It wasn’t working.
The bedroom door opened. Noah came in, carrying two large suitcases. He didn’t meet her eyes. Just set the suitcases down with a thud. “Time to pack.”
Tension seized her whole body. “You’re making a mistake,” she began.
“It’s not up for discussion.” His voice was expressionless. “A team from SafeGuard will pick you up tomorrow morning.” He held out a bulky manila envelope.
She took it, and shook the contents out. There was a flawlessly faked driver’s license for a Melissa Brodhurst. He’d taken the picture on it two nights ago, using her wig, her glasses and the face-distorting mouth insert.
There was a cell phone, a set of keys for a car and another for a house or apartment, by the looks of them. The pen drive from Luke Ryan’s house. A sheaf of documents.
Lots of documents. Bank accounts for Melissa, with breathtakingly high balances. A car title. The deed to a condo. A birth certificate. High school transcripts. A college diploma. A graphic design resume featuring multiple jobs.
“Enjoy your new condo in Mendocino. Good security. And an ocean view, when the fog lets up,” he said. “Car’s in the garage.”
“OK.” Her throat was so tight, she could hardly say the word. It was a lie, in any case.
He continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. “I ordered you a passport. It’ll arrive in the mail, at your condo. Then you could leave the country. If you want.”
Caro squelched the urge to crumple the papers. Furious at him, for making high-handed decisions for her. Grateful that he cared so much. The conflicting impulses made her want to scream. As if her life would be worth a damn if she ended up needing another faked identity. Like she could hide or run for it, knowing that Noah was either dead or else imprisoned and tortured by a madman.
“Don’t look like that.” Noah sounded defensive. “We all have emergency escape plans, if things go to shit. This is yours. Best I could come up with on short notice.”
“You controlling bastard,” she said.
“That’s me. Pack your stuff. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Hurt stabbed deep, cold and sharp. “You’re not staying?”
“I have more work to do. Gotta focus. Everything else can wait.”
“Guess that applies to me, too,” she said.
A muscle pulsed in his jaw, but his blank expression did not change. “I need to stay in control.” His voice was rigidly even, almost robotic. “I’m having a bad time with imbeds. My old analogs are compromised, so I have to construct new ones every time. Takes time and privacy. It would be stupid of you to take it personally. Good night.”
He walked out, and shut the door. Like he’d been doing ever since their clash after they first got in touch with Mark in the Oblio chatroom.
His withdrawal had been subtle. Impossible to protest. Of course he was busy and preoccupied, largely on her behalf, so she had no right to complain. But ever since the flurry of preparations had begun, he’d been lost to her. Light years away.
Truth was, he’d spoiled her. When he was switched on, he radiated a wild, hot, reverent passion that was healing. It made her feel beautiful and powerful. After her long stint of barely surviving, she’d glommed onto that like a starving creature. Passion, closeness. She’d lapped it all up.
Then, all at once, he’d yanked it away again, leaving her lost and bewildered.
Well. Almost. Not the sexual intimacy. Every night he had come to her deep in the night, after his secret planning sessions to which she was not invited. He’d stripped off his clothes, slid into bed and made fierce, focused love to her. No talk. No cuddling.
He peeled off her panties and hungrily licked her into a whimpering frenzy, keeping at it until she was aroused beyond belief. Then he rolled on top of her, kissed her senseless, and took her for a hard, pounding ride, driving her to wave upon crashing wave of erotic surrender. And as soon as she drifted back to reality, he promptly positioned her for the next round. And on, and on.
Sexually he was as eager and generous as he’d ever been, but emotionally, he was gone behind a thick wall of glass.
But still. He’d taken the weight of the world on his shoulders to help her. And she was feeling miserable because he wasn’t focused on her tender feelings? Please.
It made her hate herself. Which was really all she needed right now.
She folded over, pressing her hand to her belly. That falling-away feeling was like those last weeks before Mom died. Something so bad was bearing down on her like a train, and she was tied to the tracks. Helpless to stop it.
Then the train hit. The worst happened. It happened all the time, with monotonous regularity. Grief, loss, violence, disaster, brutality. Catastrophe. She knew. Falling in love was a trap. She’d tried so hard to dodge it.
Fail. Major fail. It embarrassed her.