife. Why? Because a sane, normal person can’t predict what a criminal or crazy person is going to do. Tony had to go to work, just like most people. He couldn’t sit around, staring at his wife every second of their life. Shit happens, Dylan, crap that’s not in your control. You just have to deal with the consequences the best you can.”
Dylan sagged another inch in the chair. “I knew there was a moral to this story.”
Maggie gave a bark of dry laughter. “You’re not all powerful. No one likes facing that fact.” Dylan peered at her sideways without moving his head. She arched her brows. “Besides, you were lucky compared to Tony. You saved Alice from the bad guys. Both on Thursday night . . . and eventually, from what they’d done to her twenty years ago.”
“Unlike your cousin, I’ve suspected this bad guy for a long time, but couldn’t prove any wrongdoing on his part. Sebastian Kehoe is considered a successful, law-abiding man.”
Maggie sighed, crossed her arms over her belly, and slouched in her chair next to him. “Yeah, well what were you going to do without any solid proof? Go vigilante? That’s not going to help Alice any, either, to have you in thrown in prison.”
Dylan thought about his brief, blinding bout of vigilante justice in that pantry. Alice had witnessed his savagery. She’d seen a part of himself he kept hidden. He’d nearly murdered Kehoe right in front of her.
For the thousandth time in the past few days, he cringed inwardly at the thought.
*
ALICE slept solidly and deeply that night. When she awoke the next morning, Dylan was sitting next to her bed in a chair, long legs crossed. He wore jeans, a button-down steel blue shirt, and his glasses, and was reading the Wall Street Journal. She didn’t say anything, and just submitted to the luxury of watching him for a moment.
He was in the process of refolding his paper when he noticed that her eyes were open.
“Morning,” he said, flipping his folded paper onto the bedside table.
“Hi,” she murmured. She stretched experimentally. Her body was stiff and it hurt, but there was noticeable improvement compared to yesterday.
“How’s the pain today?” Dylan asked.
“Better. Not so sore. I slept like a rock,” she said, yawning.
“Having Kuvi and Dave here yesterday afternoon wore you out,” Dylan said, standing.
“Telling Kuvi and Dave about the drama of Alice Reed’s life was what wore me out.” She vividly recalled the expression of blank incredulity on their faces when Alice finally got around to explaining that Dylan had found her because he believed she was Adelaide Durand.
“It was too much, to have to explain it all, first to Maggie, and then to Kuvi and Dave,” he said, dark brows pinched in a severe expression. “I want you to take it easy today.”
Her gaze ran over him warmly. “Stop lecturing me. It’s turning me on.”
He shook his head. But she’d made him smile, and inexplicably, the vision made her throat tighten with feeling.
She needed him so much. It embarrassed her, this rampant want he inspired, but she couldn’t stop it. She held out her arms. He gave a small smile and sat on the edge of her bed, his arms going around her gently. She couldn’t wait for the day when he didn’t have to hug her like she was made of fine china. A feeling of nostalgia—or was it loss—rose in her. Would things ever be the same, after that horrible night? She pressed her nose against his sternum and inhaled him.
“I wish I could clean up in your huge, gorgeous shower and use some of your soap. You always smell so good. And I’m so disgusting after only a bed bath and then being hosed off in that gross bathroom down the hall. I felt like a horse, except Doah probably has better facilities than that,” she muttered, frowning. Thinking about Doah had sent another spike of emotion through her.