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- 2*i**2 + 4*i**2 + 3*i**2 - 3*i**2 - 2 + 1 + 2*i**2 - 1 + (-2 - 1 + 18)*(i**2 + 5*i**2 - i**2).
80*i**2 - 2
Expand ((2*c + 0*c - 3*c)*(-1 - 3 + 3) + c + c - 6*c + (-1 + 1 + 2*c)*(3 - 6 + 1))*(c**2 - 16*c**2 + 3*c**2)*(0*c + 6*c - 4*c).
168*c**4
Expand (-d + d - 2*d**2)*(d + 1 - 1) + d**3 - 3*d**3 + 3*d**3 - 67*d**3 - 269*d + 269*d + (2*d**3 - d**2 + d**2)*(1 + 1 + 3).
-58*d**3
Expand (-w**2 + w**2 + w**3)*(1 + 0 - 2) + 3*w**3 + 3*w**3 - 2*w**3 + 24*w**3 + 136 - 136.
27*w**3
Expand (1 + 1 - 4)*(2 - 5 + 1)*(-24 - 20 + 8)*(-3*x - 10*x + 26*x)*(3 - 6 + 4).
-1872*x
Expand (-5*s - 2*s + s)*(843*s**3 - 88*s**3 + 816*s**3).
-9426*s**4
Expand (19 + 13 + 1 + (5 + 0 - 3)*(5 - 5 - 2))*(-10 - 3*k**2 + 10).
-87*k**2
Expand -118*h**2 + 56*h - 141*h**2 - 57*h + (11*h + 2 - 2)*(-1 + 3*h + 1 + (-1 - 5 + 5)*(3 - 3 + h)).
-237*h**2 - h
Expand (-4*n + 5*n - 2*n)*(-39*n + 4734 - 9470 + 4740 - 18*n).
57*n**2 - 4*n
Expand (0 + 0 + 1)*(-3*n**5 + 2*n**5 + 3*n**5) + (5*n**3 + 3*n**3 - 2*n**3)*(-48*n**2 + 110*n - 110*n).
-286*n**5
Expand -38 - 31*m**3 + 38 + (m**3 + 0*m**3 + 2*m**3)*(-2 + 1 - 1) + (4*m**2 - 3*m**2 + 0*m**2)*(-m - 2*m - 4*m).
-44*m**3
Expand (-25*j + 3*j + 509*j)*(-2 + 1 + 4)*(4 + 3 - 6).
1461*j
Expand (-q**2 - 3 + 2*q**2 - 1)*(q**2 + 775172*q - 775172*q).
q**4 - 4*q**2
Expand 4*p**3 - 27*p**3 - 9*p**3 + (-p + 0*p - 2*p)*(-5*p**2 + 5*p**2 - 7*p**2).
-11*p**3
Expand (-2 + 0 + 4)*(-8 + 6 - 4)*(90 - 189 + 112)*(-5*x + 3*x + 0*x)*(2*x + x - 2*x).
312*x**2
Expand (-d - 2*d + 2*d)*(-2 - 3 - 63) - 7*d + 0*d + 9*d + 39.
70*d + 39
Expand (-5*v**4 + v**4 + 3*v**4)*(2*v + 0*v - 7*v) + v**5 + 10*v**5 - 3*v**5 - 3*v**5 - 6*v**5 - 8*v**5.
-4*v**5
Expand (13*y**2 + 7*y**2 + y**2)*(8 + 5 - 1).
252*y**2
Expand (0*c - 4*c + 3*c)*(-2 - 2 + 6) + (-3 - 1 + 3)*(1 - 1 + c) - 664*c + 116*c - 102*c.
-653*c
Expand (-3 - 16*a + 20*a + 25*a)*(-2 + 0 - 2).
-116*a + 12
Expand 10*m**3 - 8*m**3 - 9*m**3 + (-3*m + m + m)*(-3*m**2 + 5*m**2 - m**2) - 6*m**3 - 39*m**3 - 6*m**3 + (-1 + 1 - 2*m)*(-3*m**2 - m**2 + 2*m**2).
-55*m**3
Expand (-34*s - 43*s - 70*s)*(1 + 0 + 8)*((-2 - 2 + 3)*(-2*s**4 + 2*s**4 - s**4) + 3*s**4 - 3*s**4 + 9*s**4).
-13230*s**5
Expand ((-2*u**4 - u**4 + u**4)*(6 - 3 - 1) + 5 - 2*u**4 - 5 - 40*u + u**2 - 1146*u**4 - 1148*u**4 + 2296*u**4)*(-2 + 2 + 4).
-16*u**4 + 4*u**2 - 160*u
Expand 0*w - 3*w + 4*w + (3*w - 5*w + 3*w)*(1 - 1 + 1) + (-226*w + 26*w + 100*w)*(1 - 1 + 1)*(1 - 1 - 2).
202*w
Expand (-25*p**2 + 170*p**2 + p - 74*p**2 + 3)*(3 - 1 + 0)*(-5 + 5 + p**2).
142*p**4 + 2*p**3 + 6*p**2
Expand ((1 - 3 + 4)*(3*r - 4*r + 2*r) + r + 0 + 0 + 2*r - 2*r + 2*r)*((r - 2 + 2)*(-1 - 3*r + 1) + 175 + 22*r**2 - 175).
95*r**3
Expand (-5 + 4 + 2)*((-1 + 3 - 1)*(y + 3*y - 5*y) + 3*y + 2*y - y) + 4*y + y - 3*y + (-2*y + 0*y + y)*(1 - 4 + 4) + 15*y - 284 + 284 + 0*y + 5*y - 3*y.
21*y
Expand -11 + 11 + 5*c**3 + (3 + 2 + 0)*(10 - 16 + 43)*(0*c**3 + 2*c**3 + 2*c**3).
745*c**3
Expand (2*c**3 + 0*c + 0*c)*(2*c**2 - 5*c**2 + 5*c**2) + (-2*c - 7*c - 6*c)*(-7*c**4 + c**4 - 3*c**4) - 8*c**5 - c**2 + c**2.
131*c**5
Expand (4*a - 17*a - 4*a)*(19*a - 2*a - 3*a)*(-1 + 0 - 3).
952*a**2
Expand (-6 - 5*o**4 + 6)*(5 - 3 - 4)*(-15 + 42 + 53)*(-5 - 3*o + 5).
-2400*o**5
Expand (414*c - 345*c - 263*c)*(-7*c**2 - 6*c**2 + 3*c**2)*(0*c + 4*c - 6*c).
-3880*c**4
Expand -3*b**3 + 0*b**3 + 2*b**3 + (-b - b + b)*(3 - 3 + 2*b**2) - 21178*b - 215*b**3 + 42377*b - 21195*b.
-218*b**3 + 4*b
Expand (-3 + 3 + 1)*(u**4 + u**4 - 7*u**4) + (-u**4 - 2*u**4 - 2*u**4)*(3 + 5 - 2) - u**4 + u**4 - 3*u**4.
-38*u**4
Expand (-286*m + 4*m - 520*m)*(4 - 3 + 1).
-1604*m
Expand (-7 + 26*p + 35 - 14 - 11)*(-5 + 2 - 5) + 3*p + 0*p - p.
-206*p - 24
Expand (2*u**2 + 0*u**2 - 4*u**2)*(114*u + 146*u + 62*u) + (3 - 2*u - 3)*(-6*u + u + 3*u)*(-5*u + 2*u + u).
-652*u**3
Expand (-14 + 84 + 57 - 32)*(4127*g**3 + 0*g**4 + 3*g**4 - 4141*g**3).
285*g**4 - 1330*g**3
Expand (-1 + 4 - 1)*(-2 - 2*p + 2)*(75*p + 18 - 125*p - 8).
200*p**2 - 40*p
Expand (-3*s**2 + 0*s**2 + 2*s**2)*(7*s + 39*s + 12*s) + (1 + 4 - 2)*(7*s**3 + 0*s**3 - s**3).
-40*s**3
Expand -2 + 4*y + 2 + (0 - 4 + 3)*(-2*y + 2*y - 5*y) + 4*y - 6*y + 0*y + (-241 + 241 + 14*y)*(0 + 2 - 1).
21*y
Expand 0*z + 8*z**2 + z - 9*z**2 + (-99 - 89 + 45)*(3*z**2 + z**2 + z**2).
-716*z**2 + z
Expand (34 - 19 + 8)*(0*m + 0*m + m)*(-6*m**2 - m**2 + 0*m**2).
-161*m**3
Expand -28247*g**2 + 1028*g**3 + 28247*g**2 - 3 + g**3 - 3*g + 3*g + (3*g - g - 3*g)*(-3*g**2 + 0*g**2 + 2*g**2).
1030*g**3 - 3
Expand (-4 + 0 + 2 + (-2 + 0 - 3)*(-3 - 7 + 6))*(0 + 2*u + 0)*(-6 + 10 + 9).
468*u
Expand (-4 + 4 - 3)*(-4 - 7 - 5)*(2 + 2 - 2)*(215*o - 84*o - 49*o)*(-1 - 1 + 4).
15744*o
Expand (-4*h**4 + h**4 + 2*h**4)*(3 - 2 - 2)*(-4918 + 977 - 576)*(2*h - 4*h + 0*h).
9034*h**5
Expand (184*p**2 + 514 - 514)*(5*p - p - 18*p).
-2576*p**3
Expand (-30 + 35 + 24)*(v**3 - 3*v**3 + v**3) - 4 + 15*v**3 - 4 + 9.
-14*v**3 + 1
Expand -128 + 345 + 582 + 178 + 249 + 11*l + (-l + 1 - 1)*(-5 + 4 - 1).
13*l + 1226
Expand (3 - 3 + 2*y)*(-15*y + 15*y + 29*y**2) + (7*y**2 - 8*y**2 + 57*y**2)*(0 + 2*y + 0).
170*y**3
Expand (4 + 43*y - 40*y + 7)*(-y + y - y) - 2*y**2 - 3*y**2 + 4*y**2 + 2*y**2 + 3*y**2 - 3*y**2 - 2*y**2 - 23 + 23.
-4*y**2 - 11*y
Expand -3*t + 3*t + t**2 + (-4*t + 2*t + 0*t)*(-t - 2 + 2) - 149*t - 128*t - 26*t**2 + 27*t**2 - 2 + 2 - t**2.
3*t**2 - 277*t
Expand (2 - 6 - 5)*(0 - 3 + 2)*(-k**3 + 4*k**3 - k**3) + 8*k + 12 - 13*k + 7*k - 4*k**3.
14*k**3 + 2*k + 12
Expand -945*m - 2*m**4 + 1523*m - 761*m + m**4 - m**4 + 2*m**4 - 4*m**4 + 2*m**4 + 0*m**4 + (0*m**2 + 0*m**2 + 2*m**3)*(4*m - 2*m - 7*m).
-12*m**4 - 183*m
Expand (-792 - 972 - 1484 - 1455 - 802)*(5*b - 4*b + 0*b).
-5505*b
Expand (3*s**4 + s**4 - 3*s**4 + s**3 - s**3 - 2*s**4 + (-4*s**3 + 3 - 3)*(s - 2 + 2))*(4 - 2 + 15).
-85*s**4
Expand (-9 + 8 - 8)*(2 + 4 - 15)*(-n**2 - n**2 + 0*n**2).
-162*n**2
Expand (-2*p + 3*p - 2*p)*(-4 - 1 + 4) + (-27 - 8 + 0)*(1 + 1 - 11)*(-2*p - p + 4*p).
316*p
Expand (-2*p - 3676 + p + 3909)*(-4*p - 1 + 2*p + p).
p**2 - 232*p - 233
Expand (-2*r + 4*r - 4*r)*(((-1 + 0 + 3)*(3 + 1 - 2) - 6 + 3 + 2 + 33 + 23 + 277)*(-2 + 0 + 1) - 5 - 2 + 2).
682*r
Expand (0*a**2 - 2*a**2 + 0*a**2)*(-3535 - 1010 - 3*a - 866 - 1101).
6*a**3 + 13024*a**2
Expand (2 - 5 + 4)*(-4*x - 2*x + 7*x) + 7*x - 15*x + 22*x + (1 + 0 + 1)*(-2*x + x + 3*x) - 26*x + 2*x + 14*x.
9*x
Expand (17*s - 5 - 9*s - 19*s - 42*s)*(2*s - 2*s - 2*s**4).
106*s**5 + 10*s**4
Expand (c + 0*c + c)*((-2*c - c + c)*(358*c**3 - 164*c**3 - 100*c**3) - 2 + 2 - 5*c**4).
-386*c**5
Expand -6*l**5 + 10*l**2 - 10*l**2 + (-2*l**3 - 6 + 6)*(0 - l**2 + 0) - 338*l**5 - l**2 - 6 + 170*l**5 + 167*l**5 - l**4.
-5*l**5 - l**4 - l**2 - 6
Expand -2*k + 4*k - k + (-2 + 5 - 1)*(-2 + 2*k + 2) + 7*k + 5 - 5 - 31*k + 10*k - 64*k.
-73*k
Expand ((-1 - 1 + 0)*(0 + 4 - 2) + 0 + 0 + 3)*(-y**2 - 4*y + 4*y + 3*y + (y + y - 3*y)*(-3 + 3 - 2*y)).
-y**2 - 3*y
Expand (6288 - 6288 + 17*n)*(2 - 3 - 1)*(25 - 36 + 19).
-272*n
Expand (0*u - u + 2*u)*(102 - 652*u + 1186*u - 624*u).
-90*u**2 + 102*u
Expand -173 + 357 + 15003*n - 184 + (-2 + 2 + 3*n)*(-1 + 0 + 0).
15000*n
Expand (-2 + 1 + 3)*(3*t + 6*t**2 - 3*t) + 128112*t + t**2 - 18*t**2 - 128114*t.
-5*t**2 - 2*t
Expand (11*a - 5 + 5)*(-3 + 3 + a)*(-3 + 4 + 1)*(78*a + 2862 - 2862) + (a**3 - a**3 - 2*a**3)*(-3 + 3 - 1).
1718*a**3
Expand (64*a**3 - 103*a**3 + 65*a**3)*(6*a**2 - 9*a**2 - 11*a**2)*(1 + 2 - 2).
-364*a**5
Expand -37 + 21*x**5 + 37 + (6*x - 6*x - x**3)*(x - 4 + 4)*(3*x + 4*x - 5*x) + 0*x**4 - x**5 + 0*x**4 + (-3*x**2 - x**2 + 3*x**2)*(x**3 + 3*x**3 - 3*x**3).
17*x**5
Expand 2*a - 5*a + 5*a - 144*a + 12*a - 28*a + (2*a + 0*a - a)*(0 - 3 - 2).
-163*a
Expand (o**4 - 21*o + 21*o + o**2 - 3*o**4 - o**2 + (-3 - o**4 + 3)*(3 + 0 - 1))*(74 + 45*o - 74).
-180*o**5
Expand 0*o - o**5 - 3*o + o + 34*o**2 - 7*o**5 - 34*o**2 - 2*o**5 - 4*o**5 + o**5 + (-1 + o + 1)*(0*o**4 + 3*o**4 - o**4).
-11*o**5 - 2*o
Expand (((-1 + 0 - 1)*(2 - 2 + 2) - 2 - 4 - 1)*(1 - t - 1) + (2*t - 4*t + 4*t)*(1 - 2 + 3) + t + 0*t + 0*t)*(1 - t + 2 + 1).
-16*t**2 + 64*t
Expand (30 - 124 + 60)*(-162*z + 131*z - 161*z).
6528*z
Expand (6*g**2 - 2*g**2 + 3 - 5*g**2)*(63*g - 13460 - 24*g + 13454).
-39*g**3 + 6*g**2 + 117*g - 18
Expand (2*k + 0*k + 5*k)*(-8*k - 4*k + k + 53 + 5*k + 378).
-42*k**2 + 3017*k
Expand 0*h - 2*h - 3*h + 2 |
# This is based on the ElasticSearch template Dockerfile
# (https://registry.hub.docker.com/u/dockerfile/elasticsearch/dockerfile/)
#
# It has been modified to support multiple data directories
FROM docker.elastic.co/elasticsearch/elasticsearch:5.6.16
ADD elasticsearch.yml /usr/share/elasticsearch/config/
ADD log4j2.properties /usr/share/elasticsearch/config/
# Remove annoying X-Pack
RUN bin/elasticsearch-plugin remove x-pack
# Install AWS plugins
# RUN bin/elasticsearch-plugin install discovery-ec2
RUN bin/elasticsearch-plugin install repository-s3
USER root
RUN chown elasticsearch:elasticsearch config/elasticsearch.yml
RUN chown elasticsearch:elasticsearch config/log4j2.properties
USER elasticsearch
ENV ES_JAVA_OPTS ""
ENV MAX_LOCKED_MEMORY unlimited
ENV AWS_ACCESS_KEY_ID ""
ENV AWS_SECRET_ACCESS_KEY ""
VOLUME ["/data0"]
|
Q:
Treat last element differently when concatenating strings
I made a loop for concatenating strings:
For cz As Integer = 0 To length - 1 Step +1
result += GetChar(a, index) + " * 2^" & length - 1 & " + "
index += 1
length -= 1
Next cz
Is it possible to not add the "+" on the loop's last step?
I want to use some operations on that result but when i have "+" as last char I can't.
A:
String.Join will accomplish that for you if you pass it an enumerable of strings:
Dim result = String.Join(" + ",
a.Select(Function (c, i) c & " * 2^" & (a.Length - 1 - i)))
|
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### GREEN LAKE
### BY
### S.K. EPPERSON
Copyright 1996, 2019 © S.K. Epperson
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual person living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights of copyright reserved above no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
MADELEINE HERON stared with unfocused eyes at the gleaming gray coffin that held the body of her husband. Seated to her right, behind a sheer curtain, sat most of Sam Craven's family, including his mother and father, who, in a display of contempt, had asked that Madeleine be placed elsewhere. The funeral director steered her to the first pew in front of the coffin, empty but for her. In the rows behind her sat a roomful of Sam's friends and former business associates, many of whom looked with angry surprise and spoke in barely concealed whispers when they recognized her.
The weight of the stares and the almost unanimous condemnation in the tiny chapel were more than Madeleine could bear. Her mouth was drier than dry and her pulse raced as she fought to shut everyone out and concentrate on the words of the soft-voiced minister. Her mind resisted his sorrowful droning and attached itself instead to the casket, left open in spite of Madeleine's wish to have it closed.
The stitches in Sam's temple were clearly visible, made raw and ugly by the knowledge of what they covered. The bullet had gone through and through, according to the doctor's signed certificate. Death was instantaneous as a result of a self-inflicted wound.
To Madeleine's distress the drama replayed itself continuously as she sat through the service, the wretched final moments, the screaming, and the terrible culmination of two year's worth of daily strife.
Their beginning had been much different, with Sam exuding confidence and wit, always flirting with her, ceaseless in his teasing, and endlessly happy. It was good to be around someone who was always happy. Happiness was infectious, and it was especially so with Sam, who lived spontaneously and did crazy, wonderful things just because it made him feel good to do them. He was irresistible.
Then Sam lost his job. At first Madeleine hadn't worried, he was bright and ambitious and they would get by temporarily on her earnings as a college professor. But Sam surprised her by refusing to accept any other employment. He was confident he could regain his previous position as an aeronautical engineer. Madeleine tried to be understanding as long as she possibly could, but as the months passed and their savings dwindled she began to urge him to take on other work. Sam was steadfast in his resistance, claiming he would be rehired any day.
Soon the savings were gone entirely, and each month it was a nail-biting struggle to make the mortgage payment. Madeleine suggested selling the house in town and finding something smaller, but Sam refused. He grew angry at Madeleine for wearing a diaphragm again, telling her their plans for a family shouldn't change because he was temporarily out of work. Madeleine wore it anyway.
Months passed with no notice for Sam to return to work. He grew increasingly morose and self-absorbed and Madeleine found herself reluctant to go home to him. She knew she would find him in a drunken stupor before his computer, watching the screen with glazed, unblinking eyes.
The night she asked him to get help he stunned her by flying into a rage and swinging a fist at her. He blackened her eye and threw her savagely out of the house. The next day at school was one of the worst in Madeleine's career. Most of her students knew about her husband, as many of their parents were employed in the aviation industry too—or had been. Madeleine lied in fending off queries about her appearance and dealt with pupils both pitying and scornful, causing her to ask herself why she was still teaching. She missed field work. She missed it desperately. She had achieved her degrees in anthropology to do research and writing, not to spend her days in a college being grilled and examined as if she were on a sleazy talk show.
A student named Alpha was the worst. Alpha was an acne-scarred twenty-year-old with an idea that no female other than Ayn Rand could teach him anything. He made Madeleine miserable in class, forever interrupting, forever asking intentionally insipid questions, and after class that day he waited till the room was empty before approaching and standing beside her desk until she looked at him.
"Yes?" she said.
His lips parted in a smile. "You had it coming, didn't you?"
Madeleine blinked and stared at his pitted face.
"Excuse me?"
"What he did to you. You don't kick a man when he's down, and you must have kicked hard, hard enough to make him fight back. Why don't you help him instead of trying to make him feel worthless?"
Her mouth fell open as she continued to stare, and Madeleine knew she looked as shocked as she felt.
"Everybody knows," said Alpha. "It's not like you have a big secret or anything."
"It's none of your business," Madeleine managed at last.
"Hey, I don't care. I'm just telling you, help the guy out instead of stepping on his balls. Act like a real woman instead of this highbrow intellectual bullshit that nobody ever bought from you anyway."
"Are you finished?" Madeleine asked.
Alpha only snorted and swaggered out of the classroom.
Madeleine went home that evening and told Sam she wanted a divorce. He responded by showing her a notice from his former employer that he had failed a second drug test and would not be accepted for rehire. His voice rose to a scream as he asked her what the hell she wanted from him. When he came after her with blazing red eyes it was her turn to scream and run out of the house. A neighbor saw her and came to her aid, and all was quiet for several minutes as Madeleine shakily asked if she could borrow a phone to call her sister, Jacqueline, who worked at a nearby hospital. Through the picture window of the house Madeleine could see Sam on his phone, and though she wondered who he was calling, she wasn't going back inside to find out.
In the next moment, the entire neighborhood became stilled by the sound of a gunshot.
Now Madeleine sat by herself and stared at the casket. Her guilt over Sam's suicide was compounded by the discovery that he had cashed in his insurance policy months ago and recently borrowed money from the bank, using the equity on the house. Unable even to pay for her husband's funeral, Madeleine was forced to ask his parents for help. Sam's last phone call had been to his mother. He told her Madeleine was divorcing him because he couldn't find work. Madeleine attempted to tell her side, but no one wanted to listen, and no one but the police took note of the failed drug tests.
Madeleine herself wondered why she had never suspected. She lived with the man for six years. If there were drugs in the house, or in him, she never knew it.
The minister cleared his throat and movement to her left interrupted Madeleine's daze. She looked up to see her sister, Jacqueline, and her busy neurologist husband, Manuel, moving to sit beside her in the pew. Madeleine smiled gratefully and clasped Jacqueline's hand when she offered it. In the last few years friendships had been impossible to maintain, but Jacqueline and Manuel had always been there for her, and it was to their home Madeleine would go after the funeral. She had made immediate arrangements to sell her own home and hired a woman to hold an estate sale the following week. Madeleine had no choice, she needed money more than she needed china and antique furniture.
The days after the funeral passed quickly, with the estate sale, packing and the ordeal of finals during the last weeks of school. The house sold within the month, enabling Madeleine to cover Sam's debts, but leaving her homeless, virtually penniless, and forcing her to throw herself indefinitely on the mercy of Jacqueline and her frequently absent husband. Jacqueline swore that Madeleine was no problem, saying she could stay as long as she liked, but Madeleine had no intention of sponging forever. When classes were over she would find a summer job and a cheap apartment while testing the prospects of obtaining a grant to go back into the field.
"Are you saying you won't be teaching anymore?" Jacqueline asked when she told her.
Madeleine remembered the hateful expression of the student named Alpha when she returned to class after the funeral. The dull red animosity in his acne-pitted face was unnerving.
"No," she said. "No more teaching."
Jacqueline watched her. "You still haven't cried yet, have you? Not even once."
"What good would that do?" Madeleine said in irritation. Then she softened. "I'm sorry. I know you think I'm strange. I'm just... numb. I can't feel anything. I don't think I want to."
Jacqueline went on considering her blonde older sister, whose skin was every bit as fair as the freckled, auburn-haired Jacqueline's, but unmarked. Thinking about it gave Jacqueline a sudden idea.
"We bought a cabin on the lake, did I tell you?"
Madeleine looked at her. "A cabin?"
"At Green Lake. We went there nearly every weekend last summer. Manny has a boat and he loves to fish. I don't do much but read paperbacks and get sunburned, but it's a great place to relax and unwind. Manny loved it so much he offered to buy the place from the owner, and he finally accepted, so it's ours. What would you think about going there after you wrap up at school?"
"For a vacation?"
"No, to live. For the summer, I mean. Until you get a grant."
"If I get a grant," said Madeleine. "I haven't done any worthwhile research in years."
"Okay, if you get a grant. What about it?"
"Is it secluded?"
"Not really. There are other people near. Manny and I would come up on weekends, but the rest of the week you'd have the place to yourself. I'm not trying to get rid of you, of course, but I know how you hate feeling like a third wheel."
Madeleine looked at her sister and wondered if Manuel had said something to Jacqueline. She wouldn't blame him if he had. It must have looked to him as if she had moved in to stay.
"Rent free," Jacqueline dangled. "We put in our own septic system and installed a satellite dish. A cozy little home away from home, just ninety minutes from the city."
Madeleine moved her head in a small nod and gave her sister a grateful smile. "It sounds great, Jac. Really. Thank you for being so kind to me."
"Trust me," said Jacqueline. "You're going to love it."
CHAPTER ONE
The random objects Madeleine noticed on the drive east to Green Lake did little to inspire any enthusiasm. The trees beside the highway were gnarled, desperate-looking things, greedy for whatever water they received. An occasional length of rubber from some long blown-out tire littered the side of the road. A big gray heron flew low over the horizon, and when Madeleine glanced away from its awkward-looking flight, she saw a red cow with its tail kinked up, sending a stream of urine onto the side of another, smaller red cow in front of a barn.
"Isn't it beautiful out here?" Jacqueline sat draped across the front seat of her husband's Jeep Cherokee. "Just look at those gorgeous, rolling hills."
Madeleine stared at her from the seat in back. She saw nothing but rocks, urinating cows, and more rocks.
"I think I've been in the city too long."
"The cabin and the lake will charm you, Madeleine, as it has charmed the two of us," said Manuel in his thick accent.
She looked back to the highway in time to see a dead, bloated black and white cow being lifted out of the road by a tow truck. Beyond the truck were two large black tires stuck on fence posts, the words Keep Out written on the sides in big white letters.
Madeleine closed her eyes and decided to sleep the rest of the way. Five years ago she would have looked at the land and its inhabitants with different eyes. She would have been curious, interested in the geological aspects, and full of wondering about the humans who might have wandered the area centuries ago. Now she felt nothing but a mild case of carsickness from riding in the back seat.
"Almost there now," said Manuel, cheerful but tired.
He had been called in for emergency surgery at the last minute, delaying their start by several hours. It would be dark soon, so Madeleine wouldn't be able to see much that day. Jacqueline assured her they would explore the lake together the next morning. The two of them had gone shopping for food that afternoon and brought along a month's worth of supplies with them. Fresh items could be bought in the tiny town of Green Lake, just four miles away from the reservoir, or in Fayville, a larger town a dozen miles away. Anything else she required she could tell Jacqueline, who would bring it with her from the city.
"You should feel safe at the cabin," Manuel informed her. "Your nearest neighbor is a conservation officer."
"A what?"
"A game protector," said Jacqueline. "They were known as game wardens before, but they're called conservation officers now. We met him last year. His name is Eris Renard."
"French?" asked Madeleine.
"No," said Jacqueline. "He's Native American. Tall, and ugly as sin, but nice."
"Oh," said Madeleine.
"Did he ever say what kind?" Jacqueline asked Manuel.
"What kind?" Manuel echoed, and his wife waved a hand. "Madeleine should be able to tell us. That kind of thing is her specialty."
Madeleine looked askance at her sister. "I doubt I'll be able to tell his nation just by looking at him."
"Not looking. Hearing. I thought dialects were your thing."
"Linguistics, Jac. Languages."
"Sorry, I keep forgetting."
"Me too," Madeleine said under her breath.
"There's another conservation officer that comes around in the summer," Jacqueline went on. "He stays mostly on the water, checking out the boats and such, but this one is a real looker. He won't say much to you, but then neither does Renard. They're polite and all, but they keep pretty much to themselves."
"This Renard lives in a cabin?" asked Madeleine, and Manuel nodded.
"There are several year-round residents. He's one of them. You will meet him soon, since his is the nearest cabin. Most of the other cabins are down the hill, in Briar's Cove. Ours is near the cemetery—"
"A cemetery?"
"A really old one," said Jacqueline. "Most of the stones are so weathered you can't even read them. It's a shame, really. You won't be able to see it tonight, but I'll show it to you in the morning."
Madeleine nodded and was silent for the rest of the drive. The Jeep wound up one dirt road and down another, on and on until she felt she would lose the contents of her stomach to the floorboard. She was glad Manuel had talked her out of driving her car. The mud and rocks would have made short work of her small Audi. Finally they came to a sliding halt, and in the glow of the mud-splattered headlights she could see a small log cabin with a large porch and many windows, most of which had ornate security bars over the glass. To the side, she could see a stone fireplace. A double garage stood detached from the cabin.
"Do you put your boat in the garage?" she asked.
"I do, yes. The pickup I told you about is inside at the moment."
"Okay. Great." She had driven trucks before, though she much preferred smaller, more efficient cars. "Does it have any gas?"
"I'll fill the tank tomorrow."
"Thank you, Manuel. And thank you, Jacqueline. The place looks lovely."
"Wait'll you see inside," said Jacqueline.
Inside was lovely, too. The furniture was comfortably overstuffed, the wood stacked up neatly beside the fireplace, waiting to be used. The top of the kitchen bar gleamed. The rugs on the floors appeared to have been recently beaten. Jacqueline took her into the bedroom meant for her and Madeleine found a large queen-sized bed and two dressers. The mirror over one dresser revealed the haggardness of her face, and she excused herself to visit the bathroom and splash some cool water on her cheeks. Inside the bathroom was a free-standing tub with a fancy shower implement hanging over the top. The cabin was wonderful, and once again she told herself how lucky she was to have it offered to her. At the moment, all she wanted to do was lean over the wooden seat on the toilet and throw up.
Jacqueline's voice called her away from the attempt.
"Are you all right?" her sister asked when she emerged.
"I'm fine, Jac. Just really tired."
"I'll put everything away," Jacqueline volunteered. "Why don't you go and lie down?"
Madeleine nodded and left her sister and brother-in-law to put away the groceries and supplies. She went into the bedroom Jacqueline had given her and shook her hair out of its bun before stripping down to her panties and rummaging in her bags for a T-shirt. Only when she stood up straight to wonder which case her T-shirt could be in did she think about the lamp being on and the curtains on the window being open. Quickly she turned off the lamp and hurried across the room to drop the curtains that were tied back.
Later, when she was in bed, she heard the door to the cabin open and listened as Manuel greeted someone. She heard a strange voice, deep and hesitant, and guessed the neighbor had seen the lights and stopped by to say hello. Madeleine dozed off while listening to the sound of their voices.
The next morning Manuel came out of the room he shared with Jacqueline and smiled when he found Madeleine eating a bowl of flakes. He said, "Eris Renard came by last evening. He asked me to please caution you about undressing in front of windows. It may feel as if you are isolated here, but you are not."
Madeleine stopped chewing. Her face colored. "I'm sorry, Manuel. I was so tired last night I didn't realize what I was doing."
"Don't apologize," said Manuel. "How did you sleep?"
"Much better than I thought I would."
"Good. Jacqueline always sleeps well here at the cabin."
"Obviously," said Madeleine. "Is she awake?"
"Not yet. I'm going to look at the lake. Would you like to come?"
Madeleine was already off her stool. "Let's go. Shall we leave a note?"
"No need. Jacqueline will know where I am."
Madeleine followed him out to the Jeep and climbed inside the passenger seat. As he backed out of the drive she eyed the cabin closest to the log home. It was small and white, with a bed of colorful coleus in front. It reminded Madeleine of her grandmother's house.
"That's Renard's place?" she asked.
Manuel looked and nodded. "Yes."
They ambled down the road toward Briar's Cove, and Madeleine frowned as she spied a man in a yellow fishing hat standing in back of a cabin and digging furiously with a shovel.
"What's he doing?" she asked, and Manuel laughed.
"That's Sherman Tanner. We call him the earthworm. The man isn't happy unless he's digging and burying something. He'll plant a species of flower one week and rip them out the next. His wife is the same. They're always rearranging the mounds they make and shifting them from one side of the yard to the other. It's the funniest thing."
"Earthworm?" said Madeleine.
"Yes. I should warn you," said Manuel. "There are some strange people here. Quirky, if you like, with some very odd habits. Jacqueline and I have great fun observing them."
"Strange," said Madeleine. Fine. She was familiar with strange.
"You'll see," said Manuel, and as they drove past the tiny band of mismatched cabins that made up Briar's Cove, Madeleine frowned.
"Some of them collect junk," she said.
"Disgusting, isn't it?"
"Others look very nice and well kept. Why do they put up with the junkers? Shouldn't there be some community covenant?"
"There should be, but there is not. Jacqueline and I are lucky to live up the hill, away from the others. Like Renard, we keep to ourselves."
He stopped the vehicle at a point that overlooked the lake and smiled. "Look at that water, so beautiful and still. I love to come here in the morning, before the boaters and skiers arrive."
"It's pretty," Madeleine agreed, looking at the glassy surface of the lake. "Where do you fish?"
"I have my favorite little coves. You must always be careful, though. Some of these people are very private, and do not enjoy intrusion."
"Like who...for example?"
Manuel shrugged. "One man has a private dock and frequently swims nude, as do his many guests. I think nothing of it, but Jacqueline says he is an orgy-meister."
Madeleine cleared her throat. "Is there a public swimming area?"
"I will show you, although I will caution you about this also, as last summer a young woman reported an attack."
"On the swimming beach?"
"One evening around dusk," said Manuel as he guided the Jeep down to the designated area.
When he stopped, Madeleine gazed around herself with dismay. There was no beach, only a small sandbar that appeared to be getting smaller with each lap of the lake's waves.
"Do many people swim here?" she asked.
"Oh yes. More of them later in the summer, as you can guess. The water is still cold in May."
Madeleine opened her door and stepped out onto the ground. Manuel got out, as well, but he stayed near the Jeep while Madeleine walked down onto the sandbar. She slipped off one sandal and dipped her toes into the water.
It was ice cold.
When she looked at Manuel, she saw another vehicle appear behind his, an official-looking truck with a logo of some kind on the side. She squinted as she saw the driver get out, and she knew immediately it was Eris Renard.
He was tall, dressed in a khaki shirt and olive trousers. A long black ponytail hung beneath his hat.
He spoke to Manuel and handed him something before looking at Madeleine from behind dark sunglasses. Madeleine's cheeks heated and her first impulse was to ignore Manuel's beckoning wave. Grudgingly she made her way up to them and stood biting the insides of her cheeks as Manuel introduced her.
"Miss Heron," Renard said and touched his hat.
Madeleine said nothing to him. Up close she saw the pits in his cheeks and her lip began to curl as she was reminded of another pitted face. Renard's face wasn't as bad as Alpha's, being brown in color, but the distaste had already set in Madeleine's mouth, and she was helpless to disguise her reaction.
Manuel cleared his throat in embarrassment, but Renard had already turned and walked back to his truck.
When he was gone, Madeleine turned to her angry brother-in-law. "I apologize, Manuel. I'm sorry if I was rude."
He refused to look at her. He climbed behind the wheel and waited for her to get in the passenger seat. Madeleine got in and placed her hands in her lap.
"It was not as if he intentionally ogled you last night," said Manuel in a tight voice.
"That wasn't—" Madeleine began, but then she stopped. She wouldn't tell him she had been rude not because the man had seen her nearly naked, but because his face was pitted and she'd had her fill of pitted faces and had her own face literally shoved in the dirt by more than one white-hating Indian.
"Madeleine, the man is going to be your neighbor. You cannot practice such rudeness."
"Yes, Manuel, I know. I've said I'm sorry. I will apologize to Mr. Renard at the first opportunity. Please don't tell Jacqueline."
"I don't understand you," said Manuel, shaking his head. "Jacqueline does not understand you, either. You have changed."
"I know," said Madeleine.
''You know?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well?"
"Well, what, Manuel?"
He threw up a hand. "You should fit in very well here I think, Madeleine."
Madeleine flared her nostrils at the apparent insult, but she said nothing. There was nothing to say.
CHAPTER TWO
No one was more surprised than Eris Renard to find the small, blonde Madeleine Heron on his step at lunchtime that day. He put down his sandwich and went to push open the screen door. As the sunlight caught the side of her face he saw that she was older than he had at first believed. And prettier.
Her look once again fastened on the scars in his cheeks. Irritated, Eris removed his sunglasses and said, "May I help you?"
Her gaze shifted and she met his eyes. Eris lifted both black brows as she went on to stare at the gun on his hip. "Miss?"
"I've come to apologize for my earlier behavior with you," she said. "I realize how it must have seemed, but it was nothing personal, believe me. We got off on a bad foot and I'd like to start over, since I'm going to be your neighbor for a while."
Eris nodded. "No apology is necessary. Have a nice stay, Miss Heron."
He had turned away when he heard her say, "I'm a bit old to be called 'miss.' Please call me Madeleine."
"All right, Madeleine. If you'll excuse me, I just stopped in to grab a sandwich."
She backed away. "Of course. Forgive the intrusion."
Eris closed the screen door and went back to the kitchen and his sandwich. He picked it up and took it out to the truck with him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her walking back up to the log cabin, her spine stiff.
His mouth twitched as he thought of the way she had unabashedly stripped in front of the window the night before. Then he thought of her first glimpse of him, and the way her lip had curled. He shoved the sandwich into his mouth and pushed his key into the ignition. Pretty girls had looked that way at him for as long as he could remember. It was nothing new.
He guided the truck out of his driveway and onto the road, turning when he reached the road that led to the dam. When he reached the bridge he slowed down to look around. He thought he had spied some oil on the road before, possibly spilled from a boat or some leaking old engine pulling a boat. He saw nothing now, so he guessed it had been his imagination. Oil patches were particularly dangerous on bridges, and would be nothing less than lethal on this one.
A horn tooted behind him and he looked in his rear-view mirror to see Madeleine Heron behind the wheel of the old blue Chevy pickup that sat in the cabin's garage. Manuel and Jacqueline sat in the cab with her. Eris stuck an arm out the window and waved her around him. She ground the gears and jerked out past his truck. No power steering. Shift on the column. She was going to have her hands full.
Eris watched the truck until it was out of sight then he crossed over the dam and drove down the road to where men fished beneath the dam. Out of the dozen or so fishing there several would not have permits, or the permits they did have would be expired. Campers without permits, boaters without the proper equipment and/or permits, pyromaniacs shooting off fireworks, drunks on skis and off—all of these things he had to look forward to over the next few busy months. And much more.
It was the middle of his second year as a conservation officer. He had attended college and covered the areas of wildlife biology and fisheries science. He had completed certification as a law enforcement officer and learned how to speak in front of large groups of people. He knew how to operate every piece of required equipment and was expert at catching and trapping wild animals. His colleagues were envious of his marksmanship abilities, but few ever bothered to learn his name. He was always simply "the Indian."
People at the lake were the same. It was never, "Here comes the game warden," (which people persisted in calling conservation officers despite the title change) but always "Here comes that Indian," or "Here comes trouble."
Eris was used to instant animosity. Standing six feet four and having a face like his, people tended toward instant dislike. The uniform enhanced the effect rather than diminished it. People at the lake not only disliked him on sight, but most stepped back with a glimmer of anxiety and mistrust in their eyes.
Another man might have felt a certain amount of power under such circumstances, having such sway over people, but Eris felt nothing more than irritation. When he spoke to small civic groups or other interested parties he did his best to appear polite and civil and not at all menacing, but still he heard whispers, received numerous distasteful looks and got asked to answer very few questions. His frustration was evident to his superior, but communication with the public was a part of what he did, and Eris had to handle it. He solaced himself with the fact that public relations made up only fifteen percent or so of his job requirements.
The majority of his activities involved enforcing laws and regulations by patrolling his assigned area, which included all of Greenwood County. Help would arrive during the summer, when another CO came to take over the task of patrolling the area lakes. Dale Russell had been hired at the same time as Eris, but Russell spent half of his time performing the duties of an administrative assistant and lobbying in Topeka trying to convince lawmakers to give conservation officers more police power.
Eris had made no less than four drug arrests the summer before, and he had testified in all the cases and saw all the defendants convicted, but if a person was speeding through the park, doing thirty miles over the speed limit, Eris was virtually powerless to do anything other than stop the driver—if possible—and issue a warning.
He saw a Mustang speed by on the bridge above as he left the truck and approached the men fishing below the dam. Eris shook his head and continued walking. The owner of the Mustang was a spoiled, rich little miss whose parents owned a large pontoon boat used mainly for fishing and parties. He had stopped the girl twice last year to ask her to slow down while in the park and she'd shaken and trembled and pretended penitence, looking under her lashes at her friends the whole while and garnering giggles for her performance. The last time he stopped her she had winked and licked her lips suggestively, asking if he liked her or something. He must, the way he kept stalking her. Eris wanted to shake her.
The men fishing below the dam were ready for him when he approached, and Eris spent the next half-hour checking licenses and making small talk. When he left the area he passed the old blue pickup on its way back to the cabin and lifted a finger in acknowledgment of Manuel Ortiz's wave.
Manuel Ortiz was cordial and respectful, and when he asked Eris for the latest boating guide summary the evening before, Eris had been only too happy to comply. He chalked up Ortiz's manners to being foreign born and gave him another five years before learning to demand rather than ask, like most Americans. One of the worst was Sherman Tanner, a year-round denizen who liked to stop Eris every chance he got and demand that an end be put to this and a stop be put to that and why didn't he do something since he wore a uniform and carried a gun and everything.
Eris had to remind him that he worked for the county. He was not personal security personnel placed on the hill for Sherman and Gudrun Tanner to order about, no matter how often they rang his superior and complained about his non action on their issues. If Tanner didn't like dealing with lakeside activity, then he shouldn't live by a lake, the digging fool.
The remainder of Eris's day was spent in patrolling, putting miles on the truck and making occasional stops to talk to people. A new farmer had a problem with his pond, all the fish he had stocked the year before were now dead and floating on the surface. Eris took samples of the water for analysis and told him to keep the cows out. By the time he made it back to the reservoir it was nine-thirty and he was hungry and tired.
He parked the truck in his detached garage and stepped up to his back door to insert his key in the lock. He paused when he heard music. Not the music that frequently came from Briar's Cove or the bay area, but soft classical music.
Manuel Ortiz, he thought, and he opened his back door and let himself in the house. In the kitchen he opened a window so he could still hear the music while he fixed himself something to eat. He glanced up toward the cabin while he made himself another sandwich and through the open curtains in the cabin's living room saw Manuel and his wife, Jacqueline, slow dancing across the floor. Madeleine Heron sat on the front porch of the cabin, and in the light from the living room Eris saw her head in her hands.
Desolation came from her in waves, and Eris stood motionless while he watched, wondering why the impulse to go up there was so strong when he knew he would face nothing but rejection. Some kind of human response mechanism, he guessed.
He had to wonder about her. She obviously possessed no desire to be here, and yet she was here for the summer, Ortiz had said.
A broken marriage? He wondered. A tragic loss?
It was somewhat unusual, he figured, for a woman like her to be sequestered away in a cabin alone for the summer.
He wondered if she had any children.
Her head came up as he watched and she looked directly at his cabin. Eris knew she saw him standing in his kitchen in the dim glow of his fluorescent bulb. He made no move to turn away or to do anything but finish eating his sandwich over the sink, where he usually did his eating.
She watched him steadily for several minutes then she surprised him by stepping off the porch and walking down the path toward his cabin.
Eris's first impulse was to turn off the light and refuse to open the door.
When no knock came, he was both relieved and curious. He walked into his darkened living room to look out the window and see where she had gone. When his eyes adjusted he saw her walking down the path to Briar's Cove and Vista Bay.
She was foolish to be out alone. The water was a long walk from here and anything could happen during a nocturnal stroll in these parts. He would have to speak to Ortiz again and ask him to warn her about the strange people in the area.
Eris sat by the window for over an hour, waiting and watching for her to come back again. When he finally saw her top the hill, he sighed and began to unbutton his shirt. He had to get to bed.
CHAPTER THREE
An odd sense of panic set in Sunday night as Madeleine watched her sister and brother-in-law haul their suitcases out to the Jeep.
Don't leave me! She wanted to shout. I've seen the Earthworm and last night just after dark I stumbled across a fat, middle-aged couple having sex on an air mattress in their front yard while two dogs sat wagging their tails and watching.
She clamped her lips shut and said nothing. She would seem ungrateful beyond words if she opened her mouth now.
The moment they were gone she would start writing and begin a series of letters begging every related federal department and university in the Mississippi Valley for a grant. She was open and accessible, interested in other areas of anthropology, and she was still relatively young. There were many aspects of Native American culture she could research without actually living among them again, though in truth she longed to do just that. It was courage she lacked. Her last experience was still fresh in her mind, and though Madeleine knew the only way to conquer her fears was to face them, she still felt she was not quite ready.
The unsightly Eris Renard made her feel even less ready. He reminded her of the worst of everything she had faced in her life, with the possible exception of her husband's suicide, and it didn't help that his black eyes were so still and watchful or that his mouth hardly moved even when he spoke. Madeleine lumped him in with the other people she had been exposed to thus far, and she found she preferred her hip, snotty college students to the population of Green Lake.
When Jacqueline and Manuel were ready to depart, they asked Madeleine for the hundredth time if there was anything she needed before they left. For the hundredth time, she told them she would be fine. There was gas in the old truck and groceries in the cabin. She was all set. She gave them what she hoped was a supremely confident smile and then went into the cabin and banged her head against the door when they left. Before the sound of their engine died away, she had her laptop out on the kitchen bar and was composing her first letter. She wrote three and had stuffed them in envelopes when she realized she had no stamps. Applying for federal grants by email was a no no.
Muttering under her breath, she placed the envelopes in her purse. She had seen a tiny post office in the town of Green Lake. She would go there in the morning to post the letters and buy some stamps. The mailboxes for the cabins were all out on the road, built into a frame that held at least ten mailboxes. Madeleine's and Renard's mailboxes were separate from the others, but on a similar frame and hunched close together so that they resembled some odd squirrel feeder more than a pair of mailboxes.
Thinking of squirrels made Madeleine walk out to the porch to look at the tomato plants she had purchased that day from a woman at Diamond Bay. She enjoyed fresh tomatoes and knew she had to get the plants into the ground soon. She left the porch and walked around the cabin, finding plenty of good sun on the south side. The earth looked all right—not wonderful, but the plants would grow. Madeleine walked back to the garage to look for a spade or a hoe. Minutes later she came out again, shaking her head.
What on earth made her expect to find something as simple as a garden implement in the garage of a cabin by a lake?
Calling on her years of living with people who had to do without, she searched all around the cabin until she found a long, sharp rock suitable for digging. She carried the rock to the south side of the cabin and got down on her hands and knees to start.
She had been digging and turning earth for maybe ten minutes when she felt a pair of eyes on her. Her head came up and jerked toward the road, where she saw Sherman Tanner, the Earthworm, watching her with an expression of incredulity while holding onto the leash of a small multi-breed dog.
"Is that a rock?" he asked from the road.
"Yes," said Madeleine.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm making a bed for my tomato plants. I have no spade."
Tanner's thin eyebrows disappeared beneath his yellow fishing hat. "Why don't you just borrow one? What are you, one of these survivalist nuts?"
Madeleine rose to her feet. "No, I'm not. But I am new here, and people usually aren't willing to loan something to a stranger."
"Well, Renard has one, I'm sure. You should have asked him. You really can't dig in this muck without a good spade or a shovel. Limestone here, clay there, it's a mess."
"Would you have a spade I could borrow?" asked Madeleine. "Or a shovel?"
"I really wouldn't feel good about that," said Tanner. "Ask Renard when he gets home."
Madeleine snorted and put her hands on her hips. "Did I miss something here? Weren't you the one who just suggested I borrow a spade?"
"From Renard, not me. My tools are my babies. I use them every day and don't ever let them out of my sight."
"So I've heard," muttered Madeleine.
"What?"
"You dig a lot," she said louder.
"Who told you that?"
"No one. I saw you myself yesterday."
"Oh, well. I was burying a hand I found in the water, but Renard made me dig it up again this morning and turn it over to him."
Madeleine stopped cold. "A hand? A human hand?"
"It floated right up to me while I was standing near the boat ramp at Vista Bay. I just knew it came from that skier who had a terrible accident last weekend. More than his hand was torn off, you know."
"How...did it happen?" Madeleine asked.
"Two boaters didn't see each other, or were too drunk to care. It happens occasionally. Once, Gudrun and I found an entire arm in the water. They wouldn't let us keep that either."
"Why did you want to bury it?" asked Madeleine, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Tanner shrugged. "Kind of symbolic, don't you think? A hand or an arm buried in your yard, always pointing."
Madeleine forced herself into a nod. "Well," she said, "I'd better get back to work here, before I lose my light."
Sherman Tanner looked at the fading sun and gave a tug on his dog's leash. "Craziest thing I've ever seen, digging in the ground with a rock."
"No crazier than you," Madeleine murmured as she sank back to the ground.
"What's that?"
"I said have a good day."
Tanner eyed her then said, "Not much of this one left. Do I take it you'll be staying awhile?"
"For a while," Madeleine answered.
"All right, then."
Tanner said nothing further, merely continued walking his dog up to the turnoff where the old cemetery lay. Madeleine felt as if she had just been given permission to exist by the wiry, suspicious-eyed Tanner.
Who did he think he was? Keeper of the hill?
By the time he returned with his dog, Madeleine had carried her tomato plants back to the three holes she made. She felt Tanner's eyes on her as she placed the plants in the holes and began to fill in around them. When she could take it no more she paused in what she was doing and turned to stare at him. He quickly averted his gaze and pretended to be looking at the other side of the road. Madeleine sniffed and went on filling in with dirt. What a nutcase. Burying human hands and arms. What the hell was wrong with him?
She tamped the earth down and then began watering each plant. She looked up in surprise then to hear a vehicle skid to a halt in front of the cabin. Madeleine hurried around the side yard in time to see the door of a truck's cab open and somebody toss something into her yard.
"Hey!" she yelled, and the driver of the truck threw rocks and gravel as he floored the accelerator.
Madeleine squinted in the growing dusk and just barely made out the license plate. Then she walked to see what in the name of Adolph Coors had been thrown in her yard.
She heard them before she saw them. No beer cans these, but three tiny kittens, each one round-eyed and mewling in terror, making their way across the lawn.
"Dammit," said Madeleine as she stared at the small felines. Two were gray-striped and one was black.
Disgusted with the people in the truck, Madeleine gathered the kittens against her shirt and took them up to the porch. There was a large box in the garage that had once held Manuel's satellite dish and Madeleine placed the kittens in the box with two towels and a big bowl of milk. Then she went into the kitchen to write down the tag number and pen a note to Eris Renard.
He came home while she was slipping the note inside his screen door, and he looked inquiringly at her as he got out of the truck. He appeared tired, which made him look even more forbidding to Madeleine. She backed away and held up the note.
"Two people in a pickup came and dumped some kittens in my yard. I got the tag number."
"Good," said Renard, and he approached her to take the note. Madeleine had to steel herself not to jump away.
Renard sensed her stiffening. He stopped and held out his hand, palm up. Madeleine dropped the note in his hand and he turned to open his door. She shifted behind him.
"The kittens are on my porch in a box."
He glanced over his shoulder at her but said nothing.
"You can pick them up anytime," said Madeleine.
He looked at her again, one brow lifted. "Would tomorrow morning suit you, Miss Heron?"
Madeleine noted his irritation and responded coolly, "Tomorrow morning will do just fine."
He nodded and pushed open his door. Madeleine ambled up to the cabin and heard the scratching and scrabbling of three tiny pairs of claws trying to climb their way out of the box. She went inside and made herself some supper, and by the time she was ready for bed, the cries of the kittens were driving her crazy. She went out to the porch and scooped them up to bring them inside with her. She used a shoe box and some gravel from Jacqueline's terrarium as a litter box and issued a stern warning to the kittens before she climbed into bed. Their bellies plump with canned tuna, the kittens sat down on the end of the queen-sized bed to clean themselves. The feel of one rough little tongue on her big toe made Madeleine sigh, and for the last time that day she asked herself just what she had gotten herself into. Dirt diggers, dumped kittens, mean-mouthed neighbors and buried hands always pointing. Pointing at what?
CHAPTER FOUR
Eris stopped by the log cabin on his way out the next morning and got out of his truck to pick up the box of kittens on the front porch. He paused when he saw nothing inside but a bowl and two towels. He thought of knocking on the door, but it was early yet, so he walked back to his truck and climbed inside. He would stop by during lunch and pick up the kittens.
It was a point in her favor that she got the tag number. Most people wouldn't be so alert. Eris had the piece of paper she had given him in his pocket. As far as he was concerned, the people who dumped the animals were no better than criminals and would be treated as such.
Before he made it down the hill he spotted something on the lake that made him curse and step hard on the truck's accelerator. A boat was on fire, the people inside moving frantically away from the black plumes of smoke that billowed from the engine and polluted the morning sky. Eris radioed the location of the boat to the nearby lake office of the Department of Wildlife and Parks and learned another crisis was unfolding. A young father had taken his three daughters fishing before dawn and returned with only two of them. The smallest of the girls had wandered off somewhere in the dark and was now missing from the dam site area.
"How old is she?" Eris asked into the mike.
"Just turned three," was the answer.
Eris exhaled and asked what she was wearing.
"Yellow sweat-suit and a blue windbreaker. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Her name is Kayla Michelle Lyman. Dale Russell showed up this morning and took a boat out. He's over there right now. I'll radio him about the fire and tell him you're on your way."
Eris replaced his mike and pushed the truck forward, wondering what went on in the minds of men who took little three-year-old girls out near a dam site when it was still dark and then took their eyes away for even one second. There was no telling what had happened to her.
Dale looked relieved when Eris arrived at the dam site and got out of his truck.
"Shit's started early this year," Dale muttered in greeting, and the thick-chested, dark-haired officer was only too happy to take his boat out and check on the fire, while Eris was left to deal with the frightened parents and siblings of the missing little girl. The girls began to cry when Eris said hello to them. The mother moved protectively near her children, while the father stuck his hands in his pockets and said, "What're you gonna do?"
"Bring in more people and begin a search. Where was she the last time you saw her?"
The man pointed. "Right there on the bank with her sisters. They weren't payin' any attention and didn't see her wander off. I was castin' over there toward the dam and wasn't lookin' at her, either. Where you gonna get more people? You talkin' about the State Patrol?"
Eris was thinking more along the lines of the Lions Club group partying at the shelter on Diamond Bay. There were dozens of men in the group, good Samaritans every one, and he could have them here within the hour. He walked back to the truck and radioed his plans to the lake office, then he placed himself behind the wheel and told the family to stay put. He would be right back.
"Keep yelling her name," he suggested as he backed the truck out.
The mother and father exchanged a glance and Eris could see he hadn't given them much hope. He was doing what he could, the same plan the sheriff's deputies would implement once they arrived.
As expected, the Lions Club group was only too happy to come and help search for the little girl. They came out in droves, half of them in boats and several on jet skis and four-wheelers. Eris drew a grid for them and showed where to begin the search. The father joined in and the mother took her two other daughters back to their campsite to wait. Dale Russell returned after towing the burned boat to shore and writing up the owner for not having a fire extinguisher on board. No one was hurt, but the boat was in bad shape.
Russell joined the other boaters in the water to search and Eris coordinated the groups on land. By six o'clock that evening the searchers were tired, hungry, and losing hope fast. The father of the girl finally lost control and sat down on the ground and cried. Several tried to comfort him, but his sobs went on and on, as if a valve had been turned on somewhere inside him and the pain was running as thick and hot as the blood in his veins. When darkness came he was silent and still and watched with dull eyes as the weary volunteers drifted off to their campsites. The sheriffs deputies had arrived to officially begin their search. Divers would be brought in at dawn the next day, as well as a trained dog.
Eris took the father back to his campsite and stayed with him a few minutes. The motor home in use was at least twenty years old, with rust spots and what looked like tar adorning the surface. Wet clothes hung on a makeshift clothesline made out of rope and tied between two trees. The two little girls eyed Eris warily as he approached with their father. The wife, apparently blaming her husband for losing their little girl, refused to speak to her man. She gave Eris an apple and thanked him for doing what he could. He assured her the search was not over, and that dawn would see more teams at work. She thanked him again, her voice small and quiet and Eris left them to return and go over the continuing activities with the deputies.
"Damned stupid, you ask me," said one of them. "I got a three-year-old, and I ain't even thought about takin' him fìshin' yet."
"They have any more kids?" a deputy asked Eris.
"Two girls," he answered.
"Besides the one that's missing?"
"Yeah."
"Well, hell, they still got two then, don't they? That's something."
We're not talking about sheep or cows here, Eris wanted to say. Instead he turned on his heel and walked to his truck. His stomach growled fiercely, and he reached for the apple the missing little girl's mother gave him. He took a bite and started the truck's engine, wondering if he had anything in the house to eat. He hadn't been to the store in two weeks, and his shelves were as empty as his refrigerator.
At home he stepped out of his truck and heard Sherman Tanner call to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the reedy Tanner hurrying up the hill, jerking his little dog along behind him. Eris drew a breath and stood to face his neighbor.
"Did you find her?" Tanner asked.
Eris didn't have to ask how Tanner knew. Tanner always seemed to know. Eris suspected he had a radio tucked away in his cabin somewhere.
"No, we didn't find her."
"Three years old?"
"Yes."
"Tragic," said Tanner with a tsking sound. "Just tragic. How are the parents holding up?"
"As well as can be expected, Mr. Tanner. Please excuse me."
"Going back out again tomorrow?"
"The search will continue, yes. Goodnight, Mr. Tanner."
"All right, then," said Tanner, and he grudgingly turned to make his way down the hill again.
Eris went inside and headed for the kitchen, where he spied a half carton of eggs in the back of the refrigerator and found two eggs intact inside.
He ate the eggs scrambled while standing over the stove, and when the skillet was clean he dragged himself into the shower and scrubbed away at the insanity of the day. The warm spray was soothing, but did little to erase the memory of the father's loud, aching sobs or the mother's haunted eyes.
As he turned off the water Eris froze as what sounded like a cry reached his ears. He waited, holding his breath, trying to hear it again. His long black hair dripped water down his back and over his shoulders as he stood listening. When it came again he snatched up his briefs from the floor and hurriedly stepped into them before jerking open the bathroom door and heading for the living room. He rushed out the front door and promptly fell face first over a box sitting on his porch. He stubbed his toe hard enough to bleed and scraped both knees on the hard concrete edge of his porch before falling off into the grass.
He hissed in pain, grabbed his toe. Then he heard the mewing of the kittens in the box. The cries he had imagined.
"Sorry," said a nearby voice, and Eris jerked as he realized Madeleine Heron stood to one side of his porch.
She didn't sound sorry.
"I thought I'd bring them to you," she said, and the unspoken part was, since you didn't come and get them.
Eris got off the ground and tried not to hobble onto the porch. His big toe was covered with blood and his knees stung. "I came by this morning but they weren't in the box," he told her through gritted teeth.
"I had them in the house with me. I'd like to, but I can't keep them. I can't afford to feed them."
"Can you keep them a few more days?" Eris sat down to look at his toe. His wet hair fell across his face and he pushed it back again. "I can't get to them tomorrow. I'll be busy elsewhere."
"The missing little girl?"
Eris looked up from the attempt to examine his toe. "How did you hear?"
"I went to the post office at Green Lake today. A woman inside was talking to a wife of one of the Lions Club members out searching. She talked loud."
Eris made a face as he pulled away a piece of loose flesh. Half his damned toe had been shredded. Wearing a shoe tomorrow was going to be a test in pain tolerance.
"I'll come and get the kittens as soon as I can," he said as he got to his feet once more, and it was only then he realized he was wearing nothing but briefs. He quickly looked at her, but she appeared undisturbed by his state of undress. He bent down to the box and felt his wet hair cover his face once more. He tossed it back and saw droplets land on her cheeks. She calmly wiped them away and held out her hands for the kittens.
"If you find something else to do with them before I get to it, feel free," said Eris.
"Like what? Drowning them in the lake? I thought you had somewhere to take them, like a nearby animal shelter, otherwise I would never have bothered you with this."
When he held onto the box and made no immediate reply, she dropped her hands and said, "Well? Do you have somewhere to take them or not?"
Her exasperation angered him, and he chose not to respond to her. Favoring his injured and still bleeding toe, he gave her the box then turned and went inside the house, closing the door firmly behind him.
He heard what sounded like an unladylike snort and a muttered utterance of some sort before she turned to carry the kittens up to the log cabin.
Like he didn't have enough to worry about without her selfishly dumping kittens on him that had been dumped on her. There was in fact a county animal shelter, but he wouldn't have time to deal with it tomorrow. He had other items on his agenda to worry over, things these people appeared too stupidly cruel to care about. Sherman Tanner was bad enough, but now to have Madeleine Heron looking down her straight white nose at him.
For the first time since his arrival, Eris considered finding another place to live. Somewhere away from other people, like he had dreamed as a youth. He had chosen the job of conservation officer because of the time spent alone. Most days he spent hours by himself, speaking only to those he stopped for a license or permit check. Summer on the lake was different, and as Dale Russell said, the shit had started early this year.
Eris looked down as he made it to the bathroom and he cursed loudly when he realized the blood from his toe was dripping on the floor and making large blots on the rug. He had probably left a trail all the way from the front door.
The thought of a trail yanked his thoughts back to the coming day. He took disinfectant and bandages out of the cabinet and sat down on the toilet lid to doctor the toe, telling himself the pain he experienced was nothing compared to what a certain mother and father were going through that night. It couldn't be.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ronnie Lyman and his wife Sheila sat on lawn chairs and looked at each other. Ronnie held his last beer, so he took his time sipping out of the can and holding the liquid in his mouth before he swallowed. When it was gone, Ronnie tossed the can behind his back and wiped his mouth with the rolled-up sleeve of his work shirt. Sheila got up when she heard a whimper from one of her sleeping girls then she came and sat down again in the lawn chair next to Ronnie.
"You think she's all right?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."
"I know she's missin' us. You know how she is."
"She'll be okay."
''Your mama doesn't always eat right. I hope she remembers to feed her regular."
"She'll feed her."
"You sure no one saw?"
"Kelsey and Kendra didn't see, did they?"
"No. But I feel bad about scarin' 'em. Don't you?"
"Better'n havin' 'em blow it for us, ain't it?"
"I guess. How come no one came out today?"
"'Cause the law keeps these things quiet as long as they can, so no nuts'll come out and claim they got her or anything. Somebody'll be out tomorrow, just you wait and see."
Sheila sat and thought about that as the cool night air brought goose pimples to her bare arms. She looked at her husband and wondered about asking him to shave, since they were going to be on TV and everything. His teeth had always been bad but the rest of Ronnie looked nasty grungy lately, and she was out of shampoo herself. Last night she had used a bar of dollar store soap on the girls' hair, but couldn't get Ronnie to wash his thinning, reddish blond mess.
"Who?" she asked finally. "Who d'you think'll come? Think they'll send the gal from channel twelve?"
"Maybe. Her or that other guy, the one with the hair that sticks out on both sides."
"I won't remember everything you said to say, Ronnie."
"You will," he told her. "I'll be right there."
"But what if they come while you're out lookin'? You gotta go out and look again. Wouldn't seem right if you didn't."
"Yeah, you're right. Well, if I ain't there, just remember to say that you never thought times could get much worse for us. Say your husband done got laid off, you lost your house 'cause we couldn't make payments, and now we lost our little girl."
"What about our campin' permit? Should I say somethin' about that? About how our twenty-eight days is up tomorrow, and how we just can't leave until we found our little girl?"
''Yeah, you better tell about that. How we been livin' out here and makin' do as long as the park would let us."
"Should I say how we come here from doin' the same thing at Toronto Lake? And Cheney Lake before that?"
"Nah, better not. It'd make us look bad. We ain't no white trash, we're just tryin' to get by the best we can."
"What if—"
"Sheila, don't start again. Ain't no one goin' to find out if you keep your mouth shut. We'll get on TV and tell our story, and maybe somebody'll start a fund for us or somethin'. Next Tuesday or so, maybe Wednesday, Mom'll drop Kayla off at that bait shop up there on the access road, then she'll light out and we'll have our darlin' little baby back. Hell, maybe even more people'll send money once we get her back, you never know. We just gotta make it sound as awful as we can and look like we're hurtin' real bad, make a lot a folks feel sorry for us. Hell, I nearly puked today, cryin' so hard."
Sheila's chest lifted with a troubled sigh. "That Indian already feels sorry for us. The game warden? Made me feel so bad I give him an apple."
"I saw it. We got any more?"
"Two." Sheila was silent a moment, then, "Ronnie, what if Kayla says somethin'? You know they're gonna wanna talk to her."
"Me and Mom worked it all out. She's tellin' Kayla what to say when people talk to her. She'll say a man took her and then let her go."
"A man?"
"Yeah, you know. A pervert, or somethin'."
"What?"
"Well, who else would take a little girl?"
"Why didn't you just say a couple took her? A couple who couldn't have babies and wanted a little child of their own?"
Ronnie looked at her in exasperation. "Why would they bring her back?"
Sheila tossed her stringy brown hair and raised a hand. "I don't know. Maybe because she still wets the bed and they want one who doesn't."
"That's the stupidest goddamned thing I ever heard," said Ronnie. "Get in the trailer and go to bed before you piss me off. You ain't gonna blow this for me, damn you."
"I ain't gonna blow anything, Ronnie. I'm just scared about doin' somethin' like this. I know you said it ain't really illegal, but it still feels wrong to have all these folks so scared for us."
Ronnie gave his wife a shove. "Go on to bed. We ain't gonna talk about this no more. I told you what to do and you'll do it, you hear?"
"Don't get mad again, Ronnie. I didn't mean anything but that I'm nervous."
"I didn't hit you, I just gave you a little push. Now get in there," Ronnie warned and from the redness of his eyes, Sheila knew to start moving. She wouldn't mess with him now, not when he was under so much pressure to be something he wasn't.
CHAPTER SIX
Madeleine lay in bed thinking of the scars on Eris Renard's chest, back, and shoulders. She had seen skin like his before. Sometime in adolescence Renard had contracted chicken pox, and the itchy, erupting pustules had scarred the flesh of his face and upper torso. She thought of the pain he must have suffered, the agony of adolescent angst, and felt ashamed for being so hateful to him when he did his best to be polite and civil toward her.
She was in such a state she didn't know what she was doing. Already she was dying of boredom and anxiety and cursing herself for believing a jobless, rent free summer had been the thing to do. All day she fought against thinking about her dead husband, and all day she failed. Over and over she saw the hole in the wall and the clotted blood that stained the carpet and had to be cut out.
She didn't know why her brain turned to him. The guilt still stung her, and the traumatic memory of finding him dead kept her eyes open on many nights. But more and more she found herself growing angry when she thought about Sam, angry at him for his weakness and his petulant attitude about his lost job. People lost jobs all the time, it was true, but this was due to his own failings. The carefree, insouciant Sam had been unable to accept the fact that he was no longer wanted as an employee. The rejection was so completely alien to him that it had injured his entire concept of himself, and left Madeleine struggling to hold together the pieces of his shattered ego, all for the sake of a marriage she had been reluctant to enter into in the first place.
"Ouch!" She shot up in bed as one of the kittens began kneading her leg with its claws. She plucked him away and rubbed at the flesh of her thigh. The other two kittens were curled up at her feet. Madeleine placed the clawing kitten with the others and got up to go to the living area and turn on the television. She flipped through channels on the remote for a moment, then put it down and went to look outside. The waxing moon was bright in the cloudless night. She thought she saw movement in the old cemetery and she jumped and squinted, trying to see.
There it was again. Someone was moving around just beyond the cemetery gate.
Just as Madeleine was about to go for the cabin's landline (where Renard's number had been scrawled on a pad by Manuel) she recognized the yellow fishing hat atop the skulker's head.
What on earth was Tanner doing?
She was tempted to go out and see, but common sense told her it was best to steer clear of weirdos in the moonlight.
And besides stubbing his toe, Renard appeared exhausted again that evening and would doubtlessly resent being disturbed for so trivial a reason as Tanner.
Madeleine thought of Eris sitting on the front porch in his briefs, trying to look at his wounded digit, and had to smile. He was on the slender side, and while he was bent over with his wet hair in his face, he had reminded her of a ceremonial dancer, and of the many nearly naked men she had witnessed on numerous occasions while living among various Native American tribes. It made her feel close to him, and at the same time it irritated her for the other memories he inspired.
The young man who had ridden on her back and whipped her with a stick she would never forget.
But thinking about him was almost worse than thinking about Sam, so she turned abruptly from the window and looked at the television again.
Five minutes later she clicked off the TV and went back to bed, stroking each of the kittens before she laid back and closed her eyes.
The next morning she awakened to the ringing of the landline, and she hurried out of bed to snatch up the receiver, afraid the caller would hang up before she could reach it.
"Hello?"
"I'm at the grocery store," said a familiar deep voice. "I've got a box and litter. What kind of cat food do I buy?"
"Renard?"
"I don't have long. I have to get back. What kind do you want?"
Madeleine started to tell him no thanks. She would get her own cat food if she got any at all. Then she thought of the last can of tuna and the three furry babies who kept her company in the big bed and said, "Anything with tuna in it. They love tuna."
"All right. I'll drop it off when I get back."
"Thank you," said Madeleine, but he had already hung up. She made a face at the phone and it rang again almost immediately, causing her to start and stare for half a second. Finally she picked up the receiver, and she was relieved to hear her sister's voice wish her a cheery good morning.
"Jacqueline," she said, pleased to hear from her.
"I tried your cell until I remembered service sucks out there."
"I noticed."
"How's it going so far? You're not scared, are you? To be by yourself?"
"No. Not really."
"That's good. I was worried you might be after hearing about that missing little girl. I heard it on the radio this morning on the way to work."
"Really?"
"Bad news travels. Is our neighbor out looking for her?"
Madeleine's mouth twisted. "At the moment he's out buying cat food."
"Renard has a cat?"
"No, but we do. Three kittens, dumped in our yard courtesy of a noisy rumbling pickup and two good ole boys."
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. Is it all right? Can I keep them awhile?"
"Of course. Manny loves cats. Are they cute?"
"Two feisty tiger-striped and one black."
"Company for you," Jacqueline observed. "Why is Renard buying food for them?"
"It's a long story."
"He's quite the reserved gentleman, isn't he?"
"He is that, yes."
"Uh-oh," said Jacqueline. "I don't like the sound of that. What's happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're sure? You get along all right?"
"The man is always gone, Jacqueline."
"Have you seen the other one yet?"
"The other one?"
"The other conservation officer. The gorgeous one."
"No, I haven't," admitted Madeleine. "But I haven't been out much. Just to the post office."
"Well, go down to Vista Bay and sit yourself down by the swimming beach. Sooner or later he'll cruise by and you'll get a look at him."
"Jacqueline," Madeleine began in a hesitant voice. "I'm not really interested in looking at anyone right now, if you know what I mean."
"I'm sorry," Jacqueline said quickly. "I was just gabbing."
"I know. Don't apologize. It's just too soon for me to think in those terms."
"I know it is, Mad. I won't say any more. Have you thought of anything for me to bring this weekend?"
"A gross of paperbacks," said Madeleine, only half joking.
"Can do," Jacqueline said, and then she had to go. "See you Friday night."
"Bye," said Madeleine, sorry the conversation was over.
She showered and washed her hair, brushed her teeth and dressed in a white blouse and shorts, and was slipping into her sandals when she saw Eris Renard come to the door, hands full.
"Good morning," she said, and opened the screen door.
He nodded and stepped just over the doorsill to put down the cat litter box. Inside was litter and a dozen tall cans of cat food. Madeleine blinked and looked at him. "You want me to keep the kittens, I guess."
"They were on sale," said Renard, and he turned away from her to step out and off the porch.
"How's the toe this morning?" asked Madeleine, determined to be cordial.
"Sore," he said, and kept walking.
"Thanks for the cat food," she said, and he tipped his hat without looking at her.
Madeleine muttered something under her breath about his gentlemanly surliness and allowed the screen door to slam shut.
Eris Renard didn't notice. He climbed in his truck and took off down the road again, his eyes straight ahead.
Gone to join the search again, Madeleine told herself, and for a moment she imagined the terror a young child might feel, or the child's mother, under such circumstances. The sense was too much like the horror she had found with Sam, and Madeleine forced her thoughts elsewhere.
The kittens gobbled up half a can of cat food from a paper plate, and when they were finished, Madeleine put them outside in the yard in hopes they would relieve themselves outdoors rather than in the litter box, which had cracked when she allowed the screen door to slam against the plastic edge. Feeling cursed, Madeleine tried to find tape for it then gave up and herded the kittens outside and into the grass.
Sherman Tanner came walking by with his dog and Madeleine saw the small canine leap and nearly strangle himself at the end of his leash to get at the tiny kittens. She stood protectively in front of them and Tanner, his lip curled, picked up his little dog and went on his way.
Madeleine made a face at his retreating figure and thought once more about his moonlight trip to the cemetery. She really should have told Renard, but she had the feeling he was now lumping her in with all the other residents in Briar's Cove and labeling her a nuisance right along with Sherman Tanner.
When the kittens had relieved themselves she put them inside and then curious to see if the man intended a return to the cemetery, Madeleine looked up to the road again. She saw no sign of Tanner. The next moment she was up and walking in that direction, thinking a little investigation was in order.
Most of the stones in the cemetery were illegible. Many looked as if there had never been any writing on them at all and Madeleine wondered if she stood in some sort of potter's field, where the sinners, misfits, and outcasts were buried. She walked slowly across the grassy plots, looking for signs of recently overturned earth. She couldn't imagine what else the Earthworm would be doing in a graveyard at night.
A trip around the entire cemetery turned up no evidence of digging, and Madeleine puckered her brow as she scoured the surrounding area. It was nothing but a cemetery full of very old bones and lots of unreadable stones.
"But what a strange place to find a cemetery," she said aloud as she looked in the direction of the lake. From what she understood, the lake had been constructed sometime in the mid to late forties. Most every readable stone was much older, so all of the people buried in the ground beneath her had probably lived, farmed and died on land now covered by the waters of the lake.
She heaved a sigh then sucked in her stomach to slip through the gate again. At the cabin she reached for the keys to the truck and her purse. As she drove by the dam site she saw what looked like a hundred people milling around the area. She and her truck were scrutinized by several sheriff's deputies, which caused Madeleine to blink and hurry on. She saw Renard's truck, but he was nowhere in sight. There were television remote vans from every local affiliate squeezed into the area, and people walked around trailing wires and fighting the sudden breeze that had kicked up earlier. The place was a circus.
She drove down the road to Green Lake and was disgusted to find nothing even resembling a litter box at either of the two small grocer's establishments. She was cheerfully given directions to Fayville, and told to try Rob's IGA. Madeleine made the drive to Fayville and took advantage of the larger store to pick up a newspaper, which she missed reading. She wondered if Renard had access to one and decided to ask him the next time she saw him. It would be no trouble for him to bring it home with him. He could leave it on his porch for her.
She procured her litter box and poked through the store as long as she could and then left to poke through the town, larger than Green Lake, but still no bigger than a pothole in the road. She stopped at a place that called itself a crafts shop and got out to look at what other bored, lonely women did with their time. She was awed by the time consuming work that had obviously gone into each item, needlepoint, crocheted doilies, quilts, teddy bears, bunnies, chickens, cows, wood projects. She shook her head knowing she could never do anything similar.
Little had changed really, since the Victorian era, she found herself thinking. Women still concerned themselves with beautifying their surroundings, while men concerned themselves with staying unconcerned.
She left the crafts shop and climbed into her truck to return to the reservoir. The circus at the dam site, still in progress, revealed dozens of onlookers come now to stand around and talk about what the television people looked like in person. How much taller this one was, or how much thinner, and how bad their skin looked up close without all that makeup.
Renard's truck was gone, with an official-looking sedan in its place. Madeleine kept her foot firmly on the accelerator as she passed and found herself hoping the little girl was all right. The odds were not good, she knew, and the more time that passed, the worse the odds became.
She closed her eyes briefly and felt her stomach roll at the sudden image of Sherman Tanner, standing on a dock somewhere and eagerly scanning the lake's surface for a small, floating body.
Ugh.
To punctuate the thought, the truck she was driving sputtered and died, leaving her staring incredulously at the dash and fighting to get the thing over to the side of the bridge. She tried the starter again and again, checked the gas gauge, the oil light, and temperature gauge, but still the truck wouldn't start.
"Dammit," she swore as she threw open the door and slammed her way out of the truck. She walked to the front and raised the hood, not knowing what she was doing, but thinking someone would stop once they saw it.
Someone did stop.
There were three of them in the SUV, and all of them got out when the driver pulled up behind Madeleine's truck. They were young, dressed in baggy jeans and dirty T-shirts, and two of them wore beards and cowboy hats, while the third wore a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes.
"Engine trouble, ma'am?" said the man in the baseball cap.
"Yes," she said and stood away as the three of them came up to crowd around the raised hood. None of them looked at the engine, she noticed.
"You want us to check it out for you?"
"If you would, please," she said. Then, "Are you part of the search party for the missing little girl?"
She hoped to take their attention off her bare legs.
"Yes, ma'am, we were for a while, but we give it up when they found that windbreaker in the water. They ain't gonna find her. Not till she washes up somewhere. Me and the boys was on our way back to the boat. Figure to get some skiing in before the day's over."
He leaned over the engine and began touching things, starting with the carburetor. The others watched, and one of them snickered and said something about a new transmission. Madeleine's brow dipped. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"Been out here long?" one of the bearded men asked.
"No. It happened just before you arrived."
"Your lucky day," said the other bearded man. "Or ours."
"Ma'am," said the one in the baseball cap, and he gestured for her to come and stand beside him. Madeleine forced herself to move as naturally as possible. When she was beside him, he slipped an arm across her shoulder and said, "Look here, you see this valve here?"
Madeleine attempted to shrug off his arm. "Yes, I see it."
He tightened his grip. "And this float thing here?"
"Yes," she said through clenched teeth. Her nostrils wanted to pinch shut at the smell of alcohol coming from him.
"You gotta whack the shit out of it ev'ry once in a while, 'cause gas'll get it cruddy and make the float stick and really fuck up everything. Now, I ain't sure that's what's happened here right now, but I'm just telling you so you'll know, okay?"
"Please let go of me," said Madeleine, and at the sound of her voice, the two bearded men moved closer, both of them grinning.
"Let go? Shit, I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come partying with me and the boys on our boat. What do you say? Come with us now and we'll pick up the truck later."
"Let go," Madeleine repeated. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
She attempted to wrench herself away from him, and he laughed and snatched her by the arm.
"Hey, now don't get upset. The last time I fucked anything your age I was twelve and she was paid. We just thought you might like to come and party with us."
"Let go of me!" Madeleine shouted right in his face, and he lifted a hand as if to strike her, but she ducked and threw herself away from him, right into the path of an oncoming truck.
Renard hit the brakes and Dale Russell was out of the passenger door before Eris could throw the truck into park. Russell picked Madeleine up out of the road and asked her if she was all right. Her entire body trembled as she pointed to the dead truck.
"I broke down. I thought they were going to help me, but they tried to make me go with them. He wouldn't let go of me when I asked."
Russell placed her beside the CO truck and walked after Renard, who moved to tower over the man in the baseball cap.
"We stopped to help her and she came on to us, man."
"That's a lie!" Madeleine yelled.
Renard said something low to the man, something Madeleine couldn't hear, and he took off his sunglasses as he said it, so the man could look at his eyes.
The drunken man smirked, snorted, and began to back away from Renard. Within seconds, the men piled in the SUV and sped off across the bridge. Russell walked back to Madeleine, while Renard bent over to examine her truck.
"What did he say to them?" she asked.
"Just threatened them with arrest. My name is Dale Russell." He offered his hand to Madeleine and she shook it, thinking this had to be the one her sister kept going on about. He was definitely handsome. Hazel eyes a shade darker than her own, wavy brown hair, a broad chest, and narrow hips.
"Madeleine Heron," she said. "Glad to meet you."
"Likewise, though the circumstances could have been better."
"I was ready to panic," Madeleine confessed. "There was no telling what might have happened if you and Renard hadn't come along."
Russell looked surprised. "You know Renard?"
"He's my neighbor."
"So you're staying in a cabin then?"
"I am. It belongs to my sister and her husband. They come up weekends, but I'm here for the summer."
"Lucky Renard," said Russell, smiling again to show the compliment was an honest one.
Madeleine looked away from him to see Renard glance at them from behind his dark glasses. She left Russell and walked over to him. "Can you see the problem?"
"Yes," he said.
For some reason, Madeleine didn't think he was talking about the truck.
"Well?" she said, when he didn't elaborate. "What's wrong with it?"
"Fuel filter," he said. "I've got one in the truck that should work."
"You carry an extra fuel filter?"
"It comes in handy."
"You'll put it on right here?"
"Yes, so we can get the truck off the bridge."
"Of course," Madeleine said, and smarted at having been made to feel stupid.
"What did you say to those men?" she asked.
Renard finally turned to look at her. "Go to my truck and pull down the seat. The fuel filter is just behind, in a plainly marked box. Bring it to me, please."
She returned to the truck and heard Russell talking on the radio to someone. He smiled at her and leaned away when she reached in to get at the seat. Madeleine looked at him, surprised to feel nothing. A few short months ago she would have been pleased to be smiled at so warmly by such a handsome man. Today she felt as if her answering smile was forced. Thank you, Sam.
"This it?" she said as she returned to Renard.
He looked up and nodded, then took the box from her fingers and placed it beside him while he concentrated on what he was doing.
''Your toe still sore?"
"Yes."
"The kittens enjoyed the food this morning."
"Good."
"Did they really find the little girl's windbreaker today?"
He glanced at her. "In the water."
"Those men told me. They said they were part of the search."
"Maybe," said Renard with a grunt.
"Do you get a daily paper?" she asked.
"In the mail."
"Would you mind sharing it with me? It seems strange not to get a paper."
He nodded and continued with what he was doing. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Russell still on the radio, laughing now.
"You can go back and wait with him if you like," said Renard.
Madeleine looked at him. "I'm fine just watching. About the paper, you could leave it on the porch in the morning if you like, or in the evening, whenever you're finished with it."
Renard breathed out through his nose and looked at her. "Miss Heron, has anyone ever told you how demanding you can be?"
"Demanding?"
"Put the paper on your porch in the morning?"
"Not my porch," she said quickly. "Your porch. I can walk down and take it off your porch. I would never ask you to walk up and put the paper on my porch."
"Wouldn't you?"
Madeleine stood back, angry beyond belief. "How much do I owe you for the fuel filter?"
"Three dollars."
This made her even angrier. To think that she had broken down, nearly been assaulted, and gone through all this insult for a three dollar auto part nearly made her spit. She jerked open the door of the truck and dug in her purse for the three dollars.
He wiped his hands on a rag and when she approached she reached up to stuff the bills in the pocket of his shirt.
"Thank you for coming to my aid, Mr. Renard. In the future I promise to be less demanding. You can take your paper and shove it up—"
"Whoa, neighbors," said Russell, walking up in time to interrupt. His smile was broad as he looked at Madeleine and Renard. He clapped a hand on Renard's arm and jokingly said, "You're not letting this ugly old Indian get to you, are you?"
"Not at all," she said.
"Good. You look like a quiet, cultured type. Mind if I ask your situation?"
Madeleine lifted her brows. "My what?"
"What you do. Why you're here."
"I'm an ex-professor of anthropology," Madeleine answered. "As for why I'm here, well, I've been wondering that myself for the last three days."
She felt Renard look at her when she mentioned being an ex-professor. Then he directed his attention to finishing under the hood.
"An anthropologist," said Russell with undisguised admiration. "I spotted that gleam of intelligence the moment I saw you."
"Lying in the middle of the road and screaming my head off?"
"The next moment then," said Russell, smiling his broad smile again.
Renard got behind the wheel and started the truck's engine. It raced and then began to idle. He got out and closed the hood. Wiped his hands again.
Madeleine thanked Russell for his help and heard him say he looked forward to seeing her again, perhaps at the dance the following Thursday at Diamond Bay.
"A dance?" said Madeleine.
"A band comes in and sets up among the RV hookups. People get a chance to know each other and have some fun. You should come over."
"I'll consider it," said Madeleine.
"Good."
She turned away from him to find Renard holding the door of the truck open for her. She couldn't read his eyes behind the dark glasses, and she kept hers purposely expressionless.
Demanding, he had said.
"Thank you again for your assistance," she said, and watched as he did nothing to acknowledge her thanks. Not even a tip of the hat.
When she was on the seat and had her seat belt on, he closed the door of the truck and walked away, back to his own truck. Russell gave her a final wave, and Madeleine nodded to him as she put the truck in gear and pulled away from the bridge.
On the way home she found herself thinking of the way Renard's mouth had twitched when Russell called him an "ugly old Indian." Madeleine didn't think he was necessarily ugly. It was the pits and scars that made his face appear so frightful. And neither was he old. It was difficult to tell, but she thought he was still under thirty.
His better features were fated to be forever obscured by the proliferation of scars. Frequent exposure to him revealed a nice mouth with a perfect shape, though she had never once seen him smile. His eyes, too, were striking, with long, thick lashes and curved black brows.
Madeleine experienced a strange twinge when she saw his mouth twitch, and the urge to berate the handsome Dale Russell for his remark was strong. But she would only have embarrassed Renard by opening her mouth, and so she let it and all the irritation she felt toward him pass.
Back at the cabin she fed the kittens another half can of food and watched as they snorted and sneezed and waded around on the plate. When they were finished, she got up and prepared their new litter box, placing it in the corner of what Jacqueline called the mudroom, where a miniature washer and dryer sat. One by one she showed each kitten the position of the litter box and placed them inside to sniff and scratch around. When she was satisfied they knew where to find it, she went into the kitchen to wash her hands and see about something to eat for her.
Earlier she left a chicken out to thaw and dove into preparing it. Halfway through she realized that up till now she had been joking and kidding with herself about being lonely, but it was no longer a joke. After only a few days on her own with no sister and no students and only a surly neighbor to talk to, she was ready to cry her eyes out.
"It's got to get better," she whispered to herself as she marinated the chicken in Italian dressing.
She thought of the dance next Thursday and wondered what her chances were of running into the three idiots who had accosted her that day. Or worse, of running into any of the neighbors she had met thus far.
She put the chicken in the oven and added some potatoes to bake. She made a salad, some rolls, a steamer full of broccoli, and took out a cheesecake to thaw. In the back of her mind she knew she wasn't going to eat all of it herself, and when she saw Renard's truck pull in that evening she had the plate all ready. She carried the food down to his cabin and knocked on his door. His expression was one of annoyed disbelief when he opened the door and saw her standing there. She could tell it was a struggle for him to resist shutting the door in her face.
"Is there a problem?"
She held up the plate. "In return for sharing your newspaper, I've brought you some supper."
He only looked at the plate before excusing himself. A moment later he returned and opened the door to hand a paper to her. He made no move to relieve her of the plate.
"I told you I would share the paper."
"Yes, and I'm sorry you mistook my meaning about how we would go about it."
There was no response, and as the silence lengthened Madeleine began to feel ridiculously stupid standing there with a complete chicken dinner in her hand and having it rejected by a man who probably salivated at sight of the tin foil.
"Take the food, Eris. Can't you see I'm trying to repay you for your kindnesses to me?"
His lids blinked at her use of his name. Still he said nothing, and still he made no move to take the plate.
She wanted to throw it at him, but instead she put it down at her feet and turned wordlessly away, clenching her teeth all the while and silently calling him every vile name she could think of. He wasn't about to make anything easy for her. Probably still punishing her for their first meeting, and her initial response to him.
Fine. She could handle it. She had dealt with any number of mute, recalcitrant males in her time, and she could deal with this one. It might actually prepare her in a way for going back into the field. She needed all the help she could get for that.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eris sat in his recliner and had to fight to keep from wolfing down the meal Madeleine Heron gave him. Everything tasted so good he nearly drowned in the juices from his mouth and stomach. She had stacked the plate high with two of everything, and by the time he finished he needed to unfasten the top of his trousers.
He lay back in the recliner then and let the food settle in his stomach while he tried to recall when last he had eaten so well. It had been a long time.
The plate sat on the porch for thirty seconds before the smell got to him. He was starving, as usual, and had been about to stick a frozen dinner into the microwave when she knocked on his door. The temptation to shut it in her face had been great, but that would mean she was getting to him, and if Sherman Tanner, the slimy Earthworm, didn't get to him, then no blonde-haired, aristocratic ex-professor of anthropology would either.
He thought of how large and dark her eyes looked as she stood there on his porch. How small the wrists were that held the plate. She wasn't very big, but she could certainly be imposing. Her soft feminine features could go hard as rock in an instant, something the three jerks who stopped for her that day found out. Eris had seen them around the lake, watched them on the beach and out on their boat, and knew the way they liked to party. He despised man-handlers of women, and his threat to the three had reflected the fact. It wasn't what he said, particularly, but the way he used his size and his face to emphasize his point.
What happened afterward surprised him, her coming to the truck and attempting to chat with him instead of staying to talk with Dale Russell. Either she didn't care, or it was good strategy on her part. Eris had seen women do anything short of a back flip to get Dale Russell's attention. The younger girls were more his style, however, so Eris had been further surprised at his mention of the dance to Madeleine.
Not that he could blame Russell. Even while he tried to avoid her, Eris's thoughts escaped to her flawless skin and unusual brown-green eyes. When he stood beside her he felt very tall and awkward and yes, ugly, though a part of him hated Russell for saying so. It was the same part that was envious.
Eris had a girlfriend in college; she graduated first in her class and was now an astrophysicist. He thought of her sometimes, mostly when he missed having someone to be with. The romance hadn't exactly been hot, but it made both of them comfortable. Since then he had dated once or twice, but either he wasn't interested or she wasn't interested, and nothing ever meshed. He thought he might one day again find someone to feel comfortable with, but he wasn't out there looking. When and if it happened, it would have to happen on its own.
He rubbed his eyes and left the recliner to go and take a shower. He took the band off his hair and let the water run over his scalp as he thought of Madeleine again. He had seen more of her in the last three days than he had seen of anyone in weeks. She was lonely, he guessed, and probably unused to being by herself. Things would be better for her on the weekend, when her sister came. She would leave Eris alone and he could get back to worrying about drunken boaters, horny skiers, and missing, presumed-drowned little girls.
The next morning he took her plate and another newspaper up and left it on her front porch. He didn't see her that day, or that evening, but the next morning when he drove up and tossed his paper in her yard near the porch, he saw his mailbox hanging open. He looked in and found a brown paper sack with a sandwich, a banana, and a bag of peanut butter crackers inside.
For putting it on the porch anyway, the note in the sack read. Eris shook his head and put the sack beside him in the seat.
"It's in the yard now," he said as he drove away. He had some unsavory business to attend to that day. The parents of the missing little girl had used up every extension allowed, and the rules said they needed to take their motor home and leave the park. Eris argued for special consideration and was denied. Rules were rules, and several goodwill shelters had offered to take in the family since their plight aired on local television. It's was Eris's job to tell them to pick up and move along.
The Lyman's did not take the news well. Ronnie Lyman's eyes reddened and his wife Sheila sat down and stared at the ground. The two little girls stopped playing and looked at Eris with round, fearful eyes, as if he were about to pounce on them.
"Your permit could be extended for three days only," said Eris. "I asked for longer, but they turned me down."
"We appreciate it," mumbled Sheila.
"Yeah," said Ronnie.
"You'll have to get your gear together and leave the park today."
Ronnie began to shake his head. "They don't understand. How can they make us leave when we don't know what happened to our little girl yet?"
"It's been several days, Mr. Lyman. People are still looking, but the search has been scaled back. There is nothing you can do here. I understand that several shelters have offered space to you, and I suggest you take advantage. Wherever you go, you will know immediately the moment there is any news. You have my sympathies."
"It ain't right," said Ronnie. "It just ain't right, you kickin' us out like this. I'm goin' on TV again and tell 'em all about how the Department of Parks and Wildlife is kickin' us out of the park where our little girl got lost."
"You're free to do as you wish, Mr. Lyman," said Eris. "But take your family and leave the park today."
"Or what?" said Ronnie, his lower lip quivering with anger.
"Or I will arrest you and take your family to a shelter myself."
Ronnie could see Eris meant it. He struck a pose and whined, "I thought you were on our side, man."
Eris only looked at him.
Sheila swallowed and said, "We'd better start gettin' our stuff, Ronnie."
Ronnie snorted. "You start gettin' our stuff. I'm goin' to make a call." He looked at Eris and said, "That all right with you, Tonto?"
Eris's mouth twitched. He nodded and then turned and walked back to his truck. "I'll be back after lunch. Be gone by then."
As he drove past them on his way out, Sheila Lyman's eyes lowered and refused to look at him, while Ronnie Lyman glared.
The glare made it easier to get over the feeling that what he was doing was wrong, even if it was his job. He drove far away from the reservoir that day to check out areas he had missed for a while. One stop was the farm pond where the fish had died. He talked with the owner about the alkalinity of the water, gave him some guidelines and other printed material and then left.
On Highway 99 he came across an elderly man who had struck a deer with his truck and banged his head hard on the steering wheel. Eris took the dizzy, befuddled, bone-thin old man to the nearest clinic and then returned to dress the doe and haul it to a meat locker, where he impulsively paid for the preparation of the deer, then gave the name and address of the old man and told them to call him when it was done. The deer hadn't meant to get hit and the old man hadn't meant to hit it, but at least he would eat while nursing the stitches in his head.
It was long past noon when he made it back to the Lyman's campsite, where he was relieved to see the motor home and its occupants gone. His relief was short-lived, however, when he drove out to leave the reservoir again and saw the Lyman's motor home parked at The Haven, a tiny bait shop and convenience store just off the access road. Beside the motor home was a mobile unit from a local television station, and as he passed by Eris could see a mournful Ronnie Lyman, eyes lowered to the ground, responding to questions from the reporter.
He thought about sticking around and watching Ronnie's next move, but he decided it would make him look like too much of a hardass. If they were still here at the end of the day, Eris would make good on his threat to arrest Lyman. He was already disgusted at the way the man capitalized on the disappearance of his little girl. He showed not an ounce of pride while on television, complaining long and loud about a lost job, a lost home, no more unemployment benefits, and struggle, struggle, struggle, milking every second of air time for all it was worth.
Eris felt for a man who had lost his job and couldn't keep up the payments on his house, but there were other things to do besides living in parks and fishing the days away. Ronnie Lyman needed to get off his lazy ass and find a job or two. Three, if he had to, because idle hands and mind led to loss of self-respect and eventually to self-hatred, something Eris was familiar with in his life. He had watched his adoptive father go from a bright, contented, hard-working man to a sneering, vindictive, cantankerous old bastard. A man's work was his life, and when Jean Renard left his twenty-five-year military career behind and accepted a pension for a permanently disabled back, he gave up on living.
And started picking on Eris, who was only seven at the time and did not understand why the love and affection he had been shown up to that point appeared to have been rescinded by the stranger who now stayed home days instead of going off to work. At first directed toward Eris's adoptive mother, the anger and bitterness soon turned upon Eris, the outsider, the interloper, and there was no one to protect him, since even his mother became cold to him to keep from drawing the heat of his father's ire back onto herself.
Eris ran away from them at the age of thirteen. He rode a bus all the way to Kansas City, telling himself he was going to find his real parents on the nearby Sauk-Fox reservation. The whites hated him and he didn't want to live with them anymore. He knew he was Fox, because his adoptive parents always laughed and said they wanted a little Fox baby since his mother had Fox blood in her, and because the name Renard meant fox. They also told him the name Eris was given to him by his natural mother, and they had no idea what it meant, but they kept it because it was unusual and seemed to suit him. Eris had the idea that if he visited the reservation and told people his name, someone might remember something.
An hour after he reached the reservation he knew his task would be impossible. His plight was not unusual, and few cared to help him even by trying to remember anything. He returned to the bus station and walked inside to sit at the diner. Several people eyed him, but since his hair was cut short and his clothes were clean, he passed inspection. He saw a notice printed on the chalkboard that a dishwasher was needed in the diner, and Eris applied on the spot. He was thirteen, but tall enough to pass for sixteen and no one ever asked him any questions. He was paid cash and he slept on a bench in the bus station at night, until he could afford to rent a room.
He worked at the diner a year and a half, until he got on another bus and went to Oklahoma, because he heard there were Sauk-Fox there, too. In Oklahoma, he hired on with a construction road crew. At fifteen years of age he stood six-one and had good muscle definition, so again no one asked for anything but a social security number. Eris let his hair grow long, like the other Indians on the crew, and he saved half of every paycheck, turning down invitations of the older men to go out and party with them. Any spare time, he spent looking for his natural parents.
At the age of sixteen he contracted chicken pox and fell sick for several weeks. A girl he had dated steadily bid him adieu after the pustules appeared, and only during the worst stage of the disease did he realize what was happening to his previously smooth, brown skin. Afterward he became bitter and stayed in his room nights, refusing to go out or to talk to anyone. The men at work teased him mercilessly about his face and chest and back, until Eris lost control and went after one of them with a shovel. The incident saw him fired from his job.
He remained in Oklahoma long enough to receive his general equivalency diploma. At the age of seventeen he picked up his GED and took himself and all his saved money back to Kansas, where he enrolled himself in Kansas State University.
Eris was a good student. He worked hard at his studies and made one or two friends while there. He took another job, this time at an animal shelter, where he was placed in charge of euthanizing the hundreds of strays that went unplaced each month. He vomited nearly every time he performed the task and was later given other work, but he still had problems. Regretfully, the operators of the shelter let him go.
It was in his second year of college that he decided to be a conservation officer. He liked the idea of being outdoors all day, with no one but himself to answer to or be responsible for.
Obtaining his degree took longer than he thought it would, since he kept running out of money. During breaks he worked full time at temporary jobs, and in the summer he hired on with construction crews and saved every penny so he could stay in school.
It was more than pride and stubbornness that made Eris so determined. It was the way he felt about himself, and how he wanted to go on feeling about himself.
He graduated when he was twenty-four, and had numerous interviews with the state, finally going on to the police training academy and becoming certified as a law enforcement officer. A few months later he was assigned an area of his own, and now, two years later, he was dealing with what the other COs called "a year that rains shit," when every minute something was happening, and no sooner did he catch his breath than something else cropped up that needed his attention.
Still, he was all right doing what he was doing. He stayed busy most of the day, every day. He was rarely idle. It was what he wanted.
Next Friday was his twenty-seventh birthday, and he would celebrate it like he celebrated all the others, by himself, with an hour or two of maudlin thinking about his real parents. Then his birthday would be over and it would be the next day again.
That night on television he watched as Ronnie Lyman tearfully complained about the treatment of his family by the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks. How they couldn't bear the thought of their little girl possibly finding her way back to the campsite, only to find it deserted.
"Christ," Eris muttered.
The reporter had enough sense to interview Eris's superior, and the reason they were asked to leave was fully explained. Still, the worry-worn faces of the Lyman's had an effect, and Eris was certain the cards, letters, and checks would see an increase. Missing little girls tended to do that.
He threw a frozen dinner in the microwave and looked out his kitchen window to see Madeleine sitting on the front porch of the cabin and playing with the kittens. Her hair was out of its usual tight bun and flowing freely down her neck and shoulders. It was a nice picture and he stood looking at it long after the timer on his microwave had beeped.
He was about to turn away when he saw Sherman Tanner make his stealthy way up the road. The dog wasn't with him, so Eris figured he was going to the cemetery again, where he liked to rub himself against the stones and jerk off. Eris had caught him at it more than once, but he was too embarrassed by the man's behavior to open his mouth and speak. Tanner had something about buried things, obviously. And burying things.
Eris only hoped Madeleine didn't run out there and catch him at it some night.
He shook his head and was about to walk over to the microwave when he saw Madeleine lift a hand and wave to him. Eris turned his head and moved away from the window, not responding.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madeleine bolstered her courage enough to walk down to the swimming area the next day. Jacqueline and Manuel would be in for dinner, and she wanted them to know she hadn't stayed holed up in the cabin the entire week. Over her one-piece suit she wore shorts and a top, and she carried a paperback in her hand as she made her way down the road. She passed a stern-looking woman standing in front of a cabin with a huge glass of what looked like tomato juice in her hand. She nodded to Madeleine as she passed. Madeleine nodded in return and walked on. The cabins seemed to fill up from Thursday till Monday with people like her sister and brother-in-law, who visited the lake and then drove away again, leaving the place to the full-timers.
Down at the swimming beach she started to groan in dismay when she found the place full of kids, but Madeleine soon found herself watching as she realized a lone red-haired woman attempted to keep the kids together and instruct them on the building of sand castles on the tiny sandbar. Madeleine counted twelve children of all colors, shapes, and sizes, most of them Down's children, only a few paying attention to what the woman was saying.
Slowly Madeleine approached the group and gave the faces that turned to look a cautious smile.
"Hello," she said. "I couldn't help noticing. Could you use some extra hands?"
"How many have you got?" asked the woman with a wide smile.
Madeleine lifted her hands and then offered one to the woman. "My name is Madeleine Heron."
The woman shook her hand. "I'm Denise Lansky. Can you build a sand castle, Madeleine?"
"Give me a bucket and a shovel and I'll do my best."
"Great." Denise turned to the children. "Hey, kids, this is Madeleine, and she's going to help us out. Why don't you count off, and the first six of you go with her to that side, and the other six stay here with me on this side. Okay? Ready, now. One...two..."
Six children bumped and jumped to their feet to go with Madeleine down the beach a few paces. She caught the bucket and shovel Denise tossed to her and received another broad smile from the attractive redhead.
For the next half hour she helped build sand castles, wetting the coarse sand and shaping it, helping small fingers poke holes and smiling at their grins of delight. She couldn't believe how relaxed she became, or how quickly the children seemed to take to her. Madeleine had never been around smaller children, though she liked them and enjoyed spending time in their presence, she simply didn't know anyone who had children. She always believed she would have little patience with them when tested, but never had the opportunity to find out.
"Want a job for the day?" asked Denise when it was time to dole out snacks for the children.
Madeleine looked at her. "I was just wondering if I could hack it."
"I'm serious," said Denise. "I'm supposed to have two assistants, and the only one who showed up went to the hospital last night with colitis. I've called and sent for someone else, but I could sure use your help the rest of the day."
"How long are you here with them?"
"For the week. It's a camping adventure we do every year. I thought I'd have to take them all home early, but my husband agreed to come out and help me with them. What do you say, Madeleine? He should be here in an hour or so but I'll pay you for a full day."
Madeleine looked at Denise's earnest blue eyes before giving a brief but firm nod. She didn't exactly have pressing business back at the cabin. "What do we do first?"
"We feed them, apply another dose of sunscreen, and take them on a short hike. After lunch, we meet someone from the park who tells them about good camping habits and gives them all stickers. Then we go on a boat ride, courtesy of a friend with a pontoon boat. After that it's supper and a sing-along before bedtime."
"A big day," commented Madeleine.
"We have a good time," said Denise. "And I wear my butt out in the bargain, but it's worth it. Just look at those happy faces."
Madeleine looked and had to agree.
"I need to run back to my cabin and leave a note for my sister," she told Denise.
"I'll be right here," Denise told her. "Slathering on the sun block."
"Be right back," Madeleine said, and she jogged up the path that led to the cabins. She dashed off a quick note to Jacqueline and Manuel and then hurried back down to the swimming beach. Other swimmers had arrived by this time, some throwing distasteful glances and others indulgent as the children squirmed about on the sandbar. Denise had three more bodies to apply sunscreen to, and she looked tremendously relieved when she saw Madeleine.
"I had this terrible feeling you weren't coming back. You're either incredibly bored or very naive about kids."
"I'm both," said Madeleine. "Where do we hike?"
"Not far. We're actually camped near Diamond Bay, but there's no swimming beach there. The minibus is up in the parking area. I thought we'd go on a little nature walk to look at the trees and plants and such. Are you ready?"
Madeleine still panted from her first jaunt, but she could do more. She thought she probably shouldn't have sold her exercise bike and treadmill. A few months of inactivity and already she felt completely out of shape.
It grew worse as the day wore on. After lunch the children were more boisterous than ever, excited about their park visitor, who turned out to be Dale Russell. He said a quiet hello to Madeleine and Denise before turning his attention to the children, who watched in awe as he told them stories about litterbugs and firebugs and gave each one of them an official PARK PROTECTOR sticker when he was finished. Before he left, Dale looked at Madeleine and said, "The dance?"
She shrugged a shoulder in reply and he gave her one of his heartwarming smiles.
"Did he just ask you for a date?" Denise asked in surprise.
"No. Do you know him?"
"I know he told the daughter of a friend that COs were discouraged from becoming romantically involved with the locals. I didn't know if that was baloney or what."
"He didn't ask for a date," Madeleine clarified. "He only mentioned there was a dance next Thursday."
"He's also supposed to be engaged. I was relieved to hear it, since my husband's convinced Dale is gay."
"He could be," Madeleine said, and at her tone, Denise looked at her.
"You sound curiously uninterested."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Will you and your husband be going to the dance?"
"No. We leave the day before. You should go. I went last year and had a really good time. Are you with anyone?"
"Me? No, I'm staying at my sister's cabin for the summer."
"All the more reason you should go." Denise looked at her watch then. "Time for our boat ride. We need to get to the dock."
The next half hour Madeleine endured contained madness as they hurried to strap twelve little bodies into twelve personal flotation devices and hustle them aboard the huge pontoon boat owned by Denise's obviously wealthy friend, introduced to Madeleine only as "Bill." She and Denise put on their own life jackets and sat squat-legged on the floor of the boat with the children, while the owner's teenage daughter flopped into one of the seats and studied all their faces.
"A new assistant, Denise?" she asked, and pointed to Madeleine.
"Just day help," Madeleine answered.
"Ignore her," said Denise under her breath, and then the engine started and no one could hear much of anything for several moments as they pushed away from the dock and headed out onto the lake.
The children clung to each other and to Denise and Madeleine as they moved over the choppy water. Several of the children's mouths never closed, but simply remained open in awed pleasure.
"You never said whether you were going to the dance with Dale Russell or not," Denise said to her in a loud voice, and before Madeleine could answer, the teen girl stood over Denise, her nostrils flaring. "What did you say?"
Denise leaned back. "I wasn't talking to you."
"Did you say Dale Russell asked her to the dance?" She pointed rudely at Madeleine again.
"What if he did?"
The girl straightened. "Sonofabitch."
"Hey," said Denise. "Watch your mouth around these kids."
The girl sneered. "Don't tell me what to do on my own goddamned boat."
Bill heard that one and he barked at his daughter to shut her mouth. She stomped away, and Denise's lips curved as she watched her go.
Madeleine started to say, "I think you did that on purpose," to Denise, but a sudden, sharp scream from one of the children caused her to jerk her head around and look to see what was wrong. Soon every child on the boat screamed, and then Denise and even Madeleine screamed when she saw the tiny, limp body caught in the ropes trailing along beside the boat. The tiny girl's blonde hair floated like seaweed in the water above the yellow of her sweat-suit. Madeleine slammed her eyes shut at sight of the bloated and discolored face and turned abruptly away before the image of the little girl's staring, milky eyes could solidify in her mind the way that reddish black hole in the side of Sam's head had.
Then she began yanking children back and gathering them to her, trying to cover their heads with her hands and telling them in a shaking but soothing voice not to look, just don't look.
Bill, his face white, stopped the pontoon boat and radioed for help.
Help in the form of Eris Renard arrived nearly a half-hour later.
He came in a boat by himself, and Madeleine saw him give a start to see her there, surrounded by twelve shaken Down's children and a sobbing redhead.
"Great," muttered the teenage daughter. "It's the ugly one."
Eris pulled his boat along the opposite side of the pontoon where the body floated. He climbed onto the pontoon and walked to the opposite edge to look over. Madeleine saw him go very still for a moment and then he abruptly turned and jumped back into his own boat to pick up the radio.
"No hoax," she heard him say. "She's here."
The response was difficult to hear, and Madeleine heard Eris tell whomever he spoke to that a dozen kids were on the pontoon boat. When he turned around again his features went grim as she clearly heard a voice instruct him to spare the children further trauma and bring in the body himself. The sheriff's department would be waiting on shore.
Eris took a tarpaulin and laid it on the seat behind him then he guided his boat around the pontoon boat and placed it as close to the body as he dared. Without hesitation he went down the ladder into the water, and Madeleine watched as he attempted to untangle the body from the pontoon's rope. His face held no expression though his long brown fingers worked frantically. When the body was finally free, Eris held onto one sleeve of the yellow sweat-suit and swam with the dead girl to the side of his boat before motioning to Bill that he could go on.
As the pontoon pulled away, Madeleine's eyes fixed on Eris's face. She saw him place an arm of the body behind the ladder of the boat to hold it there until he could get on board. She saw him lift the body out of the water then and lay it on the tarpaulin, where he wrapped it carefully around her. Then, though they were many yards away by this time, she saw him lean over the side of his boat away from them and hang there for several minutes. Madeleine's heart went out to him as she watched him heave.
Denise had stopped crying by that time, and she attempted to calm the children, who were full of frightened questions. After listening to her for several minutes, Bill's teenage daughter shook her head and said, "They've seen enough bodies and dead people on TV that I wouldn't be too worried. That pockmarked Indian probably scared them worse than the floater."
Nostrils flaring, Madeleine stood and put her finger right in the middle of the girl's chest. "Please shut up."
The girl backed away in belligerent surprise. "God, what is your problem? Dad, did you see what she did?"
Bill did, and when they were safely docked again, he came to apologize. "Denise, Miss Heron, I won't make excuses for my daughter, or for what happened out there today, but I will say I'm deeply sorry."
Denise nodded to him and touched his shoulder. "Do you think... I mean where do you... How do you think we got her?"
He rubbed at a temple and said, "The only thing I can figure is that we snagged her right here at the dock just after Shelly took care of the lines. She never does it the way she's supposed to, which is probably how we wound up carrying the body along with us, with the line trailing along with her under the boat. Then when we slowed down she had time to bob up from beneath us."
"Under the boat?" said Denise, looking sick. "She was underneath the boat the whole time?"
"I'm sorry," Bill said again, and he left them alone with the children.
Supper was a somber affair, with more questions, questions, questions, and much interest and curiosity in the dozens of sheriff's department cruisers now parked around Diamond Bay. As they readied to begin their evening sing-along, Denise's husband Tim finally arrived. After staying for one or two songs, Madeleine bid everyone goodbye and slipped away, refusing payment for the day or a ride back to her cabin. She had seen Eris's truck parked at the dock, and she figured to ride back with him. It was late, nearing dusk, and he would be going home soon.
She found the truck and opened the unlocked passenger door to climb inside. Numerous people milled around on the dock, uniforms of all sorts, deputies, people from the coroner. She couldn't see Eris.
Madeleine settled herself against the seat and looked around the interior of the truck. It was clean, like his house. The dashboard was free of dust and had a freshly washed look to it.
No wonder he eats over the sink, she thought. He doesn't want to get anything dirty.
She opened his glove compartment and stared, stunned to find his wallet inside.
How careless, Madeleine thought, leaving his wallet inside an unlocked truck at a busy dock.
But it was an official truck, and Eris had probably been in a hurry to get out on the water, which explained why his wallet was there. He didn't want it to get wet.
Hating herself for doing it, but eaten with curiosity, Madeleine opened the wallet. Inside she found fifty-nine dollars and a ticket stub from a music theater presentation of Man of La Mancha. There were no pictures of anyone in his wallet. He had a driver's license, an insurance card, a social security card, a library card, various official-looking permits and things...and that was it. She looked at the driver's license again to find his birth date. After doing some quick figuring in her head, she realized he turned twenty-seven the following Friday.
She did more figuring and began to frown. Madeleine was exactly eight years and two months older than him. Sighing, she put his wallet back into the glove compartment and closed it up tight. She leaned back against the seat and allowed her lids to drift shut while she waited.
In the next moment she jerked awake as the overhead light in the cab came on and Eris stood with his hand on the door, looking in at her.
"If you're going home, I need a ride," she said, and after a pause he got in the cab.
Madeleine buckled in as he turned the ignition. She eyed his profile and found his eyes straying to the glove compartment.
It's still there, she wanted to tell him, but she didn't. He looked more tired than she had ever seen him, and she wondered what kind of man he was to enjoy working himself to exhaustion day after day.
''You're sunburned," he commented as he drove the truck away from the dock.
She glanced at the pink tops of her thighs and felt the tenderness of her arms. "I don't tan. I never have."
They rode quietly along, and on impulse she reached across the seat to touch his arm. She felt him flinch, but went on. "You did a good job today, Eris. I don't know anyone who could have handled the situation as well as you did."
For several moments he was silent. Then he asked, "You saw her?"
"I did, yes. I won't forget it any time soon."
There was silence between them again, until he looked at her and asked in a rough voice if she had a specialty in anthropology.
Madeleine looked at him in surprise, and then understood by the swift change of subject that he was trying to guide his thoughts away from the day's events and his part in them.
"Native American languages," she answered. "And some music."
Eris turned full face to look at her, his surprise apparent.
Are you Lakota?" she asked.
"Fox," he said, then turned back to the road again.
"Minnesota? Canada?"
"The white people who adopted me said I was born here in Kansas."
That explained why his wallet held no pictures, she told herself. Partially, anyway.
"Where are they now?" she asked. "Do they live around here?"
"I haven't seen them in years," he said. "When I left, they were in New Mexico."
"Small world. My parents live in Santa Fe," said Madeleine.
She expected him to say something else, like what part of New Mexico his adoptive parents were in, or why he hadn't seen them in so long, but he said nothing further, only stared out the windshield and drove. When they reached the log cabin she saw Manuel's Jeep Cherokee in the drive and lights burning in the windows.
Eris stopped the truck in the road and waited for her to get out. Madeleine unbuckled herself and said, "Thanks for the ride."
He nodded. She hesitated, looking at him. He looked back at her, still and silent.
"Would you like to come in and have a beer?" she asked.
"No, thanks."
"Eris..."
"Tell Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz I said hello."
She was dismissed. Madeleine got out and slammed the door behind her. She marched across the lawn and up the steps without once looking over her shoulder. She heard his truck pass on toward his cabin.
That's what she got for being concerned about him, for trying to be nice. He didn't know what nice was. Madeleine knew she was going to be having more than one drink that night. She had no more of the sleeping pills her doctor had given her, and she knew she was going to need something to help blot out the memory of that floating blonde hair and sodden yellow sweat-suit. If Eris Renard didn't need something to help him, or someone to talk to, then he was made of unfeeling stone.
CHAPTER NINE
Eris held up the bottle of Jack Daniel's and swallowed three times before he put it down again. He rarely drank, but it was an effective painkiller.
Madeleine Heron had no idea how much he had wanted to take her up on all the sympathy her eyes offered. When she touched him on the arm he wanted to stop the truck in the middle of the road and wrap himself around her, crush her to him, so he could know the feel of a warm, living and breathing being in his arms, instead of the memory of the cold and dead one he pulled from the lake.
He took another long drink and put the lid back on the bottle. He had contacted the Lyman's, as promised, and was forced to listen to Ronnie Lyman call him a liar, over and over. "She ain't dead, you hear? I'm tellin' you my little girl ain't dead. She can't be."
Eris had to tell him it was in fact his daughter. He had taken her out of the water himself and requested that Ronnie come and identify her in the morning. Ronnie said that by God he would, and the lying bastard would see it was not his little girl.
When Ronnie arrived at the county morgue the next day and saw that Eris told the truth, that his little girl Kayla had drowned, he fell into a dead faint on the ground and cracked open his head, requiring twelve stitches to sew it back up again. Reporters descended upon the scene then, and park officials answered questions nonstop, only a few meriting an answer. Someone asked Eris whether he still considered the Green Lake park and camping area safe and he nearly lost his temper.
The girl was three, he wanted to yell at them. You don't leave a three-year-old girl in the dark by a dam.
His superior read the tension in his stance and stepped up in time to save him.
Eris walked away to help Dale Russell keep numerous nosy boaters and curious onlookers out of the way. Russell had been conveniently away from his radio when the call came for someone to go out on the water and check out the call from the pontoon boat. Eris had been forced to drive twenty fast miles to get back to the reservoir and get in a boat.
He closed his eyes and unscrewed the lid on the bottle of whiskey again as he thought of his first glimpse of her.
Bad. God it was bad.
Don't think about it, he told himself. Think about anything else. Think about Madeleine, and the way she's starting to look at you.
Truth be told, he didn't know what to think about that. She acted as if she were actually interested in him, and after learning what he had that evening, he began to wonder if maybe he wasn't some new and different kind of case study for her. Her interests lay in Native Americans, and he was as native and as American as they came, so maybe she was actually following her educational leanings when she tried to talk to him.
Whatever she was doing, it made him think more about her, and he knew he was only setting himself up for disappointment in doing that. At the end of the summer she told Manuel and her sister she would pack up and leave, making all considerations moot. In the meantime, he wished she would go back to being haughty and demanding rather than feeding him meals, touching him and saying nice things to him. She didn't know how long it had been for him, how the weeks had blended into months and the months into years and how he was usually so utterly exhausted when he came home that he was too tired even to touch himself and masturbate away the pressures inside his body.
She had a way of making the tiredness seem less. When he found her sitting in his truck that evening his adrenaline went to work all over again, and when she talked about his doing a good job, he experienced an odd flushing sensation under his skin, more pleasure than pride. Still he didn't know how to take her. She was different from anyone he had ever been exposed to, even in school. He had never had a teacher who looked like Madeleine Heron. He might not have graduated if he had.
He took one last drink of Jack Daniel's before putting the bottle away in the cabinet. His senses were practically reeling now, unused as he was to the effects of alcohol. He moved to the kitchen window and looked up at the log cabin. The curtains were closed, but he saw a light in Madeleine's bedroom, the same bedroom where he had seen her take off her clothes on the first night.
Eris thought about what he had seen that night, the generous, rosy-tipped breasts, a slender, curved stomach above rounded white hips, and he went to lie down on his bed.
Before he could lower a hand to touch himself, the image of little Kayla Michelle Lyman intruded, her silky blonde hair wrapping itself around his wrist while he struggled to free her from the pontoon boat's rope.
Eris rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom, hanging his head over the toilet. He vomited until the water was brown with undigested whiskey and even his eyeballs hurt with the effort to vomit more.
The next morning he showered, toweled himself, and brushed his teeth, all without managing to meet his own eyes in the mirror. He felt like shit. He took a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator for breakfast and downed four aspirin before leaving the house.
He called the lake office by radio after a few hours to see if anyone had heard whether a preliminary look at the little girl had been completed. The voice on the other end said he had been instructed not to talk about any results over the radio. Eris drove to a high spot and used his cell to call his superior.
"The coroner himself came in and did an autopsy. The girl had semen in her stomach," he was told. "Bruising around her ears and jaws."
Eris felt his stomach deliver a threatening rumble. "Did she drown?"
"Yes. Stay close to the lake today. When people hear some sick bastard is out there getting his rocks off killing kids, there could be a mass exodus."
Eris disagreed. People would keep a closer watch on their children certainly, but the idea of deranged activity would see most hanging around, looking with suspicion at strangers and talking in shocked, hushed tones to their neighbors. People were funny that way, and they weren't going to change any time soon. The park would go on as before, with a little more tension than usual and a lot less friendliness.
Sometime that afternoon the news that it was a murder leaked, and people stopped Eris no less than a dozen times wanting to know if it was true. Eris said there had been no official word yet. Technically, he was not lying. There had been no official news release.
Around three o'clock, he spotted Manuel Ortiz edging around a tiny cove. Ortiz called to him and docked his Ranger bass boat at a private dock so he could lope up and talk to Eris. Eris watched him approach and prepared to answer the same questions he had been answering all day.
"You know the people who own that dock?" Eris asked when Manuel reached the truck.
"No," said Manuel, grinning. "Are you going to arrest me?"
"Not today," Eris answered. "How are you?"
"Very well, thank you. Madeleine has mentioned your kindnesses to her in the last week, and Jacqueline and I thought to repay you by inviting you to dine with us this evening."
Eris opened his mouth, and Manuel held up a hand.
"I will begin cooking at seven, and it would please me very much if you agree to join us. Madeleine's life of late has not been easy, and we appreciate anyone who makes the effort that you have. She can be a difficult woman, and she has admitted to being difficult with you."
This surprised Eris. He couldn't see her admitting to being difficult. The part about her life of late not being easy intrigued him, but he wouldn't ask.
He wondered what else she said to them about him. He didn't want to spend the evening talking about the dead little girl, or his part in yesterday's nightmare.
"Thank you," he said, "but I'll pass."
Manuel was disappointed. "She can be quite charming when she chooses. She is not so...hard...always."
"I've got things to do at home. Thank you for the invitation, and good luck with your fishing."
Manuel stepped away from the truck, and Eris departed before the man could say anything further to persuade him. He liked the idea of sitting down and eating with nice people, but none of them really knew each other, and Eris felt awkward and ill at ease in such situations. There were always those preliminary questions, covering everything everybody did, and where everybody went to school, and if they knew anyone in common. He wasn't any good at just sitting and chatting.
As he drove on he thought about the Lyman's and wondered how they were holding up. He felt bad for thinking ill of them and their grandstanding on television. They couldn't help what they were anymore than he could help what he was. It was just the way things turned out.
Ronnie's wife was sick. She had been sick ever since Ronnie called her yesterday and told her their baby Kayla drowned. She couldn't eat anything, and even when she drank something she threw it right up. The people at the Trinity Shelter in Augusta were worried about her, and they couldn't understand why she was so angry at her husband. With his half-bald stitched head and red eyes he looked as if someone had gut-kicked him and left him fighting for air.
The reason for Sheila's anger was clear to Ronnie. She thought he had done it. She thought he had killed their baby girl to get more money coming in. Not enough money was coming in, so she thought he had killed Kayla to get more sympathy and more begging time on TV.
Ronnie had called his mom and told her to bring Kayla to The Haven a day early. He had to, because they were kicked out of the park, and he was going for really high drama by having his little girl show up looking for them just one day after they had been kicked out.
But someone else snatched her from in front of The Haven after his mother drove away. Someone bad had taken her and done dirty things to her before drowning her, and it was killing Ronnie because he couldn't get his wife to believe that it wasn't him who had done it.
What kind of wife would believe something like that about her own husband, Ronnie asked himself as he received yet another evil glare from the pasty-faced Sheila. She was sick, all right. She was sick in the head, thinking such things about him. She was making everyone in the shelter stare at him and whisper. Last night he had wanted to hit her so bad he nearly bit his lower lip in two trying to prevent it. If word got out that Ronnie Lyman slugged his wife, then those five and ten dollar donations that dribbled in out of sympathy for them would stop quicker than a mouse pissing.
They might anyway if he couldn't get Sheila to be nice to him again. Goddammit, they were going to bury their little girl tomorrow and she shouldn't be treating him as if she hated him. She even had Kelsey and Kendra looking at him like he was some half-bald bogeyman.
Ronnie threw himself onto his bunk and closed his eyes, tired of it.
Sheila watched him, hating every freckle, every little hair in his eyebrows. The lazy, greedy, worthless fool. She knew she should have left him the first time he hit her. She knew it. But by then she already had Kelsey, and no way to get a job without a high-school diploma. Her mom couldn't keep Kelsey because she worked, and there was no way Sheila could go back to high school with a baby. It was stupid to go on and have another baby, and even more stupid to have a third one. But Sheila loved her babies so much. They took all the love she had to give and gave it all back to her, something Ronnie would never come close to experiencing, let alone understanding. He was incapable of feeling love for anything. All he wanted out of life was food, shelter, free money, someone to screw and then hit.
That someone wasn't going to be her anymore, Sheila told herself. The filthy, disgusting animal wasn't going to get near her or her two other little girls. Let him go back to live with his mother and knock her around again. She was used to putting up with it. She had put up with it from Ronnie's dad, and then from Ronnie's older brother, and then from Ronnie. She did everything she was told and never argued. If anyone asked, she thought her boys were the most wonderful men ever to walk the earth. There were none better.
They were all sick, Sheila told herself.
All of them but her. After the funeral tomorrow, she was getting away. She was leaving and going to one of the other shelters who had offered help. Maybe they would help her get a GED so she could try and get a job somewhere. She could live in low-income housing and take a bus to work. She and the girls would get on all right without Ronnie. They might even do better, looking at the way things had gone for them so far. Sheila had never felt right about taking things from other folks. Her own mother was dumb as dirt and twice as poor, but she never took a dime she didn't earn. She served and cleaned and worked from the time she was fifteen, and there were plenty of times she could have applied for welfare and gotten it, but she never did.
Sheila wasn't going to apply for it if she didn't have to, but she would wait and see how things worked out. The people in the shelter were really understanding and helpful and easy to talk to about such things. They understood when women feared the men they lived with, but feared going it alone even worse. But this thing with Kayla, this thing with her poor, dead baby was all she needed to get her mind made up. She had to get away from him. He was bad and he always had been bad and he wasn't going to be getting better anytime soon. All she needed for tomorrow was to line up some transportation for her and the girls. Then she would be gone, and Ronnie and all his lying, scheming, and cheating people by crying on television would be behind her.
CHAPTER TEN
"He declined," said Manuel in answer to his wife's question about whether Eris Renard would be joining them for dinner.
Madeleine knew he would, but still her limbs stiffened.
Jacqueline glanced at her before continuing to mix a blender full of daiquiris.
"I forgot to mention it earlier, Madeleine, but your in-laws called me Thursday evening. They wanted to know where you were and how you're getting along. I said you were at our cabin, but I didn't say where. They wanted to know if you needed any money."
Her head lifted sharply, and Madeleine stared at her sister. "What?"
"His mother admitted how insensitive they were after Sam's suicide. They blame it on shock. They've learned things since and they realize everything you said was true. They want to try to make it up to you."
"Bullshit," said Madeleine, and Manuel frowned at her in disapproval.
Jacqueline's look was patient. "I told them I would speak to you. I said if you wanted to contact them, you would."
"I don't want to."
"I thought as much."
"Can you blame me?" Madeleine's temper flared. "They practically accused me of murdering their son. How do you expect me to feel?"
"Just as you do," Jacqueline soothed. "Forget I mentioned it." She turned to Manuel then said, "Madeleine took me over to meet her new friends today."
"The children you mentioned last night?"
"Yes." Madeleine relaxed somewhat. "We had a good afternoon."
"I got to call bingo," said Jacqueline, pretending to preen. "And I was very good."
Manuel smiled at her and reached down to hand scraps to the kittens at his feet. He did like cats. He played with them and talked to them and lovingly scratched their arched little backs.
"Hey," Jacqueline said. "Don't feed them on the floor. Find a plate if you're going to give them scraps."
Manuel swatted her on the bottom and she swatted playfully back, until he caught her and brought her to him for a kiss.
Madeleine noiselessly excused herself and went out to the front porch, feeling embarrassed and a little envious of her sister and her luck in finding someone who suited her so perfectly.
Sam and Madeleine had not been nearly so compatible, and she often thought she married him simply because of her horrible experience during her last year in the field, and because she was nearing thirty. The day she married him she knew in her heart she did not love him in the romantic sense of the word, but he was funny and witty, handsome and athletic, and she loved being around him.
Until he lost his job.
Damn his parents for even daring to offer money after the way they had treated her at the funeral. Their cold stares and their refusal to ride in the limo with her or even sit near her during the service. How they had the gall to call up Jacqueline and—
"Hello," said a nearby voice, and Madeleine jumped to see Sherman Tanner stroll toward her with his little dog.
"Hello, Mr. Tanner. How are you?"
He ignored the question. The orbs in his thin face were practically glowing.
"Did you hear what they found during the autopsy on the lost little girl?"
Madeleine's mouth tightened in discomfort. "No."
"Semen," Tanner said in a delicious, sibilant whisper, as if he were savoring the word. He waited until he saw Madeleine's eyes grow round before he added the words, "In her stomach."
A shudder passed through Madeleine, and she carefully lowered herself to sit on the porch step. "She was murdered?"
"It would appear so, wouldn't it?"
A flash of the little girl's face and body appeared in Madeleine's mind and she squeezed her eyelids shut and attempted to push the image away.
"Horrible, isn't it?" said Tanner, still speaking in a whisper.
Madeleine could only nod.
"I heard Renard was the one who found her," Tanner said. "That's not suspicious at all."
"A pontoon boat with twelve frightened children aboard found her," Madeleine corrected. "Renard took her to shore."
"Says who?" said Tanner.
"Says me. I was on the pontoon boat."
Tanner's eyes opened wide. "You were? You were on the boat with the kids? How did you find her? What did she look like?"
Madeleine stood up in disgust and was about to open her mouth and tell Tanner how sick she thought he was when Jacqueline opened the door and said dinner was almost ready.
"Hello, Mr. Tanner," Jacqueline said upon seeing the neighbor. "How are you?"
"All right, then," said Tanner, and he took his little dog and walked across the yard to the road.
Inside the house, Jacqueline imitated his walk and brought a smile to Madeleine's face, but she had lost all desire to eat supper.
"Are you all right?" Jacqueline asked in concern.
"I'm fine, really. Just not as hungry as I thought I was."
She wouldn't tell them why. She had no wish to destroy their appetites by spreading Tanner's news.
She poured herself a drink and went outside again. She walked around the cabin to check on her tomato plants, and then she found herself wandering over the grass in the direction of Renard's house. He wasn't there, and she didn't quite know what she was doing, but once she was on his porch she somehow felt better.
It was full dark when he came home, and his headlights picked her out on the porch. He put his truck in the garage and came around.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," she said, and sipped at her drink. "Why didn't you come to dinner?"
"I didn't want to."
"How's your toe? I never did see you limp."
"Better."
She stood and used one hand to wipe off the seat of her shorts before stepping down. She moved to stand next to him and look up into his face in the weak light from his solar lamps.
"I came because I needed to be with someone who saw what I saw, not necessarily to discuss it. The image of the little girl is still fresh in my mind, and it became even fresher an hour ago, courtesy of Mr. Tanner. I couldn't eat when I heard, and I couldn't tell Manny and Jac about it, so now two expensive meals are going uneaten."
Eris exhaled and fingered the keys in his hand. "Just don't think about it, Madeleine."
"I'm trying," she said, aware that his expulsion of breath had fluttered the top of her hair. "Would you talk with me?"
"About what? Linguistics of the central Algonquian tribes?"
She stared at him. "Have you been reading up, or was that a joke?"
"Both." He hesitated, then asked if she wanted to come in.
Madeleine blinked in surprise. "Yes," she answered, "I want to come in."
Eris moved past her to unlock the door and push it open. He extended a hand, indicating that she precede him, and she stepped inside. She stopped immediately, since the house was dark and she didn't know what was in front of her. Eris bumped into the back of her and she heard him apologize as he grasped her by the arms and moved her forward a step. He fumbled at the wall and flicked a switch that turned on a light in the ceiling of the living room. Madeleine looked around herself and frowned. He had a recliner, an end table on one side of the recliner, and a small TV sitting on top of a cabinet. The rest of the room was empty. She could feel him looking at her.
"I'm not here much," he said.
"I know."
"You can sit in the chair."
Madeleine sat. It was a nice chair, roomy and comfortable. She dropped her sandals on the floor and pulled up her feet. Held her drink in her both drinks.
He seemed unsure of what to do for a tense moment or two. He brought a soda from the kitchen and then sat down on the floor in front of her. "Tell me about your field work."
"Are you interested?"
"Yes," he said.
"How much do you know of your heritage?"
"Very little. I was raised white."
"Do you want to learn?" Madeleine asked. "I can help you start." She couldn't help noticing the band on his hair was loose. The silky black strands that fell over his shoulder made him look somehow wild. The dim light in the living room softened the scars on his face and made his eyes appear jet black as they roved over her features.
"Learn my heritage from a white woman?" he said with the ghost of a smile.
Madeleine's heart did a strange flop. "Take what you can get."
"Tell me about your field work," he said again, and stretched out his long length in front of her, this time removing his boots. Madeleine looked at his white-stocking feet and said, "I haven't talked with anyone about this in a long time. My last year was a nightmare."
"Where were you?'' he asked. "On a reservation?"
"Yes, studying the evolution of the Sioux languages over the last hundred and fifty years. I became familiar with nearly all the adults, but the children were told never to bother me, and the younger people would have nothing to do with me. I was surprised because everywhere else it was the other way around, with the elders being mistrustful and ignoring me. Here it was different."
"By younger you mean teenagers?" Eris asked.
"On up to early twenties," Madeleine answered. "They behaved as if I were a nonentity. Looked right through me, as if I didn't exist."
"Must've been difficult for you," said Eris, and Madeleine looked at him.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. What happened?"
She was silent for a moment, studying him. Then she said, "They abducted me from my bed in the middle of the night, painted my body white, spit on me, kicked me in the face, rode on my back while I crawled on all fours and beat me with sticks until I bled. When they were finished doing that, they inserted hot peppers in my lower orifices. Then they left me naked in the middle of a deserted highway, where I wasn't discovered for a day and a half. I was burned, dehydrated, and I gave up field work immediately upon my recovery. I had no way to fight that kind of hatred."
Eris sat silent for some time, his dark eyes leaving her and then coming back again. At length, he said, "You didn't press charges?"
"No, I blamed myself."
"You started teaching when you came back?"
'Yes."
"And now you've given up teaching and want to go back into the field?"
"I don't know which was worse," said Madeleine, "the hot peppers or the entitled smart ass students."
Abrupt laughter escaped Eris, and Madeleine found herself watching him.
"So you can smile," she said, and his face slowly sobered.
"What about it?" she said after a long moment of silence between them. "Do you want to learn about the Sauk-Fox?"
"What are you going to learn?" he asked in his deep, quiet voice.
Madeleine only looked at him.
In the next second she heard Jacqueline's voice calling her name. Madeleine left the chair, slipped on her sandals and walked to the door.
"Come and see me next week," she said, and didn't wait for a response from him.
She left his tiny, barren house and walked back up to the log cabin. She didn't know if he would come or not. With Eris Renard, it was impossible to tell.
Eris lay on the floor of his living room after Madeleine left and cursed himself for asking her in to begin with. He took long breaths to still the heart that had begun racing the minute she stepped in the door. It continued to pound the entire time she was there, causing Eris to sit as still as he could and fight to make his voice sound normal.
She didn't know. She didn't know what he went through when she moved so close to him and stood looking up into his face.
He was driving himself crazy wondering if she was teasing him or not, playing with him the way some women liked to play with ugly men.
He thought of what the young Sioux had done to her and knew why she flinched the first few times she was around him. He could only wonder what happened afterward in her life. The difficulty Manuel spoke of earlier.
Eris sighed and covered his face with his hands. He thought he was past all this. He believed he would never put himself through such pangs once he was a grown man, with a grown man's responsibilities. He had no idea what to do about it, other than to stay away from her. But he couldn't see himself staying away from home the entire summer. He guessed maybe he should begin looking for another place to live.
He wondered what would happen if he turned the tables and came on to her. What she would do. Eris snorted then and sprang up from the floor.
Like he was capable.
He shook his hair loose from its band and went into the bedroom to get out of his uniform. He took a long, warm shower and let the water beat against his head and shoulders until his flesh felt numb.
He had a funeral to go to tomorrow. His superior had asked him to go and represent the department. Eris told him the Lyman's were bitter toward him, but in the end it meant nothing. He probably wouldn't even see them, his boss had said. Maybe so, but they might see him, Eris knew, and the prospect made him uncomfortable.
His sleep that night was fitful. He experienced dream after confusing dream, and when finally he rose from damp sheets to slake a sudden thirst with a glass of water, he saw a light in Madeleine's bedroom. His microwave clock read half-past two.
Eris looked at the cabin again and was surprised to see the silhouette of a truck parked on the side of the road just above the cabin. He strained to see if anyone was inside, but the darkness thwarted him. Just as he was ready to go and put on his pants, the truck eased away. Eris put his glass in the sink and went to bed.
When he awakened in the morning he knew immediately what was ahead of him. He showered again, brushed his teeth and combed and tightly banded his hair. He put on a fresh uniform and knew he needed to make a trip to the dry cleaners in Fayville to take care of his others. He shined his boots and dusted off his hat and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He would need his dark glasses. They hid some of the scars and kept people from looking at him too long since they couldn't tell if he looked at them or not.
He put a load of socks, T-shirts, and underwear in the washer and gathered up his dirty uniforms to dump them on the chair while he stood over the sink and ate a bowl of flakes for breakfast. There was no activity at the log cabin. Manuel's Jeep was gone, and Madeleine would probably be sleeping in after her late night.
When he finished with his cereal he went back to the bathroom to run his toothbrush over his teeth again, and then he checked on the washer. Five more minutes to go. He returned to his bedroom and straightened the bed, telling himself Madeleine would have seen more furniture if she had come back here. He had a king-sized bed—the only size bed his feet didn't hang over—a night stand with a lamp, a dresser with a mirror, and a bookcase full of books. Eris didn't spend money on things he didn't need. He spent very little money at all, saving most of it and only occasionally giving himself an evening out. He didn't go often because his appearance usually drew people to look at him and he didn't like it. He sometimes thought if he weren't so tall he would blend right in with everyone else.
Which only made him wonder about his mother and father, how tall they were, what they looked like, and whether he looked like either of them? He knew he didn't want his father to be one of the numerous addicts he had encountered, and he didn't want his mother to be one of the women on the reservation who looked as if life had kicked her in the face. The inner strength and resilience he took pride in had to have come from somewhere, he told himself. His deep, heartfelt sense of right and wrong and the duty he felt to himself and others...he didn't think he had acquired those values from the Renard's.
Eris did want to learn about his heritage, if only to try to find something else to feel good about. He didn't have much, but he was proud of his abilities and of the inner man he had become, even if the outer man made small children cry and women's lips curl. Before he left the house he transferred his clothes from the washer to the dryer and picked up the load of dry cleaning to take to Fayville. The funeral was scheduled for ten o'clock at the Dunsford Funeral Home in Augusta. Eris had never been there, but he would have no trouble finding the place. Augusta wasn't a large city.
He arrived at nine-fifty and found only a handful of people inside the small chapel. He entered through the back entrance and sat in the last pew, hoping the people sitting in the front would not turn around. Ronnie Lyman's shaved head remained lowered. His wife stared straight ahead at the tiny white casket surrounded by long white lilies.
Eris's nostrils quivered as he thought of what lay inside the casket.
He hated this. He hated the whole idea of funerals.
A couple came through the door and sat down in the pew in front of him. Eris recognized two reporters sitting near the rear of the chapel, pens in hand, writing down the details.
"Wonder who's paying for it?" whispered the man in front of Eris. His wife gave him a sharp look and shushed him. Eris, too, wondered who was paying. That pearl-white casket was not a cheaper model.
The sound of an organ began then, and an unseen organist warbled along with the music while playing one or two long, drawn-out songs. Eris sat fingering his hat while he wondered who the people in the chapel could be. An older woman beside Ronnie had to be his mother. She had the same color hair and the same washed-out eyes. Another woman on the other side of Sheila and the girls was probably Sheila's mother. She had a look of resignation that suggested this was only one of many funerals she had attended in her life.
A minister stepped up beside the casket as the music ended and led them all in a prayer before he began to speak about the innocence and sacredness of children. Eris listened for a time, and then he stopped listening, because he heard his adoptive mother's Baptist teachings and he grew irritated at the memories it inspired. When the minister stopped speaking, attendants came to usher the group in the chapel past the open casket. Eris slipped out the back door again. One of the reporters saw him and beckoned, but Eris shook his head and got in his truck. He had decided against going to the cemetery, but something he saw as he sat in his truck with his hand on the ignition changed his mind.
Ronnie and his mother emerged from the chapel first. Ronnie sobbed and his mother tried to comfort him. Ronnie shoved his mother away from him and reached for Sheila as she came shakily out the door. Sheila stood like a statue while Ronnie threw his arms around her and cried. Sheila's mother put the two girls in the limousine and climbed in after them. Ronnie's mother crept over to join them. Sheila, meanwhile, had not moved a muscle, and Ronnie finally lifted his head to look at her.
Eris could read her lips from where he sat. She said, "Get away from me."
Ronnie dropped his arms and his fists clenched. His jaw worked furiously as he looked around himself, and in that moment Eris knew Ronnie Lyman was into physical abuse. Every muscle in his body tensed and appeared ready to erupt into aggression, only the circumstances and the curious onlookers prevented it.
Sheila walked stiffly to the limousine and, after taking a deep breath, Ronnie followed her.
The funeral procession consisted of only six or seven cars following the hearse and limousine to Elmwood Cemetery. Eris held back, last in line, and he decided to stay in the truck for the graveside service and simply observe.
The wind came up, whipped women's dresses and flapped men's jackets open and messed up carefully done hair. The tent, property of the funeral home, tossed and pitched and looked several times like it was going to blow over. When the service concluded, most people stayed for only a brief show of respect before hurrying back to their cars. Eris saw Sheila pick up a white lily and toss it into the open grave before blowing a last kiss to her baby girl. Ronnie put his hand on her shoulder and tried to lead her away from the grave, but Sheila shook him off. She took one little girl in each hand and walked with them to meet a woman who stood waiting by a white van.
Ronnie shouted at Sheila, and, even with the wind, Eris could hear him ask what the hell she thought she was doing.
Sheila turned back and said something Eris couldn't hear, but it was something that made Ronnie stop dead in his tracks and stare. Then he charged.
Eris threw open the door of the truck and hit the ground running. By the time he reached them, Ronnie had shoved his wife against the side of the van. He held her by the throat with one hand and pointed in her face with an angry index finger, telling her she wasn't going anywhere. Sheila's face turned purple as she gasped for air, and she gestured desperately for someone to take away her two screaming little girls.
Shocked witnesses stared as Eris grabbed Lyman by the shoulder and attempted to spin him around.
Ronnie held on to Sheila's neck for all he was worth, not even looking to see who tried to peel him away.
Eris growled between his teeth and punched Lyman hard in the right kidney. "Let go!"
His hold broken, Ronnie buckled and fell to his knees, gasping in pain. When he looked up and saw Eris, his eyes narrowed. Sheila gagged and coughed, her face still purple, and when Eris looked to see if she was all right, her husband sprang from the ground and hit Eris in the face as hard as he could, knocking off his glasses, sending him back into Sheila and the van and splitting one side of his mouth open. Before Eris could react, Lyman swung again, this time laying into Eris's nose and cheek. Eris took the blow, spat blood, and then barreled head first into Lyman, connecting with his solar plexus and sending him hard to the ground, where he lay gasping for air while Eris moved up and put a knee on his neck.
"Don't move," Eris warned. He looked around then. "Someone call the police."
"I'll do it," said the woman with the van.
"Go ahead," Ronnie grated. "She won't press charges."
Eris hawked blood and looked at Sheila. One hand at her throat, she hoarsely promised, "This time I will. And I'm gonna tell 'em everything."
Ronnie squirmed violently beneath Eris. "No you won't!" he screamed, his face red and veined. "You won't say shit! You do and I'll kill you, you hear me? I'll come after you and kill your ass!"
Sheila stared at him, her eyes frightened, and Eris pressed down harder with his knee, choking off anymore sounds from Lyman.
"Be sure and add that to your complaint," said the woman with the cell phone as she finished her call. "Murder threats are not something the courts take lightly these days."
Eris wiped at the blood running down his face from his nose and his lip and noticed for the first time the number of people standing around and staring. The reporter who had followed filmed everything with her phone. "Go home," Eris said loudly. "Give the police a chance to get in the cemetery."
"You're lucky he didn't go for your gun," someone said, and Eris exhaled a bubble of blood in response.
Slowly, the lingerers began to leave, and soon the police arrived and took over. As Eris walked back to his truck, he saw the reporter hurry to catch him.
"Your name," she huffed. "I need your name."
Eris kept walking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sherman Tanner dug busily around Eris Renard's coleus plants until he saw the conservation officer come rolling down the road. Tanner straightened and made to hurry off, but it was too late. Renard had already seen him. He parked his truck beside the house and got out frowning. "What the hell are you doing?"
Tanner ignored the question. His eyes fixed on the blood staining Eris's clothes and the swollen state of his lip and cheek. "What in God's name happened to you?"
"Nothing," said Eris. "Stay out of my yard, Tanner."
Tanner puffed up his chest. "I was just doing some thinning on your coleus. I didn't realize it would offend you so badly."
"It does. Next time, ask."
Tanner snorted in indignation and carried his spade away from the man and his precious plants. If he was going to be that way, then just let him. Sherman Tanner didn't need anything from his yard.
Desperate to spread the news about Renard's condition, Tanner went into his house to tell his wife and give her the plants he had obtained from Renard's beds, and then he hopped into his car and hurried down to the swimming beach, where he had seen the two pretty sisters from the log cabin go, flaunting their bare legs and flimsy swimsuit cover-ups.
He found the blonde on the sandbar with a fat paperback, the redhead walked around in the water.
Sherman pretended to be strolling along the beach when he approached Madeleine. "Why, hello there, neighbor."
"Hello, Mr. Tanner," said Madeleine, clearly not pleased to see him.
"Enjoying the sun, I see."
"Yes."
"It's smart to wear a hat, with skin like yours."
She said nothing, only looked at him.
"Just saw the strangest thing, up at the cabin," he began. "I was taking some of the coleus plants Renard said I could have when I saw him come driving up. Now, its past lunch, and he doesn't usually come home around this time, but the man was covered in blood. His shirt and pants were splattered with it, and his face looks a mess. Not that it's so attractive to begin with, but—"
Tanner stopped when Madeleine put on her sandals, and he stared after her in surprise as she got up and ran to the path.
"Madeleine?" her sister called from the water, but the blonde didn't stop.
Sherman was only too happy to approach the redhead and tell his juicy bit of news all over again. He loved being the first to tell people things.
Madeleine breathed hard as she reached Eris's door. It was open and she walked right in, calling out as she moved through his house. He came from a room at the end of the hall and stared at her in her swimsuit.
She moved closer as her eyes adjusted. He was bare-chested and barefooted, wearing nothing but a pair of faded blue jeans.
"Are you all right?" she asked, and then she made a face as she spied his lip. "Ouch."
"Tanner." Eris shook his head and then went back into his bathroom.
Madeleine followed and saw him lift a washcloth to the cut to clean away the dried blood.
"Let me do that," she offered.
"I can do it," he said, irritated.
"Sit down." She placed her hands on his back and eased him to the toilet, where she put the lid down and pushed him to sit on it. She glanced at his hardened brown nipples and took the washcloth from his hands to dab gently at the split and swollen lip.
"I doubt he was bigger than you," she said, "but I still have to ask the outcome."
Eris mumbled something she couldn't understand, and she took the washcloth away.
"Come again?"
"I said he's in jail right now."
"Oh. Good. Do you have any kind of ointment? It'll be easier on the lip when it starts to heal."
"There's some in the cabinet."
"Okay. I'll get it in a minute." She placed a hand under his chin and tilted his head so she could get the last of the dried blood off his face. She found herself studying the scars on his skin and unconsciously smoothing them with a finger. When she glanced at his eyes she saw him look quickly away from her, as if he had been studying her while she studied him. She smiled and lightly tweaked him on the nose, only to see him grimace in pain.
"Oops, sorry."
She opened the cabinet and found the ointment inside. Putting some on the tip of her finger, she placed herself in front of him again, standing between his open thighs. She saw his eyes light on her breasts a fraction of a second before moving up her chest to her neck. Madeleine grasped him by the chin once more and gently applied the ointment to the cut, smoothing it over the lip and accidentally getting some on his teeth. He was very still, she noticed. It was almost as if he had stopped breathing.
"Hurt?" she said.
"Nnnh."
"Your cheek is going to bruise," she said. "Not much you can do about it, unless you've got an herbal poultice handy. That might be one advantage to learning about your ancestors."
He looked at her and said, "I want to."
"Do you?" she said, pleasantly surprised. "When?"
"Whenever."
"Meaning whenever you get around to it? I've checked, Eris, and I've found that most conservation officers are married with families. None of them are so devoted to the job that they keep the same hours as you do. They have their beepers and phones if anyone needs them, and you have yours if anyone needs you."
"You called the office?"
"I did. The man I spoke with told me it was impossible to be on call twenty-four hours a day every day. You should take some time for yourself this summer."
"And provide diversion for a bored anthropologist?"
Madeleine searched his dark eyes and felt her spine stiffen. "Just when I was starting to like you," she muttered, and she stepped from between his legs and tossed the tube of ointment in the sink.
"That's the part that's bothering me," Eris said before she could leave the room. "I think we'll both agree that a woman who looks like you usually has little to do with a man who looks like me."
"Is that how you judge your self-worth?" Madeleine turned to ask, her voice sharp.
"It's nothing but a fact, Madeleine. I don't know what you're after, and I can't help thinking I'm slated to become some kind of summer project for you."
Madeleine stood listening to him and in her annoyance she grew confused. She no longer knew her reasons for wanting to be around him or the impetus behind her actions, so how could he?
She met his gaze and said, "I have no explanation to offer, other than the fact that I think you're a good man, Eris."
He stood and moved to look down at her. "Manuel told me you've had a bad time of it lately. I didn't ask what, and I don't want to know. All I ask is that you not fool yourself into believing I'm going to be your buddy, or that you'll be a little less lonely if you stroll down and chat with old Eris once in a while. I don't want to be part of your recovery."
Madeleine looked into his earnest, swollen face and regretted the obvious discomfort she had caused him thus far. He thought she was using him, teasing him, playing with him, all to build up her own battered and bruised ego.
Maybe she was.
And maybe she wasn't. Maybe somewhere in all the sniping and foot stomping she had genuinely begun to like the silent Eris Renard. She knew she did, otherwise she would never have run all the way here from the swimming beach to see if he needed help.
But there was no way to prove it to him. She had no choice but to back off and let him be, show him she wasn't vain and stupid and desperate to be wanted by someone.
"I have been lonely, yes," she said slowly, "but it's been a long time since I've lived alone. I don't think I'm using you, but I don't really know. I haven't asked myself why I'm drawn to you. Maybe I should do that. And if you're right, if the reason has something to do with what drove me here, then I will apologize to you with all my heart."
They stood just inches apart, Madeleine acutely aware of the scent of his warm, bare skin, and Eris looking at her face with an expression that made the breath catch in her throat.
Madeleine forced herself to turn away and walk out of his house.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eris didn't see Madeleine again for a while. He did his best not to look, but his eyes went to the log cabin anyway, and to the garage, to see if he could see the truck inside. He couldn't tell if it was inside or not, and she never left the door of the cabin open anymore, so he had no way of knowing if she was home or if she had gone somewhere.
After reporting to his superior what occurred at the funeral, he was surprised to learn Sheila Lyman had in fact pressed charges against her husband, and that Ronnie fought with another inmate at the jail and had the holy shit beaten out of him. Eris's swollen mouth twitched when he heard the news.
Tensions at the lake intensified after the news of Kayla Lyman's murder spread. Everyone was on the lookout for a child-molesting killer, and parents frightened their children at night by telling them about the poor little dead girl found floating in the water. Eris had another run-in with the young men who accosted Madeleine after they tore through the park in a four-wheel-drive SUV and smashed into a trash receptacle overflowing with garbage. When Eris came upon them they were dazed and trying to pry the receptacle from the grill of the SUV. He asked to see the license of the driver and learned the ball cap wearer's name, Bruce Beckworth. Age twenty-five, Beckworth lived in nearby Fayville. His attitude toward Eris was belligerent, and Eris wrote him up for destroying park property.
He was smart enough not to foul-mouth Eris while in hearing distance, but he did flip him the bird once they were back in the SUV and speeding away again. If there was anyone Eris wanted to beat the holy shit out of, it was Bruce Beckworth.
On Thursday night, Eris drove over to the dance. He wasn't actually on duty, but it couldn't hurt to check on things. He couldn't admit to himself that he went more to see if Madeleine was there than anything else. There were so many people crowded into the campground that he couldn't see from his truck, so he got out and walked around the perimeter, stepping over the wires and hookups used by the band playing in the center of the crowd. He saw Dale Russell talking to the snotty teenager from the pontoon boat, but there was no sign of Madeleine. He walked around again, unable to tell if he was more relieved or disturbed. He guessed he was relieved.
As he walked away from the dance he saw Bruce Beckworth and his cronies arrive. Eris felt tempted to stay and monitor their activity, but he decided to let Dale Russell handle whatever problems arose.
He drove home, eyeing Madeleine's cabin as he passed by. There was a light on in the living room, but otherwise the place was dark. Eris put the truck in his garage and headed for the house. He saw a lone figure come walking up the path from the cove and at first he thought it was Sherman Tanner, but this person was smaller and more fluid in movement. It was Madeleine.
Eris walked across his yard and out to the road to meet her. He couldn't see her face well, but he detected a nod. "Eris. How are you?"
"It's not safe to be walking alone after dark," he said to her. "It's not safe in the city, and it's not safe here."
She took something out of a pocket to show to him. "I have my pepper spray, just wanted to get out of the house for a while."
Eris watched her put the tiny canister back in her pocket. He wanted to tell her the spray wouldn't do much good. Instead he said, "Did you forget about the dance?"
"I don't really know anyone. I'd feel awkward. What about you?"
He shook his head.
"Right, well, I'll go on now. Thanks for the warning."
She started away from him and Eris could only stand and watch her go. She turned back then and said, "I almost forgot. Have a happy birthday tomorrow." He lifted both brows, and before he could ask, she added, "The night I was in your truck I looked through your wallet. I'm sorry. It was there, so was I. Have a good birthday, Eris."
He stood there and nearly strangled with all the words that wanted to come out of his mouth, but nothing made it past his lips.
No one had wished him a happy birthday since he was twelve years old.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dale Russell watched the crowded dance and wished Renard hadn't left. He wouldn't admit it in a thousand years, but Dale felt better when the tall Renard was around. Things seemed easier to handle when he knew the other CO was there to back him up.
The day the pontoon owner found the little girl in the water, Dale ignored the radio call and later told everyone he was in the shitter when it came and he hadn't heard. He heard, but he didn't want to go. Let Renard do it.
He didn't mind watching the dance, but it was bigger than last year, the crowd a little more unruly, mostly due to a jerk in a ball cap trying to pick fights. Dale had to keep walking away from the women he talked to and tell the man to either settle down and have a good time or get the hell out. While he said this he made sure he touched the gun at his hip.
Dale never expected public relations to make up such a large part of his job. He was good at it, certainly, but he had envisioned a more authoritative position, with less exposure to and contact with the lowlife lake element.
But then visibility was the name of the game when it came to dealing with boaters and jet skiers and everyone else who wanted to have a good time out on the water. One glimpse of Dale and they hid their beers and drove a little more cautiously. That was the part that felt good.
Still, Dale envied Renard his much wider area of responsibility. Renard put miles and miles on his truck every day, ranging over the entire county, while Dale was stuck at the reservoir, checking boat registrations and playing Mr. Friendly Park Ranger to whatever group wanted to come along for the show. It was his own fault, he supposed, for talking so long and so loudly about his aunt, the governor.
She called him yesterday after hearing the business about the little Lyman girl. She wanted to know the ugly details, and what had been done. Dale gave himself a much larger role in the drama than he had actually played, but his aunt would never learn otherwise. He even claimed to have been there to help Renard subdue the wife-beating Lyman at the funeral, but he had asked the reporters to keep his name out of the paper. His aunt, the governor, praised Dale until he began to feel embarrassed for lying.
The embarrassment didn't last long. Dale had learned long ago his looks would carry him only so far. If he made it anywhere in life it would be through sheer improvisation.
He looked at his watch at eleven o'clock and realized that Madeleine Heron had not come to the dance. Not that Dale was starving for female company that night, but he had specifically mentioned the dance to her. It seemed her hard-to-get act was not an act at all.
Dale didn't date, and he had lied about being engaged. He talked to women all the time, loved their flirting and thrived on their attention, but there was no one he wanted.
The little Lyman girl was the first time he'd slipped up in years.
He had driven up to The Haven that day for a can of Dr. Pepper and a candy bar when he saw her sitting outside. He saw himself at fourteen again, luring a little girl away from her sandbox to come and look at the tadpoles in the ditch with him.
"Are you lost?" he had gently asked the blonde tot in front of The Haven.
She nodded.
"Want me to help you find your mommy?"
She nodded again.
"What's your name? Can you tell me?"
"Kayla."
"Okay, Kayla. You come with me. We'll get in my truck and we'll go find your mommy."
She came without argument, without fuss, following him onto the seat of his truck.
That was when Dale realized no one had seen them. The Haven was deserted but for someone talking loudly on a phone in the back. His nostrils had opened and begun to quiver as he stared down at the little girl in the cab of his truck. The memory of the long-ago girl at the ditch toyed with him, caused the hair on his arms to raise as he remembered the sensations, the incredible paroxysm of pleasure he had experienced that day, not to be repeated since.
His hands shook as he reached over to smooth her silky blonde hair.
"We're going to have some fun first," he told her in a voice wavering with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Would you like to have fun?"
She shook her head no and told him she wanted to go to her mommy.
"It'll be really fun," Dale promised as he started the truck's engine and drove away from The Haven.
No one will ever know, he repeated to himself.
He hadn't actually been caught at fourteen, but the little girl told on him when she recovered from her broken jaw, and Dale was sent to a boy's ranch before his aunt intervened and had him taken to a psychiatric hospital, where he stayed only six months before she intervened again and had him released. Not only was his aunt a savvy politician, she was an ace lawyer.
Dale had been a good boy ever since, buying reams of kiddie porn and forcing himself to be satisfied with paper images.
But temptation had finally called in the form of Kayla Michelle Lyman, handed to him like a present, and before Dale ever touched her he knew he would never let her go. It was the only way to make sure no one ever knew.
There had been a moment of terror when his aunt called, because Dale knew she remembered what he had done at fourteen but that had been well over a dozen years ago, and he had been in no trouble since, so he was not surprised, although still relieved, to hear no trace of suspicion in her voice. He was so grateful he felt confident saying, "Whoever it is, he needs the same kind of help I got all those years ago. I don't know where I'd be now if you hadn't stepped in to help me."
His aunt praised him all over again, and Dale hung up feeling pretty good about himself.
The feeling had waned, of course, with the memory of actually killing the little girl. Drowning her had taken much longer than he believed it would, certainly much longer than when someone drowned on television. She clawed and bit and kicked with every ounce of strength in her body, and Dale was virtually exhausted when the bubbles stopped coming up and her body went still.
When he realized he had taken a life, that he had actually robbed a child of a future and ended all things for her forever more, he started to cry. With his orgasm had gone the desire to be slick and sneaky and remain undetected in his role as pedophile. He wanted only to be away from the body and the evidence of what he had done. Killing her didn't turn him on in the least, but it was the only way to hide what he had done so no one would ever know.
Dale cried the whole time he waded through the water with her. He took her to a dock at Diamond Bay and stuck her underneath, wedging her with a board so she would stay.
He wouldn't do it again, he promised himself. Never. Not if he was presented with ten lost little girls and no one looking.
It was time to act like a normal man and copulate with something over the age of eleven.
As he looked around himself at the dance, he realized he could have his pick of at least three.
But he wasn't remotely interested. If they wanted it, he didn't. He had to feel like he was taking something forbidden, like what he was doing was wrong in some way. It seemed the only thing that aroused him, shoving it in where he knew it wasn't wanted and seeing an agonized expression before him as he did it.
Dale didn't think he was necessarily bad for feeling this way. Lots of people had perverted streaks he told himself, people who worked in banks, discount stores, factories, even people who held office.
He had slipped, yes, but it would never happen again. He made a solemn promise to himself, and he made a promise to the parents of the girl the day Renard brought the body back to shore. But it wasn't as if the Lyman's were left completely childless. They still had two other little girls.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Manuel took Jacqueline and Madeleine on the fishing boat Saturday and instructed both women to pray for a good-sized bass for supper. The girls rubbed on sunscreen and took out a deck of cards. They played War and were laughing at each other as Dale Russell motored up to them in his boat and called out to Madeleine.
"I missed you at the dance Thursday night."
"I didn't go," she responded.
"Must be why I missed you. What are you doing tonight?"
"I have plans for the weekend," she said, cutting off the possibility of doing anything the next night. She could feel Jacqueline's eyes on her.
"Keep a night open for me next week?" Dale asked, and Madeleine smiled and waved him on.
He smiled back, provoking a sigh from Jacqueline, and then he motored away again, the waves from his wake rocking them in the fishing boat.
"He is not so handsome," said Manuel.
Jacqueline winked at her husband. "I wouldn't kick him out of bed."
"Be careful, Jacqueline," her husband warned. "You know my jealous temper."
"Your turn," Jacqueline said to Madeleine, getting back to the game.
"Thank you," said Madeleine.
"For what?"
"For not bugging me about going out with him."
Jacqueline brushed a strand of hair out of her sister's eyes. "Only when you're ready."
Madeleine shook her head. "I lied to you about that. It's not really a matter of being ready, because it wasn't as if I loved Sam at the end."
Jacqueline looked up. "Yes, I know. You felt a lot of anger."
"Apathy, Jacqueline. There was no feeling for him. No caring. In those last two years he killed everything I ever felt for him."
Jacqueline's voice lowered. "Then it must be the guilt you feel over his death that prevents you from looking at anyone else."
But I have been looking, Madeleine wanted to say. Just not at whom you'd think.
She shuffled the cards and continued the game.
Sunday evening after Jacqueline and Manuel left, Madeleine's stomach began to rumble. She blinked in surprise at the discomfort and thought immediately of the supposedly fresh shrimp they had purchased from a truck at Diamond Bay. A minute later she was up and running to the bathroom, her bowels cramping.
The diarrhea was terrible, leaving her weak and unsteady as she left the bathroom. Five minutes later she lunged for the kitchen sink, where she threw up the contents of her stomach and held onto the counter with all her strength to keep from sagging down to the floor.
When she could stand without nausea she returned to the bathroom and opened the cabinets in a desperate search for something to stem the sickness. There was nothing.
Before she left the bathroom she had to heave again, and she sank to the floor and hung on with both arms while fluid gushed from her body.
When it was over she could do nothing but sit down by the bathtub and hang her head over the edge. She nodded off, only to be awakened again minutes later by another insistent urge from her bowels. While she was sitting on the toilet she felt herself momentarily black out and go sliding off to the floor. When she regained control she was on her hands and knees, ready to retch.
After the heaving ended, Madeleine felt so weak she began to cry.
Two of the kittens came in to look at her, and one of them sniffed at the mess on the floor while the other gave her toe a tentative lick.
She spent the night in the bathroom being sick, and never had she felt more alone, having no one to help her and no one to call. She would not bother Jacqueline and Manuel at such a distance.
Nor would she allow herself to call Renard, whom she would most definitely be using and whom she had no wish to see in her present condition.
She took sips of water from the tap when she could, and then watched it gush out of her again.
By morning she was able to crawl to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and took out one of Manuel's Diet Sprites. The first taste felt like heaven. The second was dangerous, and the third caused instant rumbling. Madeleine put the can back in the refrigerator and heard the three kittens crying noisily to be fed. She wished she could help them, but she couldn't seem to stand, and her arms felt exhausted simply from lifting the can to her mouth.
She took the Diet Sprite from the refrigerator again and crawled back to the bathroom, where within the hour she gave up the lemon-lime liquid to the toilet.
During the night she crawled out of her clothes and left them in a smelly pile in the corner of the bathroom. She left her bra and panties on and promptly began to shiver with the fever that burned in her.
She hugged herself and closed her eyes.
Sometime the next day she heard heavy knocking on her door, but all Madeleine could do was moan. The fever had her in its grip and she lay curled into a ball on the floor of the bathroom, her mouth caked with vomit and her undergarments soiled. The knocking stopped after a while and the person went away, leaving Madeleine to her fitful, feverish sleep.
Later she awakened to tiny claws digging trenches in the tender skin of her thigh, but she was too disoriented to do anything about it. The chills were worse and all she could hear was the sound of her teeth chattering in her head. Her throat was parched, and in her delirium she believed she was back on that deserted highway, painted white, bleeding, and burning, burning, burning.
The pounding she heard was the slow steady thud of her own heart that went on and on and on and would not let her rest it was so loud. Sam added to the noise, whining how he could use a little understanding, and Madeleine pointed one white arm and told him he hadn't stopped the burning or the bleeding, and to please get her someone who could.
She felt herself being lifted up, high into the air, and when she opened her eyes she saw a scarred brown cheek and a straight nose. The mouth she recognized. She said his name.
He looked down at her with dark, worried eyes, and she heard herself ask in a croaking voice for a drink of water.
He put her down on a mattress with cool sheets and covered her.
She drifted in and out, opening her eyes to find him washing her face and arms with a warm, damp washcloth, and opening her mouth to take whatever liquids he poured in. Once she heard him on the phone to someone, and another time she woke up to find him sitting on the bed beside her, reading the back of a bottle of medicine.
It was morning again before she was able to open her eyes and keep them open. She looked around herself and saw him lying asleep beside her, his feet hanging over the end of the bed. He came awake while she stared at him, and he instantly left the mattress and came around to look at her.
"Do you want something to drink?" he asked. His hair was half out of its band and hanging over his shoulder.
"Yes," she said, and he disappeared. She could hear him in the kitchen, and then he was back again, carrying a glass of fruit juice. He put the glass down on the night stand and picked up the pillow he had been using to put it behind her head and prop her up.
"You need to take as much as you can," he told her.
Madeleine nodded and picked up the glass to sip. "Did I hear you on the phone with someone? Who did you call?"
"Ortiz. Your sister wanted to come, but she's been ill herself. She said to tell you it was the shrimp."
"How long have you been here?"
"I came at noon yesterday when I noticed you hadn't picked up the papers. I knocked, and there was no answer. I tried again last night and heard you yelling. I came in and found you on the floor in the bathroom."
"I was yelling?"
"Fever," said Eris, and saying the word, he touched her forehead with the inside of his arm. "Still warm."
Madeleine closed her eyes. "I don't think I've ever been so sick." Then her lids came open and she looked at him in dismay. "I'm sorry I keep being a nuisance. You can go on to work now, Eris. I'll be all right."
He pointed to his belt and his beeper on top of her dresser. "I told your sister I'd take care of you."
"That was nice, but you don't have to. I'll get up and get some broth later."
"I don't think you can," he said in a patient voice. "You're weak, Madeleine, and if you try to get up you'll be dizzy."
"I'll be fine. Really. I will ask you to feed the kittens before you go."
"I already did."
"Thanks."
He went on looking at her, concern still apparent in his features, and finally he asked, "Why didn't you call someone?"
"I should have," she said, her lids closing again. "It was awful being so sick and having no one here."
Eris didn't speak, only continued to watch her, and Madeleine thought to lift the sheets and look at herself.
"Ugh," she said. She was still wearing the soiled things. Eris had stopped washing at her waist, apparently.
"I need a bath," she said.
"I'll get you a washcloth and a pan of water."
"No, I want to get in the tub. Can you run the water and bring me a towel?"
"Don't you want to eat something first?"
"No. I've got to get out of these things." She gestured weakly at the bra she wore.
Eris drew a breath and disappeared. Madeleine heard the sound of the taps being turned, then running water. He came back into the bedroom with a large towel and handed it to her.
"Thank you. Can you go out for a minute? I'll call when I'm ready."
He went out and she removed her bra and panties and wrapped the towel around her as best she could before telling him to come in again. He came and stood beside the bed while she gingerly put her legs over the side. He bent over to help her stand, and after only two steps she was sagging against him and losing the towel, her vision gone black and her equilibrium lost. She heard herself moan and she felt his hands come under her legs to swing her up into his arms. The towel came away completely and he kicked it away with his foot as he carried her across the hall to the bathroom and lowered her as gently as he could into the warm water of the still filling bathtub.
Madeleine's hands gripped the sides of the tub until her vision cleared, and then she delicately covered herself until he was out of the bathroom and in the hall. Her head was still spinning, and she lowered it, eyes closed, until she felt stable again.
She stayed in the water until it cooled, soaping herself and rinsing over and over again to rid herself of the smell of sickness. He came to the door once and asked if she was ready to get out. She said no, not yet, and thought of how carefully expressionless was his face as he helped her.
When she finally called to him she twisted herself around in the tub until her back was to him as he came in. He put a towel around her shoulders and carefully lifted, helping her up until she could wrap the towel securely around herself.
"Let me try walking again," she said, and he allowed her to lean against him as they entered the hall. She did well, feeling only moderately dizzy as they reached the bed, which she was surprised to discover had fresh sheets.
"Do you have pajamas?" he asked.
"A T-shirt," she said. "In the right-hand drawer."
He took out the T-shirt and laid it on the bed, his eyes moving over her small shivering frame in concern.
"You need to eat something," he said. "I'll get the broth."
She nodded and gestured for him to go and leave her to get dressed. When her T-shirt was over her head and she was under the fresh sheets, he brought in a cup of vegetable broth and sat down on the edge of the mattress while she tried it. Madeleine drained the whole cup and asked for another. He brought her another and she drained it same as the first. He gave her some crackers then, and watched as she made crumbs on the clean sheets.
"You really can go," she said. "What time is it?"
He looked at his watch. "One-thirty."
"No beeps yet?"
His mouth twisted and he took the empty cup to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know your job is more than answering calls."
"You should take some aspirin while you're awake, try to keep your fever down. Right beside you on the stand."
"Okay," she said, and as he handed her the glass of water, she looked at him and said, "It was chicken pox, wasn't it?"
Eris went still as the question registered. Then he said, "Yes, it was chicken pox."
"I've seen it before," Madeleine explained. "You were a teenager?"
"Sixteen."
"How were you exposed?"
"Sick kids in Oklahoma."
"You traveled there with your parents?"
"No."
She waited for him to go on, and when he didn't, she said, "Am I correct in assuming you left your adoptive parents at a relatively young age?"
"I was thirteen." He took the glass from her after she had swallowed the aspirin and said, "Sam was your husband?"
Madeleine blinked in shocked, uncomfortable surprise, and it was her turn to ask, "How did you know?"
"It was him you were yelling at when I found you. I mentioned it to Manuel, and he told me your husband shot himself several months ago. He said you found him, and that you're still dealing with the trauma, even in your sickness."
Madeleine snorted and looked away.
Eris said, "I'll stop asking about your life if you stop asking about mine."
"Are you ashamed of your life?" she asked, angry at Manuel for painting such a tragic picture of her.
"Not with any part of it," he said. "I just don't need any misplaced sympathy."
"Neither do I. If I'm ashamed of anything it's the fact that Sam Craven is dead and I don't care."
Once the words were out she paused in alarm. She had said it. The first time she had spoken it aloud. Madeleine waited for lightning to strike. She waited for the god of wedding vows to come and punish her for lying on her wedding day. She waited to be chastised and berated for admitting such a thing about a man whose bed she had slept in, whose life she had shared. Another human being.
Eris took a deep breath and said, "I can see why he shot himself."
Madeleine's head came up.
His voice quiet, Eris said, "If you were my woman it would kill me to know you didn't care."
She stared and her throat thickened. Her eyes grew moist and she withdrew from him, turning her face into the pillow and pulling the sheet over her shoulder. She never expected to hear Eris Renard say such a thing. Her weakened heart pounded in her chest as she clutched at the sheet.
A moment later she heard him leave the room.
The next time she awakened she rolled over and found a plate with a sandwich on her night stand. A note said Eris would come to check on her in the morning.
Madeleine crumpled the note in her hand and picked up the sandwich. She didn't know why, but she had the feeling he wouldn't be back. Not after what she had admitted, and not after what he had said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On Thursday morning Eris rose earlier than usual and stood brushing his teeth in the bathroom when his landline rang. He spat out toothpaste and wiped his mouth before answering. He was surprised to hear Sheila Lyman identify herself.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I ain't sure," she said, her voice low. "I'm only gonna tell this once, and I'm tellin' it to you because you're the only person who ever stuck up for me against Ronnie, and I want you to know the truth if anything should happen to me. I want him to pay for what happened to my baby Kayla."
"Why should he pay?" Eris asked.
"Because he set the whole thing up. He made his drunk old mama take Kayla and then told everyone she disappeared, when she was with his mama at her place."
Eris stood very still. "The disappearance was faked?"
"Ronnie the genius had it all worked out, figurin' to get sympathy and money from people. He told me what to say on television and everything. He had a deal with his mama for her to bring Kayla and drop her off at The Haven, that bait shop up on the access road there. Only he called and had his mama drop her off early on account of you kickin' us out of the park. He thought folks would get mad and maybe send more money if our little girl showed up the day after we had to leave."
Eris held his breath, his mind whirring. Finally he inhaled and said, "His mother dropped her off at The Haven as scheduled, and that's the last anyone saw of Kayla, is that it?"
"That's it. Ronnie said some crazy got her in front of the store. I ain't so sure it wasn't him, greedy as he is. No tellin' what he thought, that maybe folks would feel even sorrier if she turned up...well, the way she did."
Eris didn't know what to say. Worse, he didn't know what he could do about it, short of adding a few other charges to those Lyman already faced.
"Will you testify to any of this?" Eris asked, already knowing the answer.
"I can't. Ronnie hurt me bad once, and he'll do it again if he has the chance. I just wanted someone to know what he did, and what he made me a part of. I was scared from the start and didn't wanna do it, and look what happened. All I want now is for me and my girls to start over, and I don't know if we're gonna be able to do it here, not while he's still lookin' for us. We may have to go somewhere else."
"They won't be able to do anything to him unless you testify, Mrs. Lyman. You have to tell other people about the hoax."
"I want to, but I can't. You gotta understand that. I gotta go now. Bye."
She ended the call, and Eris shook his head.
A hoax. The whole thing had been faked. All those man-hours spent searching, all that misery. All for a few stinking goddamned dollars of sympathy money.
Eris picked up his phone again to call his superior but he realized it was still too early. The man wouldn't be in his office yet.
One thing made him feel minutely better. It was possible, if Kayla had been taken from in front of The Haven that it was someone only passing through and not a member of the lake community at all.
When he saw Dale Russell drive up to Madeleine's cabin a few minutes later he headed out the door and walked up to see what the other man wanted.
"She's been sick," he said, before Russell could knock.
Dale turned, surprised to see him. "Has she?"
"Very."
"You her doctor?" said Russell, grinning.
"The next best thing," said Eris. "You want me to give her a message?"
Russell turned and held up his hands. "Just tell her I came by. You headed out this morning?"
"After I check on her."
"Okay. See you around."
Eris waited until Russell was in his pickup and driving up the road before approaching the cabin. He let himself in with the key Manuel gave him after purchasing the place. Eris had agreed to look after the cabin during the winter.
He was surprised to see Madeleine sitting at the kitchen counter and drinking a cup of tea.
"Hi," she said when she turned, and he thought to himself that she looked surprised to see him. "Did I hear you talking to someone out there?"
"Dale Russell. He was coming by to see you."
Madeleine rolled her eyes, and Eris nearly smiled.
''You look better this morning," he said and moved to stand beside her. "Fever all gone?"
"Seems to be," she said. "And as for looking better, I scared myself when I glanced in the mirror a while ago."
"Your face is thinner," he agreed, and he spied a plate of toast going uneaten in front of her. She followed his eyes and handed him a piece.
"Want some jelly?"
"No." He took a bite. "You need to eat."
"I will." She turned on the stool. "I called Jacqueline a minute ago. She's still sick, so they don't know if they'll be coming up this weekend. I thought I'd ask if you want to go to a movie, or maybe out to dinner somewhere...as payment for your excellent nursing services," she quickly added.
"No payment is required," he said, and he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "We'd end up driving half the night," he explained. "There's nothing close."
"Just a thought," she said her mouth tight. She got off the stool and muttered something about Dale Russell as she dumped her tea into the sink.
"What?"
She kept her back to him. "Nothing."
"If you can't afford cat food, you can't buy dinner or a movie," he told her.
"You're right," she said, angry now. "It was stupid of me to ask. I don't know what I was thinking."
Eris didn't know why she was so mad, he was only trying to save her money. He finished the toast and prepared to leave when the beeper on his belt sounded. He moved toward the phone in the kitchen. "May I? Cell service here is iffy at best."
She lifted a hand. "Of course."
A minute later Eris heard about a pair of raccoons trapped in a woman's garage thirty miles away. She didn't want to hurt them, but she was afraid they would poop on her father's precious Packard, parked in the garage for years and years. Eris said he would be there shortly and hung up the phone.
He paused at the door, something in him not wanting to leave Madeleine mad at him.
"Teach me this weekend," he said, and saw her head swivel.
"Teach you?"
"If Mr. and Mrs. Ortiz don't come."
They eyed each other a moment, then she nodded.
Eris used a catch pole on the raccoons and had them out of the woman's garage in less than half an hour. He had to stop and marvel at the Packard a while after that, because the old woman wouldn't let him leave without doing so. He managed to escape soon afterward and he drove directly to the lake office to call his superior and tell him about Sheila Lyman's call early that morning. Jaws dropped as Eris related what he had been told, and Ronnie Lyman had more than one employee of the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks promising to put a tranquilizer gun up his ass if he ever showed his face in a park again.
Later that afternoon, Eris grew stunned to learn Ronnie Lyman had been released from jail. Sheila and her two girls disappeared that morning, and once Ronnie's attorney learned of this, he called a judge. With no one to complain against him in court, Ronnie got off with time served and waltzed out of the crowded jail a free man.
Eris hoped wherever Sheila went after talking to him, it was somewhere safe.
He ran across Bruce Beckworth and a friend just after seven, out on a county road, shooting at birds from the window of Beckworth's SUV. Eris cuffed them, arrested them, and took them to jail, ignoring their pleas to be let off with only a warning.
He went home then and frowned to see Dale Russell's truck parked in the log cabin's drive.
The bastard didn't give up, Eris gave him that, and then all he could think about was Madeleine's muttered comment that he couldn't hear that morning.
A part of him wanted to go up and knock on her door, but he couldn't make himself do it. He didn't know why he felt so proprietary suddenly, as if he had a right to question who came to see her.
He relaxed when he saw Russell come out the door a few moments later. Madeleine stood behind him, a forced smile fixed on her mouth, and Eris felt better. She was booting him out.
Here was one woman unmoved by the charms of Dale Russell, and seemingly impressed with Eris Renard. He felt as if a lifelong fantasy was about to come true, where the pretty, intelligent woman spurned the charmers with their devastatingly good looks and opted for someone with no looks but lots of character.
He shook his head at himself and went on watching as Dale got in his truck and backed out of the drive. He glanced back to Madeleine and saw her looking down the yard at him in his kitchen window. She lifted a hand to wave.
Eris gave her a nod in response.
The next day was relatively quiet, and around six o'clock Eris found himself getting nervous. He would have to go home soon and change his clothes. He wouldn't wear his uniform over to see her. His uniform was all she ever saw him in.
At home he changed into a white pullover and a faded pair of jeans and put on some Nikes. He checked the window constantly to see if Manuel's Jeep Cherokee had arrived, but when seven o'clock came and it hadn't appeared, he forced himself out the door and up to the log cabin.
She looked pleased when she opened the door and saw him standing there. She wore a pink sun dress that made him think only of what she looked like without it, and before she could read the thought in his eyes, he stepped past her to go inside. He saw several books on the kitchen counter, and she followed his glance.
"I've been to the library. Come in and sit down. We can sit on the couch, it's more comfortable."
He went to the couch and sat, and she brought the books over to put on the cocktail table in front of him.
"Do you want something to drink? I think I have a Diet Coke around somewhere."
"Fine," he said, wondering if he should consider this a date. He wasn't sure. He wiped his damp palms on the tops of his thighs.
"Okay." She brought him a Diet Coke and plopped down onto the cushion beside him. "You're probably already aware that the Fox are closely related to the Sauk, speaking the same language and having similar cultures. The Fox called themselves _Meshwahki Haki_ or were otherwise known as Mesquakie. It means, The Red Earths."
Eris sat with the unopened Diet Coke in his hand, staring at her. She was jumping right into it. A real teacher.
"The Fox and the Sauk were allies for years, and during the colonial period they fought together against the French, not that they were so enamored of the English, but because they were tired of being cheated by French traders. Like many other tribes, they were actually quite passive. In the fall and winter they lived in camps of rush mat lodges while they hunted and trapped for furs to trade, and in the summer they moved near river bottoms and became farmers of corn, beans, and squash. They—" She paused and smiled at him. "Am I going too fast? Too pedantic? You have an odd expression on your face."
It was sudden discomfort on Eris's part that caused his expression. He tried to ignore it.
"Am I going to be tested on this material?"
"Of course," she said with a smile.
"All right. Thanks for the warning. Did the Fox have enemies among other Indians?"
"Chippewa and Dakota were the most bitter. Sauk-Fox Indian allies included the Potawatomi, Winnebago, and Iowa. Nearly a century after the French were beaten came the Black Hawk War, in 1832, when the Fox and Sauk were defeated by the good old US Army and sent right here to Kansas."
"From the Northeast?"
"Well, from Iowa, which is where they were located by that time. A lot of them left Kansas and went back to Iowa during the 1850s. Many of the Fox in Kansas joined with the Sauk a few years after the Civil War and moved to the Indian Territory."
"Oklahoma," said Eris.
"Yes. If you were born here in Kansas, then it was from one of the few Fox and Sauk families that remained."
"You know all this from memory?" asked Eris, more impressed than he could say, but still uncomfortable.
"I've been refreshing my memory with these books," she said, and pointed to the stack on the cocktail table. "It would be difficult for anyone to know everything about every nation. There are so many."
Eris finally opened his Diet Coke to take a drink, and Madeleine continued, telling him about Sauk-Fox rituals and patrilineal clans, all the things he would have learned if he had ever actually opened a book about the Sauk-Fox and read it. Something had always stopped him short of learning more than the most perfunctory information. An anger, perhaps, that he should be forced to learn from a book, and not from his own blood relatives.
Now he sat, listening to a blonde-haired white woman who stood no taller than his collar bone and was no more Indian than the actors in black and white Westerns, while she told him about his ancestors.
When she paused he sat forward and put his Diet Coke down on the cocktail table.
"I have to go, Madeleine."
Her mouth fell open and she looked at him in surprise. "Why?"
He got up and walked to the door, unable to tell her what he was feeling, unable to make himself seem small or childish to her for having such problems dealing with his lack of identity and his anger toward people he had never even met. She would not understand.
"Eris?"
The hurt and confusion in her eyes nearly made him stop and go back, fight his way through his feelings just to be near her a while longer.
But then she was confusing him even more, making him wonder if she needed to do exactly what she was doing, if he was, after all, someone she wanted to be friendly with because their interests were ostensibly the same, him being an Indian and all her degrees and work having to do with Native Americans.
"I can't learn from you," he said as he opened the door. "And I can't tell you why."
He turned to leave then, and the breath left him in a whoosh a second later as a tremendous force struck him square in the middle of the back. He wheeled in surprise and saw a book lying on the floor behind him. Madeleine was picking up another book to throw at him, and he took one look at her flushed cheeks and trembling mouth and said, "Don't."
Too late. The next book struck him in the face, glancing off his still sore cheekbone and causing his ear to begin ringing. She picked up another book and he hurried to take it away from her before she could wing it at close range. He grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed until she cried out and dropped the book.
"Stop," he said, his tone warning.
"You stop," she said fiercely. "Who's using who, Eris? And what are you using me for? As a whipping post for the people who've mistreated you? What do I have to do to get through to you?"
He stared at her, his hand still holding her wrist, and when he spoke, his voice didn't sound like his.
"I don't understand what you want from me."
"I don't either," she said. "How can I? You're not exactly constant in the way you treat me. How am I supposed to understand anything to do with you when you can't make up your mind how to feel about me?"
Eris dropped her wrist and said, "I know exactly how I feel about you."
Madeleine blinked, and the anger in her slowly diminished as she looked into his face. "Don't say that. Don't say you know exactly, when you have to be just as confused as I am. You keep running away from me."
"What I know, Madeleine," said Eris "is what I want to do with you. What I don't know is how you'll react if I try."
She froze, as if the breath had been knocked out of her, and Eris felt damned, believing he had gone too far and said too much, scaring her with his confession.
"Are you saying that's all you want?" she asked her voice breathless.
"No."
Her lashes lowered and she looked at the floor, and Eris began thinking this was the part where she explained she wanted to be just friends.
She said, "I know I said I was going to examine why I feel the way I do about you, but I'm no clearer now than I was a week ago. I still think you're a good man."
Eris's heart began pounding. He lifted a hand to touch her on one cheek, causing her to lift her head and look at him. He searched her eyes while she gazed at him, and Madeleine lifted herself on her tiptoes to place her arms around his neck. She raised herself up and kissed him on the center of his chin, her lips soft and moist. She moved to his cheek, and along his jaw, planting kisses on the scarred skin of his face while he tentatively placed his hands on her waist and fought to breathe.
When she came to his mouth, she placed a light kiss on his lips and looked at him. He sensed her waiting, and he gently picked her up in his arms and lifted her against his chest, bringing her mouth to his.
Eris nearly came to orgasm just parting her lips. When she made a noise into his mouth and touched her tongue to his, his knees threatened to buckle. His limbs began to shake as he held her against him and kissed her, and when he felt her press herself along the length of him he thought he would fall down. He had never tasted anything sweeter, or held anything softer.
While he could still walk he carried her to the sofa and sat down with her, tearing his mouth away from her lips long enough to ask if he could touch her.
Madeleine guided his hand to her breasts and reached behind herself to unzip her dress. His hand covered hers, and once the zipper was down the two of them pushed the dress over her hips until she was free of the garment. Eris touched the silky skin of her breasts and fought for control while she tugged his pullover free of his jeans, kissing his mouth and neck until he pulled the shirt over his head. When his chest was bare she wrapped herself around him, pressing her naked breasts against him and sweetly pushing her face against his neck and the underside of his jaw.
Eris held her that way a moment, their heated flesh melded together, his hands caressing the skin of her back and the curve of her waist and hips, and soon he felt her fingers pulling at his hair band and tangling themselves in his hair. She pulled his head back until they were looking at each other, and then she placed her mouth on his and kissed him so deeply he felt he would lose part of himself to her. Her hands were on his face and she was on her knees on the cushion between his thighs, kissing him as he had never been kissed, and when she lowered a hand to unzip his jeans and reach inside his briefs, Eris abruptly lost control.
Madeleine didn't pause in kissing him, only held on to him while he jerked and went on touching when he stopped.
Eris clutched her to him and then groaned when she left him to pull off his shoes and the rest of his clothes. When she climbed back onto the sofa with him he slid his hands down over her hips to remove her underwear. One hand went back to caress the area uncovered, and he shuddered when his fingers encountered evidence of her arousal. Madeleine moaned and pressed herself against his hand, and the movements of her body soon had Eris erect again and wanting to know the inside of her.
She tangled her fingers in his hair and breathlessly kissed one ear before he lifted himself up. Madeleine shuddered as he gently probed and then began to push himself inside her. She gasped and clutched at his forearms, and Eris saw her lips part and her eyes squeeze shut, and his mouth went dry as he realized she had come to orgasm just by having him inside her.
The knowledge overwhelmed him, and he kissed her as passionately as she had kissed him, only beginning to move when her hands pulled at him and her hips raised to prompt him. After that he wasn't aware of anything but the taste of her lips, the sounds from her throat, and sensation.
When he stopped his breathing was labored, and Madeleine's chest was heaving. They were silent, looking at each other in the dimness, Eris still inside her and Madeleine's arms wrapped around him.
The beeper attached to the belt on Eris's jeans shattered the stillness.
Madeleine jumped but Eris didn't move. He went on looking at her face. Madeleine tightened her arms around him until the beeper repeated. He kissed her on the lips and for the second time that evening said, "I have to go."
He slid away from her and Madeleine reluctantly let him go. She sat up and watched as he dressed, and before he left her, he moved to cup her face with his hand. She turned her lips into his palm. Eris drew a ragged breath and walked away.
Someone was out spot lighting deer that night. Several shots had been fired. Eris hung up the phone in the kitchen and thought if he caught the persons responsible he would probably kill them.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Madeleine lay awake for hours after Eris left, hugging the pillow beside her and reliving every moment he had been with her. She loved his mouth...and his body. The size of him had nearly driven her wild with pleasure. She had never been with anyone like him, never known what it felt like to be filled so completely or kissed with such emotion.
Her own passion had been a surprise. She knew she was attracted, but not until his naked flesh was against hers and her hands were trapped in his hair did she realize how utterly and completely she wanted him, how badly she wanted to hold on and keep holding him, so that whatever barriers he threw up between them would have no place.
Like his problem with her teaching him. Madeleine didn't understand what that was about. She only knew there was a moment when he had looked at her and seen not Madeleine, but a white woman.
Madeleine had faced similar situations before, but never with anyone she cared about. It drove her into frenzy when he simply got up and said he couldn't learn from her and couldn't tell her why.
He wanted to spend his passion on her, but he wouldn't talk to her about himself.
Madeleine wondered if she was making a big mistake, if he even cared about her at all, beyond the fact that she was a woman romantically interested in him.
And she still didn't know why she was interested. Because he had spurned every overture on her part and piqued her curiosity? Because he was a tall, dark Indian and she had a point to prove about not being afraid anymore...or was it because he gave and gave and never took anything in return, because he treated everyone alike, from kittens to earthworms, and because he was human enough to get sick after fishing a little girl's body from the lake.
Madeleine had never known anyone so capable, so able to handle any situation, from conducting a search party to babysitting a woman sick with fever. She wondered if there was any situation he couldn't handle, anything he wouldn't face with the same quiet determination. She doubted it. He was as solid as the earth.
She covered her eyes as she lay in bed, wondering what she was going to do when she had to leave him. She couldn't live in the cabin indefinitely. Her funds were running out.
Madeleine hated even to think about leaving. She hated the thought of being where she wouldn't see him every day.
But she had to get back to work. What money she had would be gone completely by summer's end, and there was no more coming in. She couldn't buy or do anything without having to worry about whether the cats would starve.
She was out of cat food, as a matter of fact, and she had hoped Manuel and Jacqueline would bring some. Since they hadn't come, the babies were going to have to make do with table scraps. And maybe she could catch a fish or two, she thought, remembering having seen a cane pole in the garage. Perhaps Sherman Tanner could give her some tips on where to dig for worms.
A chuckle escaped her lips, and Madeleine wondered if any studies had been done on tiny lake communities like the one in which she was now living, an anthropological study, comparing the village communities of America past with present day counterparts.
Might be something to think about, she told herself. God knew there was a different breed of people out here among the year-round crowd. Maybe it was something she could work on in her spare time, just to keep herself occupied. Go out and talk to the people, see how they lived. She knew how Eris Renard and Sherman Tanner lived, and since both of them were out of the norm she could only imagine what else she might encounter.
A shiver passed through her as she thought of Eris asking if he could touch her. Who would do such a thing but a man unused to touching a woman?
She squeezed her eyes shut and warned herself to tread with caution. She already knew she was in emotional danger, not because she felt vulnerable after Sam, or because her sexuality had been tapped, but because he was Eris, totally unpredictable and unlike anyone she had ever known.
He had not offered to come back when he was finished, or made a promise to see her tomorrow, or said anything at all to her indicating she would see him again soon.
It was typical of him.
Madeleine yawned and wondered if the difference in their ages would ever come into play. As she drifted off it occurred to her that she had not used her diaphragm, and as she fell into slumber a tiny frown creased her brow.
When she awakened it was mid morning and full sun streamed through her windows. Her first thought was of the night before, and she sighed into her mattress before forcing herself out of bed. A sudden, insistent pounding on her door made her shake a leg, and she grabbed a robe out of the closet and threw it on before hurrying to open the door.
Dale Russell smiled at her. "Morning, sleepyhead. Did I get you out of bed?"
Madeleine's shoulders drooped in disappointment. "What brings you out, Dale?"
"I was in to see Renard this morning and thought I'd stop and see how you're getting along."
"He's home?" Madeleine said in surprise and looked toward his house.
"He left a while ago. Guess he had a late night, out hunting spot lighters. Did you hear about the hoax?"
"What hoax?"
"The missing little girl wasn't missing at all. Her disappearance was faked by her father and his mother. They were after money."
Madeleine was confused. "Then how did she end up in the lake?"
"Seems Lyman's mother left her in front of The Haven, knowing someone would come and find her, probably take her to the authorities. The wrong person found her."
Madeleine shook her head.
"Makes you sick, doesn't it?" said Dale.
"It makes me angry," Madeleine told him.
"Angry?"
"At the man responsible."
"What makes you think it was a man?"
"Last time I checked, women weren't capable of producing semen."
"You know about that, huh?"
"Everyone on the hill knows about that. Sherman Tanner keeps us all informed."
Dale frowned, and she realized he didn't know who she was talking about. It was just as well.
"Shouldn't you be out on the lake?" she asked.
"Trying to get rid of me?" he said with a grin.
"Yes," she said bluntly. "Honestly, Dale, you're very charming, but I'm just not interested."
"Why?" he asked, just as bluntly.
Madeleine decided on the facts as opposed to the truth.
"A few months ago my husband committed suicide. Is that enough for you, or do you want the details?"
Dale backed up. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"Now you do. I'm flattered, Dale, believe me, but that's all I am."
"Okay. Well, wow, I don't know what to say." He paused then. "Do you need a friend, Madeleine? Someone to talk to?"
"I'm fine," she said.
"Because sometimes I do," he said, as if he hadn't heard her. "Sometimes I really need someone just to listen while I talk. If you ever need that, think of me. Will you do that?"
Madeleine groaned inside, wondering what she had created. "Yes, Dale, I will. Thank you. Goodbye now."
"Goodbye, Madeleine." He reached forward and gave her an impulsive hug. She stiffened and did not move until he released her.
When he was gone, Madeleine jerked off the robe and stepped into the shower, thinking perhaps it was because of Sam that handsome men now gave her the creeps.
At noon she ate a sandwich and then went outside to dig worms. Eris hadn't come home for lunch, but he wouldn't, since he had gotten such a late start. She came up with six good-sized worms under the railroad ties bordering Eris's coleus. Sherman Tanner came to see what she was doing and to warn her how Renard felt about his plants.
"I'm not hurting anything," said Madeleine.
"Neither was I. I was just doing some thinning."
''You told me he said you could take the plants."
"He did. He said to ask."
"Before or after you took them?"
Sherman gave her a pinched look and walked away, his shoulders straight and his head held high. Madeleine smiled to herself as she watched him go, and then went to fetch the cane pole from the garage.
She found a bobber and a stringer, and noted that a tiny lead weight was already attached to the line. She let the kittens out to play and then carried everything down to the lake in a straw bag, looking as she went for the perfect spot to sit and fish. Vista Bay was too crowded, and the swimmers near the swimming area would scare any fish away. She walked awhile longer and finally found a quiet little cove, where the water was still and looked just right for fishing.
A tiny perch hit on her worm the minute she dropped it in the water and Madeleine gleefully jerked it out and removed it from the hook to place on her stringer.
"One little fishy for my kitties," she sang to herself, and stuck another worm on her hook. Fifteen minutes later she had one fish for each worm, not one of them bigger than her hand.
When her fish were on the stringer, Madeleine fixed her pole and prepared to leave. Then she saw Dale Russell come motoring up to her in his boat.
She held up her stringer. "Look what I caught."
He didn't smile. "Do you have a fishing license, ma'am?"
"A license? No, I don't. Do I need one?"
"You do. Put the fish back or pay a fine."
"What?" She couldn't believe he meant it.
He did. "You heard me."
"But, two of them are dead already. Can't I at least take the dead ones?"
"Put the fish back or pay a fine."
"Why are you being like this? Because I hurt your feelings earlier?"
His face remained implacable. "I assume you want the fine?"
"No," she said, angry now. "I don't." She dropped her stringer in the water and released all the fish, even the dead ones. Without looking at him, she took her pole and carried it up the bank, furious with him for being such a jerk. He was paying her back for not responding to him, for leaving him looking as ridiculous as she felt right now.
"Dammit," she swore as she walked back up the hill.
She was a hundred yards from the cabin when she saw something that made her drop everything and start running. Sherman Tanner's little terrier mixture mutt had one of her kittens in its mouth and was tossing it about like a rag doll. Madeleine screamed and charged at the dog, aiming a kick at its side and seeing it dart away from her, the obviously dead kitten still hanging from its mouth.
"Tanner!" she screamed, her voice raw as she looked helplessly about for the other kittens. She found another one dead in the grass just beyond the porch, half its little face torn away. "Tanner!" she screamed again, tears of rage streaming down her face. A mewing sound made her head swerve and she jerked around to find the tiny black kitten in a tree, calling plaintively to her.
The little terrier mixture dog was nowhere to be seen. Madeleine went to the tree and took the kitten down to put it in the cabin before she went striding down the hill again to stand and pound on Sherman Tanner's door.
A thin woman with close-set eyes and a long nose came to the door, her brows lifted in annoyance.
"What is it?"
Mole woman, thought Madeleine. The Earthworm and Mole Woman lived together.
"Your dog killed two of my kittens," Madeleine said. "He was in my yard just a moment ago with one of them in his mouth. He ran away when I tried to catch him."
Mrs. Tanner shook her head. "Not our dog. He's been right here the whole afternoon." She stood aside and gestured into the living room, where Madeleine saw the panting dog sitting on Sherman Tanner's lap as he reclined in a chair before a television.
"That is the dog," said Madeleine firmly and succinctly. "No two animals could look like...that."
''You're mistaken," said Gudrun Tanner. "Go and beat on someone else's door."
Madeleine put a hand out when the woman would have slammed the door.
"I want the other kitten. You're not going to add him to your little bone yard."
Gudrun appeared shocked. "Sherman, call the police. This woman is harassing us."
"Give me the other goddamned kitten!" Madeleine yelled. "I'll call the police myself and get a warrant to search your yard for body parts!"
Sherman Tanner snorted and came to the door.
"Run along, Miss Heron. It's your word against ours."
"Give him back," Madeleine demanded.
Tanner only smiled. "Guess you'll watch what you say and mind your manners a little better now. You still have one kitten left, don't you?"
Madeleine felt her eyes grow round. "You did this on purpose? You turned your dog loose on my kittens because of what I said to you about the goddamned coleus?"
Tanner shut the door in her face in response.
My god, Madeleine thought. What was with these people? First Dale Russell, and now Sherman Tanner, both of them exacting revenge and behaving like vicious, spoiled children.
She trudged back up the hill, stopping to search Eris's garage for a spade. She found one hanging on the wall and took it to the cabin with her, where she picked up the dead kitten in the grass and searched for a place to bury it, somewhere Tanner wouldn't find. She could just see him digging up the dead kitten and re-burying it in his own yard.
She picked a spot near some hedges, where she could camouflage the overturned earth, and wrapped the kitten in a small dishtowel before burying it. The silence of the cemetery across the road beckoned then, and she went to squeeze through the gate and walk among the stones, attempting to calm herself by reading what inscriptions could be read and thinking about the lives buried deep beneath the earth. It was a strangely peaceful place to sit, and after sitting and crying over the pain and terror her poor kittens must have felt she did just that, until the stone's lengthening shadows and her own growling stomach told her it was time to go.
Madeleine carried the spade back to Eris's garage and found his truck inside. She hadn't seen him come down the road. She walked around to the front yard and saw him lifting up the railroad ties bordering his coleus.
"What are you doing?" she asked, and he looked up with a start to see her. She waited, breathless, for some acknowledgment in his eyes of the intimacy they had shared, but he only nodded to his porch, where a young bird of some kind sat in a cage, its feathers ruffled up around its neck.
"Looking for worms."
"I already got them," she said, and he dropped the railroad tie to face her.
"Did you take my spade?"
She swallowed and nodded, wondering if he was angry with her. "I had to bury one of the kittens. Tanner's dog killed two of them today."
Eris looked beyond her, toward Tanner's house. "I'm sorry. Why did you need the worms?"
"I ran out of cat food and needed something to feed the kittens. I found a cane pole in the garage and decided to try and catch a fish for them. I caught six fish, but Dale Russell made me throw them back because I didn't have a license. When I got back here I found Tanner's dog with a kitten in its mouth. One kitten was already dead."
"Where was Tanner?"
"In his house. When I confronted them they swore it wasn't their dog, but I'd know that sick little weasel-looking hairbag anywhere."
Eris's mouth twitched. "Russell made you throw your fish back?"
"He was mad because I rejected him this morning."
"He came over this morning?"
"Right after he left your house."
"He left before I did."
"Then he came back. I told him I wasn't interested and he seemed all right with it at the time, but when he caught me with the fish later he was an absolute jerk."
"You don't have a license," said Eris. "Can't fish without one."
The matter-of-fact statement caught Madeleine by surprise and she stared at him. "This day hasn't been bad enough, but you have to come home and side with these lake mutants against me."
"I'll get you a license," said Eris.
"Forget it," Madeleine flashed at him. "I only have one kitten left to feed."
She walked away from him, leaving him to hunt worms to feed whatever bird it was he had in the cage. Beside the door at the cabin she found a sack of cat food waiting for her. She looked over her shoulder but couldn't see him. Madeleine sighed and picked up the heavy sack to carry it inside with her.
Later she carried a covered plate of spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread with butter down to him. He was still on his porch, trying to feed the bird.
"What kind is it?" she asked as she set the plate down beside him.
"A red-tailed hawk. Found it in the road today."
"How old is it?"
"Not very. Can't find anything it'll eat."
"Try a meatball."
Eris looked at the plate. "Smells good."
"Better eat, before it gets cold."
"Here," he said, and gestured to a dish with what looked like chopped raw meat inside. ''You try."
Madeleine made a face, but she stuck her fingers in the dish while Eris went inside for a fork to eat his spaghetti. She picked up a pinch of the meat and put her hand through the bars to hold it temptingly above the baby hawk's head.
The bird's head moved slightly, but its eyes were in a half closed state and Madeleine didn't think it was even aware of the food. She dipped her hand to touch it lightly on the head, and Eris came out in time to see the baby hawk's beak open. Madeleine dropped the meat in, and then had the top of her finger punctured as the beak made either a swift gobbling or attacking motion. She jerked her hand out and looked at the blood welling up on the finger.
"Must be a woman's touch," she said.
"Come on," said Eris, and he led the way into the bathroom, where he poured stinging disinfectant over the torn flesh and then put on a bandage.
Madeleine applied pressure with another finger so it would stop the bleeding, and she looked up to find Eris's dark eyes on her face.
Her breathing went shallow and a surge of warmth spread through her at his expression. She took an unconscious step forward and he leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose before turning her and leading her back outside again.
Madeleine was disappointed. Everything inside her was ready and eager to join with him again, and his eyes told her he wanted the same. She didn't understand why he brought her back outside. She looked at him with questioning eyes as he picked up the plate of spaghetti and began to eat.
She doubted it was hunger that kept them apart. When she was close to him she didn't care if she ever ate again.
He picked up a long instrument that looked like tweezers and handed it to her. "Pick up the meat with this and feed it to the bird."
"Oh," she said, feeling incredibly stupid.
While Eris ate, she fed the bird, which had found its appetite and greedily choked down every morsel she passed through the cage. When the dish was empty she put it down and saw that Eris had finished as well. He excused himself to go and clean the sauce off his shirt, and after a moment she followed him into the house. She found him in the bathroom sluicing water over his face. Madeleine propped herself in the doorway and stood watching him until he opened his eyes and saw her.
He took a towel from the rack and dried himself. Then he said, "I don't have anything to protect you."
Madeleine said, "I have a diaphragm."
"Were you wearing it last night?"
"No."
He went still, watching her. Then he asked if she was worried.
She shook her head. "Do you want me to go and get it? The diaphragm?"
"If you're asking me if I want to make love to you, the answer is yes. If you're asking me would I like to see you protect yourself from me, the answer is no."
Madeleine's gaze fixed on his. "You just said you didn't have anything to protect me. It sounded like you were concerned about it."
"For your sake yes. I'm sure you'd rather not leave here pregnant."
"Then you're all right?" Madeleine asked. "The chicken pox didn't—I mean, sometimes sterility can result."
"I've never found out."
He put the towel back in the rack and moved past her to leave the bathroom. Madeleine followed him and walked out of the house and up to the cabin. She put her diaphragm in place and came back to find him sitting in his chair in front of the silent television. She closed the door behind her and approached the chair. Eris hesitated only a moment before he put out a hand and pulled her to him, bringing her to sit on his lap. She slid her arms around his neck and closed her eyes while she pressed her mouth against his cheek and jaw. He turned his head and caught her lips with his, and she emitted a moan as he opened her mouth and deepened the kiss.
His hand moved to the buttons of her blouse while he kissed her, and her fingers were already busy pulling the band from his hair. She unbuttoned his shirt while he unhooked her bra, and soon their hands were free to touch flesh with no hindrances. Eris lifted her slightly to kiss her breasts and lightly tug on her hardened nipples and she buried her face in the dark silkiness of his hair. When his fingers trailed down her stomach to her navel and beyond, she squirmed so he could get at the snap on her shorts.
The shorts soon joined the pile of clothes beside the chair, and Madeleine gasped as his hand went directly between her legs and cupped the center of her, feeling the moisture that soaked the fabric of her underwear and told him of her state of readiness.
He tugged the panties off her and then lifted up while she struggled to pull his trousers and briefs down to free him. He jerked and drew in a sharp breath as Madeleine wrapped her hand around him. He stared into her face, willing control, and nearly came undone at the way she was looking at him. She moved above him, never taking her eyes off his, and slowly lowered onto him, taking him all the way into her and then leaning forward to gasp into his mouth as she settled over him. Eris's limbs began shaking again, and he held off not even half a minute, just long enough for Madeleine to move half a dozen times and come to a quivering orgasm, her mouth still attached to his.
They sagged against one another, still breathing hard, and with all urgency dissipated they relaxed and began to take their time touching and kissing and looking. Neither of them spoke, both unwilling to reduce to words what was happening, or to put a name to the feelings they were experiencing.
Madeleine could never get enough of kissing his lips, or of feeling her naked breasts pressed against his chest. She loved it when he put his arms around her and held her so tightly against him she could hardly breathe. He was telling her things with his actions that would never be expressed in words and it touched her more deeply than any trite, often repeated phrases ever would. She held him just as tightly, until desire arose again and their kisses became impassioned rather than sweet, and their touching had more purpose than tender caresses.
Eris put her legs around him and left the chair to carry her to his bedroom, where he placed her on the bed and then removed the rest of his clothing. Madeleine looked at his long, lean form and wondered to herself how any woman could not find him irresistible. He was so beautifully proportioned and had such wonderfully shaped hands and feet.
In her enamored state Madeleine no longer saw why anyone would consider him ugly. She was blinded to the pits and scars that marred his skin and saw only his dark eyes and the strong white teeth that hid behind his perfect lips. The color and texture of his hair made her squirm with pleasure when she drew her fingers through it. She wanted it down always, framing his head and giving him a look of wildness that she loved.
He came onto the bed with her and she took his face in her hands as he moved over her. He paused, looking at her, and she whispered to him how beautiful he was, and how she loved to look into his eyes. Eris stared, his dark gaze seeking hers in the dimness, until she found his mouth and began to kiss him as passionately as ever, driving away whatever thoughts her murmuring had brought to him. He soon moved above her and she was carried away all over again by the instant ecstasy he brought to her and her inability to find control over her responses. All he had to do was touch her and she was on the brink.
His own control was much better now, and he was happy to be able to exhaust Madeleine before allowing himself the pleasure of release. Afterward they lay gasping together on the bed.
Madeleine made a trip to the bathroom and found her diaphragm ready to fall out. She stared and wondered if Eris had somehow dislodged it. It was entirely possible. She went to get a glass of water and drank it down at the sink before refilling it to take to Eris. Before she turned away, out of the corner of her eye she saw something that made her stop. She looked up at the log cabin and saw Dale Russell's truck backing out of her drive.
What on earth was he up to?
She went back and told Eris, and he sat up. In the darkness she could tell he was frowning.
"The man obviously has a problem with rejection," Madeleine said.
"I doubt it's ever come up before," said Eris.
"I can't believe he came back after the way he treated me today."
"Maybe he came to apologize."
Madeleine handed him the glass of water. "It won't work." She slid onto the mattress and curled up against him. Eris drank down the water and put the glass on the night stand. Then he turned and put his arms around her.
He didn't ask if she was staying the night and she didn't ask if she could. They simply fell asleep.
When Madeleine awakened she heard the shower running. Noiselessly she left the bed and went into the living room to put on her clothes. Then she walked into his kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ten minutes later Eris walked into the hall with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked to see where she was, and then he returned to his bedroom.
He came back fully dressed, and Madeleine handed him a fried egg sandwich with mayonnaise on the bread. He thanked her and moved to stand over the sink while he ate. Madeleine made a similar sandwich for herself and then joined him at the sink.
He looked down at her and she smiled as she took her first bite.
After they finished eating she washed the skillet in the sink and went into the bedroom to see after the bed. The bed was already made. She found Eris on the front porch looking after his hawk and she touched him on the arm and lifted herself to brush him on the lips when he turned to her. Then she went home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eris felt sick. He had been sick since he touched her for the first time, and the feeling wasn't going away. His stomach felt as if it were lodged in his throat and parts of his body ached when he was away from her. He fought to keep things as normal and routine as possible, but his thoughts never strayed from her for very long, and what used to be a simple job for him was now a daily test in concentration.
At moments he was angry with her for screwing him up so badly, for taking his life into her small white hands and turning it inside out. The rest of the time he didn't care what she did to him, as long as she went on doing it the way she was doing it. For the first time in his life he felt right. Someone finally cared about him and enjoyed being intimate with him. And this was no ordinary woman. This was Madeleine. He had never known anyone like her. No one had ever looked at him the way she did, or made him so aware of himself as a man.
He shifted in his seat as he drove and fought to think of anything else.
It was useless. He kept remembering what it felt like to be inside her. How small she was. How soft her mouth was.
He made a noise of frustration and made himself concentrate on his surroundings, only to think of the quick breakfast she had made for him. If Eris was smitten before, he fell even harder when she joined him at the sink to eat that morning. Any other woman might have complained about the absence of a table and chairs. Not Madeleine. She wasn't interested in changing anything about him, only in sharing with him.
The sick feeling in him intensified when he thought of her someday leaving.
Then he forced himself not to think about it. He couldn't, if he wanted to function normally.
He thought he was seeing things when he drove past The Haven and saw Ronnie Lyman stroll in the door.
Eris pulled in and turned off the truck. He took off his glasses and walked inside to find Lyman talking to the man behind the counter.
Lyman turned when he heard Eris's footsteps, and when he saw Eris he backed up and said, "Don't mess with me, okay? I'm just talkin' to the man here about what he saw the day my daughter disappeared."
"I didn't see nothin'," the man said.
Eris advanced on Lyman and grabbed him by the collar to haul him out of the store. Outside he shoved him against a green Grand Prix and said, "We both know your daughter didn't disappear, but you might if I ever catch you around here again."
Lyman's eyes widened. "That little bitch," he said incredulously. "When did she talk to you?"
Eris ignored him. "The police have some questions, Ronnie. And a lot of people would like to kick the shit out of you. I'm one of them."
Ronnie struggled to push him away. "Just tell me where she is. Tell me where the bitch went. The whole damned thing was her idea to begin with, not mine. Yeah, I'm sure she made herself sound real innocent, and you bought every word."
The urge to hit him was overpowering, but Eris settled for slamming Lyman against the car again.
"Don't even think about selling that line of bullshit. You're the one holding all the cash, not her."
"Did she tell you that? She's lying. I don't have a damn dime, I swear."
Eris looked at the car behind him and said, "Wonder where it went."
"Hey, man, I—"
Eris slammed him against the car again before he could finish and suggested holding him there so the police could come and ask their questions.
"They know where to find me," Ronnie snarled. "I'm still at the same place. Tell 'em to come on. I'll talk to 'em and tell 'em the truth about what happened."
Eris released him and Ronnie got in his car and started the engine. He put the car in reverse and said, "You can't keep me out of here. I'll see you bastards in court. This is a public park, man, and—"
Eris kicked the driver's door, making a huge dent in the side. "Sue me."
Ronnie Lyman's face grew purple with rage, and he backed the car wildly away from the convenience store, spinning tires and kicking up dust. Eris stood and watched his departure, and once again he found himself hoping Sheila Lyman had gone somewhere very far away.
On impulse, Eris went inside the store again to talk to the man behind the counter.
"Well," he said, after Eris asked his question, "I'll tell you what I told that detective from the county who showed up here. I don't really remember much about that day. I remember talkin' to an old boy from Stockton, Missouri, on the phone in the late afternoon, and that's it. Never saw anyone and never sold a thing until six o'clock that day, according to my register receipts."
Eris thanked the man and left, wondering what the hell Lyman thought he was doing by asking questions and bothering people. Was he making it look good for the press in anticipation of Sheila giving away the hoax? Framing his story about it all being his wife's idea, because he was really doing his best to find out who killed his little girl?
The year that rained shit was getting worse all the time.
As far as his job was concerned, anyway.
He ran across Dale Russell at a dock later that afternoon and asked him about the incident with Madeleine. Russell shrugged and grinned. "I took a license up to her house later, wanted to tell her it was all a joke, but she wasn't home." He shook his head then. "She's a tough one, little Maddie is. Guess she's had some problems, though, since her old man committed suicide."
Eris's mouth twitched. "Did she tell you that?"
"Yeah. Needs someone to talk to pretty bad. I'll do what I can, but I'm no Dear Abby. She ever talk to you?"
"Occasionally," said Eris.
"If you see her, tell her I've got a license for her. And tell her I was just kidding. She walked off before I could tell her I was joking."
Eris waved to him and drove on.
If he had reason to dislike Dale Russell before, it regenerated itself a hundred times over as he gained distance from the other conservation officer. Needs someone to talk to pretty bad? Madeleine had been right about Russell having a problem with rejection.
And Eris had a problem with him. He had been tempted to tell the ass Madeleine had been with him the night before. Renard, the ugly old Indian.
But he didn't need to do that. It was enough that Eris knew where she was and what she was doing. No one else needed to know.
"I tried calling until all hours last night," Jacqueline said on the phone to Madeleine. "Where were you?"
Madeleine drew a breath and said, "I'm sorry. I've been the butt of a prankster this week and I was trying to ignore the phone." She didn't know why she was lying.
"A prankster?"
"Someone has learned I'm here all alone, evidently."
"I was worried about you," said Jacqueline.
"I'm sorry, Jac. Really. How are you feeling?"
"I've lost ten pounds and I look great. Isn't that awful?"
Madeleine laughed. "I know what you mean."
"How are things out there? How are the kitties?"
"Not so good." Madeleine exhaled and told her what had happened with Dale Russell and the Tanners.
Jacqueline was shocked. "I can't believe the man could be such a monster. You think he actually sicced the dog on the kittens?"
"I believe he intentionally let the dog off the leash when he saw the kittens in the yard."
"Manny is going to be upset. He's been buying flea collars and catnip to bring out this weekend."
"We still have the black kitten."
"You know, I have a problem seeing Dale Russell get snippy over a few perch."
"So did I."
"Are you sure he wasn't joking?"
"If you had seen him you'd know."
"Guess you're really making lots of friends out there, Mad. So far you've alienated Renard, Russell, and now the dirt-diggers."
Madeleine sucked in her breath and went still. Her grip on the phone tightened.
"It was a joke," said Jacqueline.
"I don't think it was," Madeleine said.
"You have to admit you aren't exactly the friendly sort."
Madeleine's nostrils flared. "What does that mean?"
"It means you don't get along with people, Madeleine. But you expect them to get along with you."
"Are you forgetting Denise and Tim Lansky?"
"No. But they were transitory and your effort wasn't a sustained one. I think that's why you failed at teaching, because you've spent your life studying people, but you just don't seem to like them very much. They always let you down, don't they?"
Through clenched teeth, Madeleine said, "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. You've had a thing about weakness ever since I can remember. Sam Craven was anything but weak, but once he proved human you couldn't help but let your disappointment show. You helped drag him down and you know it."
Madeleine's jaw went hard. "Jacqueline, please don't say any more."
"Does it hurt, Madeleine? Good. This conversation has been long overdue. Someone needs to tell you just how hard you are on people. You love invincibility, but no one is invincible, Madeleine. No one."
"I know that."
"You don't. Why haven't you spoken to our father in over two years? I know why. Because after his heart attack he kept right on smoking and eating and drinking and doing everything you and the surgeon general told him not to do. You couldn't make him care about his health, and now he disgusts you. He let you down by being human. By being weak."
"I don't have to stand by and watch him kill himself," said Madeleine, and the moment she said it she knew Jacqueline would pounce.
"The way you stood by and watched Sam? We all saw it, Madeleine. We all saw the way you treated him. I was ashamed, but I thought I understood. Now I'm not so sure. If you didn't love Sam Craven, then you've never loved anyone. You may not even be capable."
"You're wrong," said Madeleine. She was capable. She was more than capable.
"I hope so, Madeleine," said Jacqueline. "Otherwise you're destined for a long and lonely life."
Madeleine went silent. Then she swallowed and said, "Now that you've got all this off your chest, should I be looking for alternative living arrangements?"
"No," said Jacqueline. "Don't you dare. I'm your sister and I should be able to say awful truths to you without driving you away from me. You stay right there and get mad at me Friday if you have to, slap me, spit at me or poison my daiquiri, but don't leave. If you go now I'll never hear from you again. I know how you are. I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Madeleine, but I couldn't hold it in anymore. Just promise me you won't take off."
"I can't promise. All the arrows you've flung haven't reached bone yet. I can't say what will happen when they do."
"I'm not hanging up this phone until you promise. I swear it. I'll stay here until midnight if I have to."
"I promise," said Madeleine.
"You're lying," Jacqueline charged. Madeleine rolled her eyes.
"I have no choice but to stay, Jacqueline. You know it, and I know it."
"All right. Speaking along those lines, have you heard word from any of the people you wrote to?"
"Nothing yet, but I haven't given up hope. I'm sure there's something out there just perfect for a selfish, weakness-hating misanthrope like me...providing I can fool anyone into thinking I like them long enough to get a job."
Jacqueline snorted. "How did I know that was coming?" When Madeleine said nothing, she sighed. "You know I love you, Madeleine. I know you love me too."
"I thought I wasn't capable?"
"I'm the exception," said Jacqueline. "Right?"
"Yes," Madeleine told her. "And I promise I'm not going anywhere. All right?"
"All right. We'll see you on Friday."
"Okay."
They said goodbye and Madeleine slowly replaced the receiver on the cradle, hurt beyond words by everything her younger sister had said to her. She wasn't the person Jacqueline had described. She wasn't so shallow, or so cruel.
She loved strength in people, yes, but she didn't judge their worth using strength as a basis. She knew people were fallible and prey to all sorts of weaknesses.
And she had been getting along just fine with everyone until Russell decided he couldn't take no for an answer, and until Sherman Tanner decided to put her in her place. It wasn't any of Jacqueline's business to know how she was getting along with Eris Renard. Madeleine didn't know why she felt that way, but she did. She didn't want to share any part of him yet, not even to talk about him with her sister.
Still she had a lot to think about that day, her mind returning again and again to all Jacqueline had said. The business about their father was true. Madeleine became so frustrated with him it was impossible for her to maintain contact. She could not imagine caring so little about life and one's own body, particularly after her father had watched his own mother die of emphysema and stood helplessly by as a stroke left his father completely paralyzed. The old man had been sent to a home for stroke victims, where he eventually succeeded in starving himself to death.
The sympathy she felt for her grandparents was heartfelt. Little knowledge about diet and health had been available to them. Her father, on the other hand, had been bombarded with the consequences of his actions for the last few decades and knew exactly what he was doing to his body and what medical lengths would be required should he succumb to illness. Still he was unwilling even to try and live healthy, if only for the sake of their mother. If anyone was selfish, Madeleine thought, it was him.
But then Jacqueline had always been Daddy's girl, not Madeleine, and since Jacqueline worked in the medical profession and was married to a doctor her father probably figured all his bases were covered in the health care department.
Madeleine was nobody's girl. She usually found herself standing slightly apart from the others, an observer rather than a participant. She begrudged Jacqueline none of the pampering and attention she received, because Madeleine did not want it. She did not require any such attention and found it only too easy to separate herself from the people who had raised her. She did not miss her parents the way Jacqueline did.
She thought she might miss Jacqueline, if she were gone. A sister was different.
And Jacqueline was special, much more open and giving than Madeleine, warmer, more loving and affectionate. She gave and received so easily, causing envy in Madeleine's breast more than once in her life.
But she was still wrong about Sam.
Madeleine had given him every chance. She had taken everything on her own shoulders and waited patiently for him to recover himself, to show an ounce of initiative and the drive she had believed he possessed. How much more had she been expected to give to a man she wasn't certain she loved to begin with?
You may not even be capable.
Madeleine closed her eyes and let her head fall forward onto her hands as she sat at the kitchen counter.
There was a sharp pain in her middle as she thought of Eris. It intensified when she thought of him smiling at her, or touching her. She had never felt that with Sam. She had never felt anything but mild sexual arousal, nothing like what she experienced when Eris touched her. Nothing in her life even came close, not the anxiety-filled experimentation with a crude high school date, not the hot, hurried fumbling of a college boyfriend, and not the perfect Sam, with his smooth sexual expertise. No one had touched her as deeply as Eris, with his quaking limbs and unpracticed skills as a lover.
Even her natural modesty was overcome when he placed his hands on her. She did not automatically cower under a sheet or hide behind her arms while he looked at her. She wanted him to look at her.
Her breath on the counter was as warm as her thoughts and she lifted her head to get off the stool and get something to drink when the phone rang. She reached over and plucked the receiver from its cradle, expecting to hear Jacqueline again. "Hello?"
"Is this the blonde woman who lives in the log cabin?" asked a muffled male voice.
"Who is this?" Madeleine replied.
"Someone who's watching you. I'd be careful, living up there all alone. Anything could happen."
"Is that you, Russell?" Madeleine demanded.
The caller hung up.
"Damn you." Madeleine slammed the phone down, and then her brows met as she realized her lie to Jacqueline had just become truth. She put on some sandals and stalked down to the swimming beach, determined to wait and see if Dale Russell would come by as Jacqueline had once predicted.
Russell wasn't there, but Bruce Beckworth and two of his friends were on the beach, talking to some teenage girls. When Beckworth saw Madeleine he hopped over the girls and came to stand before her, forcing her to stop or go around him. She stopped.
"How's that old truck runnin'?" asked Beckworth.
"Just fine, thanks. Do you mind?"
"Do I mind what?"
"Would you please move?"
"Don't think I will. Not for an uppity little bitch like you."
Madeleine turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction, wondering why nothing in life could be easy. She groaned under her breath when she heard him following her, and she turned and said, "Just leave me alone. Please."
"Don't want to," said Beckworth, grinning at her.
She kept walking, wondering if he was bald under his cap. That might explain some of his young belligerence.
"Guess you live around here, huh?" he said behind her, and she nearly stopped again, wondering if his could possibly have been the voice on the phone.
No. He didn't even know her name, or the names of Jacqueline and Manuel. There was no way he would have the number.
Madeleine hurried her steps, and she heard him laugh and then speed up. When he gripped her by the arm and yanked her around, she was ready for him. She landed a solid kick square in his crotch and shoved up on his nose with the heel of her hand. Before she could even look to see how effective she had been she turned and ran, tearing up the path and not daring to look behind her.
As she passed Briar's Cove she saw the woman with a glass of tomato juice standing in her yard and watching. Madeleine ran straight to her and asked for help. The woman lifted the glass and took a sip before saying, "Get behind me. Here he comes."
Madeleine glanced over her shoulder and saw the man in the cap, his face purple, coming after her.
"Earl Lee," yelled the woman, her voice unaffected by the man running toward her. "Toss me that twelve gauge by the door."
Beckworth was ten feet away from the women and closing in fast when Earl Lee opened the door and tossed out a shotgun. The woman dropped her tomato juice and had the shotgun in her hands as Beckworth skidded to a halt. Madeleine stayed well behind the woman, her chest heaving from the mad dash up the hill. She saw the woman lift the shotgun on a level with the brim of the ball cap and heard her say, "You the one who messed with that little girl?"
Beckworth's eyes rounded. "What? No, I—"
The shotgun lowered to point at his crotch. Over her shoulder, the woman asked Madeleine, "What do you think he was going to do with you when he caught you?"
"I don't know," Madeleine breathed. "Hurt me."
"Maybe we oughta hurt him."
"Hey, goddammit," said Beckworth. "I wasn't doin' nothin' but talkin' to this bitch when she unloads and kicks me in the balls."
"You know him?" the woman asked Madeleine.
"He harassed me once before and Eris Renard the CO stopped him."
''You know Renard?" she asked, still holding the shotgun on Beckworth.
"Yes."
Beckworth's lip curled. "So do I. Tell that jerkoff my fine was a big hundred dollars. Paid it out of my pocket and had dinner with the judge at my dad's house later that night."
"Must have a little dick," said the woman to Madeleine, and Beckworth's head jerked up to stare at her. She continued, "Men with little dicks got all kinds of things to prove to people, mainly that a little dick don't matter as long as you can beat up who you want and buy lots of toys."
Beckworth opened his mouth to say something to the woman, but a look at the shotgun changed his mind. He pointed at Madeleine. "This ain't over yet. Count on it."
He turned around then and walked down the way he had come. The woman with the shotgun started laughing, and she went on laughing even after Beckworth turned and threatened her, too.
Madeleine stared at the stout woman and saw that her amusement was genuine and that she seemed to have enjoyed the entire exchange. Madeleine extended her hand and introduced herself. "Thank you for your help."
"You're welcome, Madeleine. My name is Gloria Birdy. That's my husband, Earl Lee, standing ready at the window in the house there."
"Earl Lee Birdy?" Madeleine said, and Gloria shrugged.
"His mama had rocks in her head. She thought it was funny."
''You handled that so easily," Madeleine had to say. "My heart's still pounding."
"Just like old times," said Gloria. "Me and Earl Lee worked as corrections officers for years."
Madeleine lifted her brows in surprise. "You were a prison guard?"
"I worked honor camps, mostly. Earl Lee worked the hot house."
"The hot house?"
"Leavenworth. He did Lansing, too, just before he retired. We're pretty much used to walking trash you could say."
"He didn't frighten you at all," observed Madeleine.
"Not hardly," said Gloria with a snort. "You see as many damned crybabies behind bars as I have and you tend to rethink the whole male mystique thing, if you know what I mean."
Madeleine smiled and Gloria bent to pick up her fallen glass of tomato juice. Half the juice was still in the glass.
"Did you see his face when I said what I did about his dick? Nailed that one, I could tell. His hands started twitching like they wanted to cover it up."
Madeleine couldn't help but laugh, and Gloria laughed with her. "You wanna come in?"
"Yes," said Madeleine, surprising herself. "Thank you."
She followed Gloria inside the house and found herself being introduced to Earl Lee, who was every bit as tall as Eris, but twice as big around. The man took her hand and shook it, his huge hand surprisingly gentle.
"Have yourself some trouble down at the bay today?" he asked, and Madeleine briefly told them both what had transpired before she rushed up the hill. While she was still thinking about it, she mentioned the disturbing phone call and saw both Gloria and Earl Lee shake their heads.
"Bad business going on at the lake this year," said Gloria, and the conversation took off from there, with Madeleine contributing what she knew and then trading gossip back and forth about the various lake residents—chief among them, Sherman Tanner.
Gloria made a face of disgust. "Have you caught him in the graveyard yet?"
"I've seen him out there," said Madeleine. "I wasn't sure what he was doing. I went to look the next day, but I couldn't find any overturned earth."
"Did you find any sticky stuff decorating the markers?" asked Gloria, and Earl Lee groaned and turned away.
"Sticky stuff?" asked Madeleine, and Gloria made an obscene gesture with her hand over her crotch. Madeleine blinked. Her stomach turned. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
"The man is sick. How disgusting."
Gloria grinned. "Maybe you'll help me, Madeleine. I'm always threatening to go out there with a camera and catch him at it. Next time you see him up there, call me. I've got the right equipment. We'll get a frontal shot and post copies of it all over the park."
It was past dark before Madeleine got up to leave, and she assured both the worried Birdy's that she would run all the way home and scream at the top of her lungs if anyone threatened her.
At home she found not Eris waiting for her, but Dale Russell, and she marched onto her porch and asked him just what the hell he thought he was doing.
He got up from the step and smiled. "Whoa. I guess you haven't seen Renard. I told him to tell you I was just kidding around with you about the fish. I got a license for you and everything."
"You weren't kidding and both of us know it. Why the sudden turnaround, Dale? What are you up to?"
He held up a hand and looked slightly annoyed. "Hey, I'm just trying to be nice here. I was doing my job, for one thing, but for the record, I was joking. Come on, Madeleine, give me a break."
"Did you call me today?" she asked. "Was that another joke?"
He stared at her. "Call you? No. What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Don't tell me that. What did they say?"
"He said I should be careful, living up here all alone."
"It was a man?"
"Yes. He had something over the phone to disguise his voice."
Russell looked around himself. "Has to be somebody who knows you."
"He said he's been watching me."
"It could be Renard," said Dale with a smile. "Ugly fool's probably got a thing for you. It happens, you know."
Madeleine said nothing. Her mouth tightened.
"Can I come in?" asked Dale.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I told you, I'm not interested. And I happen to be very tired right now and in no mood for conversation."
She wouldn't tell him about the idiot in the ball cap. She would tell Eris, but not Dale Russell.
"What is it, Madeleine?" he complained. "What the hell have you got against me?"
Madeleine turned on him, wondering what it was going to take to be rid of him. "I get it," she said. "You're one of these men who wants only what he can't have. Because I've rejected you, I'm fair game in the forest, is that it?"
"What else is worth wanting?" said Dale with a sudden smile. "I hate it when things come too easily. I like to be told no on occasion. It's good for me."
"Glad I could be of help," she said, and she opened the door and slipped inside before slamming it shut behind her. For good measure she turned the deadbolt and waited, breathless, until she heard him leave.
Hormones raged among the mutant lake men, she found herself thinking. They were all insane.
With one exception.
She had looked in his garage when she came home but saw no truck inside. She cooked dinner and ate while keeping an eye out for either Eris or Sherman Tanner. She saw Tanner come up the road just after nine-thirty, minus the dog. He was headed for the cemetery. Her hand was on the phone to call Gloria Birdy when she saw Eris's truck stop at his mailbox. She ran to the bathroom to put in her diaphragm before skipping out of the house. She caught Eris just as he stepped onto his porch and she threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle. She heard what sounded like a chuckle out of him as he reached awkwardly around her to open his door and carry her inside. She kissed his face and neck and told him how much she had missed him and how happy she was to see him. Then she smelled the blood on him. She leaned away and saw it staining the front of his shirt and the tops of his trousers. She slowly slid out of his arms.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine," he said. "A semi hit some cows."
She made a face and looked at her own clothes. They were still clean.
Eris dropped his mail into the chair and Madeleine suggested he clean up while she fixed something to eat. He nodded and moved tiredly down the hall to the bathroom while Madeleine went to forage in his kitchen.
Twenty minutes later she had an egg salad sandwich, tomato slices and pickles to eat. Eris came out with wet hair and wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans to sit down in his chair. Madeleine carried a plate in to him and found him staring at an envelope in his hand, his expression strange.
She put the plate down on the table beside the chair and moved behind him to look at the envelope. It was from an adoption agency.
"Open it," she said softly.
"I don't want to," he said. "Not right now."
"Not in front of me?" she asked. "When did you write them?"
"Almost a year ago."
"You've written others?"
"Yes."
"You're looking for your natural parents?" she asked, then shook her head. "Obviously you are. I'm sorry if I sound dumb. I wish you would open it."
He put down the envelope and picked up the sandwich.
Madeleine bit her lip and moved to sit down on the floor in front of him, facing the television. After a moment he picked up the remote and turned it on. She sat and watched a program she couldn't name while he finished eating. When he put the plate on the table beside him and made no move to pick up the letter, she said, "Do you want me to go?"
He said nothing, only sat in his chair.
Madeleine got up and left. On the way to her cabin she saw Tanner coming back. She kept her head down and went inside, unable to face anyone at the moment.
In the bathroom she removed her diaphragm and then went into her bedroom to put on her T-shirt. She was in bed with the covers pulled over her head when she heard a knock at her door. She left the bed and went into the living room, half expecting to see Dale Russell outside. She peered past the curtain on the window and sighed in relief.
She unlocked the door and opened it. Eris stepped inside and wordlessly took her in his arms. He was still shirtless and the scarred skin of his back felt slightly cool from the night air. Madeleine held him and closed her eyes, wanting to ask why he closed himself off from her, why he turned away from her and hurt her so badly.
She said nothing, only sought his mouth when he pulled back to look at her. There was as much desperation in his kiss as in hers, and she could only wonder what the letter had said to make him hold her so fiercely and kiss her so deeply, until she had to tear her mouth away and gasp for breath.
Eris shoved the door shut and pulled her into the hall. As he led her into the bedroom she thought of nothing but the sharp, sweet, arcing pains in her middle and what would help assuage them. There was nothing else.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dale Russell ran across Shelly Bigelow sometime after midnight. He was still brooding over Madeleine Heron and how she had managed to make him feel like shit from a Chihuahua when he saw the drunken girl staggering back to the bay where her father's pontoon boat was docked. Without thinking, he cut the lights on his truck and eased off the accelerator to quietly follow her. He thought about busting her for some offense or another, but Dale knew her father would have her out and about again in no time. They lived near Emporia, where the old man had a huge spread, lots of acreage and cattle, and he spent most of the summer on the pontoon boat on the lake while his wife ran the ranch. Dale had never actually seen the wife. He knew only the old man and his daughter, Shelly, mainly because Shelly had made a point of making herself known to Dale last year.
She used every opportunity to run up and blab, or to touch him in some suggestive way, until the night of the most recent dance, when he finally told her to get lost. The spoiled little brat had laughed and said it was fine with her. Everyone on the lake knew what a joke Russell was, how his job wasn't a real job, and how the Department of Wildlife and Parks just wanted him out of the way somewhere safe, where he couldn't get into too much trouble, so his aunt, the governor, would stay happy.
Dale let it go because he had no choice. People were listening, looking, and whispering. How she knew what she did was what pissed him off, and he couldn't help but wonder who had been doing all the talking.
Had to be somebody from the lake office. Somebody who knew the Bigelow's.
His job wasn't a real job? Just because he patrolled the water in a boat didn't mean he wasn't working. He got sick of it. He hated staying at the lakes all day every day while Renard got to drive all over and screw around for the whole day if he wanted. Just one day Dale wanted to follow Renard and see exactly what he did. No one was that dedicated to a job, particularly when unsupervised.
Of course Dale realized what a plum assignment he had pulled the last two years. There was not a great deal of nefarious industry at Green Lake.
Renard had arrested four people in connection with drug-related activity last year. The lake traffic wasn't much. The place was clean and he enjoyed the water. Or at least he had before Kayla Lyman came along and ruined it for him.
But he wouldn't mind a little more responsibility, say having his own area the way Renard did, and actually being able to draw his gun once in a while.
Renard had been shot at twice, both times when he was out trying to catch spot-lighters. Dale wasn't too crazy about that, but there were ways to avoid being shot at.
Not that he was a coward. He wasn't. A coward could not have done what he did. He killed a little girl to cover up a terrible, unfortunate mistake. Her death had been an act of desperation on his part, something he was training himself to forget.
And it was working. The memory of her death struggles was already fading. It was the part before, the good part, which he remembered only too well.
Dale's nostrils flared as he thought of the mess concerning the Lyman's. The wife had confessed to Renard and Renard told everyone else and brought the cops back to the lake again to ask questions and make everyone feel as if they were guilty of something when all they had done was help look for a missing little girl who wasn't missing at all. People didn't know when to leave well enough alone. They didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.
Like snotty Shelly, spouting off in front of everyone at the dance. Dale had smiled and laughed, all the while wanting to slam his fist into that flapping mouth of hers.
His foot pressed ever so slightly on the accelerator as she turned on the road leading down to where her father's pontoon boat was docked. She held out her arms as if for balance, and Dale's gaze locked onto her spine as his foot pressed down even harder on the accelerator. She turned in the darkness to see the approaching vehicle. Dale mashed even harder with his foot, and when he saw the sunglasses on the dumbshit's face he jerked on his headlights so the glare would be all she could see.
The truck slammed into her doing thirty-five miles an hour and catapulted her body nearly twenty feet down the road, landing only a few yards from her daddy's precious pontoon boat.
Dale's anger fled him at the sound of the squishy, sickening thud at the front of the truck and became replaced by panic. He looked frantically around him and floored the accelerator again to escape before anyone chanced a look out a window. He thanked God it was so dark around the lake at night and realized in just seconds he had broken into a full sweat that soaked the collar of his shirt and the area around his armpits.
Nervous laughter erupted from his throat, followed by several choking sobs of terror. The sound of intractable metal and plastic impacting with fragile flesh, bone, and tissue replayed itself in his mind over and over as he sped away.
Then, slowly, he began to calm himself. No one had seen him. Just like with the little girl at The Haven, no one had been around and no one saw what he did. He was alone on the road but for the staggering, inebriated Shelly. The area was pitch black and stayed that way thanks to the hillbilly assholes who liked to shoot out the lights around the bay areas.
A sudden thought struck him then, and he drove as quickly as he could to an area he knew was lighted so he could get out and look at the front of his pickup.
It was fine. Later model trucks were equipped with resilient grills that held up against just about anything a person ran into, dogs, deer, or drunken teenage sluts.
He took a flashlight and went over the front of the truck inch by inch, looking for hairs or flesh or specks of blood, and wiped with a towel every little spot he found.
Then he began to think about Shelly sprawled down there on the road and wondered how long it would be before anyone found her.
He wondered if he had killed her, or if she lay there still alive, struggling in her drunken stupor to hold on.
God, what a mess, he told himself, now remorseful. Poor, dumb little bitch. What was she doing out so late? Why was she alone? If only someone had been with her, he would never have done what he did.
After thinking about it for an hour, Dale drove to Fayville and made an anonymous call to the police.
Half an hour later his beeper went off, and when he called in he was told by a grumpy, grousing voice that Renard wasn't answering his beeper and someone needed to go down to Diamond Bay, where a hit-and-run accident had occurred.
"Who was the victim?" Dale asked.
"A young girl."
"Is she dead?"
"Close to it. She was able to make enough noise for someone to find her, but she's unconscious now. Go down there and see what you can do for the police. And if you see Renard, tell him to call in."
Dale didn't think he would see Renard, and he was overjoyed to be called into service in his stead. He wondered briefly what was wrong with Renard's beeper, but all thoughts of the tall CO were dismissed from his mind as he put the truck in gear and drove as quickly as he could to Diamond Bay and the scene of the accident.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As Madeleine slept in his arms, Eris stared into the darkness of her bedroom and wondered what he would do when he met his mother. He knew he would call the number the adoption agency had given him. It seemed to have taken him forever to realize that it was in fact a telephone number, one of great significance, and it was actually printed on the piece of paper he held before his eyes.
A letter he wrote on a whim after reading a newspaper article on adoption records had come through for him. His own records had finally been unsealed and his mother was now available to him, after all these years just a phone call away. She had made herself available, the letter claimed, in case he came looking for her. Her name was Sara Bent Horn, and according to the woman at the adoption agency she was a nationally acclaimed artist.
He blinked at the information, still reeling from the initial shock of finding he actually had a mother and hadn't hatched from some egg under a rock after all.
He didn't know what to think. Just looking at her name felt so strange to him, knowing he had come from her, had been born of this person whose name he had only just learned.
The chaos of his emotions sent him up the hill to Madeleine, whom he knew he had hurt and wanted only to make it better between them, because first he had been given her and now he had been given a mother and a name and a new point of reference and he didn't know what he had done to deserve any of it but he was deathly, terribly afraid of losing what he had gained thus far.
His desperation must have been evident in his lovemaking because she held him tightly long after it was over, stroking his hair and kissing his face until his pounding heart finally began to slow and the anxiety in him lessened. She waited for him to tell her, he knew. But he couldn't. He couldn't put it into words because it meant too much to him still, and he didn't want to lose control of his emotions in front of her. She meant too much to him.
Madeleine needed someone strong, as strong if not stronger than she was, and Eris instinctively knew she would be disappointed to see him falter. He felt the same about her. It was her strength that made her so appealing, and he did not know how he would react should she turn into someone full of need.
They were alike in many other areas, he knew this from listening to her and watching her. She had read many of the books in his bedroom, and she went over the newspaper in the same manner as he did, reading every single story on the front page to completion before moving on to other sections. They liked the same foods and were unconcerned with matters of etiquette. They listened to the same music on the radio and watched some of the same programs on TV.
She didn't feel the need to talk just to fill up silence, and she didn't seem to mind silence from him. It pleased him just to be with her, and he knew she felt the same. They were, in fact, very much alike.
The areas in which they were not alike neither of them could do anything about.
He touched her face as she slept and thought of the things he wished he could say to her, how inadequate with words he felt, and how he wished he could think of some way to ask her to stay.
Her lids opened, and she looked up into his face. For the longest time she said nothing, only gazed at him. Then she whispered his name, and Eris pressed his lips against hers before she could speak further.
"Sleep," he said.
She closed her eyes and tightened her arms around him, and soon both slept.
A few hours later he sat at the kitchen counter eating cantaloupe for breakfast when he realized he had forgotten to bring his beeper the night before. It was back in his bedroom with the belt he had neglected to put on. He left the stool and bent to kiss Madeleine, seated next to him. She smiled and touched his bare side with a hand while he leaned over her. He wore the same faded jeans and nothing else. His hair was still loose, falling down his back. He enjoyed the look in her eyes as she gazed at him, it made him feel more than what he was. Much more.
He kissed her again and let himself out. At home he picked up the letter with his mother's number on it and tucked it into his wallet for safekeeping. He showered and while he dressed he turned on the radio and heard a local news report, including the story of a hit-and-run accident at Diamond Bay, Green Lake Reservoir.
An hour later Eris stood in the lake office beside the desk of an administrative assistant and listened to a lecture on speakerphone from his superior, who said he was never, ever to leave his beeper behind him again, no matter what the circumstances. Excuses were for worthless pretty boy nephews of nepotistic governors. Since Eris's record had been exemplary thus far, the incident would be overlooked, but it was not to happen again.
The man behind the desk smiled at Eris as the boss ended the call.
"Hope she was worth it."
Eris surprised himself by returning the man's smile. Outside the office he met a yawning Dale Russell, who asked if he had called their superior yet.
"Just now," said Eris. "You check on the girl this morning?"
"What? No, I just got in. I can do it now. I guess it should be me, since I was the one who handled everything last night."
Eris ignored the dig and got in his truck. "After you find out her condition, radio me."
"Why?" asked Russell.
"I want to know," said Eris, and he started the engine of the truck.
"Where were you last night?" Russell asked loudly.
"Out." Eris shifted into reverse and backed up. The look on Russell's face was the first hint ever provided of how he felt about his fellow officer.
Eris's mouth twitched as he drove away. It was mutual.
He drove to Diamond Bay and got out to look around. Blood stained the location where Shelly's body landed, and he went up the road on foot to see if he could find any skid marks or other evidence left by someone trying to come to a stop.
The road was clear.
It was possible the driver hadn't even seen her, he told himself. Maybe whoever it was thought they had struck a deer and just kept going. Or the driver, too, was drunk and swerved when he or she should have braked.
Eris regretted that he had forgotten his beeper, but there was nothing he could have done. There was little to do but coordinate facts with the police. The conservation officers were there mostly as a courtesy, to lend a hand where they could. They knew the area, were familiar with the residents, and passed on any useful knowledge.
As Eris examined the road, Bill Bigelow came to talk to him. Obviously shaken by what had happened to his daughter, his skin looked gray, his eyes sunken. He shook his head a half-dozen times while looking at the pontoon boat and finally announced that he intended to sell the thing and get her away from the lake once and for all.
"The boat?" said Eris.
"Shelly," the man clarified. "She wasn't nearly so wild and crazy until we started coming out here. It was the crowd she fell in with, those wild kids who party every night and drink beer all day long. They don't even ski, or fish, they just come out here to get drunk and pass the hours."
Bruce Beckworth, thought Eris. But Bigelow couldn't blame the kids entirely. He did a fair share of partying on his boat, pouring martinis and playing host to all sorts, many of them girls only a few years older than his daughter, and most of them fond of swimming nude at night.
"Have you contacted the hospital this morning?" asked Eris.
Bigelow nodded. "I just spoke with her mother. Lots of bones broken, hip, leg, arm, collarbone, ribs, severe lacerations, and she lost a kidney, but thank God the internal bleeding has stopped. She's still critical, but the doctors are optimistic."
Eris nodded uncomfortably. He didn't like Shelly Bigelow, but he hated to see anyone suffer such a fate.
"She'll hang in there, I'm sure," he said to her father. Then he excused himself and returned to his truck.
He stopped on the dam bridge to look and see who was down below, and while he was out walking around he saw Madeleine drive toward him in the old truck from her garage. He walked out to the road and she slowed to a halt beside him.
"I'm going shopping in Fayville," she told him. "Any requests for dinner?"
"Shrimp?" said Eris.
She made a face and reached out to cuff him. He leaned away from her arm and gave her a smile that made her sigh. She looked at his mouth and said, "I love it when you do that."
Eris leaned into the cab of the truck and kissed her. When he lifted his head he said, "I can cook tonight if you want."
"No," she said. "I like to cook for you."
"Let me give you some money."
"Only if you want meat. I was thinking more along the lines of beans and rice."
"That's fine, but I still want to give you some money." He reached in his pocket and took out his wallet. When he opened the wallet, the folded letter from the adoption agency fell out. He bent to pick it up and saw her eyes follow his hands. She blinked, but her lips went firmly shut. She would not allow herself to ask him, he saw. He handed her fifty dollars, and her eyes searched his as he replaced his wallet. He smiled again.
"I should be home around six. I'll call if it's going to be later."
"Oui, Monsieur Renard. Au revoir."
He tipped his hat. "Mademoiselle."
At any other time Eris Renard would have felt utterly stupid carrying on in such fashion while standing on the dam bridge in plain view of half a dozen fishermen and various others. He didn't feel stupid with Madeleine. He felt good. His chest expanded as he watched her drive away from him.
It was incredible how she made him feel about himself. He would never get over the way she carried on about his smile. Or his eyes. She nearly had Eris believing he was handsome.
He felt handsome when she looked at him, when her eyes lingered and her hands couldn't stay away from his face.
He was beginning to see what she saw in the mirror, instead of what countless others had seen and shied away from. The scars were somehow less noticeable and his eyes looked different to him, warmer, browner, less hard. He saw his teeth more often, and he paid more attention to his hair because of her. He thought he would probably gain a few pounds, but a regular meal or two wouldn't hurt him. He found he actually preferred sitting down to eat, and he liked the meatless meals she tended to prepare. She wasn't a vegan, she ate eggs and dairy, but she kept the chicken or fish based meals to once or twice a week.
After driving down below the dam to check licenses and chat with the fishermen, Eris went home and took out his wallet. Before he could lose momentum he punched in the number and held his breath. He listened to four rings, and then a woman's voice answered. "Hello?"
Eris opened his mouth and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and struggled, finally pushed a gravelly hello past his lips.
"Who is this?" asked the woman.
"My name is Eris Renard," he managed. "I'm calling to speak with Sara Bent Horn."
"My God," she said softly. "Your voice is so deep."
"Is this Sara Bent Horn?"
"It is. Is this my son Eris?"
"According to the adoption agency I am."
"Where are you?"
He cleared his throat again. "I work for the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks at Green Lake Reservoir."
"You're a game warden?"
"A conservation officer."
"Are you married? Do you have any children?"
"No." He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. Talking with his mother. It was unreal.
"When I turned forty last year I knew I had to find you," she said, stunning him into silence. Forty last year? She was only forty-one now?
"I...how old were you when...?" he asked.
"When I had you? I was fourteen. I don't want to talk about any of this over the phone to you. I have to see you. Please don't say no, I've been waiting for this moment for so long."
No longer than I have, thought Eris.
"I can't get away," he told her. "I'm responsible for—"
"I'll come to you," she interrupted. "Just tell me the nearest major airport and I'll book a flight."
"Where are you?" He picked up the letter with the phone number again and looked at the area code, realized he recognized it.
"Santa Fe, New Mexico," she said. "I'm an artist. I have my own studio and gallery here. Are you anywhere near Wichita?"
"A little over an hour away," he told her. "There's nowhere to stay around here. No motels, really. Just a campground."
"Would it be all right if I stayed with you?" she asked. "Do you have room?"
He did, but she was going too fast for him. He wanted to see her, yes, but he didn't know if he wanted to have her in his house. She was, after all, a stranger.
"You can stay with me," he heard himself say.
"Thank you," she said, and he heard a break in her voice. "You don't know how happy you've made me. I can't wait to see you. I'm going to take the first available flight out, is that all right?"
"Fine," he said.
"Give me your number, so I can call you back with the flight details."
"It would be better for me to call you back later today," he said. "I'm never home to hear the phone ring and the cell service out here is unreliable at best."
"Yes, of course. Can you call me around three, your time?"
"I'll try."
"All right. I'll speak to you again soon. And Eris? This might sound like a stupid question, but are you angry? Have you been angry with me? I have to know."
"Yes," he said.
"I understand. We'll talk when we see each other. I have a lot to tell you."
When Eris hung up he felt numb. He looked around his house and realized he needed some furniture. A couch. A dining table, maybe, and something for her to sleep on.
His mother was coming. As quickly as she could.
He put his hands to his eyes and rubbed. Then he walked out to the porch to feed the baby hawk and wait for Madeleine to come home.
She frowned when she saw him come up the hill. She got out of the truck with a sack of groceries and handed them to him while she unlocked the cabin door.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Why are you still here?"
"I was waiting for you."
They went inside and Madeleine moved to put the groceries away. She waited for him to go on.
"I contacted my birth mother this morning," Eris said. "She wants to come here. She's booking the first flight out."
Madeleine stopped what she was doing and stared at him. "You found your mother? Eris, that's wonderful. You've already spoken to her and everything?"
"She's coming here," he said. "She wants to stay at my house."
Madeleine moved to grip his hands. "I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now."
Eris gave her fingers a squeeze and said, "I won't be able to be with you while she's here."
"No, you should definitely spend the time with her," Madeleine said with a smile. "I wondered myself how we would handle things over the weekend. Manny and Jac still think we hate each other. How long will your mother be staying?"
"She didn't say."
"Will I be able to meet her?"
"I don't know."
His gaze shifted away from her as he said the words. Madeleine fell silent and slowly removed her hands from his to go back to putting away groceries.
"I'm glad you found her," she said, not looking at him. "I'm sure it was important to you."
"Yes," he said.
"Where does your mother live?"
"Santa Fe, New Mexico. She has an art gallery and a studio there."
Madeleine stopped what she was doing again and turned to look at him. "My parents live in Santa Fe, also your adoptive parents—"
"No," said Eris. "It wasn't Santa Fe."
"Oh."
They stood looking uncomfortably at one another, until Eris said he had to go.
Madeleine nodded and turned to finish putting away her things. Eris exhaled and moved past the counter to put his arms around her and pull her against his chest. She stiffened, and for a moment he thought he should let her go, but finally she relaxed against him and placed her arms around his waist.
"I'll bring her to meet you when I can," he said. "I want her to see you."
She lifted her head to look at him. "For a minute there I thought you were ashamed of me."
"Never." His mouth worked, but he couldn't begin to impart what she was to him. Instead he kissed her then turned and left the cabin.
He had to go and find a bed for Sara Bent Horn.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Madeleine cooked her beans and rice that evening and watched in curiosity as a delivery truck pulled up and unloaded furniture at Eris's house. After thinking about it she knew he would need another bed. And maybe another chair, or something to sit on in the living room. Perhaps a small dinette.
Eris showed no signs of coming to eat the meal she prepared so she picked up the phone and called the Birdy's. Earl Lee and Gloria were delighted to be asked to dinner and hurried up the hill, bringing a twelve pack of beer and a can of tomato juice with them.
Both went on and on about the cabin, and after dinner Earl Lee attached himself without hesitation to a sports channel on the television, leaving Gloria and Madeleine to walk outside and sit on the porch to enjoy the evening air. The black kitten played at their feet, gnawing on toes and chasing imaginary insects.
"Seen the digger man?" asked Gloria.
"We call him the Earthworm," Madeleine told her, and was gratified to hear Gloria snort with laughter.
"That's it. I'd heard it before but forgot it."
"Gudrun is Mole Woman," Madeleine added, and Gloria slapped her knee and laughed even harder.
Her short brown hair appeared red in the light from the porch.
The glass of tomato juice sat right beside her, this time diluted with beer.
"I saw him last night as a matter of fact," Madeleine told her. "On his way up to the cemetery."
"Why the hell didn't you call me?"
"I started to, but something else came up. How often does he do this disgusting thing?"
"No one knows for sure. Damn, I wish you'd called me last night."
"Maybe I should have," Madeleine said thoughtfully, staring down the darkened lawn at Eris's house.
Gloria flicked a pill bug at the kitten. "What did you say you do?"
"Do?"
"Profession."
"Oh. I'm a teacher—well, I'm not a teacher anymore. I'm back to being an anthropologist begging for a grant."
Gloria was impressed. "Any specific area?"
"Native American languages."
"Huh. How does that grant stuff work exactly?"
"The begging part? I tell a university what I've done and what I want to do, and they discuss the merits of my application. If they approve, voilà, I get money and time to study and write."
"What do you write?"
"Papers, generally published in scholastic journals. A few years ago I wrote a book on variations in the Sioux language. It was published by a university press."
"Did it sell?"
"Not at all."
Gloria winked. "Must've not had any humping in it."
Madeleine groaned and Gloria grinned.
"Glad to know what you're made of. I can see you as an academic type, with the right clothes and that tight little bun you wear. You ever talk with Renard about his people?"
"Only briefly."
"He's a quiet one, Renard is. Earl Lee thinks the world of him. He once saw Renard cut his hands to shreds trying to free a twelve point buck with a leg caught in a barbed-wire fence. Renard had to tranquilize it first and he didn't know anybody was watching him. Earl Lee said he was as gentle with that buck's leg as if it were a human. And after he had it free he sat and waited with it until the sedative wore off, made sure it was all right. That said a lot about him to Earl Lee."
Madeleine nodded, but said nothing. She wanted to change the subject so the sudden thickness in her throat would go away.
"Earl's thinking about teaching next year," Gloria went on. "The folks over at the community college want him to come and work with a criminologist on a course about the future of penal institutions."
"Sounds interesting," said Madeleine.
"I thought so." Gloria swirled her glass and then took a drink. "I bet the community college would be more than interested in you."
"I'm finished teaching."
"Too many kids with shit for brains?"
Madeleine smiled. "You got it."
"Things are different in the country," Gloria said. "Kids aren't the same as they are in the city. They still know how to say please and thank you and they're grateful just to get off the farm or out of that small town and go to school."
"I don't know about that," said Madeleine. "I had kids from small towns in my classes. They fit right in with the rest."
"So they wouldn't stick out. Out here being courteous is the norm, not the exception."
"Have you told that to the jerk in the ball cap?"
"That punk? Don't even consider him."
"You sound like you're trying to convince me."
"I am. I'd love to have a smart woman like you around all the time. I don't know that many smart women."
Madeleine chuckled. "I'm flattered, but I'm afraid my circumstances won't permit me to remain here beyond the summer."
"Out of money?"
"For starters. Second on the list is the fact that the cabin belongs to my sister and her husband, who only tolerates me because I'm family and because my sister loves me."
"It's a shame," said Gloria. "I can see us becoming cohorts in crime, nailing up pictures of the Earthworm wiggling his worm."
Madeleine burst out laughing, and she found herself laughing continuously over the next hour, because Gloria had just gotten started.
When the Birdy's finally took their leave Madeleine was sorry to see them go. She enjoyed Gloria immensely and wanted to call her sister Jacqueline and say, See? I have a friend.
They made plans to see each other again soon, and Madeleine finally closed the door behind them. It was ten o'clock and Eris wasn't home. She refused to allow herself to stay up and wait for a glimpse of his mother, but there was no chance of sleeping once she was in bed.
The ringing of the phone startled her and she leaped out of bed to answer it, hoping it was Eris but figuring it to be Jacqueline.
"Hello?"
"I can't believe you're fucking Renard. A piece like you spreading your legs for that ugly bastard. Makes me sick just to think about—"
She slammed the phone down and hurried through the cabin, locking all the doors and windows.
Someone really was watching her.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she glanced all around herself, wondering what she could use as a weapon.
Manuel and Jacqueline were going to love this. They would probably kick her out rather than wait for her to leave and take her troubles with her.
She had meant to tell Eris about the first call. She meant to tell him about the run-in with the man in the ball cap, too.
Madeleine's throat and mouth were dry as she picked up the phone and called the county police. She would make a complaint. That was doing something.
The police were understanding and concerned, and they told her to keep her doors and windows locked. When Madeleine hung up she felt better, but only minimally. She went back to bed and lay shivering under the covers despite the warmth of the air. Already she missed Eris.
Ronnie Lyman sat behind the wheel of his green Grand Prix and wondered what else he could do to Eris Renard. Following him, spying on him, and scaring his girlfriend wasn't enough. Renard hadn't led him to Sheila, as he had hoped. He knew the do-good sonofabitch knew where she was. He had to; Sheila had told him everything else.
His teeth clenched as he thought of what he would do to her when he found her. He had a hell of a time convincing the cops the whole scheme had been her idea to begin with. He asked them to watch the television tapes so he could show how she had been the one to do most of the talking. There was no way he could have coached her.
Despite his argument, Ronnie was taken into custody again. He wasn't put under arrest, but the same judge he had seen before demanded his presence, and he told Ronnie he was so disgusted he wanted to order a brain scan to see if there was any activity in Ronnie's head.
"How could you do that to your own little girl?" the judge asked, his eyes stained red and bloodshot. "Don't you know that by perpetrating that hoax, you're just as guilty as the man who molested and murdered her? You delivered her into his hands, Mr. Lyman. How does that make you feel?"
"Pretty shitty, sir," Ronnie had said. "But I keep telling you people it wasn't my idea. My wife, Sheila, got crazy when we lost our house. She said we had to do something, anything, to get some money. So she cooked up this scheme to—"
"You couldn't dissuade her from it?"
Ronnie stared, confused. "What?"
"You couldn't change her mind? This woman you nearly strangled at your little girl's funeral? You couldn't sit down and talk her out of it?"
There was no reply. Ronnie knew when to keep his mouth shut.
The judge finally let him go. But he was on probation for three years, and he had to find a job. Otherwise, he was going back to jail.
Thanks to Sheila and Renard.
Sheila he couldn't do anything about, not right now anyway, but he could make life difficult for Renard until he found a job. Or until Renard led him to Sheila.
He was so good at following people he considered going into the collection business. Renard never once saw him as he went about his daily routine. Of course, Ronnie hung way, way back on the dusty dirt roads, but he never lost Renard once. After one day he was bored stiff, though, so he decided to watch what Renard did after he came home. That was a little more interesting, considering the pretty blonde who lived in the log cabin. Ronnie got the name from the mailbox then the phone number.
Easy.
Still, there had to be something else he could do. Some way to make Renard see what a man felt like to be cut off from his family and set adrift in a hostile environment. Let him know exactly what kind of mistake he had made by messing with Ronald James Lyman.
It was something Ronnie would have to think about. He started his car and drove away from Diamond Bay. His headlights picked up the huge blood stain in the road and he stopped to look at it and wonder. Then he drove on, slowly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Eris swallowed uncomfortably as he stood at a gate in the Wichita airport and watched people leave the plane. He knew his mother the moment he saw her. She was tall, like Eris, and slender, wearing a billowing blouse, a long skirt, boots, and a colorful beaded belt at her waist. Her black hair was held back by a beaded band that matched her belt. Her eyes, when they landed on him, registered shock. She strode toward him and Eris stood where he was, his palms sweating.
"I didn't expect you to be so tall," she said. "Don't ask me why."
Then she put her arms around him. Eris swallowed again as he inhaled her scent. He gave her back a cursory pat.
She leaned away and looked into his face. After a moment, she said, "You look like him."
Eris cleared his throat. "Do I?"
"Yes." She released him and stood back. "I can tell you're uncomfortable with this, with me. I won't touch you again until we know each other better. Forgive me if I seem to stare. You don't look anything like I expected."
He guessed she meant the pits in his face.
"Neither do you," he said. She looked too young to be his mother. She was too attractive, with her dark eyes and appealing smile. She was too vital, too warm, too much like nothing he had ever imagined when he imagined what his birth mother would look like. His resentment of her increased tenfold in those first moments.
"Let's get my bags," she suggested, and she waited for him to lead the way.
At the baggage claim he watched her as she stepped up among the other passengers. He watched the way people looked at her, and the way she ignored them, as if she were used to admiring glances and dismissed them as her due.
Eris was still having trouble believing he had actually sprung from that lithe body. He wanted to ask where his real mother was, the one who was round and gray and cried every time she thought of the baby she had given away. He wanted that mother of his imagination, with the plump, comforting arms and a soft sentimental bosom. Not this woman, who looked like an ad out of Southwestern Art.
She had brought three bags with her, and Eris lifted a brow when he saw their size and wondered exactly how long she was planning on staying with him.
"Don't worry," she said when she saw his expression. "I'm not moving in. I just like to be prepared for anything when I go somewhere."
Eris lifted two of the bags and carried them out of the airport. At his truck he loaded the bags into the back and threw a tarpaulin over them before unlocking the passenger door for her to climb inside the cab.
When he slid behind the wheel, she said, "The people you work for don't mind your hair?"
"No." No one had ever said a word to him about it.
"That's good. I'm glad to see it long. Have you always kept it that way?"
"No. Not always." He started the truck and eased out of the parking lot. He felt her looking at him.
"Who adopted you, Eris?"
"A military man and his wife."
"White?"
'Yes."
"I had hoped otherwise," she said, and before she could go on, Renard asked his question. "Who is my father?"
"Was. He died in an accident on an aircraft carrier somewhere off the coast of Africa. His name was Daniel Birdcatcher. He was twelve years older than me. I lied to him and told him I was eighteen. He never knew about you. I never told him. He died before you were born."
"Your parents made you put me up for adoption?"
"No," she said, looking at him again. "They wanted to keep you. It was my decision to give you up."
"Why?" he asked, his throat dry.
"I was fourteen and had my whole life ahead of me. If I had kept you I would've had responsibilities no fourteen-year-old should have. I was young and stupid and I knew if I kept you my parents would end up raising you, and they were too old by that time. We were also incredibly poor, and I wanted better for you than what I could give. There was no access to abortion, but I wouldn't have had one anyway. I was too much in love with the idea of giving birth to Daniel Birdcatcher's baby. The idea became even more romantic after his death. I was carrying his seed." She paused then. "If all I'm saying sounds trite, then try putting yourself in the shoes of a frightened fourteen-year-old whose only knowledge of babies came from a government-sponsored film shown at school."
"Government-sponsored?" Eris repeated.
"Everything at an Indian school was government sponsored. It was a way of life. For many, it still is."
''You lived on the reservation?" Eris asked.
"Until I left. When my parents found out I signed the adoption papers they asked me to go. An older friend was headed for New Mexico, so I went with her. I've been there ever since, waiting tables, working in bars, selling jewelry and finally making a name for myself as an artist."
"Did you have any other children?"
"You have a brother who just turned twenty-one. His name is Clint."
"You're married?"
"Divorced. I was married for eleven years to a man who owns a ranch just south of Santa Fe. We were too different."
"Was he white?"
Sara Bent Horn laughed. "Never." Then she sobered as she looked at her son. "The white people who adopted you, were they good to you?"
"For a time, yes. Then things changed. I left them when I was very young."
"And did what?"
"Went looking for you."
His mother turned to gaze out the windshield. "I'm sorry, Eris. I'm sorry for being so young and so stupid."
There was silence in the cab for several minutes and then Eris asked about his father again. "What was Daniel Birdcatcher like?"
"As tall as you, but heavier. I fell in love with him on sight. He was dancing in costume, dressed in feathers and scarves and beads, and he stole my soul at a glance. I was tall, too, of course, so it was easy to fool him into thinking I was older than I was. You have his eyes, Eris, and his mouth. I wish I had a picture of him to show you, but I don't."
"Does he have any people still living?"
"I don't know. I never kept up."
"What about your parents, are they still alive?"
"Oh, no, they died years ago. I have an older sister left, and a few cousins. Other than that, I'm it." She turned to him again. "Are your adoptive parents here in Kansas?"
"No. They live in New Mexico."
"New Mexico? Really? What made you come here?"
"I wanted to go to school here."
"You graduated college and everything?"
"Yes."
"I'm so proud," she said, smiling. "My son, the college graduate. Do you enjoy your job?"
"Yes."
"That's wonderful. You look very professional in your uniform. What about your personal life? Are you seeing anyone special?"
"Yes."
"Is it serious?"
He only looked at her.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I'm going too fast again. I'm just trying to learn about you."
"We haven't been seeing each other long," he said. But as far as he was concerned, it was serious.
"I know half a dozen girls in Santa Fe who would fall all over themselves for you," said his mother. "Indian women outnumber the men in New Mexico."
"Madeleine is white," said Eris.
"Is she?" His mother's tone turned polite.
"She's an anthropologist specializing in Native American languages."
"Really."
Eris glanced at his mother. Her look suggested sudden boredom with the subject. A second later she yawned and he told himself she was simply tired.
"I want you to meet her," he said, and his mother nodded and said of course she would meet her, and then she asked him about his adoptive parents again.
They talked for the duration of the drive, and by the time he reached the lake it was after midnight. He glanced at the log cabin as he passed and saw a light in Madeleine's bedroom. It created a sudden ache in him and an urge to go to her, but he ignored it and removed his mother's luggage from the back of the truck and opened up the house.
He had purchased a sofa, chair, a dining room set, bed and dresser that day at a furniture store. He didn't recognize his house when he walked inside.
His mother smiled when she saw the place and said something under her breath about the Spartan way bachelors lived. Eris placed her suitcases in the spare bedroom and asked if he could get her anything to eat or drink. She said no, and asked to be directed to his bathroom. Eris pointed, and while she was inside, he picked up the phone to call Madeleine.
It rang six times and he was about to hang up when she lifted the receiver and said a cautious hello.
"It's me," he said. "Can't sleep?"
He heard her sigh in relief. "I was reading. Did you just get home?"
"The plane was late."
"How is she? What's she like?"
He paused, and then said, "Not what I expected. You'll see when you meet her."
"I could cook something."
"Don't do that. I'll call ahead to let you know when we're coming."
"Okay. I'll see you soon then."
"Yes."
Both hesitated, neither wanting to hang up.
"I miss you," she said softly. "It's crazy, I know."
"Not crazy," he said his voice low. Then he heard his mother come out of the bathroom. "I'll see you later."
"Bye," she said.
Eris's chest hurt as he hung up. He missed her, too. More than he ever would have believed possible. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and lose himself in her softness until things came clear again. There was a strange person in his house who called herself his mother and he wasn't entirely sure he liked her. A part of him wished he had never written that letter and another part of him was glad he had, because he was used to disappointment in life and this was just one more disappointment he would eventually get past. Still he was drawn to her, out of curiosity if nothing else.
He wanted to hear more about his father, everything she could tell him. He wanted to hear about his grandparents and their parents and everything he could think to ask from the storehouse of questions he had compiled over the years. He wanted to know where his name came from and why she had made certain he kept it. He wanted to know about Clint, and those cousins she had mentioned, and the older sister.
She possessed information that had made up the stuff of his private maundering and most personal thoughts, and he told himself she owed him information if she owed him nothing else. It wasn't asking much.
She came into the living room and asked Eris what time he awakened in the morning. He told her, and she frowned.
"I'm sorry. It's biologically impossible for me to rise at that time. What time do you get off work?"
"Whenever," he said.
"Why don't you come by at lunch tomorrow and pick me up?" she suggested. "I can ride with you in the truck while you do whatever it is you do, and it'll give us a chance to talk more. Would that be all right?"
He wasn't wild about the idea, it was against regulations, but neither was he inclined to leave her sitting alone in his house all day. He agreed and told her he would see her the next day. He went to his bedroom, she went to the spare room, and they both closed their doors.
Eris undressed and got into bed. Restless energy still thrummed through him, but he understood the source. It wasn't every day an adoptee met his birth mother.
He thought of the shock in her eyes when she first saw him and wondered what she expected him to look like. Her gaze had fastened on his scars right away, but she said nothing. He was glad.
His lids grew heavier as his thoughts slowed, and he finally drifted off, wondering what her expression would be when she saw Madeleine.
The next days passed slowly for Madeleine. She spoke to Eris on the phone several times, but she did not see him. Sara was not yet ready to meet anyone else, he told her. She said she would enjoy becoming acquainted with her son first. Madeleine said she understood. On Friday morning she got in the truck and drove down to the swimming beach. She looked carefully around for adversaries before taking out her beach umbrella and notebook. For her own entertainment she had been making notes about the lives of the lake people, to make comparisons later with the lives of people in similar communities centuries ago. She doubted much had changed.
Gloria Birdy would look right at home in a scarf and apron, swilling ale instead of red beers. Sherman Tanner would still be a digger, only with cruder tools. Madeleine smiled to herself as she wrote, pondering the intricacies of human behavior. In all her years as an anthropologist she had given little true thought to the vagaries of emotion and concentrated solely on development. For the first time she wondered why she had been so determined to avoid the heart of man as a species. The methods he used to learn and teach himself had always fascinated her, but why he felt driven to learn, what motivated him, had never been a true consideration before now.
She shook her head as she held her pencil and supposed she was entering another stage in her life, one centered on experiencing the very things that interested her now. Now that she felt the way she did about someone who felt the way he did about her. It amazed her how much more alive she felt, how much more aware of every breath, every sensation, every nerve she had become. It was a battle to keep from being swallowed by sensation. To keep herself somehow intact beyond and separate from the relationship.
She was no giddy teenager about to collapse into the identity of another, but all the emotional trappings and stirrings were interesting to observe by the scholar in Madeleine even as she experienced them. The anxiety. The euphoric sense of elation. The overwhelming joy she experienced just to hear the sound of his voice on the phone when he called. The desperate loneliness she knew without him. The aching and yearning for his physical presence. His touch.
Perhaps she had never shown any interest in man's emotional side because she had never been exposed to emotion at such levels. Perhaps some cautious part of her had avoided it, been leery of the pain involved.
She sighed and continued writing. She wrote about Shelly Bigelow, and the fate that had befallen her. She wrote about Shelly's father, Bill, and the many friends he appeared to have gained through his generosity with the pontoon boat, including Denise and Tim Lansky. She wrote for two pages on the violent man in the ball cap, and briefly compared him to Dale Russell. Dale Russell, she believed, would never actually harm anyone or abuse them physically, but the man in the ball cap apparently knew of no other way to salve bruised feelings. He would take what he wanted when he wanted and he would do it with force if he had to. His was learned behavior, Madeleine wrote, and in a sidebar she added what he had said about his father having dinner with the judge.
When she realized her arms and legs were becoming pink even with the umbrella shading her from the sun, she closed her notebook and packed up her gear. Windburn could do just as much harm as sunburn, and it appeared she had a good dose of it. She drove back to the cabin and looked with a start at the clock. It was almost four. She had been sitting and writing much longer than she realized. She put her things away and went to the bathroom for some witch hazel to apply to her tender skin. She tidied her bun and applied lipstick, then she poured herself a glass of iced tea from a pitcher she had prepared earlier. She opened the door of the cabin and looked out in time to see Eris's truck stopping by his mailbox. A woman sat in the cab with him, and both of them were laughing.
Madeleine stared. She had never seen Eris really laugh before. He looked as if he had known the woman beside him for years, instead of having met her just a few days ago. And the woman beside him looked too young to be his mother. Far too young.
She saw Eris notice her and he lifted an arm and gestured to her. He pointed to his mother, then to Madeleine. She nodded and went hurriedly to change. If the meeting was about to happen now, then Madeleine needed to look less pink and wind damaged. She pulled off her top and shorts and put on a pale yellow sundress. She took her hair down and shook it loose, allowing the natural curls to fall around her face and neck. Before she could run to the bathroom and apply makeup, there was a knock at her door. She shoved her feet into slim strap sandals and went to answer.
Eris stood on the porch beside a woman only a few inches shorter than he. She was long and slim and darkly attractive, and her eyes revealed surprise when she saw Madeleine.
Madeleine greeted them and stepped aside to allow them to enter. Eris's eyes on her made her feel instantly warm. He was as happy to see her as she was to see him. When he came inside he surprised her by reaching for her hand. She gave it to him gladly.
"Madeleine Heron, this is Sara Bent Horn, my mother."
Madeleine extended her free hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."
Sara Bent Horn only touched her fingers. "Eris didn't tell me you were such a beauty."
"Thank you," said Madeleine. "I could say the same of you."
Sara lifted her head and looked around herself. "This is a nice cabin. What does your sister's husband do?"
"Manuel is a neurologist. My sister Jacqueline is an anesthesiologist. They work at the same hospital."
"Manuel is Hispanic?"
"He's from Mexico, yes."
"Do all the women in your family go for ethnic types?"
Madeleine's heated flesh went cold. She felt Eris's hand squeeze hers.
"I've never thought about it," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Would you care to sit down?"
"Eris tells me you're an anthropologist." Sara ignored the invitation to sit. Her dark eyes swept over Madeleine's form. "You look almost too fragile with your pink skin and dainty little hands and feet." Madeleine glanced at Eris and saw him stare at his mother with a slight frown on his face. His mother saw the frown and quickly apologized. "I meant it as a compliment, of course."
"Can I get either of you something to drink?" asked Madeleine, forcing another smile.
"Nothing for me," said Sara, and Eris declined as well.
Before Madeleine could ask how Sara liked what she had seen of Kansas, Sara asked the question Madeleine dreaded.
"What are you doing here for the summer? Are you working?"
"It's a long story," said Madeleine.
"I'd like to hear it," Sara told her, her smile cool. "I'm interested in everything Eris is interested in."
"Let's save it for another time," Madeleine averred.
Eris turned to his mother and told her they needed to be going if she still wanted to eat out that night.
"Aren't you going to ask Madeleine to join us?" she inquired, her fine black brows lifting into arches as she looked at her son. Eris looked at Madeleine.
"Jacqueline and Manuel will be here soon," she said. "They come up every weekend."
"You couldn't leave them a note?"
"I assumed you and Eris would want time alone together."
Eris squeezed her hand again and opened his mouth, but Sara said, "We've had time alone together, and we'll have plenty more to come. We're only just beginning to know each other, my son and I. And as I said before, if he is interested in you, then so am I. Surely you'll change your mind and your dress and come have supper with us."
"The dress is fine," said Eris, frowning at his mother again. He looked at Madeleine and she could see the confused irritation in his expression.
"I'll come," she told him, rising to the challenge. "Just let me put up my hair and write a quick note."
His nostrils flared slightly, and his hand held on to hers just a second longer when she would have tugged it away. She gave him a tender smile and left the living room to hurriedly pin up her hair again and write a note to her sister.
Sara Bent Horn's assessment was cool as Madeleine rejoined them. Madeleine propped up the note on the counter and grabbed a jacket and her purse before moving to the door and locking it from the inside. Sara went out, followed by Madeleine, and Eris pulled the door closed behind them. His hand slipped around Madeleine's waist and his lips brushed her temple as they walked behind his mother. Madeleine looked up into his face and told him with a glance how it felt to be near him again.
His eyes darkened and his hand on her waist tightened in response.
Inside his house, Madeleine looked in surprise at all the new furniture and watched jealously as Sara Bent Horn tossed her things casually onto the sofa before removing herself to change. Eris, too, went to his room to change, and Madeleine was tempted to go with him, just to remain close to him. She forced herself to sit on one end of the new sofa and wait. When Eris came out he was dressed in dark indigo jeans and a navy pullover. Madeleine smiled in appreciation and he took her by the hand and pulled her out to the porch with him, closing the door behind them. They reached for each other before the screen door shut, and when they kissed it was as if they had been apart three months instead of three days.
Eris lifted his head when he heard the door opening, and Madeleine released him to wipe the lipstick from his mouth with her fingers. Sara looked outside and said, "I'm ready when you two are."
"We're ready," said Eris.
The three of them rode together in Eris's truck, with Madeleine beside him and Sara near the passenger door. He was taking them to a family-owned restaurant near Emporia, and on the drive over his mother asked Madeleine endless questions about her education, career, and other aspects of her life. Madeleine could feel the tension in Eris building, and she deflected the questions as best she could and finally succeeded in asking a few of her own.
She complimented the woman on her colorful style of dress and asked if her clothes were made by Indian artisans in New Mexico.
"Everything I own is Indian-made," Sara replied. "With the exception of my car, which was made in Germany, but is maintained by an Arapaho mechanic."
"Have you always been an artist?"
"Have you always been an anthropologist?"
Madeleine smiled and tried again. "What I meant was have you always been interested in drawing and painting?"
"I was more interested in drawing and painting than I was in making dolls, jewelry, or doing bead work. I felt there was more freedom of expression in painting, and obviously more money."
"You must be very talented," said Madeleine.
"Yes, I am," Sara said honestly. "I have more money than I ever dreamed possible. White people just love to buy pictures painted by Indians."
Madeleine felt no offense. During her years in the field she had become accustomed to the barbs and the thinly veiled insults. White intolerance of Indians and Indian hatred of whites were more examples of learned behavior, the same as any other intolerance passed on through ignorance.
"Maybe I even have enough money to entice Eris away from his job here and come to New Mexico," Sara said, her dark eyes shining as she smiled at her son. "I want him to meet his younger brother."
Eris only glanced at his mother.
Madeleine looked at him and said, "You have a brother?"
"Half brother," said Eris. "He's going to school in New Mexico."
"Right now he's working in my gallery," said Sara. "I'm sure you could find a position with the parks department in New Mexico. In several places they actually give preference to natives."
Madeleine was silent, listening. She had been to New Mexico many times. Eris would probably like it there.
But she hated the thought of his leaving. In the back of her mind she had been toying with the idea of finding work—even teaching—and a place to live somewhere within a reasonable driving distance, so she wouldn't have to leave him. She had never considered the possibility that he might leave her.
His mother went on talking, telling him how big her house was and how little space she used. When Clint came home from college the two of them encountered each other only when they planned to do so. There were two spare bedrooms besides the one Clint used, so there was more than enough room for the three of them.
At that point Eris took one hand off the wheel and placed it on Madeleine's knee.
Madeleine felt Sara's look, heard a pause in her speech, and she tucked her hand beneath Eris's arm. She wanted to look at him, but it was unnecessary. He had spoken volumes simply by touching her and leaving his hand where his mother could see it.
Sara drew breath and continued, undaunted. She talked about New Mexico and its inhabitants until they reached Emporia and found the restaurant. Eris guided them through the doors and once they were seated inside and had given their orders to the waitress, his beeper sounded.
"Sorry," Eris said, and he got up to make a call.
As he walked away, Sara looked at Madeleine and said, "Dedicated, isn't he?"
"He is," Madeleine agreed. "Do you mind if I ask where you came up with his name? It's unusual."
Sara gave a brief shrug, as if it wasn't important. "I saw the name spelled with an A in a children's book and decided to do it differently." She paused, briefly. "What exactly do you want with my son?"
Madeleine looked up, surprised at the bluntness of the other woman's question.
"You're older than he is, aren't you?"
"Yes."
Sara leaned back. ''You obviously have a thing for native men. How many did you go through while you were in the field? One at each reservation? You must have missed it while teaching."
Madeleine stared at the other woman. "You're very wrong."
"I can't be," she said, shaking her head. "Don't play stupid with me, you know exactly what I'm getting at here. I'm his mother and I already love him, but he's no beauty."
"Wrong again," said Madeleine, her gaze unwavering. "You've known him only a few days."
"How long have you known him?"
"Long enough to know there is no one else like him."
"I want him to come back with me," said Sara. "Don't make it hard for him."
"You mean for you."
"He will come back with me," Sara assured her. "All our men go through a period of attraction to white women. But he needs to be with others like him and I'm going to do everything I can to make up for all he lost when the whites took him."
"I was under the impression you gave him away," said Madeleine, and Sara's eyes turned cold with anger.
"You know nothing about it."
"True," Madeleine admitted.
Sara smiled suddenly. "This conversation is absurd, really, because I'm not going anywhere right away. Your hold on him is probably sexual, nothing more, and my presence here will put a damper on that. When the sex is over everything else will be over. It's nothing personal, believe me. You seem like a nice person."
Madeleine struggled to make her voice light. "No offense taken, Sara. I've met a lot of people just like you and I'm used to it."
Sara's chin quivered angrily and she opened her mouth, but Eris came back to the table at that moment and apologized again.
"Well, what happens now?" Sara asked when he didn't sit down again.
"We ask for our food to be placed in take-out bags," said Madeleine.
Sara frowned. "What on earth has happened?"
"A possible rabid skunk," said Eris. "We've had four so far this year."
He went to speak to the waitress, and Madeleine and Sara looked at each other again, but neither said a word.
They remained silent on the drive back, Madeleine and Sara carrying their bagged dinners in their laps. Eris glanced over occasionally, but neither would meet his look. At the lake, Madeleine saw Jacqueline and Manuel's Jeep in the drive and asked to be let out at the log cabin. Eris stopped the truck in the road and got out, taking the dinner from her so she could slide over.
Once she was out she took the dinner, thanked him, and lifted herself on her tiptoes to brush his lips before turning and walking across the road. Not another word was said between Madeleine and Sara Bent Horn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eris stayed busy most of the weekend with call after call, and when he was able to go home, he talked and ate with his mother, who gave him the stories he asked for about his grandparents and their grandparents and regaled him with tales of Fox who lived long ago, the ones who fought the whites and won. She made him smile when she attempted to show him a dance and teach him a song, and she told him his father took cash prizes at every powwow in the state. Daniel Birdcatcher was the best dancer she had ever seen, she claimed.
Occasionally Eris's attention wandered to the door or the window. He hadn't seen Madeleine since the night she met Sara and he wondered if his mother's rudeness had changed things in some way. The silence between the two women on the return drive had been an uncomfortable one, and he knew something unpleasant had occurred between them. One had to listen to his mother only a short time to realize how much she hated white people. Eris understood some of it, but he didn't understand all of it. Particularly her reaction to Madeleine. He had felt proud to show her off, the beautiful, intelligent woman who wanted him, but his mother's behavior made him embarrassed for Madeleine and angry with Sara. He had no idea what to do now. He thought Madeleine would understand, having been exposed to white hatred before, but he still wanted to see her, talk to her.
On Sunday night, after he saw Jacqueline and Manuel leave, he told his mother he was going to see Madeleine.
"Can't it wait?" she asked. "She'll be here the whole summer. I won't."
Eris didn't know about that. She hadn't shown any inclination to leave so far. Hadn't even discussed it. Not that he was anxious for her to leave, but he didn't want to put his relationship with Madeleine on hold indefinitely.
"I'll be back," he said.
"Why not invite her down here?"
"I want to be alone with her," Eris clarified, and before his mother could argue further he opened the door and exited the house to walk up and knock on the door of the log cabin.
Madeleine seemed surprised to see him. She opened the door and peered past his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone behind him.
"Hi," she said.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Yes, of course." She stood aside and allowed him past her. She seemed to hesitate before closing the door, and Eris asked if she was expecting someone else.
"No, I just...didn't expect to see you."
Something had changed. He could feel it. He moved toward her and saw her take a step backward.
It reminded Eris of when he first met her. It hurt.
"How was your weekend?" she asked, clasping her hands in front of her.
"Busy," he said. "I wasn't home much."
"Me either. Jacqueline took me to Wichita for the day on Saturday. It was good to be in the city again. And to drive my own car. I wanted to bring it back here, but Jacqueline talked me out of it. It's an Audi."
Eris nodded. He could see her in an Audi.
"Madeleine," he said, "What did she say to you?"
"Jacqueline?"
"Sara."
Madeleine lifted her hands. "Nothing I didn't expect. She is your mother, after all, and she's looking out for her son."
"I can look out for myself."
"She thinks you need to be with others like you. She wants you to learn everything I couldn't teach you."
"I'll decide what I need." Eris moved toward her once more and then stopped when she retreated from him again.
"Don't do that. Please. You don't know what it does to me to see you backing away."
Sudden emotion clouded Madeleine's face as she looked at him. "You don't know what it's doing to me. I only want what's best for you."
"Goddammit." Eris slammed a frustrated hand against the wall. "Don't say things are going to change because of something that woman said to you."
Madeleine stared, startled by his angry display. Eris swallowed and strode forth to take her by the arms. He pulled her to the sofa and sat down to draw her onto his lap and put his arms tightly around her. He held her as close as he could without hurting her, kissing and touching her face until she made a noise in her throat and lifted her arms around his neck to hold him just as tightly. "I gave you the chance," she said to him.
He breathed out in relief and lifted a hand to cup her head. The thought of losing her did strange things to him, now that he knew how good it could be, how it felt to have someone who cared about him. He had that with his newfound mother, he knew, but his mother had to love him because he was her son. Madeleine didn't have to care about him. She didn't have to cook dinners for him or kiss him or make love with him. She didn't have to throw herself into his arms when he came home from work, or look at him the way she did. Him, with his face, the face even his mother looked at now with poorly disguised pity. His beautiful Madeleine was his because she wanted to be, and his feeling for her only intensified to realize how much she did not need him.
He put a finger under her chin and lifted her head to look at him. She closed her lids to his probing gaze and he touched her lashes to make her open them again. When she was looking at him, he said, "I used to have a Volvo."
Madeleine stared at him in confusion for several seconds. And then she laughed.
He smiled and leaned his forehead against hers. She laughed again, hugged him, and they looked into each other's eyes. After a moment their gazes turned sober.
There was an air of anticipation between them as they went on looking at each other for breathless seconds. Then Madeleine put her hands to his face, and in a broken whisper she said three words that made his eyes squeeze shut and his breathing stop. He wanted to say her name, but no words could make it past the thickness in his throat. He could only hold her to him and clutch at her arms and shoulders with his hands. For the first time in his life he felt like giving thanks. The first twenty-seven years had been pretty dismal, but here was a woman he adored telling him she loved him.
He felt her lips cover his and he opened his mouth to kiss her. Madeleine's hands still cupped his face, and she began to gently kiss him on his cheeks and chin and forehead, her lips soft against the pits and scars of his skin. Eris opened his eyes finally to look at her, and he saw the words she had spoken repeated in her gaze as she looked at him. A shiver passed through him and the skin of his arms and chest goose pimpled. As one they left the sofa and moved down the hall to the bedroom, unbuttoning clothes and taking down hair as they went.
Minutes later her fingers were tangled in his hair and he was tasting the skin below her navel when he felt her jump. Then he heard the reason for it.
Someone banged loudly on the door.
They looked at each other then Eris got up and put on his jeans. He went to the door shirtless and barefoot, to let his mother know he wasn't planning on coming home that night. He swung open the door and saw Dale Russell standing on the porch. Dale Russell stared at Eris. His brows drew together in a deep frown. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"That's my business," said Eris. "What do you want, Russell?"
He smirked and moved down a step. "The same thing you just got, obviously. Guess I'm shit out of luck tonight."
Eris shoved open the screen door and grabbed the other man before he could leave the porch. Russell fought and Eris slammed him into a post and held him by the throat, telling him what he would do to him if he ever spoke that way again. Russell's face turned red and then purple before Eris finally released him. Russell gagged and coughed and spat, and then he reached to the waist of his uniform and drew his weapon. He pointed it at Eris.
"You sonofabitch," he said hoarsely. "I'll kill you."
"Bullshit," said Eris, and behind him he heard an intake of breath. Madeleine stood behind them.
Dale's eyes darted to the door. "Now I know why I'm having such a hard time with you, Madeleine. My skin's too clear. And maybe too white, huh?"
"Put the gun away now or I'll take it from you," Eris warned, and his eyes spoke to Russell as he stood holding the weapon in his hand. Eris knew he could take it from him, and Russell knew it too.
He forced a laugh and holstered the gun. He laughed again as he walked to his truck and climbed inside. He was still laughing as he drove away.
"Asshole," Eris muttered under his breath, and he turned to go back inside, Madeleine stood just inside the door, dressed in a robe. She stared at Eris with a peculiar expression. Eris closed the door behind him and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. After he drank the water he found her still looking at him. He put the glass down and asked her what was wrong. She gave her head a small shake. "I had no idea you were so fearless."
Eris said, "If he was going to shoot me he would have done it rather than talk about it."
Madeleine swallowed. "How reassuring."
He took her hand and they returned to her room. "If he comes back to bother you while I'm not here, call the head office and tell them he's harassing you."
She agreed, and then haltingly began to tell him about the phone calls she had received, and her second meeting with Bruce Beckworth, the man in the ball cap.
Eris sat down on the bed beside her and drew a deep breath. He wished it was Madeleine living with him instead of his mother. He was frustrated by his inability to protect her when he wasn't around. "Ask Gloria Birdy to go with you the next time you feel like getting out," he told her. "I'll feel better if you're with her."
Madeleine nodded and slipped off her robe to lie down again. Eris took off his jeans and moved in beside her. Then it occurred to him to ask about her diaphragm. He gave her a gentle nudge and asked if she was wearing it. She shook her head. "It won't stay in with you."
Eris blinked. "So you haven't been using anything?" "I don't have anything else to use. I didn't think about it while I was in the city."
His heart rate quickened. "Are you concerned?" She propped herself on an elbow to look at him. "Not as concerned as your mother would be if she knew."
He smiled at her and she smiled back at him. Then he took her in his arms.
The next morning Eris rose early, kissed Madeleine on the nose, then returned to his house. Sara was up and dressed, surprising him, and she greeted him as he came in.
"I'd like to go out with you this morning," she said. "Puttering around here is truly a bore, and I always think of dozens of things to tell you that I can never think of again once you're home."
"It's not a good idea today," Eris told her, thinking of the incident with Dale Russell. "I have too many stops to make."
"Please," she said. "I really am dying of boredom, and I'm thinking of going home soon. I want to be close to you a while longer before I go. Your superior will understand, I'm sure."
Eris could see she wasn't going to give up. He sighed and nodded before disappearing to take a shower and dress. In the shower he surprised himself by thinking that Madeleine was more like him than his own mother. Sara, clearly an extrovert, felt uncomfortable spending time alone. Madeleine knew how to occupy herself, the same as Eris. He had seen the notebook she'd filled up with writing on her dresser.
Eris felt glad to know she had struck up a friendship with Gloria and Earl Lee Birdy. They were good people and Eris liked them. He would never have imagined them to be Madeleine's type, but she always managed to surprise him.
Like the thing with the diaphragm. He suspected Madeleine was a bit surprised at herself over the matter. He wasn't certain he could actually sire any children, but then he never believed he would find someone he wanted to have a child with. Not until Madeleine. He was still reeling from her confession, and a part of him almost wished she hadn't said it, because now all he could do was wonder if she loved him enough to stay.
Just thinking about it made his eyes close and his breathing slow. He wanted to say it to her. Leave or stay, he had wanted to push the words past his lips. But something stopped him. He figured it was the adopted kid in him, the one who got suckered into trusting, believing, but got burned every time.
She knew how he felt about her, he told himself. She had to know.
After he finished in the bathroom he passed through the hall to go to his room and found his mother standing at the foot of his bed. Eris wrapped his towel firmly around his middle and told her he needed to get dressed.
"You want me to braid your hair?" she asked.
"No," he said.
She smiled. "Okay. Some do, some don't. Yours is awfully long. Did you already eat, or can I fix you something for breakfast?"
"A egg sandwich would be great," he said, and she frowned at him.
"What?"
"Fry an egg and put mayonnaise on the bread."
"Ugh. The things you bachelors eat."
Eris closed the door firmly behind her as she stepped into the hall. He liked the egg sandwich Madeleine had made for him. It was quick and filling and didn't make much of a mess.
The sandwich his mother made for him wasn't nearly as good, but Eris ate it anyway and swallowed a glass of juice before heading outside to see about his hawk. His mother sat drinking coffee at the table.
His hawk lay dead in its cage, speared through the middle with a long pointed stick. Eris drew a sharp breath and looked around himself, his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight.
His first thought was of Dale Russell, but anyone could have killed the hawk. The slimy kitten-killing Earthworm could have done it, he told himself as he eyed Sherman Tanner's house.
He put on some gloves and removed the hawk from the cage so his mother wouldn't see it. He placed it in the garage in a paper sack to take care of later.
Goddammit. He hated to see that. Someone being cruel to an animal just to be cruel to a human.
His mood soured and stayed that way in spite of his mother's attempts to change it. Finally she sighed and said, "Did you and Madeleine have an argument?"
"No."
"Then what's wrong? Are you always this moody?"
He only looked at her.
"You and Clint, the original silent brooders. I don't know where you come by it, unless it was from my father. He was a brooder to beat all brooders. Made my mother crazy. He'd spend hours sulking and expect everyone else's mood to be just as dark as his. He wasn't happy until he'd made everyone else unhappy. Then he would suddenly, miraculously cheer up again."
A smile tugged at the corner of Eris's mouth. He turned the truck down the county road where he had caught Bruce Beckworth shooting birds and listened to his mother go on about family peccadilloes until she had him chuckling.
Then a tire blew out.
Eris muttered under his breath and stopped the truck to get out and have a look. It was the left rear tire, and it was already flat. He hunkered down to examine it, and a hundredth of a second after he lowered himself, the rear glass of the pickup shattered and he saw his mother's head slump forward. Before he could turn around and look, a bullet slammed into his shoulder and then another struck him just above his shoulder blade, sending him into the tailgate of the truck and causing his vision to darken. Eris flattened and rolled under the truck. From far away he heard the sound of a door slamming and tires spinning in the dust. He twisted around to look, but the pain of the movement caused his vision to darken and he could see nothing but the blackness of unconsciousness awaiting him. He took deep breaths to remain aware, and when he was ready, he moved out from under the truck and pulled himself up with his uninjured side to ease himself to the open driver's door.
He checked over his shoulder as he moved, but there was no sign of the gunman. The pain streaked like fire down his body every time he moved his head and he gritted his teeth as he bent down to slide inside the cab. He reached with his good right arm to lift his mother's head, and his hand came away covered with blood. He saw a red horizontal line that started almost at the back of her skull and plowed through her left temple. Rivulets of blood streamed down her cheek. Eris checked for a pulse and found a faint one. He released her and picked up his radio.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Madeleine's lip curled when she saw Sherman Tanner come hurrying up the drive to the cabin. She took her notebook inside and made a point of slamming the door. He came and hammered on the wood anyway.
''You'll want to hear this," he called from outside. "I just heard something on my radio about our neighbor that might interest you. He's been _shot_."
Madeleine's breath stopped. She rushed to jerk open the door. "Eris? Eris has been shot?"
"That's right." Tanner happily imparted the information. "The woman in the truck with him was shot, too. They're both being flown to Wichita by helicopter, because it sounds like the woman's injuries are critical and Renard didn't want to leave her."
Madeleine asked if he knew which hospital and then nodded when he told her. It was the same hospital in which Jacqueline and Manuel worked.
"Who did it?" she asked, thinking of Dale Russell. "Do they know who shot them?"
"An unknown assailant was all I heard."
"Thank you for telling me," Madeleine said, and she shut the door in his face to rush to the telephone and call Jacqueline. Her sister was in surgery, and Manuel was not in his office, so Madeleine quickly threw some things in a bag, scooped up the kitten, and locked the door to the cabin behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she got in the truck and started the engine. She fumed at Dale Russell, knew he had to be responsible. The man had pulled a gun on Eris last night. She witnessed it with her own eyes.
Worry made her teeth grind as she drove, and she began to pray as she had never prayed, asking for Eris to please be all right. For the first time in her life she was truly in love and the man she was in love with didn't need his mother to die right after he found her. She was important to him, and she could make him laugh and tell him things about himself he needed to know.
Her mental state made her reckless. She made it to the city in under an hour and sped through traffic to Manuel and Jacqueline's house to quickly drop off the kitten before hurrying on. She couldn't leave it in the hot pickup any more than she could have left it at the cabin to go hungry. She wrenched open the door with a key her sister had given her, and saw Manuel naked on the sofa in the living room with a woman who was not Jacqueline.
Madeleine's face went slack with shock and Manuel leaped from the sofa and reached for his pants. Madeleine put the kitten down and left the house, hurrying to the pickup to get to the hospital, a few blocks away. She shook her head in amazement and disgust as she drove away and didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry over all the time she had wasted envying her sister's marriage.
Her heart felt sick for Jacqueline, and she knew she would avoid her sister rather than seek her out once in the hospital. She wouldn't be able to look her in the face without blurting out what she had just seen, and Madeleine had other things to worry about at the moment.
She was given the runaround in the intensive care unit until she told them she was Eris Renard's fiancée and begged to be allowed to see him. A kindly doctor took pity and showed her to Eris's room, where he lay swathed in bandages, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. His gaze lowered as she stepped in the doorway, and at the sight of her face he extended his good arm to her. The doctor nodded and told her to go on, closing the door behind her. Madeleine went to Eris and dropped her purse to put her arms around him. His arm came around her waist and she pressed grateful kisses against his face and mouth before looking him over to assure herself he was all right.
"I tried to call you," he said.
"Tanner told me what happened. Is there any word on your mother?"
"She's still in surgery."
"Where was she hit?"
"In the head."
Madeleine sucked in her breath. It was too bad Manuel was fooling around at home. He was purported to be one of the best neurologists in the state.
"What about you?"
"One in the shoulder, one beneath the shoulder blade."
She swallowed and he took her hand and squeezed her fingers.
"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" she said. "Are you in any pain?"
"They gave me a shot."
"What happened?" she asked. "Do you think it was Russell?"
"No." Eris's eyes shifted away from her. "Russell is no marksman. First a tire was shot out, and then the shooter went for a heart shot on me, but I was already bending down to look at the tire. I don't think he meant to hit Sara."
"Was she conscious? Did she speak to you?"
Eris looked at her. "She came around just as we were landing. She asked me to take her home. She was frightened, and going into shock."
Madeleine held her breath. She would not ask. He would have to tell her.
"I told her I would," he said.
"Take her home."
"Yes."
"How much time will you have off?"
"A few weeks disability, and possible additional suspension for having her with me in the first place. I'll stay in New Mexico a week or two."
Madeleine nodded. "When will you leave?"
"As soon as she's able. It'll be up to the doctors to say."
She squeezed his hand then she cleared her throat and said, "I should go now and let you sleep. I'll come by later, if they let me in. I had to tell them we were engaged."
Eris quirked a brow and Madeleine dropped a fleeting kiss on his lips before departing. She left the room and found the nearest elevator to take her down to the hospital cafeteria. She bought a cup of coffee and sat huddled in a booth in the corner, unable to fight the feeling that once he left he would never return.
When she saw Jacqueline enter the cafeteria she thought of hiding, but it was too late, her sister had already seen her.
Jacqueline looked tired, but she smiled as she walked over to Madeleine's table. "What are you doing here?"
"Eris and his mother were shot today. I came as soon as I heard."
Jacqueline's eyes rounded. "Eris Renard? Who shot him? Why?"
"Nobody knows. He's all right, but his mother was wounded in the head. Last I heard she was still in surgery."
"Who's operating? I'm not sure where Manny is today."
"He's at home," Madeleine said haltingly. "I saw him when I dropped off the kitten."
Jacqueline peered at her sister. "Why did your cheeks just turn red? Did you walk in on him in the bathroom or something?"
Madeleine covered her mouth and stared at her sister over the top of her hand. The mental debate of whether to tell her or not tell her lasted approximately ten seconds.
She had to. If the circumstances were reversed, Madeleine knew she would want to know.
"I walked in on him with another woman, Jacqueline. They were both naked on the sofa."
Jacqueline gaped soundlessly at her for nearly thirty seconds while her face went white. "You're lying," she said finally. "You're paying me back for everything I said to you. It's been eating you up thinking of a way to get back at me and you—"
Madeleine put her hands over her eyes and shook her head. She got up to leave the table, but Jacqueline snatched her by the arm and pulled her around.
"Tell me you're lying, dammit. Tell me."
Madeleine could only look at her and apologize with her eyes.
Jacqueline swerved away from her and bent over to grip the table and make a choking sound. Madeleine put a hand on her back, but Jacqueline knocked it away and collapsed into the booth, her eyes red and her shoulders already heaving in silent sobs.
"I never wanted to hurt you," Madeleine whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Go away," said Jacqueline. "Just go away."
Madeleine stared dejectedly at her sister's bent head and wondered why doing the right thing never felt right once it was done.
Before she fully realized what she intended she was in the truck and heading back to Jacqueline's house. She didn't go inside, she simply put the keys to the truck under the visor and hopped into her Audi, parked in the third bay of the garage.
She felt better driving the Audi. Once on the highway she opened up and flew down the road.
While driving she asked herself the real reason she told her sister what she witnessed. If she had kept her mouth shut things might have gone on the same for them, with Manuel occasionally sampling other women and Jacqueline remaining blissfully unaware and still happily married.
Maybe it was vindictive on Madeleine's part. Some desire to take retribution for all Jacqueline had said and to prove to her sister that even people who did good and never hurt anyone got hurt themselves sometimes, just because people were people.
She closed her eyes as her thoughts shifted to Eris. She wished she hadn't told him how she felt about him. She had warned herself not to say it aloud, not to give in to her emotions when she was still unsure of his. Now she found herself feeling like Sam Craven must have felt the last two years of their marriage. The way her sister Jacqueline doubtlessly felt right now.
It was a terrible, desolate feeling.
The miles crawled by as she shifted gears and mashed the accelerator with her foot. She had told Eris she would come by later, but she could not go back and face him that night. She had to get away from everyone.
Ronnie Lyman spent the day following a man in a ball cap driving an SUV. He watched as the man shot conservation officer Eris Renard and hit the woman in his truck, and he giggled himself into a fit when he realized the guy who did it was staggering drunk.
This was too good. It was just too good. Ronnie had been following Renard and hanging way back, wondering who the woman in the cab with him was and what he could do to her, when he saw the whole thing happen. Renard's truck had meandered down the road, kicking up dust, and the SUV pulled out two hundred yards behind it. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the SUV fell in behind Renard's truck. In a flash, the guy in the ball cap had thrown open the door of the SUV and leaped out to begin firing, as if the decision to act happened in an instant. It took him two shots to blow out a tire, and Ronnie was impressed at the marksmanship. Renard himself would be dead right now, splattered all over the road, if the bastard hadn't been so drunk. Ronnie was sure of it.
The guy had balls, he gave him that. But now Ronnie wondered what else he had. He followed him all the way back to Fayville and saw the SUV turn off in a drive a half-mile long that led up to a house the size of a damned shopping center.
Ronnie hung in there, watching to see if the place was the house of a girlfriend or someone else, but the SUV stayed there for hours. Long enough for the guy in the ball cap to sleep off his morning drunk, Ronnie guessed. An hour after dark, just as Ronnie prepared to leave, he saw the lights of the SUV come on again. He started his own car and made ready to follow.
The SUV headed northwest again, and Ronnie trailed him as he picked up a couple buddies along the way. Then the man in the ball cap and his two friends headed for a public hunting area, where they began to drink beer, spotlight deer, and take turns shooting.
The guy obviously figured he had nothing to worry about where Eris Renard and his female passenger were concerned.
Ronnie stayed back and watched until the trio decided to leave. They drove to the reservoir and trolled the bays before stopping to join a party in progress at a private dock. When the three men left the SUV, Ronnie hurried over to have a look inside. He wanted to see what kind of rifle had been used on Eris Renard and the luckless deer that night. The rifle was in the back, and Ronnie picked up a .270 cartridge rolling around on the floorboard.
The gun was a Remington 7400. Semiautomatic. A play toy for a rich boy.
Ronnie slunk back to the car and made himself comfortable. The party went on until nearly three in the morning, and he was fighting sleep by the time they stumbled to the SUV. Someone from the party followed them out and told the man in the ball cap to leave the beer he was taking with him. The man in the ball cap put down the beer and kicked the other man in the balls, then hit him over the head with his fists locked when he doubled over. Somebody shouted, somebody else screamed, and the guy's friends dragged him away and shoved him in the SUV, leaving the beer in the grass.
Several guys from the party came running, but the SUV took off after a shuddering start and weaved down the road away from the pursuers.
Ronnie frowned as he started his car and fell in behind. He wondered if he should even mess around with this guy. The asshole was clearly unstable.
But a second look at that big house changed his mind, and he thought he even glimpsed a Jaguar in the garage when the driver put the SUV inside for the night.
Everything that had been driving him the last two weeks, the need to find Sheila and his daughters, the urge to harm Eris Renard and scare his pretty blonde girlfriend, got swept away like leaves in a gutter as Ronnie considered that sleek, pricey Jaguar.
He knew what he would do. He would bypass the guy in the ball cap entirely and go directly to the owner of that Jag. Without knowing it, the owner of the Jag would pay for all Ronnie had lost. For Kayla, for Sheila and the girls, and for the aggravation, jail time, and the thirty-second report on television that Eris Renard was responsible for about the hoax perpetrated by Ronnie. Ronnie's mother couldn't show her face in public because of him. Even the lowlifes at the bingo hall shunned her. And unless Ronnie changed his name or stumbled across someone who hadn't seen the telecast or a newspaper, no one was going to give him a job doing anything but picking fruit or hauling furniture.
But maybe, Ronnie thought, just maybe, the owner of the Jaguar could see his way free to help Ronnie out. Then Ronnie wouldn't need a job. He could just skip the state altogether and say a fond farewell to everyone he knew in Kansas. Including his good friend the judge.
And he would deal with Sheila later, when and if he ever found her.
Ronnie rummaged around in the car until he found a pen. He used a white hamburger wrapper to write on. He wrote down the rifle make and the cartridge he found and added that he had watched the man in the ball cap jump out of his SUV to shoot conservation officer Eris Renard in the back and saw him also hit a woman in the cab in the head.
He finished by writing that he would take one hundred thousand dollars not to tell anyone what he had seen.
Ronnie was sure he had misspelled conservation, and maybe a few other words as well, but he wasn't worried. He idled up to the mailbox and saw the name Beckworth, and was about to put the note inside when he changed his mind. He drove instead the rest of the way to the house and then left his car to stick the note in the storm door. The minute he made a step toward the door a security light came on, and as he snatched at the handle to open the door and shove the note through the crack, an alarm sounded somewhere.
Breathing hard, Ronnie jumped away from the door and raced for his car. He crawled behind the wheel and sped down the drive as the front door of the house opened.
Tomorrow he would give Beckworth a call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Eris slept badly in the hospital. He had many hours to lie awake and wonder who shot him and for what reason. There were so many possibilities he could not begin to narrow it down. Most of the men carrying firearms in the woods disliked and distrusted a conservation officer. It might have been someone Eris nailed for killing game out of season the year before, afraid to get caught again or still pissed off about the first time. It was impossible to say whether the person meant only to wound or to kill, but the placement of the shots suggested the latter and meant someone had followed his truck for the purpose of an ambush.
When he tired of thinking about it his mind wandered to other areas of his life, to the changes that had occurred and were still occurring. He tried to think when it all began, when things started changing, and he found himself remembering a night when he stood in his yard eating a sandwich and watching a woman take off her clothes in the bedroom of the log cabin above him. That was it, he told himself. The first time he had seen Madeleine.
It worried him that she hadn't come by to see him again. He sensed she was troubled by his decision to return to New Mexico with his mother, but he had no choice. He felt responsible for what happened to his mother, who had remained unconscious for many hours after surgery before finally coming around. The eyesight in her left eye was damaged, as well as the hearing in her left ear, and there were minuscule pieces of floating bone fragments the surgeons had been unable to reach, but all agreed the prospects for recovery were good.
Eris saw her first thing the next morning. He asked to be taken in a wheelchair to her bedside by a nurse's aide. She cried to see him and asked how he was feeling. He told her he was fine.
The day before, he had asked the hospital to call Clint once Sara was out of surgery, and they complied. Eris called the number again for her while in her room, so she could talk to her other son herself and reassure him of her condition.
When he ended his visit with his mother, Eris returned to his room and found Jacqueline Ortiz just leaving. Her eyes were swollen and her face pale, but she gave him a brief smile and asked how he was feeling.
"I've been better," he told her as the aide helped him into bed and then departed with the wheelchair.
"How is your mother?"
"She'll be all right."
"I'm glad. I was shocked to hear what had happened. Do you have any idea who was responsible?"
"It could've been anyone," said Eris. Then he asked if she had seen Madeleine.
"No, actually, I thought she might be in here. It surprised me to find her at the hospital yesterday. I had no idea she'd become so friendly with your mother. My sister doesn't make friends easily."
Eris looked away from her. It was obvious Jacqueline knew nothing of Eris's relationship with Madeleine.
"If you see her," Jacqueline continued, "please tell her I need to speak with her."
"Did she stay with you last night?" Eris asked, and Jacqueline shook her head.
"I stayed here. Will you please tell her?"
He nodded. "If I see her." He was beginning to doubt he would, and a tightening sensation in his chest caused him sudden discomfort.
"Are you all right?" she asked before leaving.
He nodded again and looked at her. "Are you?"
"No," she replied and then left the room.
Eris picked up the phone and called the cabin. He let it ring twelve times before hanging up. As he put down the phone, his superior entered the room, and Eris spent the next half hour listening to how these disastrous consequences could have been avoided if he had obeyed the rules of common sense and left his mother at home. Eris answered the man's questions but didn't volunteer any information, and his superior shook his head in disappointment. "You're a damned fine CO, Renard, but if she had been anybody but your mother, we'd be getting sued right now. I'm going to suspend you without pay for three weeks."
"On top of my disability?"
"You want Russell handling things that long?"
"No," said Eris.
"Me either. Take what time you need, then get back to work as soon as possible." He started out and then stopped. "The shell casings found in the road were .270s. Make copies of all your reports and give the police a list of everyone you've offended for the last two years."
With that, his superior left. Eris stared after him and silently thanked him for coming in person instead of simply calling. Then he got out of bed again.
He was still weak. And dizzy. Everything on his left side ached, and it hurt to move his head. He got back into bed and went to sleep.
The ringing phone woke him, and he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"How are you?" asked Madeleine."
"Better. Where are you?"
"At the cabin. Sorry I didn't make it back last night."
"Run into trouble?"
"No, I just...didn't make it back. How's your mother today?"
He told her all he knew.
"That's good news," she said. "You must be relieved."
There was a brief silence between them. Finally he said, "I want to leave here tomorrow. Can you drive over and pick me up?"
She sounded surprised. "Surely they're not ready to release you."
"I can't stay here."
"What about your mother?"
"She'll be all right. I'll drive back in a few days. Will you come and get me?"
"Your legs won't fit in my Audi. I guess I can take it back to Jacqueline's house and get the truck again."
Eris told her about Jacqueline's visit to him that morning, and her request.
Madeleine's voice lowered. "Okay. I'll call her. What time should I come tomorrow?"
"Around noon."
"All right. See you then."
He felt confused and disappointed. Something had changed again. Something in her voice was different. He figured it was the impending trip to New Mexico. He thought briefly of asking her to go with him, maybe settling her with her folks while he stayed with his mother, but they would still be apart.
Eris didn't know what to do. He knew how he would feel were she the one leaving him, but it wasn't the same. He was coming back.
Late that afternoon he went to see his mother again. He sat quietly in her room and looked at her face until she awakened. They talked awhile, and he told her he would be going home the next day because staying in the hospital made him crazy. She said she understood. She didn't mind. He was coming home to New Mexico with her and that was all that mattered.
When he returned to his room, Madeleine stood waiting. She came and slid her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. Eris closed his eyes and held on to her with his good arm. After a moment he sat and pulled her down next to him, on his good side.
"I hate talking to you on the phone," she mumbled into his hospital gown. "It makes me miss you so much."
He kissed her forehead. "I was worried when you didn't come last night."
"I couldn't," she said. "I was such a mess."
She went on to tell him about Manuel and Jacqueline. She had just come from seeing Jacqueline, who decided to forgive her after a screaming confrontation with Manuel, who denied nothing, said it was his right as a male and he assumed it was something Jacqueline understood. Jacqueline didn't. When Manuel said women in his country understood, Jacqueline told him to go back to his country. She would take the house and the car. he could have the Jeep, the cabin, and his precious boat. Manuel had said fine. He would need a week to vacate the house, but he wanted the trouble-making Madeleine out of the cabin immediately.
Madeleine was to go back that evening and pack all her things. Jacqueline had moved to a hotel in the city in the meantime and said Madeleine should come and stay with her.
"It's time to get serious about finding a job," Madeleine concluded. "I haven't heard a word about any of the grants I applied for and I honestly don't think I will."
Eris thought a moment, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then took a deep breath and said, "Come and stay with me."
"Now that you have furniture?" said Madeleine, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
He smiled and looked at his bandages. "I'm going to need some help for a day or two."
"Just a day or two?"
"After that you may be the one who needs help. I'm off work, remember."
Madeleine smiled and then glanced away. "What happens when you go to New Mexico?"
"You stay."
"Until you come back?"
"For as long as you want."
She looked at him, and her hesitancy matched his.
"Do I take it you like my egg sandwiches?"
Eris squeezed her waist in reply, his hand warm and even a little moist. Madeleine put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
As if on cue, an aide stepped into the room and asked Eris if he was ready for a bath.
Madeleine circumspectly lowered her arms and moved aside.
"I'm sure you have other things to do," she said to the aide. "I can help him with the bath."
The woman eyed them in disapproval, but she apparently did have other things to do, because she left the pan, the sponge, the towels, and a fresh gown behind her as she turned and exited the room.
"Jacqueline says this hospital is incredibly understaffed when it comes to nurses and aides," Madeleine explained as she moved to close the door.
"Lucky me," said Eris, and he reached behind himself to untie his gown.
Madeleine filled up the pan in the bathroom with warm sudsy water and brought it to him. Then she proceeded to give him his first sponge bath ever, slow and unhurried, taking her time with each limb and massaging as she soaped, being careful to avoid any areas that were painful to him.
Her lips and fingers followed the sponge across the marks on his back and chest and Eris found himself stirring just watching her.
The aide ducked in once, just to see how the bath was coming, and Madeleine threw a towel over Eris's middle to hide his state of arousal. When she was gone they looked at each other and grinned like naughty children.
She gently toweled his skin dry and helped him into a fresh gown. Then she took a small brush from her purse and loosened the band on his long black hair. She began to brush slowly, moving upward with each stroke, until she brushed from the scalp down. Eris's entire body goose pimpled as she went on brushing and brushing, causing his scalp to tingle.
He smiled as he felt her pick up his hair and band it again without braiding it. When she finished, she moved in front of him and looked into his face.
Eris matched her gaze for a long moment before placing a hand on the back of her neck and pulling her close. She put her arms around him and met his lips, opening her mouth to him and making a noise low in her throat as their breathing slowed and the kiss deepened. Eris heard the whisper of the door opening again and he ignored it, hoping the aide would go away, but a throat being loudly cleared caused them to draw apart.
A start went through him, and he felt Madeleine flinch when they looked and saw Dale Russell standing in the room, his handsome mouth twisted in disgust.
"You've got nerve," Madeleine said, low and angry.
Russell lifted a hand. "I didn't shoot anybody. I came to let you know that. You can believe it or not, but I'm telling you it wasn't me."
Eris only looked at him.
Russell shifted his feet, put his hands on his waist and shook his head. "Madeleine, I can't get over this. You and him."
"Get out," she said.
"I'm going. Just wanted to come by and proclaim my innocence, in case either one of you were thinking of tattling on me for anything." Eris and Madeleine remained silent. Russell smirked and left the room, shaking his head again as he went.
"I think I'll stay with Jacqueline tonight," Madeleine said when he was gone. "I'll come tomorrow to pick you up and we'll go back to the cabin together."
Eris nodded. He thought it was a good idea.
Dale Russell walked through the hospital in search of the elevator. What he really wanted to find was a place to throw up. Seeing Madeleine kissing Renard had actually made him sick to his stomach.
A group of student nurses passed him in the hall, and he felt them all stop and stare at him. Females often did that, stopped whatever they were doing to gawk in admiration at him. It didn't happen as often as it used to, him being stuck out at the lake all day, and he missed it in a way, because he knew something inside him fed off the attention. He didn't do anything about it, of course, but that wasn't the point.
He was beginning to think his problems stemmed from all the time he spent alone. It hadn't been as bad the year before, but that was his first year, when the job was new and he worried about doing everything right. This year he pretty much knew what he was doing, so his mind grew idle during all the long boring hours and he found himself thinking about things he hadn't thought about in years. Like little girls. And one big one.
Madeleine.
His focus on her kept him straight, as long as she kept saying no and looking at him like he was shit on a shoe. But it was also driving him crazy, because no woman had ever said no to him as firmly and consistently as she did. She honestly wanted nothing to do with him, and Russell felt completely stunned and utterly confused to find her with Eris Renard, of all people. The bastard was so ugly. All those horrible marks all over him.
But even Dale had to admit there was something about Renard. Seeing him in Madeleine's house with his long hair down and wearing nothing but old blue jeans was almost scary. He reminded Dale of some wild animal just out of a cage, the way it looked when the door first opened, as if it was deliriously happy to be free at last and at the same time doubly prepared to tear your arm off if you went near it or threatened its newfound freedom in any way.
Renard. If anyone out there unnerved Dale, it was him. Renard didn't give a shit about the governor or the governor's nephew. He proved it when he jumped Dale at the cabin. Dale had spent the night and part of the next day thinking of ways to get Renard fired—until he heard he had been shot. Then Dale became uneasy because of what had happened the night before and he ducked out of sight for the next twelve hours. Eventually he decided the best way to play it would be to confront Renard and tell him he hadn't done it.
One look at Renard's face told him Renard knew he wasn't the one who shot him, and Dale found himself feeling insulted rather than relieved, particularly since he had walked in to find Renard doing what he was doing with the one female who looked at Dale like she recognized what he was inside and knew all his dark, twisted secrets. More than anything else about Madeleine Heron, he thought it was that, the hidden knowledge of him she seemed to possess, that made Dale keep coming back to her again and again. He wanted desperately to have her in a situation where he could see if he was right.
He wished it wasn't so important to him, that feeling he felt when he was doing something "wrong." He wasn't a rapist. Rape didn't appeal to him, because he imagined most of the women he touched would wind up enjoying it once they got a good look at him. There was no gratification in being wanted by a woman. Being wanted was empty.
What he enjoyed most of all was a look of trust betrayed. Like the look Kayla Lyman had given him as he pulled down his underwear and made her open her mouth. Something about that look made him feel powerful and confident and sexy beyond belief.
Dale shuddered as he finally stumbled into an elevator. He had to stop thinking about it. Concentrate on Madeleine again. She was much bigger game, and years older, but that same sense of excitement trilled in him when he was near her, danger and elation mixed with anticipation. Only thing was, he had to make her trust him again, and how he was going to do that he had no idea. Small children were no problem, but grown women, particularly keen, intelligent women with big tall boyfriends, were a different matter.
Still, Dale had to cling to her, had to keep focused on the challenge she presented, if only to keep himself out of trouble and away from any more little girls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wes Beckworth sold cocaine and marijuana for nearly twenty years before going into real estate. The change of vocations was a wise decision for him, since most of the people who had supplied him or bought from him were now either dead or in jail. Wes took the money he had made, which amounted to several hundred thousand dollars, and bought every acre of pasture land and riverfront property he could get his hands on. The next twenty years were even more profitable for him, leasing, selling, and developing, and Wes Beckworth became known as a man with a gift for making money.
His twenty-five-year-old son did not share his gift. Bruce wanted to do nothing but drink beer, drive his boat, fire his guns, and fight with other drunks. Wes would have included women on the list, but Bruce was so obnoxious no girls would even get close to him. A friend of Bruce's once told Wes he had seen his son pick up a prostitute in the city, abduct her, drive her out to a county road and beat the hell out of her—without ever having sex with her.
Wes was not surprised. Bruce had a problem with rejection that started with his mother, who had married Wes only because he could supply her with all the drugs she needed. Wes put her in the hospital a few times, but the night he broke her leg with an axe handle she decided she'd had enough. Bruce, around six or seven at the time, suffered screaming fits of anxiety for years after her departure.
Wes had finally married again in January of that year, and Bruce had been acting like an asshole ever since, getting into trouble every other day by smashing up the SUV, beating up people, and getting arrested.
Now Bruce had shot a conservation officer, wounding him and seriously injuring a woman riding along in the cab of the truck.
It wasn't the first time his son had shot at Eris Renard, Wes heard. Renard came very close to catching Bruce and his spotlighting buddies a time or two. It was only by shooting an AR-15 at him that they were able to escape.
Of course his son denied shooting Renard. A lie sprang to his lips as easily as the word hello. But he told a friend about it, and the friend told Wes, who paid his son's buddies a lot of money to tell him things. Wes never trusted Bruce's version of events, and he had learned early to bribe others into giving him the truth.
But this time there was a note-scrawling witness he didn't know. A witness to the shooting who had the deer rifle and the cartridges right and wanted money to keep quiet. Wes would tell him any hunter in the woods could carry a Remington 7400 and use .270 cartridges, and after learning of Bruce's guilt, his first instinct had been to get rid of the rifle and destroy the evidence.
But that wouldn't make the blackmailer go away, and that's what he would need to get Bruce completely off the hook this time.
There was no question of whether he would do it, but it wasn't necessarily loyalty to his son that made him want to see Bruce remain free. Wes loved the challenge of pitting his mental skills against the system. He had been doing it all his life, and so far he had won. He wanted to keep winning.
When the blackmailer called, Wes was ready for him. It was important to turn the tables quickly and become the aggressor rather than the defender, the hunter rather than the prey, and shift the advantage.
If the blackmailer was the average dumbshit, he would lose confidence immediately and begin to negotiate rather than demand.
"This Beckworth?" asked the voice on the phone.
"Who is this?"
"The guy who saw your son shoot Renard. You give me what I want, I go away forever."
"What do you want?"
"A hundred thousand."
"Dollars?"
"No, a hundred thousand dick slickers. Of course I'm talkin' about dollars."
"Or you'll do what?" asked Wes, smiling to himself.
"Make another call, this time to the cops. I'll even testify if I have to. I saw him do it."
"You testify and I'll slit you open from your balls to your gizzard," said Wes in a mild tone.
There was a pause then, "I bet that works on most people. It don't work on me. I'm gonna want the money by Friday. I'll call again later and tell you what to do with it."
The man hung up and Wes took the phone away from his ear to put it in his pocket. He leaned back in his chair and fingered the edges of his desk while his mind worked. He considered giving the man what he wanted and then dealing with him later, after he knew his name and where he lived, worked, whatever.
He got up from his chair and walked downstairs, where Bruce sprawled in a chair, drinking beer and watching an X-rated video. Wes looked at the screen a moment, then he took the beer bottle out of Bruce's hand and hit his bald son over the head with it, breaking the glass and causing Bruce to leap from his chair in an aggressive stance a second before his eyes rolled up and he fell forward onto his face.
Wes watched the video a moment more, then he turned off the television and walked upstairs to find his wife.
Jacqueline opened the door of the hotel room and Madeleine carried her purse inside. Things were still awkward between them, but Madeleine sensed her sister's anger and hurt were no longer directed at her so much as at Manuel.
"It's not a royal suite, but it'll do," said Jacqueline as Madeleine looked around herself.
"It's fine," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Suicidal. How are you feeling?"
"Penitent."
"Don't. I would have done the same."
"Would you?"
"Yes. I take it you're not going to the cabin until tomorrow."
"Do you think Manuel will mind?"
"Fuck Manuel. Everyone else has."
Her brows lifted, and Madeleine eyed her sister. She wondered if perhaps she should stay with Jacqueline after all.
"Jacqueline," she said, "have you called Mom?"
"Not yet." Jacqueline flopped onto the bed. "Shell drop everything to come running out here. I don't want them to worry."
Madeleine went to sit down beside her. It had been Jacqueline who called their parents to relay the news of Sam's death. They told her not to worry about Madeleine, she was as tough as they came. Things would be different with Jacqueline. Those who gave more needed more, and Jacqueline had always given more than Madeleine.
She drew a deep breath and said, "Eris asked me to come and stay with him. If you need me, I won't go."
Her sister blinked and looked at her. "Renard?"
''Yes." Madeleine's brown-green eyes were steady.
"Oh," said Jacqueline. "To help him until he can operate with two arms again?"
"No. To live with him."
Jacqueline stared again. "You're joking."
Madeleine was silent.
"What are you saying?" asked Jacqueline. "Are you telling me the two of you have been seeing each other? You and Eris Renard?"
"Yes."
Jacqueline made a face. "Madeleine, he's..."
"What?" Madeleine asked, daring her to finish.
Her sister blinked again. Her mouth worked. Finally she said, "You haven't known him six weeks."
"I won't go if you need me," Madeleine said again. "Will you be all right on your own?"
Jacqueline slowly nodded. "I'm still trying to... How did the two of you ever connect? He's so...so stiff and always looks so mean."
Madeleine looked away from her sister. "I don't see the same Eris the rest of you see."
"Apparently not," said Jacqueline, her voice quiet. She reached over to bring Madeleine's chin around. They gazed into each other's eyes a moment then Jacqueline said, "I see a lot of potential for hurt in there, maybe as badly as I hurt right now. Sure you can handle this so soon after Sam?"
"There's no comparison," said Madeleine.
"Meaning you're in love this time."
Madeleine looked down at her hands. Jacqueline shook her head and fell back onto the bed. "Wow, now I've seen everything."
After a moment Madeleine moved to the other side of the bed and pulled the pillow from under the coverlet. As she lay down, she said, "I think you should call Mom."
"Stop worrying about me."
"I want to. That's why I think you should call Mom, so she can worry about you for both of us."
In spite of herself, Jacqueline smiled. Then she sighed and closed her eyes. "How do things get so screwed up, Madeleine? Please tell me."
"I wish I could."
"I thought my life was perfect. I had to pinch myself every day. There I was, married to a handsome, talented surgeon, living in a beautiful home, working at a job I loved and having it all."
"That would have made me suspicious from the start," Madeleine murmured.
"What? What would have made you suspicious?"
"The perfection. It just doesn't happen, Jacqueline. It never will."
"Spoken like a true realist."
"I try to be."
"You'll have to be."
Madeleine turned her head. "What does that mean?"
"Eris Renard is an adoptee who's just found his birth mother. Isn't that what you told me?"
"So?"
"So nothing. You know what you're up against. He's an Indian and she's an Indian and you're white. Not to mention the age difference between you."
Madeleine knew. "I've got to find a job," she said.
"Go back to the college."
"I can't. I can't go back there."
"Then take some money from Sam's parents."
"No, thanks." She rolled over on her side to face Jacqueline. "Is there a big and tall shop around here somewhere? I need to buy something for Eris to wear home tomorrow. His uniform was ruined."
"Not far, I think. He is pretty tall, isn't he?"
"He's six-four."
"Maybe you have something there, Madeleine. Find a man who looks like Renard and you know he'll never—"
"Shut up before you say something to make me hate you," Madeleine interrupted her voice tight.
Jacqueline fell silent for some moments. Then she apologized. A moment later she started crying, and Madeleine moved over to put her arms around her. If Jacqueline didn't call their mother in the morning, then Madeleine would do it.
Manuel made it impossible for her to take the truck, so Madeleine was forced to drive her Audi to pick up Eris. She moved the passenger seat back as far as she could and hoped for the best. She went to the big and tall shop and used the money Eris had given her to buy jeans and a shirt she thought he would like then she hurried to the hospital with her purchases and raced into the elevator, her pulse thrumming with sudden unnamed excitement.
He smiled when she rushed into the room, and Madeleine had to stop as she reached the bed and simply look at him. How was it that no one else saw the natural beauty of him? How could anyone escape the warmth and intelligence in his dark eyes, the fine, straight nose, or the sensuality of his lips?
She opened her mouth and said a greeting to him in the Sauk-Fox language, one or two simple phrases she could remember from the books she had borrowed. It felt good to use the language, feel the texture of it on her tongue and against her teeth.
His brows drew together slightly, and she leaned forward to brush his lips with her own before handing him the sack.
"What did you say to me?" he asked.
"It is a new day, let us greet it together."
Half an hour later they left the room, Eris wearing new clothes and appearing fitful at being seated in the wheelchair pushed by an orderly.
"I moved the seat back in the Audi," Madeleine told him, "but you're still going to be cramped."
He was cramped, but not as bad as she had imagined. As they drove away from the hospital, Eris breathed in the fresh air. He looked at the Audi and then at her. "How long have you had this car?"
"A long time. I bought it when I decided to teach."
"After your marriage?"
She glanced at him. "Before." Then she asked if he had seen his mother that morning.
He nodded. "She's doing well. The bruising and discoloration are bad at the moment, but it'll pass."
"Did you tell her I'm coming to stay with you?"
"Yes," he said.
They were silent for several minutes, until Eris looked at her and asked, "Where did you meet Sam?"
She blinked. "Why do you want to know about him?"
"Because I want to know about you."
Madeleine considered, and then said, "If I tell you, will you answer some of my questions?"
"If it's important to you," he said.
"Knowing about Sam is important to you?"
"Yes."
"Because I'm moving in? Because the last man I lived with happened to shoot himself and you're just mildly curious as to the reason why?"
Eris's mouth twitched. "Because I want to know."
"All right. I met Sam in a bank shortly after I came back to Wichita. I was on the escalator and noticed a blond man staring at me. He dropped what he was doing to come after me, and that's how we met."
"Did you like him right away?" Eris asked.
"Yes. He was charming and aggressive and had an ebullient personality. He seemed to be either laughing or smiling all the time, and after what I had just been through with the silent and sullen Sioux, Sam was a refreshing change."
"Did you marry him soon after meeting him?"
"It seemed like it," said Madeleine, and then she looked at Eris. "No, I never really loved him. I didn't even take his name. Yes, I was running away from what happened to me and hurrying to immerse myself in a normal life before the age of thirty because it seemed stupidly important to me at the time. Afterward, I told myself I was happy and I made myself believe it, but Sam eventually made the error more than apparent."
"Were you ever attracted to any native men?" Eris asked, and Madeleine's mouth tightened. "Is this you asking me, or your mother?"
"It's me," he said.
Madeleine glanced at him again. "I've been attracted to Native American culture all my life, Eris. When I was four years old I drew pictures of braves riding horses and shooting arrows at buffalo. I read everything I could find and knew I wanted to help native people recapture what white expansion robbed from them. My love affair has been lifelong but you're the only native man I've ever slept with."
He went silent a moment. Then he asked, "Why me?"
Madeleine took her eyes off the road once more. "Because you're you."
He looked at her, and Madeleine's breath caught when she saw the narrowing of his dark eyes. She knew she was right, his mother had been talking to him that morning.
"Don't," she breathed. "Please don't let her make you doubt me."
"I don't want to," he said.
Madeleine felt tempted to stop the car. Instead she pushed down on the accelerator and said, "Is it so hard to believe anyone could love you, Eris? Is it so hard to believe I could fall for you just because you're you? You're everything I could ever want. You're pure, honest and strong, you're quick, intelligent and dedicated. You take nothing for granted and yet you live life on your own terms. If all of that isn't enough, we can talk about what you do to me physically, but I'm sure your mother has already talked to you about that."
"She has," Eris agreed, his gaze focused straight ahead.
Madeleine sighed and said nothing further, only concentrated on her driving. After a while, Eris said, "She says your being older is a problem. She thinks you're going to hurt me."
"Jacqueline thinks your being younger is a problem and you're going to hurt me," Madeleine replied.
"You told her."
"Yes."
"I wondered if you would."
"What does that mean? Do you believe I've somehow been ashamed of my feelings for you? Is that what your mother suggested?"
"No. Her suggestion was to find out how serious you are by asking you to marry me. I told her it was too soon. She wanted to know why, so I told her about Sam, and why your sister offered you the cabin to begin with."
Madeleine closed her eyes. She felt him looking at her, but she couldn't meet his gaze.
"When you came in my room this morning I almost asked you anyway," he said.
"Why didn't you?" she whispered.
He turned his head away. He said nothing further and she glanced over at him. The hands in his lap trembled, but his gaze remained on the road ahead.
Madeleine fell into silence and forced her attention onto her driving. They soon reached the reservoir and she had to slow down while driving over the rutted lake roads. The Audi inched along and finally they made it to the cabins. She helped Eris get into his house and then walked up to the log cabin to begin packing her things.
She wondered if she shouldn't just throw everything into her Audi and drive out again. She felt like it. She hated having to defend herself against Sara Bent Horn's insinuations. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.
She moved her things into a pile on the porch and then gave the cabin a quick clean before closing the door firmly behind her. She reached in the pocket of her shorts for her keys and walked with purpose down to get the Audi. Eris came onto the porch and stood looking at her, his body tensed, as if he knew what she was thinking of doing. Madeleine ignored him and headed for the car.
When she reached for the door handle, his hand was there to cover hers. She looked up into his face, and his eyes were black with emotion as he said, "I made room in my closet and dresser for your things."
Madeleine's chest lifted with her breathing. Her mouth opened to make a terse reply, but she made not a sound. The expression on his face prevented her from speaking or making any movement. She stared at him as long as she could, and then lowered her head finally to look at their hands on the Audi's door handle.
"I'll be with you in a minute," she murmured, and she pulled open the door. She went to pick up her things and bring them down to unload at Eris's house. He helped her where he could, and then he sat down on the bed and watched as she filled up his closet and the drawers in his dresser. When Madeleine finished, she went to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. She carried it into the bedroom and found him sound asleep on the bed.
She put the sandwich on the nightstand and pulled off his boots before sliding onto the bed beside him. She put his good arm around her and stared at him a long time before closing her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ronnie Lyman sat on the road by the cemetery and pondered as he stared down the hill at Eris Renard's home. The safest place for a drop was the last place anyone would expect—namely, CO Eris Renard's front porch.
After thinking about it for hours, Ronnie knew he was right. The location of the drop was sure to unnerve Beckworth, certain to be watching the area closely after leaving the money. What could the asshole do to Ronnie in a cop's front yard?
Ronnie drove to Diamond Bay to find a random phone to call Beckworth. The man's speaking voice was a growl that had at first intimidated Ronnie, until he remembered why he was calling. Beckworth's tactics grew even tougher when he heard Ronnie's nasal tones that night and it irritated Ronnie. He decided to cut through all the threats and promises of bodily harm and simply tell the man what he required.
"Put the money in a brown grocery store sack and take it to Eris Renard's house. Put it on the porch at exactly six o'clock."
"What kind of chickenshit—" Beckworth began, but Ronnie hung up before he could get started. The man was nothing like he expected, and he regretted not going directly to his son. A drunk was easier to handle, even a violent one. He knew that from dealing with his own mother and father.
Not that he would give a shit about his mother or father or anybody after Friday. He wouldn't. He was headed south, down Texas way, to see what he could see. His mom thought she was coming along, but Ronnie had news. No way was he taking her with him. She could stay here and rot. It was partly her fault Kayla got taken, and Ronnie wasn't forgetting that anytime soon.
Women had screwed around with his life long enough, and he wasn't going to let another one latch on if he could help it. After all he had done for Sheila, given her three beautiful little girls, all so she could treat him like trash and throw him away at the first opportunity. She probably had another man now. Yeah, Ronnie could see that. He could see her doing her hair up real nice and putting on a pretty dress and some lipstick for some brainless bump stupid enough to date a woman with two children.
Ronnie's teeth ground in his head as he thought about it. Bitch better not ever let him catch her. He'd fix her so no man would ever look at her again.
Eris awakened to find Madeleine curled up beside him. He attempted to stretch and grunted with the discomfort it caused him. Madeleine shifted and raised her head slightly, causing him to relax again and look at her while she dozed. Her lashes were dark brown and curled at the tips. Her mouth was slightly open. He could see faint traces of lines around her eyes and mouth, and a light mole just above her upper lip.
He inhaled as he studied her smooth white skin. Then he thought of Sara. She had told him to ask Madeleine to marry him, and if she said yes, then he would know things were moving too fast between them. If she said no, it was a better sign.
"These romances that flare up like a flame on a match last just about as long," she told him. ''You want something that starts off slow and burns a long, long time."
"Like you had with my father?" he wanted to say. "Or with Clint's father?"
But he said nothing. Women hadn't exactly been knocking down his door before Madeleine came. But neither had he made himself accessible. If Madeleine had not been so aggressive he knew he wouldn't have more than a nodding acquaintance with her.
He caressed her hair and thought of all the wonderful things she had said about him, all the qualities she said she saw in him. His chest had swelled to hear her. He hadn't expected her to say any of what she did, and the fact that she had, and that she was so hurt by the inferences in his conversation made him regret giving credence to anything Sara said about her.
When he thought she was going to get in her Audi and leave he nearly lost control. He came close to wrenching her hand off the door handle and pushing her away from the car to keep her with him by force if necessary. It had been a struggle to keep his touch light and his voice normal.
He watched her now, her face sweet and slack with sleep, and wished he could lean down and kiss her lips, but since he couldn't move his head without suffering pain, any kissing and other activity would have to be handled by Madeleine.
His mother was wrong about that, too. His relationship with Madeleine was not based solely on sex. She gave him much more than just simple physical gratification.
He smoothed her hair again and rubbed a strand between his fingers. He hoped Sara didn't spend the entire time he was in New Mexico trying to convince him how wrong Madeleine was for him. He told her in the hospital that morning he didn't want to hear it, but she kept on and on, needling with her questions and finally prompting a few doubts. The worst part had been when she bluntly told him to look in the mirror and tell her what he saw. Eris got up out of his wheelchair and left the room.
And then Madeleine had come rushing in to see him, radiant as sunshine and looking at him with something like awe and wonder in her eyes, as if he were every bit as beautiful as she.
Eris touched her lips and she opened her eyes. She looked at him and kissed his fingers. He caressed her cheek and chin, and she slid a hand under his pullover to run her palm over his chest and stomach.
"Did you find your sandwich?"
"Didn't look for one."
"Bread's probably hard now. What time is it?"
He looked at the clock on his dresser. "Almost eight."
She blinked in surprise. "I didn't think I'd sleep so long. How long have you been awake?"
"A few minutes."
She lifted herself to look at him. "Do you need anything? A pain pill? Something to drink?"
"I'm all right," he said.
She propped her head on one hand and went on sliding her palm over his stomach while she closed her eyes again. After a moment she began humming a song, and Eris recognized it as a tune from _Man of La Mancha_. "The night you were in my wallet," he said, and she opened one eye to look at him. Then she smiled and lifted herself up to kiss him. He pressed her to him with his good arm and returned the kiss with a sudden, fierce hunger.
Her hands moved behind his head, and as she undid his hair she looked into his eyes. Then she pushed up his shirt and unzipped his jeans. She kissed his mouth again, and then his chin, moving down to his neck and chest and over his stomach, where her hands pulled down on his briefs.
When she took him into her mouth, Eris shuddered and swallowed convulsively. Her name came out but he wasn't aware of saying it. He was aware of nothing but sensation and his fingers clutching the sheets with the need to hold on as long as he could so it wouldn't end.
Later, as they held each other again, Eris reached over and picked up the sandwich she had made for him.
"Is it stale?" she asked. "I can make you another."
"It's fine," he said. "Don't move."
She didn't.
Early the next morning they drove to Otter Creek and got out to walk and talk about the wildlife they saw. Eris showed her a red-tailed hawk that might have been the parent of the young hawk he had found. Madeleine was dismayed to hear how the bird had been killed. She immediately blamed Tanner but couldn't say why.
On Friday, they drove over to pick up his truck from the repair garage and she took the opportunity to ask about Eris. He looked at her with a lifted brow and she reminded him that he had agreed to answer her questions.
He remembered.
She started off by asking about his adoptive parents and why he had left them at such an early age. Eris briefly told her what he remembered. She asked another question, and another, and he found himself telling her most of what he preferred not to talk about, or even think about, including his days at the diner in the bus station, the ugly rented rooms, and the construction jobs he had held.
"You had a girlfriend at sixteen?"
"She saw what the chicken pox did to me and hit the ground running," he said.
"Was she white?"
"Hispanic."
Madeleine turned her head to look at him. "How did you manage? Did you ever get lonely?"
Eris took a deep breath and then released it. "I got along by minding my own business and staying out of everyone else's. No one cared about a tall pockmarked kid with no parents. I didn't let anyone care, because I stayed out of everybody's way."
"Weren't you lonely?" Madeleine repeated softly.
"Yes," he said. "But I got by."
She looked at him again. "Were you lonely when I met you?"
"You outgrow it," he said. "You get used to being alone and you don't notice being lonely so much anymore."
Madeleine stared straight ahead and stopped asking questions. This surprised Eris. He had expected her to either go on inquiring or start sympathizing. She did neither. She simply concentrated on her driving.
When they reached the garage she put a hand on his arm and leaned over to kiss him. "I'll see you at home later. Drive safely."
He took his left arm out of the sling and got out of the car. He needed to visit his mother at the hospital as promised, and it would be the first time he had driven since his injury.
He looked after Madeleine as she departed in her Audi and saw several of the mechanics in the garage looking at her, too. Their glances quickly shifted when Eris turned to them. He asked about his truck, and the nearest man pointed. Eris signed the ticket and walked over to the truck to get inside. The blown-out tire and the shattered back glass had both been replaced. When he slid inside the seat he found no trace of blood or glass in the interior. He started the engine and backed out of the garage. It felt good to be behind the wheel again, though he did find himself listening for blowouts the first half-hour or so.
Sara smiled to see him. Her bruises had faded to a yellowish green color and the swelling had lessened considerably. She held out her hand as he entered the room, and Eris briefly took it before sitting down in a chair in the corner.
"I didn't know if you'd come back," she said, her one visible eye watching him steadily.
"I told you I would," he said.
"You were angry when you left here the other day."
"Not angry," he said.
"What then? Hurt? It was only an attempt to make you think, Eris. Right now you're not thinking, and I've been there, believe me. I'm asking you to consider how you'll feel when she wakes up someday and sees the pits in your skin instead of the sparkle in your eye."
Eris stood. "I think you're capable of returning home on your own, Sara."
"Don't do that," she said immediately. "You have to come and meet Clint. He's dying to meet you. I never told him about you until I turned forty, and he's been as anxious to find you as I was. He's always dreamed of having a brother."
"I want to meet him," said Eris. "But unless you stop attacking Madeleine it's not going to happen."
Sara exhaled and looked at her hands. "I'm not attacking her. What I'm trying to do is save you from certain heartache when she decides to end the fling."
"Why are you so certain it's just a fling?"
"Eris, be realistic."
He stared at her. "Are you trying to make me dislike you?"
She looked shocked. "No. My God, is that what I'm doing? Do you dislike me?"
Eris was surprised at the anger that erupted from him. "I'm not some ugly piece of human refuse from a reservation who doesn't know enough to think for himself and needs someone to tell him how to get by. I don't need anyone to think for me. I'm not stupid, and I'm not being led around by the nose."
"No, I'd say it's definitely not your nose she's got hold of."
Eris shook his head in disappointment and felt a twinge of pain. "Does insulting me make you feel better about yourself, Sara? Are you trying to justify your attitude by making me into some simple deluded fool in desperate need of a mother's guidance?"
"I am not insulting you, dammit," she said angrily. "I'm only telling you what I know to be true."
"On half an hour's acquaintance with her? How can you possibly make such a judgment?"
"She's the one who passed judgment. I'm just another Indian to her, and she's met dozens like me. She said so herself."
"She's met dozens of white-haters," Eris clarified, and because he felt the need to defend her to his mother, he went on to tell her what had happened to Madeleine during her last year in the field.
Sara listened, but was unmoved. "So she ran away and became a teacher because a group of youngsters beat her up and painted her white."
"They left her to die, Sara."
"She didn't."
Eris stared at his mother again and considered for the first time the possibility that he had been lucky she gave him away.
"What does my name mean?" he asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Where did you get my name?" He wanted to know before he walked away from her.
Sara paused and her mouth softened. "Eris was the name of Daniel Birdcatcher's great-grandfather. Daniel said it meant 'quiet like the dawn.' You were so quiet when you were born, didn't cry or anything and you came out just minutes before dawn, so I called you Eris. I asked the people at the adoption agency if you could keep it, and they said it would be up to the adoptive parents. I'm glad they kept it."
Eris nodded and made a move as if to leave, but his mother held out her hand again.
"Don't go. I'm sorry. I truly am. I know she's important to you and I won't say any more. I'm glad she makes you so happy. I want you to be happy, Eris. That's all I've ever wanted for you."
He stood looking at her but made no motion to take her hand. After a moment she dropped it.
"The doctors said I can leave tomorrow. I'd like to make flight reservations for tomorrow afternoon. Is that all right with you?"
It wasn't. Eris wanted more time alone with Madeleine. He enjoyed having her near him in the small house and already felt comfortable with her in a way he had never felt when his mother was there. He and Madeleine could sit alone in companionable silence and read without feeling the need to make conversation. They made love when they wanted to, touched when they needed to, and slept peacefully in each other's arms at night. He wasn't ready to leave her yet.
"Eris? Is tomorrow night all right with you? I can make it Sunday if you like and come and stay with you and Madeleine tomorrow night."
"No." He didn't want her in the same house with Madeleine. "Go ahead and make reservations for tomorrow. I'll be in around noon to pick you up."
"Fine." She smiled. "I'll see you then."
Eris left the hospital and sat in his truck in the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes. Finally he came to a decision, and he started the truck. He wasn't sure what to do, or how to go about it, but he knew he would need a ring.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Madeleine couldn't believe she had already missed a period. She peed on her hand twice before finally placing the tiny plastic wand exactly where it needed to be. She got up and flushed and then washed her hands before rereading the steps listed on the instructions of the home pregnancy test.
There was no way she could stand and wait, so she walked around the house tidying up things and looking out the windows. She stopped when she saw Manuel's Jeep parked outside the log cabin.
He had come to check up on her, she guessed. See if she had gotten her things out. Madeleine was tempted to walk up and apologize for ruining his party, but then the door opened and out came the woman Madeleine had caught him with on his sofa. Madeleine stared as Manuel followed the woman out, his white teeth gleaming in a smile. The adulterous jerk.
She was glad Jacqueline wasn't here to see this. But Jacqueline was safely wrapped in the arms of their parents, who had flown out right away, as Madeleine had known they would.
Madeleine said she would see them when Jacqueline took over the house. Possession would happen any time now, she deduced, since Manuel was at the cabin with his new girlfriend.
She wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing her parents, but it had been several years since her last visit.
_And boy will I have news_ , she thought to herself after she walked into the bathroom and checked the test.
Madeleine picked up the thing and stared, overcome by sudden emotion. Her eyes began to sting and she shook her head in disbelief as she took out the other test in the package and went through the process again. She wanted confirmation of the first results.
The second results were the same and Madeleine sat down on the edge of the tub and hugged her abdomen while she cried. She hadn't expected this or had any idea she would feel this way. She experienced a moment of genuine happiness that rocked her and made her quake at the intensity of the feeling. She had a sense of being on the threshold of an entirely new purpose with a vastly different perspective.
She couldn't wait to see Eris. They hadn't planned it, but they hadn't avoided it either, and she somehow knew he would be as delighted as she. Maybe even more so, she thought, remembering all he had told her that morning. He had lived such a stark life. Madeleine wanted to stop the car and put her arms around him, but she sensed he would regard it as pity, and pity was something he wanted no part of for himself.
Madeleine understood. She felt him look at her in surprise when she said nothing further, but by then she was already thinking of finding a pregnancy test and seeing if the abrupt absence of her all-too-regular period meant what she thought it meant.
Six months ago she could not fathom the idea of bearing a child. Pregnancy was what happened to other women, women who weren't careful.
Six months ago she didn't know Eris Renard.
She passed the afternoon doing laundry and folding clothes. Madeleine wondered how she could feel so good about doing something she had once found so menial. She hated doing Sam's laundry. She loathed folding his socks and T-shirts and underwear. It was a task she would gladly have made him do for himself if he hadn't completely refused. He said he would pay someone rather than do his own laundry. Or any house work for that matter.
Everything with Eris was different. He did everything for himself, always, so she enjoyed folding his garments and stacking them neatly in his drawers. She would have to get one or two more towels for the bathroom, she decided, because he didn't have enough for the two of them. As soon as she got a job she would see to that, she told herself and then realized she would be needing a lot more than new towels.
Madeleine decided to visit the community college Gloria Birdy mentioned to her. It was the first week of July and there might be an administrative assistant position available for the coming year. Or she could fill in and teach where necessary during the semester. She needed to have an income again, and she wanted to be where she could better research her project on lakeside communities.
Pregnancy made returning to the field out of the question now. She was ready to become a part of everything she had studied and flow into the culture around her instead of merely observing it. The child growing inside her would teach the anthropologist what a thousand studies in the field of human nature could not.
Madeleine looked forward to the lessons.
Around six o'clock she walked to the window to look for any sign of Eris's return. Instead she saw a strangely familiar man creep onto the porch and bend over to pick up a brown paper bag. She called in a loud voice for him to stop. The man jerked, started, and dropped the bag onto the porch as he looked up to see Madeleine. She looked at the man, the man looked at Madeleine, and then he snatched up the bag again and ran away to jump in a green car parked up the road.
Eris pulled in and got out to see Madeleine run toward him, shouting about the sack the man took and pointing. He got back in his truck and started the engine, and she rushed to throw open the door and jump inside.
"Get out," he ordered immediately.
"You're off duty," she replied. "Who was that?"
"It was Ronnie Lyman. What the hell was in the sack he took?"
"I thought you knew. It was on the porch."
Eris backed out and took off across the lawn.
They didn't have to go far to find Ronnie Lyman. The front of his green Grand Prix had disappeared into the side of Bruce Beckworth's SUV, and Bruce in his ball cap dragged Ronnie out of the driver's seat to hit him in the head with a tire iron as Eris and Madeleine came upon the scene.
"Shit," Eris said under his breath, and Madeleine grabbed for his arm when he made to get out of the truck.
"You're unarmed."
"It's fine." Eris shook her off and got out. Madeleine looked again and cringed as blood spurted from Ronnie Lyman's head and covered the man in the ball cap's hand and arm as he repeatedly struck with the tire iron.
"Asshole!" Beckworth screamed. "You ruined my fucking wheels!"
Eris came up behind and caught the tire iron on the back swing. He wrenched it from Beckworth's hand and threw it to the side of the road. When Beckworth twisted to see who had dared to touch him, Eris hit him once, hard. The ball cap flew off and Bruce Beckworth flopped backward over Lyman's inert form and lay still. Madeleine's eyes were round as she got out of the truck. She thought to call a warning about the other two men in Beckworth's damaged SUV, but they weren't doing anything, just staring as Eris bent over Ronnie Lyman.
Eris looked up as Madeleine approached. "Get back in the truck and radio for help. Tell them we need an ambulance."
She hurried back to the truck and saw people moving in from all sides. Tanner and his wife walked up to see, their faces alight with interest, and a man in a sleek Jaguar came cruising slowly by, inching along through the people in his path.
Madeleine blinked at sight of the Jaguar then climbed into the truck. She turned the radio on and started asking anyone who was listening for help. Dale Russell answered immediately and said he would take care of everything.
She got out of the truck again and approached Eris, who squatted over Ronnie Lyman and soon became surrounded by a ring of people he told repeatedly to stay back. He looked expectantly at Madeleine and she told him she had made contact with Russell. Eris nodded grimly and looked at Ronnie Lyman again.
Beckworth lifted his bald head and got slowly to his feet. He snarled when he saw Eris, and Madeleine shouted when she saw his intent. Eris twisted around in time to receive a vicious kick to the chest. His lips disappeared in a grimace and the left side of his shirt began to blot with blood as his wounds opened up and began to seep. Beckworth danced around him and moved in to swing, but Eris caught one leg and gave a yank, sending him sprawling to the ground. The breath left Beckworth in a whoosh and Earl Lee Birdy stepped through the crowd and put one large size thirteen foot on his rib-cage. "You ever want to breathe again, you stay put."
Beckworth strangled on a curse and his hand felt around for his missing hat. A minute later Dale Russell arrived on the scene and looked important as he smacked the snarling Beckworth on the head a few times and cuffed him before calling the police. He checked the vital signs on Ronnie Lyman, and he and Eris exchanged a look that confirmed what Madeleine already suspected. Ronnie Lyman was dead.
After the ambulance arrived a sheet went over Lyman's face and a murmur went through the onlookers. As Beckworth rode away in the back of a police car, Madeleine saw the Jaguar leave the side of the road and fall in behind the sheriff's officer. The driver of the Jaguar had a smile on his face, Madeleine noticed.
An attendant from the ambulance wanted Eris to ride along to the hospital, but he shook his head. Madeleine told the man she would bring him in the truck. The entire side of his shirt dripped with blood now and his face had gone pale.
There was no talking on the way to the county hospital. She sent a hand over to squeeze his thigh, but his eyes remained closed and did not open until she stopped the truck in the hospital parking lot. Madeleine walked inside with him and watched worriedly as interns came to take him away from her. She tried to follow, but they asked her to please stay behind and give the front desk what information she could.
Just before ten o'clock they allowed her to go in and see him. The bleeding stopped and wounds restitched, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed. His left arm was in a sling again, and he held out his right arm to her.
Madeleine went to him and held on tightly. "Are they going to let you come home?"
"Not tonight. They want me immobile. I never got a chance to tell you my mother is being released tomorrow and wants to leave immediately afterward."
"Tomorrow?" Madeleine said. "You're leaving tomorrow?"
His arm tightened in response.
"Eris..." She wanted to ask him to wait. She had so much to tell him. They had so much to talk about, so many plans to make.
"The sooner I go, the sooner I'll be back," he said into her hair. "I'm going to meet my brother."
Madeleine swallowed and nodded. "You want me to come for you in the morning and take you to Wichita?"
"If you don't mind."
"Shall I pack for you tonight?"
He nodded. "Jeans and shirts, socks and underwear. And throw in my Nikes, if you think about it."
Madeleine said she would take care of it. Then she decided to leave—it was that or fall apart in front of him—and let him get some sleep so he could be rested for his trip. She kissed him and started away, but he pulled her back and held on. He pressed her against him and rubbed her neck with his fingers as he kissed her temple. "I'm going to miss you," he said.
She closed her eyes. "I'll miss you, too."
"I'll call."
Madeleine nodded.
They looked at each other a moment, then he put his hand to her face and said, "Tell me you won't go anywhere."
She placed her hand on top of his. "Tell me you won't listen to her about us."
They gazed at each other then tenderly kissed.
As she left the hospital Madeleine didn't feel at all strong. Her hands shook and her lip quivered all the way home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dale Russell decided he was sick and tired of the justice system and the way things operated. He had sent Bruce Beckworth to jail the day before on charges of manslaughter, and the little bastard was already free on bail. Dale called up his aunt, the governor, to complain, and learned that Wes Beckworth had donated twice the legal amount of dollars to her campaign and she would do jack shit about his son the habitual criminal. Furthermore, Russell was to stay as far away as possible from him.
"I'm not the one who'll be testifying against him in the trial," Russell told her. "There were half a dozen witnesses who saw him beat the guy to death."
"The autopsy will say what killed him," was her reply and Dale could just imagine the conclusion of the report. _The injuries sustained by the decedent were a direct result of the impact of the crash_. Or some such bullshit. It made Dale sick to think of the people like Bruce Beckworth running around all over the country beating and killing people because their fathers were rich enough to keep them out of jail by buying off politicians like his aunt. It made a person ashamed to be part of such a system.
Dale went on bitching about it until the irony in his thinking threatened to break through the self-righteousness he had cloaked himself in. When that happened he simply shifted gears and thought about Madeleine Heron.
She was at Eris Renard's cabin, he now knew. He had seen Manuel Ortiz with a woman who was not his wife, and since Madeleine was the sister of the wife, and she was in the truck with Renard, there was only one place she could be. He dropped by the cabin on his way home that evening so he could tell Renard about Beckworth's release from jail and see if Madeleine had moved in.
Madeleine was there alone. She told him Eris was gone at the moment, and Dale lifted his brows.
"Is he still in the hospital?"
"No, he was released this morning. I'll tell him you came by."
Her voice was dull and her eyes were puffy. Dale put up a hand when she would have shut the door. He wondered what was wrong with her.
"Madeleine, I want to apologize to you. I've been a real jerk, and after watching the way you handled things yesterday I found myself admiring you and Renard. You look like you make a good team."
Madeleine nodded. "Thank you. Goodbye."
Dale let her go. His plan was to move slowly, let her grow gradually to trust him again.
As he left the drive he realized Renard's truck was in the garage and Madeleine's Audi was parked out front. So where was Renard? And how did he get wherever he was?
Then he remembered Renard's mother. He bet she was gone, too, and Renard was probably with her, leaving Madeleine temporarily alone.
Dale had the urge to turn around and go back, just to see if Renard came home. He grew certain he was right, and Dale wondered if the puffy eyes and sad face were due to Renard's absence.
He drove down to Diamond Bay and nearly got run over by a Jaguar speeding over the bumpy road. Dale's lip curled when he saw who sat behind the wheel.
Bruce Beckworth smiled and flipped him the bird as he sped away, and Dale flipped it right back at him.
_Goddamned criminal_ , he thought to himself in disgust.
Bruce wasn't supposed to have the Jag. His old man had forbidden him to drive it, ever. Bruce didn't care. He had no wheels and the Jag was there. If the old man wanted to go somewhere, let him drive his wife's Lexus. She never went anywhere but the tanning salon, anyway. And the nail place, where she had those long fake nails put on, the kind that curled under slightly and looked really creepy under the right kind of light. Bruce hated her. She hated him, too, and did everything she could to stay away from him.
She was pissed because she had gotten drunk once and done it with Bruce. The old man had passed out upstairs, and she had come downstairs looking for some. Bruce gave it to her and she had hated him ever since. Couldn't stand to look at him.
He loved to taunt her with it, but it wasn't so much fun anymore. Her repugnance didn't stem from guilt so much as disgust, and Bruce knew enough to feel insulted. The more she avoided him, the more he felt the need to seek her out.
Earlier that day, when he got home from jail, he heard her screaming at his father to just get rid of him. Send him away or let him go to prison, but get him out of the house and out of their lives. Bruce had listened long enough to hear his father tell her everything was going to be all right. He would work things out. Those words sent him down to his father's office to find the keys to the Jag. Beside the desk was a brown paper sack, and after he opened it and saw all the money inside Bruce had to sit down.
The sonofabitch was going to do it. He was going to pay Bruce off and tell him to get out.
Bruce carried the sack out to the Jag with him. He spent the next six hours just driving, finally ending up at the lake and in search of a party. When he couldn't find anything that suited him, he drove to the home of one of the guys who had been with him in the SUV the evening before. His friend seemed shocked to see him, and Bruce laughed as he sat down in a lawn chair and opened his first beer of the day.
"Is it me you're surprised to see, or the Jag?"
"Both, man. You really screwed up yesterday."
Bruce laughed again. "I'd say the guy that's dead screwed up more than I did. You realize who that was? That was the asshole who freaked everybody out when he said his little girl was missing."
"I heard. You out on bail or what?"
"Yeah. I ain't worried."
"Your old man."
"My old man is an expert at workin' things out. He's gonna work me out next."
Bruce's buddy looked at him, and Bruce said, "She can't handle me in the house no more. Can't look at me without thinking about me sticking my dick up her ass. She wants me out." He drank down the beer and looked at his friend. "I got a Jag and a sack full of cash. Before I leave here I'm gonna burn down a house and kick the shit out of the pretty boy CO who cuffed me yesterday. You comin'?"
His buddy shook his head. "Too much for me, man. Whose house?"
Bruce opened another beer. "Read about it in the paper tomorrow, puss."
He picked up his friend's twelve-pack of beer and carried it to the Jag. His friend said not a word. When Bruce was gone the friend went in the house to call Wes Beckworth and tell him everything that was said, everything but the part about Mrs. Beckworth.
Bruce drove to the swimming beach at Vista Bay and sat drinking beer and watching swimmers until the light faded from the sky and the beach became deserted. When the moon was high and the stars were bright, Bruce started the Jag and purred slowly over the road toward Briar's Cove and the cabins on the hill.
Dale Russell squinted and blinked when he noticed a lone figure skulking around outside Renard's cabin. At first he thought it was the man he had seen walking his dog up the road, but this person was bent over in a crouch and carrying something large in his hand. Dale looked for a car parked somewhere near but saw nothing.
A burglar, he wondered? He immediately pictured himself rescuing Madeleine from a thief.
No, he decided, as he sat in the dark interior of the truck's cab and watched the guy splash something around the front and sides of the house.
What the hell was he up to? Dale wondered. Was he trying to kill Renard's plants?
He eased himself out of the truck to get a closer look, and a second after the door clicked, a loud whooshing sound and a bright splash of light made Dale jerk his head around.
Flames engulfed the entire house. Dale spied a figure to the side of the house, saw his smiling face and bald head clearly, and Bruce Beckworth saw him at the same moment. Beckworth pointed his finger at Dale then and rushed him, charging with furious intent.
His bladder leaked when Dale saw that enraged face, but his hand reached for his gun, and before he realized what he was doing he had emptied his firearm into the chest of the man running toward him.
He heard shouts then that sounded far away, and his head lowered as if in slow motion to look at Beckworth, writhing on the ground before him. As Dale watched, he stopped moving. Went still.
Dale dropped his gun and forced himself to lift his head.
A man yelled something in a high, whiny voice, and another man, huge, as tall if not taller than Renard, came running up the road to throw himself at the door of Renard's burning house. It seemed he stayed inside for hours, but it was actually under a minute before he came carrying Madeleine out the door. She coughed and choked and gasped for breath, and Dale remembered himself when he saw her. He rushed over to check her condition, and then he strode with purpose back to his truck to pick up his radio and call the fire department, an ambulance, and the police.
Manuel Ortiz ran down the hill to see what had happened, and he appeared stunned to find Madeleine on the ground, gasping for air. He checked her over and instructed the huge man to carry her up to his cabin. Madeleine protested, but Manuel insisted. Dale watched her go and wanted to hurry over and tell her what he had done, how he had saved her, but he had other things to worry about at the moment, like justifying the use of deadly force to the hordes of official personnel soon to descend upon him.
He didn't know what the hell he was going to tell his aunt.
Farther up the hill, toward the cemetery, no one saw the man get out of the shiny Lexus and slide behind the wheel of the Jaguar left parked by his son. The bag of money remained intact. Three beers, still cool, rested in the passenger seat. Wes Beckworth started the Jaguar's engine.
The woman behind the wheel of the Lexus heaved a huge sigh of relief as she looked in her rear-view mirror at the scene below. Her new husband was right. It was funny how things had a way of working out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Madeleine protested when Manuel wanted to sedate her, but he told everyone it was for her own good and did it anyway. She slept twelve hours, and when she awakened she found Manuel standing over her.
"What did you give me?" she asked.
He gave a small shake of his head, as if to say it was not important.
"I'm pregnant," Madeleine said. "It better not have been anything that will hurt the baby."
Manuel lifted both brows in surprise. "I'm sure it will not. Who is the father?"
"Eris." She raised herself. "I have to call him. I'm not even sure what happened last night."
"Renard," said Manuel, his voice thoughtful. He nodded his head then. "He is a good choice for you."
Madeleine blinked and looked at him. He was the last person on earth she would have expected to recognize that.
"A man named Beckworth was responsible for the arson," Manuel told her. "He is now dead, shot and killed by Dale Russell, now suspended pending an investigation."
Madeleine swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I have to get in touch with Eris. He's in New Mexico."
Manuel extended a hand. "Feel free to use my phone. I'm guessing yours burned."
She paused. "Why are you being so nice to me, Manuel? You don't even like me."
He smiled. "Of course I like you, Madeleine. My anger was only momentary. You cost me much and I reacted."
"You cost yourself," Madeleine replied, and he shrugged and nodded in agreement.
"I did, yes. But I will win her back, if I so choose. She is not like you, Madeleine."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that Jacqueline will be willing to forgive." He turned and left her then, and Madeleine heard the door to the cabin open and close. She was alone.
A few minutes later she listened to the ring of the phone at Bent Horn Gallery. It was the only number listed, her only means to contact Eris, and no one was answering. She cursed softly and went to the window to stare down at the blackened house below. The sight of it made her squeeze her eyes shut and shake her head. She could not imagine Eris's reaction. She tried calling for another two hours and gave up as Manuel came back.
"Any luck?" he asked. She shook her head.
"Where is your girlfriend?" she asked.
"She is just a woman I know, who preferred not to stay when I told her who you were."
Madeleine quirked a brow, and before she could comment, there was a knock on the door. Manuel answered and she saw Dale Russell outside, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
"Hello. Just checking to see how Madeleine is today. I thought I'd go inside the house and see what can be salvaged, if anything."
"Is it safe?" asked Manuel.
"Should be," said Dale. "Is Madeleine all right?"
"I'm fine," Madeleine called from the living room. "Wait for me."
"Madeleine," Manuel cautioned. "It is not wise for you to be in the house."
She paused and thought of the possible fumes. "You're right. I'll stay outside and use the hose to clean anything that can be saved."
'Tm going out in the boat," Manuel told her. "I'll leave the cabin door open for you."
Madeleine glanced at him, and though it was difficult for her to say, she thanked him for his generosity.
Dale proved full of tender concern and gentlemanly conduct as he walked her to Eris's blackened house.
"Were you able to reach Renard?" he asked.
"No. Not yet."
"Is he with his mother?"
"Yes."
"When's he coming back?"
"Soon."
"Going to be a shocker," Dale murmured.
The rest of the day they spent sorting clothes and other items into piles that were salvageable and piles that were not. Most of the new furniture had been ruined beyond repair. The fire trucks and huge hoses had destroyed the yard. Madeleine's throat thickened in dismay each time she thought of Eris coming home to see the place.
Dale worked hard all day and didn't want to talk about it when Madeleine tried to ask about his suspension. She dropped the subject. Her stomach growled and she was about to suggest a lunch break when she saw Denise Lansky drive up to the road to the cabin. Madeleine stepped out and waved, and Denise stopped the car. "Good lord, what happened here?"
Madeleine told her and they briefly discussed the dramatic events before she asked what Denise was doing back at the lake.
"Here for the Fourth. Brought a few of the kids again. But I'm not here to talk about that. Have you heard word about a grant yet?"
"No," said Madeleine, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Dale Russell pretend not to listen to them.
"Any other offers?" asked Denise, and Madeleine lowered her voice to tell her about the community college.
"Don't go there," Denise said immediately. "I've got something better. Something you are absolutely perfect for. It's grant money, all right, but not the kind you're used to."
Madeleine took her arm and walked away from the house with her, out of Dale Russell's earshot.
Denise went on to tell her about an acquaintance in the city with a problem keeping a director for a program designed for Native American children.
"I may not be qualified."
"They can't find a director willing to work with the parents. They can't find anyone even remotely familiar with the various tribes. I told them I knew just the person."
Madeleine found herself smiling. "You thought of me. Because I helped you with the kids."
"No, I thought of you because of your extensive background in Native American tribes. The way you handle kids was only a plus. This job is perfect for you. You've got so much to offer."
Madeleine couldn't stop smiling. She was more than interested. It would be an opportunity to make her knowledge of language and culture available to any who were interested in learning. She was so excited she wanted to grab the smiling Denise and hug her.
"When do they want me?" she asked, and Denise began to laugh.
"Are you serious? Are you really interested?"
She nodded. "Very much so."
"I told them I'd call after I talked to you, but you could walk in there Tuesday morning and tell them you're ready to start."
"I'll do that," Madeleine said, and her firm tone made Denise laugh again.
They chatted for a bit longer then Denise made Madeleine promise to come see her and waved as she left.
When Madeleine walked back to the cabin Dale smiled and asked if she would be leaving the lake soon.
"I will, yes," she said.
"Did I hear her say you were getting a grant?"
"That's right." Madeleine decided not to go into it with him.
"Well, that's good news, isn't it?"
"It is," she agreed. "I appreciate everything you've done here today, Dale, but I don't think there's much more we can do."
He looked at the piles on the grass. "What do you want to do with those?"
"I'll take care of it. Thank you, really, for coming out to help. Eris will be grateful, I'm sure."
Dale lifted his hands. "Okay. I'll get out of here now. Need to clean up and get something to eat. Can I buy you some dinner?"
Madeleine shook her head, hoped he didn't hear her growling stomach. "No, thanks. I'm fine."
"All right. Be seeing you."
She waved to him and watched until he was in his truck and heading up the road past the cemetery. She felt someone watching her and turned to see Sherman Tanner come sauntering across the grass.
"What are you going to do with those?" he asked, pointing to the piles of ruined clothes and other items.
"Call someone to come and haul them off," she said. "The rest I'm going to load into my car and Eris's truck."
"Where is he?" asked Tanner.
"Away," said Madeleine and excused herself.
Behind her, Tanner humpfed.
Madeleine returned to the cabin and tried the gallery again. Then she called information and begged for the unlisted number of Sara Bent Horn. "This is an emergency," she insisted. "His house burned down and he doesn't even know."
"I'm sorry," the voice told her. "I can't release the number."
Madeleine slammed down the phone just as Manuel walked through the door.
"Still no luck," he surmised. He went to the refrigerator and drew out a bottle of beer. "Have you eaten, Madeleine?"
"No," she said, and she looked at herself. Her clothes were grimy. "I'm too dirty to go anywhere."
"Jacqueline has some extra clothes in the closet," he told her. "I'll cook some fish if you prepare a salad."
Madeleine exhaled. His kindness to her was driving her crazy.
They ate dinner together and talked more than they had talked in the entire time Manuel and Jacqueline were married. Manuel told her of his family, nine brothers and two sisters, and of his father, a politician in Mexico.
She got up from the table and put her plate in the sink. Manuel brought his plate and she swiftly washed up while he sat and watched.
"Are you staying tonight?" he asked.
"No." She needed to get what clothes she had to the nearest washing machine.
"Will you be seeing Jacqueline?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell her you spoke with me?"
"Yes, Manuel. And I will tell her of your many kindnesses. I'll be back tomorrow to pick up Eris's things."
"Come and tell me how she is. Will you do that?"
Feeling slightly like a traitor, Madeleine agreed. She picked up her singed purse and fished around inside for her keys. Then she left him to his silent cabin and walked down the hill to get in her Audi.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sara saw to it that Eris didn't have a chance to call Madeleine until Monday morning. From the moment they landed in Albuquerque's airport she and Clint took command of his existence and chauffeured him around in the back seat of a red Mercedes. In the first twelve hours they introduced him to dozens of people who all struggled to hide the same look of shock Sara had worn the first time she saw him. As for Sara, she presented him as if he were a piece of dark but reaching artwork she had recently completed.
She put together a dinner party Sunday evening and Eris met even more native people, all of them terribly concerned with Sara's injuries, and each wondering why Eris still lived in blighted Kansas. Everyone assumed he either aspired to move to New Mexico or was already in the planning stages.
"We're creating a new West," a woman from the Institute of American Indian Arts Museum said to him. "We're seeing a resurgence of pride and spirituality unsurpassed in this century. It's important we band together and keep it alive."
"And non-white," Sara added and everyone smiled.
It was a long night.
Eris awakened earlier than his mother and his brother the next morning. After showering and dressing he moved through her huge adobe house to stand on a tiled veranda and look out over the mountains in the distance. A piece of a rainbow provided a colorful arc across the gunmetal gray sky. The land in the foreground appeared lush and green, not at all like the desert he had expected.
Nothing in Santa Fe was as he expected. The people were all chic and sophisticated, and the buildings were all uniform. It was a beautiful place, wonderful to look at, but Eris didn't feel like he fit in.
It took just ten minutes to reach for his cell phone.
A minute after that he stared in consternation as a recording told him service at his landline had been disrupted. Eris called again and heard the same message. He hung up and walked around the huge house counting rooms before trying again. Then he called the lake office.
"Renard?" said the officer who answered. "Damn, I'm glad you called. We were beginning to think you were in your house when it burned down."
After a stunned pause, Eris demanded to know what the hell he meant.
"Bruce Beckworth torched your house Saturday night. Dale Russell shot and killed him and is on suspension right now."
"What about Madeleine?" Eris asked immediately. "Is she all right?"
"Who?" the man asked. "Oh, yeah, the blonde. She's okay. Smoke inhalation, Russell said."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Russell came by a little while ago to make some copies of his report and he said he went to see her, make sure she was all right. He said she got a grant, whatever that means. You haven't talked to her?"
"No." Eris felt sick. "She can't call me. I need to talk to her. Can you find out for me where she is?"
"I would, but the way Russell talked, she's already headed out. He sure felt bad about your house, and he tried to look after her for you, but he said she was acting a little spacey after getting rescued from the fire. She'll probably call you when she gets to where she's going, so I wouldn't worry too much about it. I would, however, get my butt home. Because of Russell the chief cut your suspension short. He needs you back here."
"I'll be there when I can," Eris told him, and he hung up. He stared blankly at the paintings hanging on his mother's walls before putting his head in his hands and rubbing harshly at his eyes. "Goddammit," he muttered.
"What's wrong?" his mother asked from behind him. "Your girlfriend not answering?"
Eris's nostrils flared. "Please shut up. You don't know."
"I know you're upset," she said in a calm voice. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"I have to go back," he told her. "Someone set fire to my house on Saturday. Madeleine was inside."
"Was she hurt?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why run off? Call your insurance agent from here and find out all you need to do. We can send or receive any forms from my office."
He stared at her. "I just told you my house burned down and you want me to stay and meet your friends?"
Sara remained unperturbed. "My point is there's very little you can accomplish by rushing back."
"I'm needed back at work. And I want to talk to Madeleine."
"Where is she?"
He hesitated before admitting he didn't know. "No one can tell me."
His mother spread her hands, but before she could say anything, Eris said, "She doesn't know how to contact me."
"Obviously."
"I told her I would call her. I haven't had a chance before now."
"Surely your superior doesn't expect you to come running back. Your shoulder hasn't even begun to heal."
Eris exhaled. "I have to go back."
"To work, or to Madeleine?"
He looked at his mother and said, "I need her more than I need to be here."
"You don't mean that," Sara argued. "Eris, we've waited all our lives to meet."
"And now we've met." He began searching for airlines on his phone.
Clint walked into the room, sleepily rubbing his bare stomach. "What's going on?"
"Eris is returning to Kansas," Sara told him. "His house caught fire and his girlfriend was frightened."
"Damn," said Clint. "Your house burned?" Then his brows lifted. "Is it the blonde Mom was telling me about?"
A voice in Eris's ear asked if she could help him and Eris told her yes, he needed to get back to Wichita as soon as possible.
"What about the dermabrasion?" Clint asked his mother, and Eris stared at the two of them as he was placed on hold.
"The what?"
"Dermabrasion," said Clint. "For your skin. Mom said she was going to give you a new face as a late birthday present."
Eris's nostrils flared again. He turned his back on his mother, who stared stonily at Clint.
"What did I say?" asked Clint. "What?"
After the reservations were made, Eris hung up the phone and asked his brother to take him to the airport in Albuquerque. Clint looked at Sara and shrugged. "Sure, I'll take you. I'll throw some clothes on while you get your things together."
Sara stood motionless, her attractive mouth a thin, tight line as her sons brushed past her to go into the hall.
Eris told her goodbye as he left the house, but she had nothing to say to him. He figured it was just as well, the story of their short acquaintance, one of them forever leaving the other behind.
Clint chuckled as he got in the car. "Man, is she pissed. It ain't often she gets thwarted, oh brother of mine."
Eris said nothing.
Undeterred, Clint continued. "Anyway, it gives me a chance to ask about your girlfriend without Mom hearing. I hear she's really pretty."
"She is," said Eris.
"Older than you?"
"A few years."
"And white."
Eris looked at his half brother. "You're Fox on Sara's side and what on your father's? Chippewa?"
"Yeah."
"The Fox and the Chippewa used to be bitter enemies. They warred constantly."
"Until the white man appeared on the continent and they warred against him."
"Right," said Eris. "What if the white man had never come?"
Clint smiled. "The Fox and the Chippewa would, in all likelihood, still hate each other. I see your point. Mom, however, would not. She sees what she wants to see, and what she does not want to see is a white woman attached to the arm of her son."
Eris turned his face away. "What she wants doesn't concern me."
The ring shoved into the recesses of his wallet proved it. He wanted to give the ring to Madeleine on Saturday at the airport, but the wheelchair-bound Sara gave them only seconds to be alone before she rushed him off to go and sit aboard an unmoving plane for forty-five minutes.
It had taken several hours to find a ring he liked. When he finally stumbled on one he wanted, he didn't blink an eye at paying the steep price. It was the ring he wanted for Madeleine, and it was the only one he was ever likely to buy. Eris wasn't a traditionalist, but he wanted everyone who looked at her to know she was spoken for. All he needed to do now was ask if she would wear it.
As if reading his thoughts, Clint said, "Don't bother sending an announcement to Mom. She'll piss nails for a week."
"She knows how I feel about Madeleine."
"Madeleine. Nice name. All Mom ever calls her is 'that blonde.'"
Eris looked at him. "Sara is a racist."
''Yeah, I know. I get tired of listening to it myself. And I damn sure don't tell her about my friends back at school."
They rode on in silence for several minutes, until Clint looked over and said, "It was really good to meet you, Eris. I mean it. I wish we had more time together."
Eris nodded.
"I understand how you feel," Clint said. "I'd want to get back and check things out. You think you'll be back anytime soon?"
"For the dermabrasion?"
Clint's face colored slightly. "I didn't mean anything. Mom made such a big deal out of it and all. I thought you wanted the procedure and it was something the two of you had talked about before coming."
"I've learned to live with it," said Eris.
"If Madeleine doesn't care, why should you? Sounds like you're a lucky guy."
Eris wanted to agree, but until he knew exactly where Madeleine was at the moment, he couldn't say if he was lucky or not.
When they reached the airport he was disgusted to find all flights either delayed or canceled and all traffic being rerouted due to a collision and widespread fire on the runways. His flight wouldn't be rescheduled for another four or five hours, and he had nothing to do but sit and wonder about Madeleine.
Unless he could find some way to reach her sister, Jacqueline.
Jacqueline's mouth quivered as she stared at Madeleine.
"You ate dinner with him? You actually sat down and ate dinner with Manuel?"
"I was starving," Madeleine said in defense.
"How could you?" Billie Heron asked of her older daughter.
Frank Heron shook his graying head.
"He helped me after I was pulled out of a burning house," Madeleine said to the three of them. "It wasn't like I slept with him."
"I don't know that, now do I?" snapped Jacqueline.
"Yes, you do," Madeleine answered quietly.
"Oh, that's right, because you're in love with Eris Renard. How stupid of me to forget."
"Who is Eris Renard?" asked her father.
"A conservation officer at the lake," answered Jacqueline.
"Oh," said Frank, as if that explained everything.
"How could you?" Billie asked Madeleine again. "Sam hasn't been dead six months."
Madeleine looked at her mother. "Sam has nothing to do with this."
"Did his parents ever contact you? They sent us a check a few weeks ago and asked us to make certain you got it. They said they were sorry for all the debts he left you, and they wanted to help. We kept meaning to send it. Frank, have you got that check?"
Frank took out his wallet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Here. It's for twenty-five hundred dollars."
Madeleine looked at her father. Twenty-five hundred? Sam left her strapped for twenty times that amount. And she had paid off every cent.
She took the folded check from her father's hand and stuffed it in the pocket of her jean shorts. Pride was no longer an issue; she would need the money for a temporary place to stay. There was no way she could remain with Jacqueline and her parents. And she needed a new phone.
She walked downstairs to collect all the laundry she had done, and she carried it out to her car while her family watched.
"Where are you going?" Jacqueline finally asked.
"I don't know," Madeleine answered. At the moment she didn't care if she ever saw any of them again. She just knew she was going.
"Madeleine," Jacqueline said firmly. "Where are you going?"
Madeleine ignored her and got in the car.
Minutes later she was flying down the road in her Audi, on her way to the cabin to pick up Eris's things.
An hour after Madeleine departed, Jacqueline's phone rang. Billie Heron saw her daughter ignore it so she answered. She listened then turned to Jacqueline. "He says his name is Renard."
"Tell him I don't know where she is," Jacqueline said.
Billie told him, and then said, "I'm sure she'll call you once she lands somewhere. Madeleine is like that. She always has been." She listened again and then said, "This is her mother. No, none of us know where she's going. She didn't bother to tell us." When she hung up, she looked at Jacqueline. "He sounded very angry. Renard is the man she's been seeing?"
"Yes," said Jacqueline, her face sullen. "Among others."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dale drove aimlessly around the lake and wondered how he was going to live. His frantic killing of Bruce Beckworth had made his aunt the governor livid. She called him crazy. Stupid. Dangerous. She wanted nothing further to do with him, and she promised to see to it that he lost his job as a conservation officer. She also threatened to have him put away if she heard about any dead or abused little girls within a hundred miles of him.
So she hadn't believed him about Kayla Lyman after all. The old bitch simply chose to ignore it.
After hearing all she said, Dale felt tempted to tell her what a hypocrite she was, but he didn't let himself do it. She would make good on her promise to have him taken into custody and hold him in some dark, dismal place for months while he awaited psychiatric evaluation.
He lived in Augusta, but he avoided returning to his apartment. He also avoided answering his cell. He couldn't be fired if no one was able to tell him. He was suspended, yes, but he wasn't fired yet. Officially, he was still a member of the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks.
When he saw Madeleine's Audi make the turn from the highway onto the access road he inhaled deeply.
For a moment he considered leaving her alone. He had other things to worry about. It had surprised him that Renard didn't come running home once he learned about his house, but it soon became obvious he didn't know yet, so Dale had gone scattering a few seeds of suspicion and distrust at the lake office, knowing the office would be the first place Renard called when he couldn't get Madeleine. It wasn't as if he lied. Madeleine did say she had received some sort of grant. And she was in fact leaving the lake area.
Dale turned and went after the Audi. Pursuing Madeleine was something to do at the moment, and Dale figured he had absolutely nothing to lose.
Madeleine drove up behind Eris's truck and loaded the bags out of the truck bed into her Audi. She then went into the house to take a final look and found her throat thickening all over again as she gazed at the blackened mess.
She turned and walked outside and saw Manuel on his porch beckoning to her. Madeleine walked up to the log cabin. "Good morning, Manuel."
"You still haven't spoken to Renard," he said.
She shook her head.
"You saw Jacqueline?"
"Yes." Madeleine told him of the scene with her family that morning.
He smiled and shrugged. "Would you like to come in and use the land line?"
"Could I?" Madeleine had tried the gallery from Jacqueline's house with no success.
"Of course." Manuel put on his fishing hat. "Thank you for talking with me. And Madeleine, you and Renard feel free to use the cabin until you can make other arrangements. The key is on the kitchen bar." When Madeleine stared at him he lifted a hand. "I will not be returning for some time."
"Manuel...thank you. I keep feeling like I should apologize for what I did, but somehow I just can't. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," he said. He stooped to kiss her on the cheek, and then he stepped off the porch to go fishing.
Madeleine shook her head in confusion and went inside to pick up the phone. She listened to six rings and was about to hang up when she heard a click and a voice that said, "Bent Horn Gallery."
"Sara?" Madeleine asked uncertainly.
"This is Sara Bent Horn. Who is this?"
"It's Madeleine Heron, in Kansas. Sara, I need to speak with Eris. Can you please tell me how to reach him?"
There was a pause then, "No, I'm afraid I can't. He's gone off with his brother Clint and I haven't seen them for hours. I think Clint had a girl he wanted Eris to meet."
Madeleine ignored the last. "It's extremely important that I reach him. Eris's house has—"
"Burned down, yes, we know. Eris learned about it early this morning."
"He knows?"
"He spoke with someone where he works."
"Oh," said Madeleine. "Please tell him how sorry I—"
"You'll have to excuse me," Sara said to her. "A client just walked in. Goodbye."
"Wait," Madeleine said quickly, but it was too late. The dial tone droned in her ear.
"Damn you," Madeleine whispered as she replaced the receiver. She sat at the kitchen counter and stared out the window. She wanted desperately to speak to him, tell him how sorry she was about his house and how badly she missed him and how much she needed him right now. She wanted him to come home.
Madeleine stuck the key in her pocket and walked dejectedly out of the cabin. She trod down the steps and watched her feet as she walked down the hill to the Audi. When she looked up, she saw Dale Russell standing in front of his truck, parked so it blocked the drive. He was smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The moment she encountered Dale Russell's sickly smile Madeleine sensed something wrong. She spoke to him, he spoke to her, and there was nothing suspicious about what he said, but there was a hint of desperation in his demeanor that set off warning bells, and the quivering of his nostrils and visible tension in his body sent adrenaline rushing through her veins. Inexplicably, Madeleine believed herself to be in danger.
She responded by picking up a piece of charred wood and throwing it at him as hard as she could. The missile took Dale by surprise and hit him directly above the left eye. Madeleine didn't wait to see anymore, she spun on her heel and ran as hard as she could for Manuel's log cabin. Once there she fumbled the key out of her pocket and opened the door. Then she slammed it behind her and shot home the dead bolt. She ran to the phone to pick it up, and while she listened to a ring at Gloria Birdy's cabin, the line went dead in her hands.
Madeleine dropped the phone with a clatter and ran to each window and door throughout the cabin to make certain it was locked. She thanked Manuel for the security bars on the windows and then had a sudden vision of Dale Russell attempting to burn her out, thought perhaps it had even been him at Eris's cabin. Then she heard him knock politely on the door.
"Madeleine? We need to talk. I know you're not coming out, and you obviously don't want me to come in, so I'll just stand outside here on the porch and talk to you. Can you hear me? I think you can hear me. What the hell were you thinking back there? You could have seriously wounded me with that chunk of wood. What made you throw it at me? Am I that threatening to you?" After a moment he continued. "Madeleine, I'm standing here asking myself what could possibly have provoked you. You know I would never do anything to hurt you, and it really bothers me to know you're so frightened of me."
Madeleine couldn't stand it anymore. "Why did you cut my phone line?" she demanded.
"What?" he asked. "Why did I do what?"
"You heard me."
"Your phone line? Madeleine, I don't know what you're talking about. Is there something wrong with your cabin's phone?"
"You bastard" Madeleine said through gritted teeth. "Get the hell away from me."
"Not until you calm down and tell me what the problem is," he said. "Just what is it that's got you all upset and afraid of me."
"It's not fear," she told him. "It's disgust."
Dale went silent for some time, and Madeleine's adrenaline began rushing again. Her head jerked from one window to the next. She expected to hear the shattering of glass any second.
Finally he said, "Well, I can't say I didn't suspect as much. You've tried to tell me in several ways, haven't you?"
"Get away from me," Madeleine repeated. "Leave me alone."
"No," said Dale. "I'm going to sit here all night if I have to and we're going to talk about just what it is that bothers you about me. I really want to know, dammit. You have no idea how important it is for me to know."
"Bullshit," she said. "You're just another bullshit artist who can't understand why everyone doesn't love him."
"I understand more than you think I do," he said. "I could tell you things about me, Madeleine. Things I'm not proud of, but it might make me more human to you."
"You're already incredibly repulsively human to me," she said.
A hard thump on the door made her jump. "God, you're hard-headed. What makes you think you're so fucking noble?"
"I never said I was. I've never claimed to be anything but what I am, and I've been straight with you from the beginning. I want nothing to do with you. Not now, not ever."
"Which only makes me want to shove my dick in your mouth that much more."
Madeleine stared. Had he said what she thought he said?
"Eris is on his way home," she said loudly.
"I doubt it," Dale responded. "He thinks you're gone. I told the people at the lake office you were headed out, got a grant. I'm sure they passed the information on to Renard when he called in."
"I talked to him today," Madeleine lied. "He's coming home."
"Now, why don't I believe you?" he asked. "Could it be the utter dejection in your steps when you were walking away from the cabin earlier?"
"You can't sit there all night," Madeleine said.
"Yes, I can. Because if I'm not sitting out here, then I'm going to be inside with you."
Madeleine's palms began sweating. "Dale, why are you doing this? Why won't you leave me alone?"
"Because chatting with you takes my mind off other problems, and Madeleine, my dear, I have plenty of those."
"Problems?" she said, a challenge in her voice. "Like the way you killed Bruce Beckworth? What is that act of cowardice going to cost you?"
"Hell, I don't even remember shooting the man. One minute he's rushing me and the next he's lying at my feet pissing his pants. The whole thing is a blur to me."
"What were you doing out here that night?"
"Watching to see if Renard came home. I knew he was gone, but you didn't say so. You wanted me to think he was away for only an hour or two."
"You're sick."
"You women always say that. In high school and college I was even worse, but you know the shit us guys can get away with. High school drunks and fraternity pranks. And my aunt was pretty high profile even back then. A real hotshot attorney."
He fell silent and Madeleine became instantly aware. She liked it better when he was talking and she could track his movements. The silence unnerved her. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until her vision began to darken. She sucked in air and listened, her ears straining for any sound.
Finally she heard what sounded like a yawn. Then Dale said, "You know, I just realized I might be one of those guys who's been pushed around by strong women all his life and shows his resentment by murdering someone. What do you think, Madeleine?"
"You mean Bruce Beckworth?" she asked.
"No. I mean Kayla Lyman."
Madeleine's gaze fixed on the door. "What?"
"You asked."
"The little girl? You killed that little girl?"
There was another long moment of silence, and then he began to chuckle. "Had you going there for a minute, didn't I? You are totally willing to think the worst, so yeah, it was big bad old Dale. And yup, it was me that ran down ole Shelly Bigelow, too. Creamed her snotty shit good. What else did I do that you'll believe? Let's see..."
"You really are sick," said Madeleine.
Dale chuckled once more and then fell silent again for a long time, long enough to make Madeleine think he had actually fallen asleep and then woke up again, leaving her trapped inside, wide awake and terrorized.
Madeleine closed her eyes as a brief image of Kayla Lyman resurfaced in her mind. The sodden yellow sweat-suit. The floating hair and bloated features. She thought of the emptiness in Dale Russell's voice as he said the little girl's name in response to her question and Madeleine began to wonder. Her imagination introduced her to a perverted, remorseless killer of children on the other side of her door. And then there was no longer any wondering in her as she saw in her mind's eye the image of him holding the little girl and heard him saying, "Which only makes me want to shove my dick in your mouth that much more."
When the sun cleared the trees, Madeleine had a huge knife in her hand and was prepared to use it. She heard Dale talking, asking how she had slept, but Madeleine did not answer. Her eyes remained glued to the door.
Dale staggered to his feet and kicked at the door in an effort to stretch his cramped limbs. She wasn't answering him, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He cursed himself for saying what he had. He ought to go now while he wasn't in too much trouble. No one could say he had done anything but aggravate her. She couldn't prove anything, and he had the cut over his eye to use against her. He kicked the door one last time and said, "You keep an eye out for me today, Maddie. You never know where I'm going to turn up."
He left then, got in his truck and drove out past the cemetery. Madeleine watched through the window and breathed out in relief. She threw back the locks and opened the door to run out of the cabin as fast as she could toward the Birdy's. Halfway across the lawn she was tackled from behind, and she twisted to see a scarlet-faced Dale Russell holding her and laughing. She shouted as loud as she could and received a fist in the face for her efforts. He dragged her back to the cabin and hauled her up the steps to push her inside, one hand reaching behind to close the door. He sat on her chest on the living room floor and hit her again when she fought and tried to unseat him. He unzipped his pants and she screamed in rage at him and told him she would bite.
"You do and I'll kill you," he said calmly.
"You're going to kill me anyway," she gasped, and panic made her buck furiously to get him off her.
Dale hit her again, hard, and held her quiet with his hands wrapped around her neck, choking off her air.
A sudden pounding at the door made his head jerk up. One hand left Madeleine's neck to cover her mouth and nose.
"Madeleine?" asked a familiar voice outside, and she squealed and took advantage of Dale's surprise to bite down hard on his hand and scream for help when he jerked it away. In the next instant a heavy foot thudded against the cabin door, once, twice, until it splintered and flew open. Dale leaped off Madeleine and looked wildly around himself for some way to escape. He ran to the mudroom door and yanked at the locks, leaving the cabin through the back door as Eris entered through the front.
Eris stood stunned into momentary paralysis at the sight of Madeleine's battered face. Then he spat a vicious curse and followed her pointing finger out the mudroom door to race after Russell. He caught him at the cemetery road as he scrambled to get in his truck. Eris's eyes went black with fury as he swung a fist that landed in Russell's stomach and made him double over for air. Dale sent out an arm to hold him off, but Eris knocked it away and hit him again, plowing into the side of his jaw and sending him to the ground with darkening vision. Dale got to his knees and held up both arms this time, begging for mercy. Eris hissed between his teeth and hit him repeatedly, opening up the cut above his eye and rendering him unconscious.
Dale slumped to the ground and Eris stood over him, his chest heaving. Then he turned to go back to Madeleine.
She came out to meet him, and the pain in his shoulder caused him to stumble as she threw her arms around him. He held her tightly a moment then moved with her into the cabin to sit down. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck and clung to him so fiercely he found it difficult to breathe. Eris put his arm around her and held on. "Are you all right?"
She tightened her hold on him and blurted, "Don't ever leave me again. I'm pregnant."
Eris's jaw fell, Dale Russell momentarily forgotten.
But Dale wasn't gone yet. The sunlight pricking at his lids brought him around, and he rolled awkwardly to his feet. The blood in his eye was about to blind him, and after Renard's last blow he was so dizzy his sense of direction was askew. He staggered to where he thought his truck sat parked, telling himself everything he planned to do to make Renard's existence a miserable one. He stopped in confusion then and found himself in the middle of the road. He turned to search for his truck and saw nothing but the headlights and grill of a dented brown station wagon barreling toward him.
The impact with the vehicle threw Dale fifteen feet into the dense brush and growth that bordered the road.
Sheila Lyman hit the brakes in the station wagon and stopped screaming at her little girls about the bubble gum on the car seat so she could look and see what she had hit. She had come to see Eris Renard and thank him for treating her dead Ronnie so nice even though Ronnie hated his guts and wanted to hurt him. Sheila heard how Renard stopped the man who killed Ronnie, and she wanted to offer to take Renard to dinner or maybe even go out on a date sometime.
The sight of his burned-out house nixed that idea. Sheila figured Ronnie was probably the one who had burned it.
She craned her head and couldn't see any dead dogs or deer around her, but she did see a CO's truck, and the idea of having hit one of those scared her worse than Ronnie ever had. Sheila's tires kicked up dust as she sped away.
Eris and Madeleine moved to the window at the sound of the loud thump. Neither recognized the driver of the station wagon tearing up the road.
"Where do you suppose Dale went?" Madeleine asked, her voice worried. "His truck is still there."
"I don't know. Maybe he got in the wagon." Eris led her back to the sofa. He couldn't stop looking at her. "He won't come near you again."
"Did you hurt him?"
Eris's nostrils flared. "Definitely."
He touched her bruised neck and saw her wince.
"Shouldn't we call someone?" she said. "He said he killed the little girl, Kayla."
"He'll probably call someone about us."
"I believed him, Eris. What he said about Kayla Lyman."
Eris nodded, and they were both silent for several moments. Then he lowered his head to kiss the tip of her nose and one swollen cheek. "Why didn't you tell me? Did you already know?"
She looked up at him. "I thought you might see it as an excuse to keep you here."
"Russell told someone at the lake office you got a grant."
"I told him I did."
"Did you?"
"No. But I'm supposed to go and see some people today about a job."
Eris's pulse quickened. "Where? In the city?"
"Yes."
"Is it what you want?" Eris asked, watching her face.
She heard something in his voice and touched him on the chin. "Yes. Almost as much as I want this baby. Do you?"
He swallowed and reached behind himself to take out his wallet. He opened the leather, withdrew the ring inside, and put down the wallet to pick up her left hand. Eris put the ring on her finger, and then he looked at her, his dark eyes searching her face.
Madeleine sucked in her breath as she stared at the simple, elegant cut of the diamond. Finally she lifted her gaze to Eris, who sat waiting.
"Don't say no," he croaked. "I lost the receipt."
Her lips curved upward and she lifted his left hand in hers and pressed a kiss on his bare ring finger.
His heart thudded in his chest and he pulled her to him, held her close. When she finally pulled away from him she asked, "Where are we going to live?"
"Somewhere else."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sherman Tanner heard what sounded like a moan as he walked his dog up the road that evening. His dog heard it, too, and wanted to investigate the source. Sherman let the dog have its head, and it leaped into the brush, the leash snaking along behind it. Sherman followed, and his nose immediately picked up the scent of blood. His nostrils widened and he filled his lungs.
He saw a blood-covered arm jutting up, white bone sticking out where the flesh was torn. Sherman moved closer, and closer yet, until he could see all of the injured man.
Extensive, Sherman told himself as he looked over the damaged arms, legs, and trunk. The right leg twisted unnaturally, obviously just as broken as the arm that jutted up. Even the neck appeared bent at a strange angle.
Sherman looked hard at the bloody face and finally recognized him. It was the other conservation officer. The good looking one.
Used to be, anyway.
His dog drew close to the torn flesh, sniffing at the white bone, and Sherman called it away. Another moan sounded, as if the injured man knew someone was near.
Sherman leaned down to look into his face. "How long have you been here?"
The man's lips opened and dark red blood streamed out of his mouth.
"Ooh," said Sherman, and he shook his head. Things didn't look good for the formerly handsome CO. There were obviously internal injuries as well as broken bones. Sherman guessed he'd have to cut short his walk and go back home to call someone about the broken mess of a man.
Or would he?
He had already turned to call the dog when the thought struck him. He looked up and down the deserted road then turned back to stand over Dale Russell. He unzipped his pants. As he reached in his underwear Tanner said, "I do this because I like to think it gives a dead thing one last taste of life."
The injured man's head moved half an inch, as if he were trying to turn away, and when Sherman Tanner ejaculated, Dale Russell's chest heaved one final time and then was motionless.
Sherman zipped his pants and waited, watching for nearly ten minutes before being certain the man was in fact dead. Then he hurried back to his house to find his wife, Gudrun. She was going to have to help him get the man into their backyard.
This time they would need their shovels.
|
legend solar
News in Brief: SunPower collaborates with Michigan's largest utility for a residential pilot programme, UOSSM's Syria Solar Initiative completes a 127kWp solar system to provide electricity to hospitals, an Australian aboriginal community starts construction on a solar-diesel hybrid project backed by ARENA and Utah's Legend Solar acquires Aspire Energy.
News in Brief: Utah's Museum of Ancient Life installs 1,500 solar panels, California's Great America amusement park is now 100% renewable, Intel unveils the second largest solar carport in the country, SunPower installs systems at Macy's and Bloomingdales for Earth Week, and the 10MW US Army solar facility at Fort Rucker is now online. |
In axial piston swash plate compressors such as used in motor vehicle air conditioning systems, it is common practice to employ a plurality of double-ended pistons that are driven by the swash plate and develop high pressure refrigerant gas in discharge chambers located in opposite ends of the compressor. The nature of this pumping mechanism is such that high pressure pulsations are generated that can cause noise and vibration problems throughout the air conditioning system. For this reason, it is common practice to either add a muffler to the system or incorporate a muffler arrangement directly in the compressor itself.
For example, in the compressor disclosed in U.S. Pat. No. 4,360,321 assigned to the assignee of this invention, there is a muffler arrangement incorporated directly in the compressor structure. In this particular muffler arrangement, one of the discharge cavities opens directly to a single discharge port leading from the compressor and the other discharge cavity (i.e. the remote one) communicates therewith within the compressor by a pair of attenuation chambers that are interconnected by an attenuation passage and ported to the respective discharge cavities. The volumes of the attenuation chambers are substantially equal and the length of the attenuation passage is substantially longer than the corresponding longitudinal dimension of the attenuation chambers so as to attenuate the discharge pulses from the remote discharge cavity and thereby the overall pulse effect to an acceptable output level totally within the structure of the compressor. While such a muffler arrangement has proven generally satisfactory, it has been found that the gas discharged directly from the one discharge cavity to the compressor outlet can cause undesirable noise and vibration disturbances in the air conditioning system under certain conditions. |
West Bromwich murder: Man shot dead in stationary car Published duration 27 December 2016
image copyright Google image caption The junction of High Street and Dartmouth Street in West Bromwich has been cordoned off
A man has been shot dead as he sat in a stationary car.
The man, who was a passenger in the car, was shot in the head in West Bromwich shortly after 14:30 GMT, West Midlands Police said.
The victim, who was in his 30s, died at the scene in Dartmouth Street and police have opened a murder investigation.
Police said the junction of High Street and Dartmouth Street was cordoned off while forensic inquiries took place.
A post-mortem examination is due to take place.
Det Insp Martin Slevin said: "The investigation is at an early stage, my officers are currently carrying out inquiries at the scene and house to house and CCTV. There will also be extra reassurance patrols in the local area." |
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention relates to a system and method for handling and processing semiconductor wafers and, in particular, to a transfer chamber with an integral load lock and staging station.
2. Description of the Related Art
In the processing of semiconductor devices, such as transistors, diodes, and integrated circuits, a plurality of such devices are fabricated simultaneously on a thin slice of semiconductor material, termed a substrate or wafer. When manufacturing these devices, it is imperative that the substrate does not become contaminated by particulate. Accordingly, substrate processing systems typically include a load lock apparatus that provides a substantially particle free environment from which substrates may be selectively withdrawn by a substrate handling assembly for placement into one or more processing modules.
There are several general problems that are associated with prior art substrate processing systems. For example, the addition of a load lock to a substrate processing system tends to increase the footprint of the substrate processing station. However, it generally is more desirable to reduce the footprint of the substrate processing system. Another general problem associated with prior art substrate systems is that when the substrate is removed from the one or more processing modules it typically is very hot (e.g., from 500xc2x0 to 1200xc2x0 C.). Accordingly, the substrate usually is allowed to cool before/after it is removed from the substrate processing system. This cooling time tends to decrease the throughput of the substrate processing system.
A need, therefore, exists for a substrate processing system with a load lock that has a reduced footprint and allows the substrate to cool after processing without significantly reducing throughput.
Accordingly, one aspect of the present invention involves a substrate processing system comprising a substrate handling chamber and a load lock chamber. The load lock chamber has a gated inlet for the transfer of a substrate into and out of the load lock chamber and a gated port for transferring a substrate between the load lock chamber and the substrate handling chamber. A staging shelf is positioned above the load lock chamber in the substrate handling chamber. The substrate processing system further includes a first substrate handler in the substrate handling chamber for moving a substrate between the load lock chamber and the staging shelf.
Another aspect of the present invention involves a method for processing semiconductor substrates. In the method, a first substrate is placed at a load lock station that is located inside a load lock. The first substrate is moved from the load lock station to a staging shelf located inside a substrate handling chamber. A second substrate is moved from a cooling station in the substrate handling chamber to the load lock station. A third substrate is moved from a substrate processing chamber to the cooling station. The first substrate is moved from the staging shelf to the processing chamber.
Yet another aspect of the present invention involves a substrate processing system that comprises a substrate handling chamber. A load lock port is located in a wall of the substrate handling chamber for the transfer of a substrate from a load lock chamber to the substrate handling chamber. Within the substrate handling chamber are a staging shelf, a rest station, a cooling station. The system also includes a first substrate handler configured to move the substrate to and from the load lock chamber, the staging shelf, the rest station and the cooling station.
Still yet another aspect of the present invention involves a substrate processing system that comprises a substrate handling chamber. A load lock port is located in a wall of the substrate handling chamber and is for transferring a substrate from a load lock chamber into the substrate handling chamber. The system includes a first substrate handler configured to rotate, extend and retract to move substrates to and from one or more positions within the substrate handling chamber. The system also includes a second substrate handler positioned on a fixed track and including a Bernoulli wand for straight line movement to move a substrate into and out of a substrate processing chamber adjacent the substrate handling chamber. The first substrate handler and the second substrate handler are configured such that a substrate can be positioned by the first substrate handler within the substrate handling chamber beneath the Bernoulli wand to transfer the substrate between the first substrate handler and the second substrate handler.
All of these embodiments are intended to be within the scope of the invention herein disclosed. These and other embodiments of the present invention will become readily apparent to those skilled in the art from the following detailed description of the preferred embodiments having reference to the attached figures, the invention not being limited to any particular preferred embodiment(s) disclosed. |
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention relates generally to imaging, and more particularly to measuring dielectric properties using a near-filed scanning microwave microscope.
2. Related Art
Dielectric thin film research has become increasingly important as the demand grows for smaller, faster, and more reliable electronics. For example, high permittivity thin films are under study in order to fabricate smaller capacitors while minimizing leakage. Low permittivity materials are being sought to allow smaller scale circuits while minimizing undesirable stray capacitance between wires. Nonlinear dielectrics, which have a dielectric permittivity which is a function of electric field, are being used in tunable devices, particularly at microwave frequencies. Finally, ferroelectric thin films are a solution for large-scale, non-volatile memories.
All of these dielectric thin film technologies demand high-quality, homogeneous films. However, this goal is often difficult to achieve because of the complicated fabrication process involved. Consequently, it is important to have a set of reliable techniques for evaluating thin film properties, such as permittivity and tunability. A number of different techniques are available. One standard low-frequency (xe2x89xa61 MHz) method uses thin film capacitors to measure the normal and in-plane components of the permittivity tensor. Another uses reflection measurements from a Corbino probe. Still another method provides microwave measurements of permittivity by using transmission measurements through a microstrip structure. However, these techniques average over large areas and involve depositing thin film electrodes which itself can alter the properties of the sample. Dielectric resonators have been used as well, but also have the problem of low spatial resolution. More recently, near-field microscopy techniques have allowed quantitative measurements with spatial resolutions much less than the wavelength. These techniques use a resonator which is coupled to a localized region of the sample through a small probe and have the advantage of being non-destructive. However, it is still difficult to arrive at quantitative results and maintain high spatial resolution.
Therefore, what is needed is a non-destructive, non-invasive, system and method for imaging quantitative permittivity and tunability at high spatial resolution.
The present invention meets the above-mentioned needs by providing a system, apparatus, and method for quantitatively imaging the dielectric properties of bulk and thin film dielectric samples. Permittivity and dielectric tunability are two examples of dielectric properties capable of measurement by the present invention.
The system uses a near-field scanning microwave microscope (NSMM). The NSMM is comprised of a coaxial transmission line resonator having one end coupled to a microwave signal source and the other end terminating with an open-ended coaxial probe. The probe, which has a sharp-tipped center conductor extending beyond the outer conductor, is held fixed while the sample is raster scanned beneath the probe tip. A spring-loaded cantilever sample holder gently presses the sample against the probe tip with a force of about 50 xcexcN (microNewtons). A feedback circuit keeps the microwave signal source locked onto a selected resonant frequency of the microscope resonator. Because the electric fields generated by the microwave signal are concentrated at the probe tip, the resonant frequency and quality factor of the resonator are a function of the sample properties near the probe tip. Once the microwave signal has been applied to the sample through the probe tip, it is reflected back through the system. The feedback circuit is then able to receive the reflected microwave signal from the coaxial transmission line resonator and calculate a resonant frequency shift. The resonant frequency shift value is then stored in a computer. The computer also controls the scanning of the sample beneath the probe. To obtain quantitative results, the system uses calibration curves to exhibit the relationship between the calculated resonant frequency shift data values and the dielectric properties of a sample.
The invention described herein has the advantage of being able to provide quantitative results for samples on a length scale of about 1 xcexcm or less. This allows for the measuring of sample sizes relative to the actual environment in which they will be used.
The invention also has the advantage of providing more accurate quantitative results because the sharp protruding center conductor is represented as a cone during modeling. |
Taiwan has landed war planes on a normally busy highway to simulate a response to a Chinese attack on its airfields.
Tuesday's exercise is part of annual drills designed to showcase the island's military capabilities and resolve to repel an attack from across the Taiwan Strait amid perceptions of a rising threat.
China considers the island its own territory, to be annexed by force if necessary.
President Tsai Ing-wen presided at the exercise in the southern county of Changhua. She said China's long-distance training exercises, including sending fighter jets to circle the island, were threatening regional peace and stability, requiring Taiwan to maintain a high degree of vigilance.
Aircraft deployed included U.S.-made F-16, French Mirage 2000 and Taiwan-made IDF fighter jets and U.S.-made E-2K airborne early warning aircraft. |
Learn More
Levine Cancer Institute, part of Carolinas HealthCare System, received full accreditation from the American College of Surgeons Commission on Cancer (CoC) for its commitment to providing comprehensive, high-quality cancer care for patients system-wide.
The Institute also earned the CoC’s Gold Star Award for demonstrating a Commendation level of compliance with the eight standards that represent the full scope of the cancer program at seven of the Institute’s network locations.
The eight standards that form the Gold Star Award are drawn from the following six areas of program activity: Cancer committee leadership, cancer data management, clinical management, research, community outreach and quality improvement.
Nationwide Levine Cancer Institute is one of three of the largest networks in the CoC and the only recipient in this category that has received this level of accreditation. Network facilities accredited include: Carolinas Medical Center’s Main, Mercy, Pineville, University, Union and Northeast locations and Cleveland Regional Medical Center. |
Q:
RabbitMQ SLF4J: Failed to load class "org.slf4j.impl.StaticLoggerBinder"
I'm trying to connect to RabbitMQ in Java with InteliJ IDEA (Maven 3.3.9), but an error occurs when doing the required step (creating ConnectionFactory object before connecting to RabbitMQ).
For detailed information: Maven itself installs amqp-client:5.7.2 and org.slf4j-api:1.7.26.
What am I missing here? I tried to import org.slf4j.impl.StaticLoggerBinder, but Java itself doesn't know this one.
package TestPackage;
import Configuration.RabbitMQConf;
import com.rabbitmq.client.Connection;
import com.rabbitmq.client.Channel;
import com.rabbitmq.client.ConnectionFactory;
import org.slf4j.LoggerFactory;
import java.io.IOException;
import java.util.concurrent.TimeoutException;
public class TestingClass {
static ConnectionFactory rbmqFactory;
static Connection rbmqConn;
static Channel rbmqChannel;
public static void main(String[] args){
RabbitMQConf rbmqConf = new RabbitMQConf();
rbmqFactory = new ConnectionFactory();
rbmqFactory.setUsername(rbmqConf.username);
rbmqFactory.setPassword(rbmqConf.password);
rbmqFactory.setVirtualHost(rbmqConf.virtualHost);
rbmqFactory.setHost(rbmqConf.host);
rbmqFactory.setPort(rbmqConf.port);
}
}
I tried to run this and got this error:
SLF4J: Failed to load class "org.slf4j.impl.StaticLoggerBinder".
SLF4J: Defaulting to no-operation (NOP) logger implementation
SLF4J: See http://www.slf4j.org/codes.html#StaticLoggerBinder for further details.
here's my pom.xml file :
<project xmlns="http://maven.apache.org/POM/4.0.0" xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance"
xsi:schemaLocation="http://maven.apache.org/POM/4.0.0 http://maven.apache.org/xsd/maven-4.0.0.xsd">
<modelVersion>4.0.0</modelVersion>
<groupId>XXXX</groupId>
<artifactId>XXXX</artifactId>
<version>1.0-XXXX</version>
<properties>
<maven.compiler.source>1.7</maven.compiler.source>
<maven.compiler.target>1.7</maven.compiler.target>
</properties>
<dependencies>
<dependency>
<groupId>com.rabbitmq</groupId>
<artifactId>amqp-client</artifactId>
<version>5.7.2</version>
</dependency>
</dependencies>
</project>
A:
The link in the error pretty much explains what's the problem and how to fix it. You just need to add one of the logging implementations to the dependencies in pom.xml.
This warning message is reported when the
org.slf4j.impl.StaticLoggerBinder class could not be loaded into
memory. This happens when no appropriate SLF4J binding could be found
on the class path. Placing one (and only one) of slf4j-nop.jar
slf4j-simple.jar, slf4j-log4j12.jar, slf4j-jdk14.jar or
logback-classic.jar on the class path should solve the problem.
<dependency>
<groupId>ch.qos.logback</groupId>
<artifactId>logback-classic</artifactId>
<version>1.2.3</version>
</dependency>
|
Wedu Global
Wedu (also known as Wedu Global) is a social enterprise based in Bangkok, Thailand. The organisation's mission is to provide "high potential young women" ("Rising Stars") from Asian communities with access to long-term mentorship and financing options to complete higher education and develop leadership skills.
Wedu works with NGOs, educational institutions, and individuals based in communities across Asia ("Talent Spotters") to identify young women demonstrating "strong leadership potential" with a focus on those from underserved communities. Wedu's Talent Spotters include the Asian University for Women, Women LEAD, Khmer Youth Association, Thabyay Education Foundation, and Hands in Outreach. Wedu also works with Kiva and is currently a member of the Clinton Global Initiative (part of the Clinton Foundation).
History
Mario Ferro and Mari Sawai, 2009 graduates of the London School of Economics Masters in Development Program, founded Wedu (an acronym for women's education) in 2012 as their response to the lack of female leaders in Asia. They began by identifying potential community leaders in Cambodia with support of the Khmer Youth Association. The organisation has since grown from 5 Rising Stars in its first cohort to 140 as of September 2015. Wedu plans to serve 1,000 Rising Stars by 2018.
Business Model
Wedu seeks to identify young women with strong leadership potential in underserved communities. Once selected, the organisation assigns the "Rising Stars" with a mentor who serves as a guide in the development of their leadership skills.
Mentors come from various sectors and levels of work experience. According to Wedu, mentors supplement their leadership skills through the Learning Objectives in the Mentorship Program.
Wedu provides scholarships to Rising Stars who are pursuing or applying for a university education in Asia. All applicants are required to take part in the Wedu Mentorship Program for a minimum of 6 months before they are eligible to apply for financial support. Wedu utilizes Future Income Sharing Agreements (FISAs): financial instruments more flexible and affordable than university loans, as reported by the organisation. Rising Stars who are granted FISAs can contribute a small percentage of their future income for a fixed amount of time, leveraging income-based contributions to finance the education of future Rising Stars. According to Wedu, this contributes to a sustainable force for the advancement of women across Asia.
Achievements
1st Prize D2D Business Plan Competition 2012.
1st Prize University of Cambridge CUE 1K Competition 2012.
Social Enterprise Start-up of the year 2012 at Cambridge University.
1st Prize Global Social Venture Competition 2013, South East Asia round and finalist in the global round.
3rd Prize Global Solution Award 2013, by Women Deliver.
Legal and funding
Wedu was incorporated in London in May 2012 and is a registered charity in the United Kingdom and a foundation in Thailand.
References
External links
http://www.weduglobal.org/
Category:Social enterprises
Category:Charities based in Thailand |
Everyday Dutch Oven
Sharing my love of Dutch Oven cooking with everyday recipes and tips for the outdoor cook. |
Klaus Töpfer
Klaus Töpfer (born 29 July 1938 in Waldenburg, Silesia) is a German politician (CDU) and environmental politics expert. From 1998 to 2006 he was executive director of the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP).
Early life and education
Töpfer studied economics in Mainz, Frankfurt and Münster. In 1968 he earned his doctorate at the University of Münster.
Early career
In 1971, Töpfer was appointed Head of Planning and Information of the Federal State of Saarland, a post he held until 1978. During that time, he also served as a visiting professor at the Academy of Administrative Sciences in Speyer, and consulted several countries on development policy, among them Egypt, Brazil and Jordan. He spent the following year at the University of Hannover as Professor and Director of the Institute for Spatial Research and Planning.
Political career
In 1985 Töpfer became State Minister for the Environment and Health in the government of Minister President Bernhard Vogel of Rhineland-Palatinate.
In 1987 Töpfer became Federal Minister for the Environment, Nature Conservation and Nuclear Safety under Chancellor Helmut Kohl. During his time in office, Germany established the Federal Office for Radiation Protection as a response to the Chernobyl disaster. From 1994 to 1998 he served as Federal Minister for Regional Planning, Civil Engineering and Urban Development. He was member of the Bundestag from 1990 to 1998 and member of the Steering Committee of the CDU from 1992 to 1998.
In 1998 Töpfer was appointed Under Secretary General of the United Nations, General director of the United Nations office in Nairobi and Executive Director of the United Nations Environment Programme. Among the milestones of his eight-year tenure are a number of important environmental agreements, including the Cartagena Protocol on Biosafety and the Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants. Töpfer was also closely involved in behind-the-scenes negotiations in support of the Kyoto Protocol on climate change. In June 2006 he was succeeded in this office by Achim Steiner. As director of UNEP, he has had a key role in gauging and attempting to remedy the environmental costs of the 2004 Asian tsunami.
Later career
In 2009 Töpfer was appointed founding director of the Institute for Advanced Sustainability Studies (IASS) which performs research between climate problems and sustainable economics. This institute is located at Potsdam, Germany. The institutes funding is provided by the federal government of Germany Federal Ministry of Education and Research (Germany).
Töpfer was rumored as a possible successor to the German presidency after Christian Wulff's resignation. He later served as co-chairman of the Federal Government’s Ethics Commission on a Safe Energy Supply.
Since 2013 Töpfer has been heading the project "DEMOENERGY – The Transformation of the Energy System as the Engine for Democratic Innovations" together with Claus Leggewie and Patrizia Nanz (both Institute for Advanced Study in the Humanities Essen, Germany). In 2016, the United Nations Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) appointed Töpfer as co-chairman (alongside Juan Somavia) of an Independent Team of Advisors on positioning the UN development system for the Sustainable Development Goals.
In 2018, Energy Community appointed Töpfer to serve as mediator in an energy dispute between Kosovo and Serbia.
Other activities
Corporate boards
Theva, Member of the Senior Advisory Council (since 2017)
Porsche, Member of the Sustainability Advisory Board (since 2016)
ProSiebenSat.1 Media, Member of the Advisory Board (since 2011)
Deutsche Bank, Member of the Climate Change Advisory Board (2011)
Volkswind Gruppe, Member of the Advisory Board (2009-2015)
Non-profit organizations
atmosfair, Patron
Stiftung Zukunftsfähigkeit, Member of the Advisory Board
Helmholtz Association of German Research Centres, Member of the Senate (2007-2009)
Institute for Energy Efficiency in Production (EEP), University of Stuttgart, Member of the Advisory Board
German Foundation for World Population (DSW), Member of the Advisory Board
German-Russian Raw Materials Forum, Patron
Holcim Foundation for Sustainable Construction, Member of the Board
Agora Energiewende, Chairman of the Council (2013-2018)
German Council for Sustainable Development (RNE), Member (2001-2010, appointed ad personam by Chancellor Gerhard Schröder)
References
External links
https://archive.is/20130416041104/http://www.unep.org/Documents/Default.asp?DocumentID=43&ArticleID=3174
https://web.archive.org/web/20110524114350/http://www.gleeds.tv/index.cfm?video=99
https://www.iass-potsdam.de/en/people/klaus-topfer
Category:1938 births
Category:Living people
Category:People from Wałbrzych
Category:Environment ministers of Germany
Category:Club of Rome members
Category:Christian Democratic Union of Germany politicians
Category:German officials of the United Nations
Category:People from the Province of Lower Silesia
Category:United Nations Environment Programme
Category:Grand Crosses with Star and Sash of the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany
Category:People from Freiberg
Category:Members of the European Academy of Sciences and Arts
Category:State ministers of Rhineland-Palatinate |
The Vegan community really wants to enjoy the great taste of Cool Ranch Doritos. We miss them too much to live without them.
The amount of research put into food technology should be advanced enough to achieve almost identical tasting vegan versions of the Cool Ranch variation. We would love to see an either completely revised version of the original flavor or a completely separate vegan friendly version.
Please hear our cry and help make this possible by signing this petition to get the Frito-Lay company to make some (minor) changes in its recipe. So we can all enjoy the great taste we all love. |
Effect of Antiplatelet Drugs on D-Dimer Levels: A Systematic Review and Meta-analysis.
D-dimer is a product of fibrinolysis. In clinical practice, D-dimer levels are commonly used to rule out venous thromboembolism. Antiplatelet drugs may influence D-dimer levels, potentially affecting the accuracy of this diagnostic tool. To evaluate the effect of antiplatelet drugs on D-dimer levels, we performed a systematic review and meta-analysis of all published articles on this topic (PROSPERO registration number CRD42017058932). We electronically searched EMBASE, MEDLINE Epub, Cochrane, Web of Science, and Google Scholar (100 top relevance) (last search on October 5, 2017). We included randomized controlled trials, cohort studies, and cross-sectional studies conducted in humans, with a drug exposure time of at least 7 days. Two reviewers independently selected eligible articles and extracted the data. Five controlled trials, 7 cohort studies, and 5 cross-sectional studies were finally included. Meta-analysis involving all 1117 participants showed no change in dimer levels (standardized mean difference: -0.015, 95% confidence interval, 0.182-0.151, P = 0.855). In conclusion, antiplatelet drugs do not seem to influence D-dimer levels. |
#include "Halide.h"
#include <stdio.h>
using namespace Halide;
int main(int argc, char **argv) {
// Turning on tracing wraps certain Exprs. This shouldn't effect
// bounds inference.
Func f, g;
Var x;
f(x) = clamp(x, 0, 100);
f.compute_root();
g(x) = f(f(x));
// f is known to be bounded, so this means we need 101 values of
// f. This shouldn't be confused by tracing loads of f or stores
// to g.
f.trace_loads();
g.trace_stores();
// Shouldn't throw an error about unbounded access.
g.compile_jit();
printf("Success!\n");
return 0;
}
|
The Government is being urged to engage in a comprehensive land-redevelopment exercise in order to address unrelieved landlessness among Jamaicans.
But lecturer at the University of the West Indies (UWI) and member of the National Reparations Committee Dr Jermaine McCalpin has emphasised that in doing so, the Government needs to steer clear of what he characterises as the Zimbabwe approach.
"We will have to do redistribution, but let us be clear on how it happened in Zimbabwe," said McCalpin yesterday during a Gleaner Editors' forum held at the company's Kingston offices.
McCalpin noted that Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe angered European nations when he sequestered lands instead of redistributing them en masse to the people.
"That's not where I think we need to go," he said.
Land reform in Zimbabwe officially began in 1980 with the signing of the Lancaster House Agreement aimed at more equitably distributing land between black subsistence farmers and white Zimbabweans of European ancestry who had traditionally enjoyed superior political and economic status.
The programme's targets in the African state were intended to alter the ethnic balance of land ownership.
The Reparations Committee has noted that "the issue of landlessness, and, by extension, the social, political, and economic exclusion faced by post-slavery Jamaicans, is one of the harsh realities of modern-day Jamaica."
Like Jamaica, inequalities in land ownership were inflated by growing overpopulation, depletion of overutilised tracts, and escalating poverty in subsistence areas along with the underutilisation of land on commercial farms.
At independence from the United Kingdom in 1980, the Zimbabwean authorities were empowered to initiate the necessary reforms as long as land was bought and sold on a willing basis. The British government would finance half the cost.
In the late 1990s, UK Prime Minister Tony Blair terminated the arrangement when funds available from Margaret Thatcher's administration were exhausted, repudiating all commitments to land reform.
"Concerning land, we will have to go the route of redistribution of hundreds of thousands of acres of Crown lands. There is no two ways about it."
Chair of the Reparations Committee Professor Verene Shepherd suggested that Government could purchase idle lands in private hands.
"They will have to negotiate to allow people who have lands that they are not using to make them available to people who need land," Shepherd said, echoing a sentiment expressed by McCalpin.
"Government should buy back some of that land and redistribute," added Shepherd. "We have lost that sense of moral responsibility, where lands can be distributed without monetary exchange."
Shepherd suggested that if landowners are averse to anything but monetary exchange, they must make the property available at a reasonable price to ensure that Jamaicans have access to land.
She conceded that in 2015, it was unrealistic to take over lands that are owned by others.
"Negotiation has to be the way. Appeal to people who have too much land they are not even using."
Central Clarendon Member of Parliament Mike Henry emphasised that economic realities must be placed at the centre of any move for reparation as it relates to land distribution.
Henry disclosed that he had established an economic advisory committee to guide and influence the provision of land and the requisite wherewithal to empower poor Jamaicans economically.
He said Government should approach owners in a non-confrontational manner to purchase lands.
"The ownership of lands is one of the issues that declines our growth in a real way," he said. "We need to take the lands that belong to the National Land Agency to economically develop people around the value of land."
Added Henry: "We can't have successful land distribution without the ability of people to grow and produce, so it's a development process that is structured." |
Q:
Repair vs Optimize table in MySQL
Does Optimize include repair table or vice versa internally?
Is it possible to execute repair table only if found corrupt, any tools can support this?
(I am using MyISAM table engine)
A:
REPAIR TABLE Fixes Table Corruption
Issues, such as Open File Handle
Counts, Resolution of Rows with
Variable Length Data, and so forth.
OPTIMIZE TABLE simply copies the
table to remove unused space. If the
table is MyISAM, ANALYZE TABLE is
also performed to update index
statistics for the sake of the Query
Optimizer. If the table is InnoDB,
ANALYZE TABLE is bypassed.
You could have mysqld auto check and repair all MyISAM tables.
In fact the book MySQL 5.0 Certification Study Guide, Section 30.5, Pages 444,445 state:
The MySQL server can be instructed to
check and repair MyISAM tables
automatically. With automatic repair
enabled, the server checks each MyISAM
table when it opens it to see whether
the table was closed properly the last
time it was used and is not marked as
needing repair. If the table is not
OK, the server repairs it.
To enable automatic MyISAM table
maintenance, start the server with the
--myisam-recover option, The option value can consist if a comma-separated
list of one or more of the following
values:
DEFAULT for the default checking.
BACKUP tells the server to make a backup of any table that is must
change.
FORCE causes table recovery to be performed even if it would cause the
loss of more than one row of data.
QUICK performs quick recovery : Tables that have no holes resulting
from deletes or updates are skipped.
For example, to tell the server to
perform a force recovery of MyISAM
tables found to have problems but make
a backup of any tables it changes, you
can put the following lines in an
option file:
[mysqld] myisam-recover=FORCE,BACKUP
You could also create a file called /root/StartUp.sql and put the REPAIR TABLE commands you want inside. Then add init-file=/root/StartUp.sql to /etc/my.cnf and restart mysql to trigger the init script.
|
Ibáñez del Campo, Carlos ( born Nov. 3, 1877 , Chillán, Chile—died April 28, 1960 , Santiago ) Chilean president from 1927 to 1931 and from 1952 to 1958. Although by preference Ibáñez was aligned with foreign reactionaries, he made many constructive domestic reforms.
After a military career of 30 years, Ibáñez participated in a revolt in September 1924 against the government of Arturo Alessandri Palma. From 1925 to 1927 Ibáñez in effect controlled Chile while serving as minister of war and then as minister of the interior. In 1927 he forced the resignation of President Emiliano Figueroa Larraín and until 1931 held office as chief executive. Backed by the army, he exiled or jailed all opposition. His regime was directed to material development, especially of the ailing nitrate industry, which he sought to rescue through the creation of a monopoly corporation, Compañía de Salitre de Chile (Cosach), heavily dependent upon U.S. capital. When Cosach failed and the world depression put an end to the influx of foreign capital, the Chilean economy crumbled. Discontent with Ibáñez’ authoritarianism became overt, and in July 1931 he fled across the Andes went into exile in Argentina.
The former dictator returned from exile in May 1937 and in September of the following year, with the support of Chilean Nazisfascists, attempted an armed revolt that promptly failed. In August of 1939 he led another uprising that was again quickly crushed. His propensity for unsuccessful coups coupled with his reactionary views and Nazi fascist associations caused his defeat when he ran for the presidency in 1942. In 1952, however, the 75-year-old Ibáñez again ran for the presidency with arch-reactionary populist support (he was closely aligned with Argentina’s President Juan Perón) but and won the election through an appeal directed to for integrity in government that was directed at the depressed urban elements and the rural workers. His presidency was in marked contrast to his dictatorship in the 1920s, for he now demonstrated an ability to conciliate opposition, reorganized government departments to promote efficiency, and encouraged industrial growth. Despite his efforts, however, when he left office at age 81, the Chilean economy was in desperate straits, and the government was as corrupt as when he left took officeat the age of 81. |
Huperzine A protects C6 rat glioma cells against oxygen-glucose deprivation-induced injury.
The protective effects of huperzine A against oxygen-glucose deprivation (OGD)-induced injury in C6 cells were investigated. OGD for 6h and reoxygenation for 6h enhanced phosphorylation and degradation of IkappaBalpha and nuclear translocation of nuclear factor-kappa B (NF-kappaB), triggered overexpression of inducible nitric oxide synthase (iNOS), cyclooxygenase-2 (COX-2) and nitric oxide (NO) in C6 cells. Along with inhibiting acetylcholinesterase activity, treatment with 1 microM huperzine A inhibited activation of NF-kappaB, attenuated iNOS, COX-2 and NO overexpression, and promoted survival in C6 cells subjected to OGD insult. The protective effects of huperzine A were partly mediated by "cholinergic anti-inflammatory pathway" through alpha7 nicotinic acetylcholine receptor. |
package org.ovirt.engine.core.common.businessentities;
import java.util.Arrays;
public enum VmBackupPhase {
INITIALIZING("Initializing"),
STARTING("Starting"),
READY("Ready"),
FINALIZING("Finalizing");
private String name;
VmBackupPhase(String name) {
this.name = name;
}
public String getName() {
return name;
}
public static VmBackupPhase forName(String name) {
return Arrays.stream(values()).filter(val -> val.name.equals(name)).findAny().orElse(null);
}
}
|
Travel, outdoor, and life adventures
Category Archives: Nature
Just have to share this with you. Nandi is a baby African elephant born here at Reid Park Zoo on August 20th. Since day one the boisterous little girl has been bringing smiles to all who see her. I especially love this video where she greets her keeper friends in the morning. Pure joy!
I thought that perhaps I was biased in thinking she was so darn cute, but nope, she is officially cute – Nandi made it onto Buzzfeed’s list of The 37 Cutest Baby Animal Photos of 2014! Nandi comes in at Number 34.
In Ecuador an elite team of Swedish athletes, competing in an endurance race, shared a meatball with a stray dog. After that the scruffy, determined mutt never left their side. The partnership was tested during the water portion of the race as they were advised not to allow the dog in their kayaks. The team pushed off and fully anticipated leaving sans four-legged friend. Get your tissue ready, here comes the tearjerker…
However, Arthur (as he’d come to be known) refused to be left behind. He splashed in and swam alongside the team. The team pulled him on-board and Arthur finished the race as the honorary 5th member of their 4 person team (they rank 12th in the world by the way). Get another tissue because there’s more to the story…
The connection between Arthur and the Swedish team was so deep that they raised money to take Arthur home with them. He is finishing up quarantine and will soon be living with Mikael (seen below), the man who shared that fateful meatball. |
Went to a farm stand this weekend and the cauliflower was so beautiful. I couldn't wait to get into my kitchen to start experimenting with it. While cooking this soup, my kitchen smelled fantastic. I hope you enjoy it.
CURRIED CAULIFLOWER SOUP
2 tablespoons butter (salted)
½ onion, diced*
2 tablespoons of fresh ginger**, chopped (approximately 2 “)
2 cloves garlic, chopped
½ teaspoon dried curry
¼ teaspoon dried coriander
½ teaspoon dried cumin
1 head of cauliflower
32 oz. of chicken or vegetable broth
Kosher Salt
Freshly Ground Pepper
Saute onion in butter until tender, do not brown, approximately 3 minutes.
Add ginger and garlic to pot, sauté another 2 minutes.
Add dried herbs and sauté another 2 minutes.
Add cauliflower and broth. Bring to a boil, approximately 10 minutes.
Lower heat and cook on medium until cauliflower is soft, approximately 10-15 minutes.
Turn off heat and let cool awhile before putting in blender or Cuisinart. Cream soup and taste for seasoning.
Add salt and pepper to taste.
Notice I didn't add any cream - you don't need it - it's gets creamy by blending it in your Cuisinart or blender. |
Breaking News
Former Miami Dolphins cornerback Will Allen is a mini-Bernie Madoff ... so says the SEC which claims the ex-NFL player ran a multi-million dollar Ponzi scheme and blew some of the cash in clubs and casinos.
According to the Securities and Exchange Commission, Allen -- who signed a $12 million contract with the Dolphins in 2006 -- was a co-owner of Capital Financial Partners, which made loans to pro athletes.
The SEC says 36-year-old Allen and his partner raised $31 million from investors but only loaned out $18 mil ... and used some of the remaining money to PARTY THEIR ASSES OFF!
Now, the government agency is going after Allen and his partner for all of the money they allegedly stole -- plus interest and penalties.
FYI -- Allen was a 1st round pick in the 2001 NFL Draft ... and played in the league until 2012. |
GCHQ and the NSA have reportedly been spying on e-mail exchanges between MPs and their constituents as a matter of course for the last few years.
Documents released by spook whistleblower Edward Snowden in 2013 revealed details of the top secret Tempora scheme, which allowed the British intelligence agency to intercept data travelling on backbone Internet cables crossing the Irish Sea and English Channel. Bulk storage of this data by the UK's eavesdropping nerve centre GCHQ is allowed under current law.
According to a Computer Weekly report, co-written by acclaimed investigative journalist Duncan Campbell, parliament's switch to Microsoft e-mail cloud services (Office 365) in 2014 means that even UK-to-UK communications often travel via Redmond’s data centres in Ireland and the Netherlands. That's the conclusion of a study carried out by the IT publication. It tracked the path of hundreds of MPs’ e-mails, and found that 65 percent of those messages were routed overseas.
“Every message also contained references to having been passed through clusters of scanning computers connected to GCHQ and located in the UK, France, and Germany,” Computer Weekly said.
While the Tempora system “only” collects metadata, including sender, recipient, and subject line, the e-mails can also be scanned for “keywords” through a network run by Symantec-owned MessageLabs, which provides spam filtering and malware detection services to parliament.
According to Snowden’s disclosures, a secret cyber security project dubbed "Haruspex" allows GCHQ operatives to use MessageLabs’ abilities to scan e-mails for “national security” purposes.
Meanwhile the US National Security Agency’s (NSA) notorious Prism system grants it access to parliamentary e-mail and documents directly through orders given to Microsoft.
Both Microsoft and MessageLabs declined to comment on this story when approached by Ars on Thursday morning. At time of publication, no response had been received from GCHQ's press team.
MPs will discuss the controversial Investigatory Powers Bill when it returns to the floor of the House of Commons on Monday for its report stage and third reading. The proposed law would give sweeping new powers to the UK's security services. |
Preparation of Interconnected Biomimetic Poly(vinylidene fluoride-co-chlorotrifluoroethylene) Hydrophobic Membrane by Tuning the Two-Stage Phase Inversion Process.
A facile strategy was applied for poly(vinylidene fluoride-co-chlorotrifluoroethylene) (PVDF-CTFE) hydrophobic membrane preparation by tuning the two-stage phase inversion process. The exposure stage was found to benefit the solid-liquid demixing process (gelation/crystallization) induced by the solvent evaporation and the subsequent phase inversion induced by immersion benefit the liquid-liquid demixing. It was confirmed that the electrospun nanostructure-like biomimetic surface and interconnected pore structure can be expected by controlling the exposure duration, and 300 s was considered as the inflection point of exposure duration for PVDF-CTFE membrane through which a tremendous variation would show. The micro/nanohierarchical structure in the membrane surface owing to the crystallization of PVDF-CTFE copolymer was responsible for the improvement of membrane roughness and hydrophobicity. Meanwhile, the interconnected pore structure in both the surface and the cross-section, which were formed because of the crystallization process, offers more mass transfer passages and enhances the permeate flux. The membrane then showed excellent MD performance with high permeate flux, high salt rejection, and relatively high stability during a 48 h continuous DCMD operation, according to the morphology, pore structure, and properties, which can be a substitute for hydrophobic membrane application. |
One man is behind bars after an overnight shooting in Bowling Green.
Bowling Green Police say they were called to a home on Woodford Avenue around 2:30 a.m. Saturday morning, for a family disturbance with shots fired.
According to a police report, 60-year-old Robert Stahl, of Bowling Green, was arrested Saturday morning in connection with the shooting.
The victim was transported to an area hospital where their condition is unknown.
Stahl is charged with Assault 1st Degree- Domestic Violence and was taken to the Warren County Jail. |
951 F.2d 1256
Tatev.Hassinger*
NO. 91-3180
United States Court of Appeals,Fifth Circuit.
Dec 18, 1991
1
Appeal From: E.D.La.
2
AFFIRMED.
*
Fed.R.App.P. 34(a); 5th Cir.R. 34.2
|
Case: 16-30975 Document: 00513925162 Page: 1 Date Filed: 03/24/2017
IN THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS
FOR THE FIFTH CIRCUIT
United States Court of Appeals
Fifth Circuit
No. 16-30975 FILED
Summary Calendar March 24, 2017
Lyle W. Cayce
Clerk
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
Plaintiff-Appellee
v.
EDUARDO GUERRERO,
Defendant-Appellant
Appeal from the United States District Court
for the Western District of Louisiana
USDC No. 3:15-CR-57-1
Before REAVLEY, OWEN, and ELROD, Circuit Judges.
PER CURIAM: *
Eduardo Guerrero pleaded guilty to conspiracy to distribute and to
possess with the intent to distribute 50 grams or more of methamphetamine
or 500 grams or more of a mixture containing methamphetamine, and he was
sentenced to 120 months of imprisonment, to be followed by five years of
supervised release. Guerrero’s guilty plea was conditional, as he reserved the
* Pursuant to 5TH CIR. R. 47.5, the court has determined that this opinion should not
be published and is not precedent except under the limited circumstances set forth in 5TH
CIR. R. 47.5.4.
Case: 16-30975 Document: 00513925162 Page: 2 Date Filed: 03/24/2017
No. 16-30975
right to appeal the denial of his motion to suppress evidence seized from a truck
registered to him that was driven by Raul Tuda.
Guerrero argues that the district court erred in denying his motion to
suppress the evidence seized from the truck. He contends that there was no
reasonable suspicion to justify a prolonged detention. Additionally, Guerrero
challenges the voluntary nature of Tuda’s consent to search the vehicle and the
use of a canine. When reviewing a denial of a motion to suppress evidence, we
review “factual findings for clear error and the ultimate constitutionality of
law enforcement action de novo.” United States v. Robinson, 741 F.3d 588, 594
(5th Cir. 2014).
Tuda and the passenger were traveling as unlicensed drivers in a vehicle
that was not registered to them. They exhibited nervous behavior and were
unable to tell Trooper Justin Stephenson their intended destination. After
conferring with the passenger, Tuda stated that Jackson was his destination
but then changed his answer to Atlanta. The vehicle had visible modifications,
including a rerouting of the exhaust pipe and a new fuel filter on one of the fuel
tanks. These factors, when taken together, demonstrate that the continued
detention after the issuance of the traffic citation was supported by reasonable
suspicion. See United States v. Pack, 612 F.3d 341, 361 (5th Cir. 2010); United
States v. Fishel, 467 F.3d 855, 856 (5th Cir. 2006); United States v. Brigham,
382 F.3d 500, 506 (5th Cir. 2004) (en banc).
Challenging Tuda’s consent to the search of the vehicle, Guerrero
contends that the language barrier prevented Tuda from understanding that
he was consenting, that there was no evidence of verbal consent, that the
written consent form was not presented as evidence, that there was no
evidence that the consent form was read and explained to Tuda, and that there
2
Case: 16-30975 Document: 00513925162 Page: 3 Date Filed: 03/24/2017
No. 16-30975
was no evidence that Tuda was informed of his Miranda 1 rights. The
voluntariness of consent is a factual finding reviewed for clear error. United
States v. Solis, 299 F.3d 420, 436 (5th Cir. 2002).
Trooper Stephenson was polite throughout the encounter and did not
exhibit coercive behavior. Tuda was cooperative and complied with Trooper
Stephenson’s requests. Trooper Stephenson provided Tuda with a Spanish-
language written consent to search form, and the document contained
information on the right to refuse consent. Moreover, the record does not
indicate that Tuda’s intelligence level was diminished or impaired in any
manner. Finally, given how well the drugs were hidden in the fuel tank, Tuda
could have believed that no incriminating evidence would be found. Moreover,
“[t]here is no ‘Miranda requirement’ attending a simple request for permission
to search.” United States v. Arias-Robles, 477 F.3d 245, 250 (5th Cir. 2007).
Under the totality of the circumstances, the district court’s finding of voluntary
consent is not clearly erroneous. See Solis, 299 F.3d at 436.
Guerrero also argues that Tuda’s consent was not an independent act of
free will. As Tuda’s consent was not given during an illegal detention, we need
not consider this prong of the consent inquiry. See United States v.
Khanalizadeh, 493 F.3d 479, 484 (5th Cir. 2007).
Citing to Rodriguez v. United States, 135 S. Ct. 1609 (2015), Guerrero
argues that the use of a canine to perform an open-air sniff prolonged the
detention without providing reasonable suspicion. Rodriguez is inapplicable
to the facts of the instant matter because, as discussed above, Trooper
Stephenson had reasonable suspicion of criminal activity to extend the
detention and Tuda had consented to a search of the vehicle. Cf. Rodriguez,
135 S. Ct. at 1614.
1 Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436 (1966).
3
Case: 16-30975 Document: 00513925162 Page: 4 Date Filed: 03/24/2017
No. 16-30975
Guerrero fails to show that the district court erred in denying his motion
to suppress. The judgment of the district court is AFFIRMED.
4
|
While we learned earlier that John McCain was responsible for handing over the 35-page "dossier" of compromising, if arguably fake, revelations about Trump's connections to Russia over to the FBI, the identity of the actual creator, who was said to be an ex-British intelligence service, remained a mystery. No longer. Courtesy of the WSJ, we now know his name: the former MI-6 officer, now working for a private security-and-investigations firm "who produced the dossier of unverified allegations about President-elect Donald Trump’s activities and connections in Russia" is Christopher Steele, a director of London-based Orbis Business Intelligence.... and before readers google him, beware, there is a male gay porn star with the same name, who may or may not be into "golden showers." Steele, 52 years old, is one of two directors of Orbis, along with Christopher Burrows, 58. Burrows, reached at his home outside London on Wednesday, said he wouldn’t “confirm or deny” that Orbis had produced the report. A neighbor of Mr. Steele’s said Mr. Steele said he would be away for a few days. In previous weeks Mr. Steele has declined repeated requests for interviews through an intermediary, who said the subject was “too hot.” HAHAHA so this guy and former MI6 agent who wrote up the 4Chan report that Trump had Russian prostitutes taking part in golden showers, and this man is declining to be interviewed by reporters over the thirty-five page fake dossier he wrote about Trump. Funny how an MI6 officer who goes by two names who wrote this garbage about President Trump, for some reason is unwilling to be contacted by people who have questions on his report on Trump that was posted to 4Chan as fan fiction. So President Trump willing to work with Russia is wrong, but the Obama CIA and Liberal media spewing on a lie through involvement with the foreign intelligence of MI6 is somehow ok. See folks Democrats and their media are so desperate for dirt on President Trump, that they have to use foreign secret services to write up fake reports about President Trump. |
Q:
How can I get an array out of a select optgroups and options?
Say I want an object with this format
var optgroups = [
{
name: "Cat1",
options: [
{ text: "item1", value: "1" },
{ text: "item4", value: "4" },
],
},
{ name: "Cat2", options: [{ text: "item2", value: "2" }] },
{ name: "Cat3", options: [{ text: "item3", value: "3" }] },
];
And I want to create it based on what's already populated in a select element in a form
<select>
<optgroup label="Cat1">
<option value="1">item1</option>
<option value="4">item4</option>
</optgroup>
<optgroup label="Cat2">
<option value="2">item2</option>
</optgroup>
<optgroup label="Cat3">
<option value="3">item3</option>
</optgroup>
</select>
What JavaScript code (jQuery is also an option) would achieve such an object?
This is an old code base so things like React/Vue are not an option.
A:
You can use document.querySelectorAll to get all the <optgroup> elements to loop over and use it again to find all the options.
const optgroups = [];
document.querySelectorAll("#mySelect > optgroup").forEach(group=>{
const obj = {name: group.label, options: []};
group.querySelectorAll('option').forEach(option=>{
obj.options.push({text: option.textContent, value: option.value});
});
optgroups.push(obj);
});
console.log(optgroups);
<select id="mySelect">
<optgroup label="Cat1">
<option value="1">item1</option>
<option value="4">item4</option>
</optgroup>
<optgroup label="Cat2">
<option value="2">item2</option>
</optgroup>
<optgroup label="Cat3">
<option value="3">item3</option>
</optgroup>
</select>
|
12.03.2009
Philly's Joaquin Rivera - R.I.P.
"Saludos Familia:
It is with great sadness and personal loss that I announce the death of un gran companero de lucha por los derechos de los puertorriquenos en EEUU/a great loss of a brother in the struggle of PRs civil rights Joaquin Rivera. He passed away from a heart attack in Philadelphia.
Joaquin was a resident of Philadelphia since 1965 and from a very early age he played guitar. He was a member of the Philadelphia Young Lords, the Puerto Rican Alliance and founding member of the National Congress for PR Rights (NCPRR). He was also the founder and leader of Los Pleneros del Batey, a group that performed around the country and at all NCPRR Convention including in Philadelphia last month. In addition, Joaquin was a counselor at Olney HS where he also was the faculty advisor to the Aspira Club for decades.
The PR community has lost a tremendous cultural worker but his legacy will live on. Pray for him and his famly". |
Description: Correspondence between the Defense Base Closure and Realignment Commission (BRAC) and Donald Rumsfeld and between Jeb Bush and the Commission. In them, the Commission seeks answers as to why Rumsfeld did not include his additional recommendations for base closures in an earlier list. In other letters, Jeb Bush argues in favor of making Cecil Field should be made the Navy's East Coast Master Jet Base.
Description: Letters from Gregory Davis, Edward Woods, and John W. McKinnon to the Defense Base Closure and Realignment Commission (BRAC) protesting the suggested closure of Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. Includes a petition with twenty signatures. |
/*
* Licensed to the Apache Software Foundation (ASF) under one or more
* contributor license agreements. See the NOTICE file distributed with
* this work for additional information regarding copyright ownership.
* The ASF licenses this file to You under the Apache License, Version 2.0
* (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance with
* the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at
*
* http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0
*
* Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software
* distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS,
* WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied.
* See the License for the specific language governing permissions and
* limitations under the License.
*/
package org.apache.solr.highlight;
import java.util.regex.Pattern;
import org.apache.lucene.search.highlight.Fragmenter;
import org.apache.lucene.search.highlight.NullFragmenter;
import org.apache.solr.common.params.HighlightParams;
import org.apache.solr.common.params.SolrParams;
import org.apache.solr.common.util.NamedList;
/**
* {@link org.apache.lucene.search.highlight.Fragmenter} that tries to produce snippets that "look" like a regular
* expression.
*
* <code>solrconfig.xml</code> parameters:
* <ul>
* <li><code>hl.regex.pattern</code>: regular expression corresponding to "nice" fragments.</li>
* <li><code>hl.regex.slop</code>: how far the fragmenter can stray from the ideal fragment size.
A slop of 0.2 means that the fragmenter can go over or under by 20%.</li>
* <li><code>hl.regex.maxAnalyzedChars</code>: how many characters to apply the
regular expression to (independent from the global highlighter setting).</li>
* </ul>
*
* NOTE: the default for <code>maxAnalyzedChars</code> is much lower for this
* fragmenter. After this limit is exhausted, fragments are produced in the
* same way as <code>GapFragmenter</code>
*/
public class RegexFragmenter extends HighlightingPluginBase implements SolrFragmenter
{
protected String defaultPatternRaw;
protected Pattern defaultPattern;
@Override
public void init(@SuppressWarnings({"rawtypes"})NamedList args) {
super.init(args);
defaultPatternRaw = LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_PATTERN_RAW;
if( defaults != null ) {
defaultPatternRaw = defaults.get(HighlightParams.PATTERN, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_PATTERN_RAW);
}
defaultPattern = Pattern.compile(defaultPatternRaw);
}
@Override
public Fragmenter getFragmenter(String fieldName, SolrParams params )
{
numRequests.inc();
params = SolrParams.wrapDefaults(params, defaults);
int fragsize = params.getFieldInt( fieldName, HighlightParams.FRAGSIZE, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_FRAGMENT_SIZE );
int increment = params.getFieldInt( fieldName, HighlightParams.INCREMENT, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_INCREMENT_GAP );
float slop = params.getFieldFloat( fieldName, HighlightParams.SLOP, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_SLOP );
int maxchars = params.getFieldInt( fieldName, HighlightParams.MAX_RE_CHARS, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_MAX_ANALYZED_CHARS );
String rawpat = params.getFieldParam( fieldName, HighlightParams.PATTERN, LuceneRegexFragmenter.DEFAULT_PATTERN_RAW );
Pattern p = rawpat == defaultPatternRaw ? defaultPattern : Pattern.compile(rawpat);
if( fragsize <= 0 ) {
return new NullFragmenter();
}
return new LuceneRegexFragmenter( fragsize, increment, slop, maxchars, p );
}
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
//////////////////////// SolrInfoMBeans methods ///////////////////////
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
@Override
public String getDescription() {
return "RegexFragmenter (" + defaultPatternRaw + ")";
}
}
|
///
//
// LibSourcey
// Copyright (c) 2005, Sourcey <https://sourcey.com>
//
// SPDX-License-Identifier: LGPL-2.1+
//
/// @addtogroup base
/// @{
#include "scy/application.h"
#include "scy/memory.h"
#include "scy/logger.h"
#include "scy/error.h"
#include "scy/singleton.h"
namespace scy {
namespace internal {
static Singleton<Application> singleton;
struct ShutdownCmd
{
Application* self;
void* opaque;
std::function<void(void*)> callback;
};
}
Application& Application::getDefault()
{
return *internal::singleton.get();
}
Application::Application(uv::Loop* loop) :
loop(loop)
{
LDebug("Create")
}
Application::~Application()
{
LDebug("Destroy")
}
void Application::run()
{
uv_run(loop, UV_RUN_DEFAULT);
}
void Application::stop()
{
uv_stop(loop);
}
void Application::finalize()
{
LDebug("Finalizing")
#ifdef _DEBUG
// Print active handles
uv_walk(loop, Application::onPrintHandle, nullptr);
#endif
// Shutdown the garbage collector to safely free memory before the app exists
GarbageCollector::instance().finalize();
// Run until handles are closed
run();
assert(loop->active_handles == 0);
//assert(loop->active_reqs == 0);
LDebug("Finalization complete")
}
void Application::bindShutdownSignal(std::function<void(void*)> callback, void* opaque)
{
auto cmd = new internal::ShutdownCmd;
cmd->self = this;
cmd->opaque = opaque;
cmd->callback = callback;
auto sig = new uv_signal_t;
sig->data = cmd;
uv_signal_init(loop, sig);
uv_signal_start(sig, Application::onShutdownSignal, SIGINT);
}
void Application::waitForShutdown(std::function<void(void*)> callback, void* opaque)
{
LDebug("Wait for shutdown")
bindShutdownSignal(callback, opaque);
run();
}
void Application::onShutdownSignal(uv_signal_t* req, int /* signum */)
{
auto cmd = reinterpret_cast<internal::ShutdownCmd*>(req->data);
LDebug("Got shutdown signal")
uv_close((uv_handle_t*)req, [](uv_handle_t* handle) {
delete handle;
});
if (cmd->callback)
cmd->callback(cmd->opaque);
delete cmd;
}
void Application::onPrintHandle(uv_handle_t* handle, void* /* arg */)
{
LDebug("Active handle: ", handle, ": ", handle->type)
}
//
// Command-line option parser
//
OptionParser::OptionParser(int argc, char* argv[], const char* delim)
{
char* lastkey = 0;
auto dlen = strlen(delim);
for (int i = 0; i < argc; i++) {
// Get the application exe path
if (i == 0) {
exepath.assign(argv[i]);
continue;
}
// Get option keys
if (strncmp(argv[i], delim, dlen) == 0) {
lastkey = (&argv[i][dlen]);
args[lastkey] = "";
}
// Get value for current key
else if (lastkey) {
args[lastkey] = argv[i];
lastkey = 0;
}
else {
LDebug("Unrecognized option:", argv[i]);
}
}
}
} // namespace scy
/// @\}
|
Wednesday, 2 August 2017
Six Reason For Late Periods To More Difficult Girls/Women (Other than Pregnancy)
Periods :-
A Periods is the a part of the menstrual cycle while a female bleeds from her vagina for some days. For maximum girls this happens each twenty eight(28) days or so, but it's common for intervals to start ultimately than this, ranging from day twenty four(24) to thirty five(35).
Six Reason For Late Periods :-
There are a few other factors that you can blame on your missing or delayed intervals. Gynaecologist Dr Arundhati Dhar tells you what may be the purpose of delayed intervals.
● Stress :- Hypothalamus, a place to your brain in which quite a few hormones on your durations are regulated gets affected because of pressure. So in case you are dealing with a smash-up or demise within the circle of relatives or another lifestyles event, the pressure will be the purpose of your overdue length or overlooked duration.
● Thyroid Disorder :- A thyroid imbalance whether it's far hypothyroidism or hyperthyroidism can postpone your durations. So in case you word any symptom of thyroid sickness, be sure to check along with your health practitioner.
● Chronic Disease :- Any chronic contamination like Celiac ailment (characterised by lactose intolerance) that is left undiagnosed or untreated can effect the functioning of your trendy bodily systems and bring about not on time periods.
● Birth Control Pills :- Missing or overdue duration can also be the aspect effect of a start manipulate tablet that you have taken. it is able to additionally be a end result of other strategies like hormonal IUDs, implants or maybe photographs.
● Premature Menopause :- This isn't always very common, but some women underneath 40 have early menopause which is likewise called a untimely ovarian failure. in conjunction with lacking duration signs of premature menopause consist of night time sweats, hot flashes and vaginal dryness.
PCOS: PCOS, a hormonal imbalance can cause abnormal intervals. Hair boom on face and chest, ability fertility issues and issue in dropping weight are some of the alternative signs and symptoms of PCOS. |
package com.fincatto.documentofiscal.nfe310.classes.nota;
import java.math.BigDecimal;
import org.junit.Assert;
import org.junit.Test;
import com.fincatto.documentofiscal.nfe310.FabricaDeObjetosFake;
import com.fincatto.documentofiscal.nfe310.classes.nota.NFNotaInfoICMSTotal;
public class NFNotaInfoICMSTotalTest {
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalTributosInvalido() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalSeguroInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalNFeInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalIPIInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalIIInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalICMSSTInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalICMSInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalFreteInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalDosProdutosServicosInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalDescontoInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorPISInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorCOFINSInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirOutrasDespesasAcessoriasInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test(expected = NumberFormatException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirBaseCalculoICMSInvalidoMonetario() {
new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal().setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("1000000000000000"));
}
@Test
public void devePermitirValorICMSDesoneradoNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test
public void devePermitirValorTotalTributosNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirBaseCalculoICMSNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirOutrasDespesasAcessoriasNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirCOFINSNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirTotalPISNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirTotalDescontoNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitrValorTotalDosProdutosServicosNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirFreteNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirICMSNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirICMSSTNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalIINulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalIPINulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalNFeNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test(expected = IllegalStateException.class)
public void naoDevePermitirValorTotalSeguroNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalTributos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test
public void devePermitirICMSFundoCombatePobrezaNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test
public void devePermitirICMSPartilhaDestinatarioNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaRementente(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test
public void devePermitirICMSPartilhaRemententeNulo() {
final NFNotaInfoICMSTotal icmsTotal = new NFNotaInfoICMSTotal();
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setOutrasDespesasAcessorias(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setBaseCalculoICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorCOFINS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorPIS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDesconto(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalDosProdutosServicos(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalFrete(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMS(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalICMSST(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalII(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalIPI(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalNFe(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorTotalSeguro(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSDesonerado(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSFundoCombatePobreza(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.setValorICMSPartilhaDestinatario(new BigDecimal("999999999999.99"));
icmsTotal.toString();
}
@Test
public void deveGerarXMLDeAcordoComOPadraoEstabelecido() {
final String xmlEsperado = "<NFNotaInfoICMSTotal><vBC>999999999999.99</vBC><vICMS>999999999999.99</vICMS><vICMSDeson>999999999999.99</vICMSDeson><vFCPUFDest>999999999999.99</vFCPUFDest><vICMSUFDest>999999999999.99</vICMSUFDest><vICMSUFRemet>999999999999.99</vICMSUFRemet><vBCST>999999999999.99</vBCST><vST>999999999999.99</vST><vProd>999999999999.99</vProd><vFrete>999999999999.99</vFrete><vSeg>999999999999.99</vSeg><vDesc>999999999999.99</vDesc><vII>999999999999.99</vII><vIPI>999999999999.99</vIPI><vPIS>999999999999.99</vPIS><vCOFINS>999999999999.99</vCOFINS><vOutro>999999999999.99</vOutro><vNF>999999999999.99</vNF></NFNotaInfoICMSTotal>";
Assert.assertEquals(xmlEsperado, FabricaDeObjetosFake.getNFNotaInfoICMSTotal().toString());
}
} |
[Correlation between early (Fernandez) and late (Mitsuda) reactions in non-contact children and adolescents without manifestations of leprosy, tested with human lepromin and different concentrations of armadillo antigen in 3 double-blind trials].
The authors carried out 3 double blind trials to determine the correlation between the early and the late lepromin reactions and to verify the practical and control values of the 48 hours or Fernandez reaction. Children and adolescents non-contacts were tested with human lepromin (40 x 10(6) bacilli/ml) and different concentrations of armadillo lepromin (160, 40, 20, 10, 5, 2,5, and 1 x 10(6) bacilli/ml). The conclusions are as follows: 1. The coefficients of correlation (r values) point out that the correlation between the two reactions is poor or almost null. 2. The negative or doubtful reactions, the most often observed, have no practical value because they are almost always followed by a positive Mitsuda reaction. 3. The positive Fernandez reaction was always followed by a positive Mitsuda reaction. Thus it has practical importance. However as the frequency of early positivity is low with human and armadillo lepromin of lower concentrations, recommended in routine testing, the 48 hours reading is unnecessary and without control value. It would represent a loss of time and money. |
Border Terrier
|height =
|maleheight = 36-40cm
|femaleheight = 28-36cm
|coat = Harsh and dense; with close undercoat.
|colour = Red, wheaten, grizzle and tan, or blue and tan.
|litter_size =
|life_span = 12-15 years
| fcigroup = 3 Terriers
| fcisection = 1 Large/medium-sized
| fcinum = 10
| fcistd = http://www.fci.be/Nomenclature/Standards/010g03-en.pdf
| akcgroup = Terrier
| akcstd = http://www.akc.org/breeds/border_terrier/breed_standard.cfm
| ankcgroup = Group 2 (Terriers)
| ankcstd = https://web.archive.org/web/20141208202324/http://www.ankc.org.au/Breed_Details.aspx?bid=49
| ckcgroup = Group 4 - Terriers
| ckcstd = https://web.archive.org/web/20141210055033/http://www.ckc.ca/en/Files/Forms/Shows-Trials/Breed-Standards/Group-4-Terriers/BRT-Border-Terrier
| kcukgroup = Terrier
| kcukstd = http://www.thekennelclub.org.uk/services/public/breed/standard.aspx?id=3062
| nzkcgroup = Terrier
| nzkcstd = http://www.nzkc.org.nz/breed_info/br216.html
| ukcgroup = Terrier
| ukcstd = http://www.ukcdogs.com/Web.nsf/Breeds/Terrier/BorderTerrier
}}
The Border Terrier is a small, rough-coated breed of dog in the terrier group. Bred as a fox and vermin hunter, the Border Terrier shares ancestry with the Dandie Dinmont Terrier and the Bedlington Terrier.
The Border Terrier was officially recognized by The Kennel Club in Great Britain in 1920, and by the American Kennel Club (AKC) in 1930. The border terrier was bred to have long enough legs to keep up with the horses and other foxhounds, which traveled with them, and small enough bodies to crawl in the burrows of foxes and chase them out so the hunters had a blank shot. The foxhounds that traveled with them were not small enough to do the Border terrier's job.
In 2006, the Border Terrier ranked 81st in number of registrations by the AKC, while it ranked 10th in the United Kingdom.
In 2008, the Border Terrier ranked 8th in number of registrations by the UK Kennel Club.
They were originally used for hunting in packs as they were exceptionally good at catching rabbits and any small animal. Now they are commonly seen as family pets.
Description
Appearance
Identifiable by their otter-shaped heads, Border Terriers have a broad skull and moderately short muzzle, and strong teeth. The V-shaped ears are on the sides of the head and fall towards the cheeks. Common coat colors are grizzle-and-tan, blue-and-tan, red, or wheaten. Whiskers are few and short. The tail is naturally moderately short, thick at the base and tapering.
Narrow-bodied and well-proportioned, males stand at the shoulder, and weigh ; females and . They are very versatile in families and as family pets.
The Border Terrier has a double coat consisting of a short, dense, soft undercoat and harsh, wiry weather- and dirt-resistant, close-lying outer coat with no curl or wave. This coat usually requires hand-stripping twice a year to remove dead hair. It then takes about eight weeks for the top coat to come back in. For some dogs, weekly brushing will suffice. Most Border Terriers are seen groomed with short hair but longer hair can sometimes be preferred.
Temperament
Though sometimes stubborn and strong willed, border terriers are sound dogs. They are friendly and rarely aggressive. They are very good with children, but may chase cats and other small pets.
Borders do well in task-oriented activities and have a surprising ability to jump high and run fast given the size of their legs. The breed has excelled in agility training, but they are quicker to learn jumps and see-saws than weaving poles. They take training for tasks very well, and are extremely trainable, and capable of learning tricks quickly and competently. The border in recent years has been bred to harbor a more subtle character so are more adaptable to apartment living if properly exercised.
They are intelligent and eager to please, but they retain the capacity for independent thinking and initiative that were bred into them for working rats and fox underground. Their love of people and even temperament make them fine therapy dogs, especially for children and the elderly, and they are occasionally used to aid the blind or deaf. From a young age they should be trained on command.
Borders can adapt to different environments and situations well, and are able to deal with temporary change well. They will get along well with cats that they have been raised with, but may chase other cats and small animals such as mice, birds, rabbits, squirrels, rats, and guinea pigs.
Borders are very independent and loyal. Some borders are known to be territorial and will protect their homes. They have a strong sense of smell and can tell when danger is near.
Borders love to sit and watch what is going on. Walks with Borders will often involve them sitting and lying in the grass to observe the environment around them.
Health
Borders are a generally hardy breed, though there are certain genetic health problems associated with them, including:
Hip dysplasia
Perthes disease
Various heart defects
Juvenile cataracts
Progressive retinal atrophy
Seizures
Canine epileptoid cramping syndrome (CECS)
A UK Kennel Club survey puts their median lifespan at 14 years and listed a maximum age of 22 years, one month.
Earthdog trials
Border Terriers have earned more American Kennel Club (AKC) Earthdog titles than any other terrier. An AKC earthdog test is not true hunting, but an artificial, non-competitive, exercise in which terriers enter wide smooth wooden tunnels, buried under-ground, with one or more turns in order to bark or scratch at caged rats that are safely housed behind wooden bars. The tests are conducted to determine that instinctive traits are preserved and developed, as the breed originators intended for the dogs to their work. While earthdog tests are not a close approximation of hunting, they are popular in the U.S. and in some European countries because even over-large Kennel Club breeds can negotiate the tunnels with ease, dogs can come to no harm while working, and no digging is required. Since Border Terriers are "essentially working terriers", many Border Terrier owners consider it important to test and develop their dogs' instinct. These tests also provide great satisfaction for the dogs. The American Working Terrier Association (AWTA) does conduct "trials"; where the dogs instincts are tested, and then judged to determine a "Best of Breed" Earthdog.
History
Originally the Border Terrier was referred to as the Coquetdale Terrier or Redesdale Terrier from the area in which it evolved, but by the late 1800s it was generally known as the Border Terrier, probably because of its long history with the Border Hunt in Northumberland. It shares its ancestry with that of the Bedlington Terrier and the Dandie Dinmont Terrier. It was recognised as a breed by the Kennel Club in 1920, the same year The Border Terrier Club was formed. Their original purpose was to bolt foxes which had gone to ground. They were also used to kill rodents, but they have been used to hunt otters and badgers too.
The first Kennel Club Border Terrier ever registered was The Moss Trooper, a dog sired by Jacob Robson's Chip in 1912 and registered in the Kennel Club's Any Other Variety listing in 1913. The Border Terrier was rejected for formal Kennel Club recognition in 1914, but won its slot in 1920, with the first standard being written by Jacob Robson and John Dodd. Jasper Dodd was made first President of the Club.
Famous Border Terriers
Fictional Border Terriers
Brillo in Misfits episode "Four" as a street puppy eaten by new zombie Curtis
Chomp in 102 Dalmatians
Hacker T. Dog, puppet presenter of British children's television service CBBC
Hubble in Good Boy!
Lucky in Felicity
Lady Freckles (later Eccles) in Coronation Street as Blanche Hunt's inheritance gift from her friend; belongs to her son-in-law Ken Barlow after her death in 2010
Monty and Rommel in Monarch of the Glen
Nancy in Unfabulous as Addie's pet dog
Oscar as Scotty the Dog in Ruby Sparks (2012 film)
Oscar Francis Barr from Blade Runner 2049 (2017 film)
Peanut as Baxter from “Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy” (2004 Film)
Pard in High Sierra (1941 film)
Pepper as Pinkybones in Another Happy Day (2011 film)
Peter Weyland's dog in Prometheus (2012 film)
Scamp in The Suite Life of Zack & Cody; Maddie's scruffy dog who falls in love with London Tipton's dog, Ivana
Seymour in Futurama episode "Jurassic Bark"
Sickan in My Life as a Dog
Slammer as Puffy in There's Something About Mary
Sorry in Seeking a Friend for the End of the World; Dodge's dog
Tansy as Toto from Return To Oz (1985 film)
Toots in Lassie (2005 film)
Gidget as Daisy from Wonder (2017 film)
Real Border Terriers
Maggie, Andy Murray and Kim Sears' dog who has her own Twitter account with 31,000 followers as of June 2016.
Owney, an unofficial mascot of the U.S. Postal Service
Raleigh, Clay Aiken's pet dog
Shep Proudfoot, Greg Laswell's pet dog
References
External links
Category:FCI breeds
Category:Terriers
Category:Dog breeds originating in Scotland
Category:Dog breeds originating in England |
Getting It Wrong from the Beginning
Getting it Wrong from the Beginning: Our Progressivist Inheritance from Herbert Spencer, John Dewey, and Jean Piaget is a 2002 book by Kieran Egan criticizing the traditional progressivist foundations of modern education in the Western World. Egan primarily focuses on the work of Herbert Spencer, John Dewey, and Jean Piaget as the most influential sources of contemporary educational philosophy. Egan identifies this book in its introduction as being a companion to his previous work The Educated Mind.
Main Arguments
Kieran Egan states in his introduction: "I want to make the case here that most of the beliefs most of the people hold about education today are wrong in fairly fundamental ways." According to Egan, Herbert Spencer was one of the key figures in proliferating the progressive foundations of education. These ideas were further championed by John Dewey and supported with research and writing by Jean Piaget. Egan's assertion is that these foundations are fundamentally flawed. The core tenets of progressivism he questions are: the idea that things (especially learning) always go from simple to complex, the notion that the matters of the mind can be treated like those of the biological body, and that all child-learning should occur as a child learns during play. He also questions the call for utilitarianism in education and the value of educational research. In this book, Egan provides examples and logic based arguments which counter these ideas.
Criticism
The book has been criticized for not providing adequate solutions to the problems it identifies in education. Readers looking to hear the author's proposed solutions would be advised to read his other work, most notably The Educated Mind: How Cognitive Tools Shape Our Understanding.
Reviews
Aeschliman, M. (2003). Cults of Ignorance. National Review, 55(8), 48-50.
Emery J Hyslop-Margison (2001) in Canadian Journal of Education / Revue canadienne de l'education, vol. 26, no. 4, p. 515-517
James Conroy, (2005) in Theory and Research in Education, 3, no. 3 : 371-374
Limond, D. (2005). Getting it wrong from the beginning: our progressive inheritance from Herbert Spencer, John Dewey, and Jean Piaget. Educational Review, 57(1), 113-114.
Turner, D.(2006). Book Reviews. Educational Review, 58(4), 489-516.
References
Category:Philosophy books
Category:2002 non-fiction books
Category:Education reform |
UNPUBLISHED
UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS
FOR THE FOURTH CIRCUIT
No. 19-1639
DIANNE G. NICKLES,
Plaintiff - Appellant,
v.
STATE FARM MUTUAL AUTOMOBILE INSURANCE COMPANY,
Defendant - Appellee.
Appeal from the United States District Court for the Middle District of North Carolina, at
Greensboro. L. Patrick Auld, Magistrate Judge. (1:17-cv-01027-LPA)
Submitted: April 22, 2020 Decided: June 4, 2020
Before MOTZ and RICHARDSON, Circuit Judges, and SHEDD, Senior Circuit Judge.
Affirmed by unpublished per curiam opinion.
Dianne G. Nickles, Appellant Pro Se. James Scott Lewis, BUTLER SNOW LLP,
Wilmington, North Carolina, for Appellee.
Unpublished opinions are not binding precedent in this circuit.
PER CURIAM:
Dianne G. Nickles appeals the magistrate judge’s orders denying relief on Nickles’
claims against State Farm Mutual Automobile Insurance Company for negligence and
breach of contract. * We have reviewed the record and find no reversible error.
Accordingly, we grant leave to proceed in forma pauperis and affirm for the reasons stated
by the magistrate judge. Nickles v. State Farm Mut. Auto. Ins. Co., No. 1:17-cv-01027-
LPA (M.D.N.C. Aug. 31, 2018 & May 15, 2019). We dispense with oral argument because
the facts and legal contentions are adequately presented in the materials before this court
and argument would not aid the decisional process.
AFFIRMED
*
The parties consented to proceed before a magistrate judge pursuant to 28 U.S.C.
§ 636(c) (2018).
2
|
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GOOD LUCK EVERYONE!
It’s been a busy and exciting week for us as many customers get ready for the big event – Crufts 2013 in Birmingham.
There’s been a real buzz in the past couple of days with last minute urgent orders for vital purchases – including a new set of show boots sent off at the last minute because one Crufts hopeful ate his other ones.
The forecast was apparently for rain so owners are obviously keen to be prepared because they want to keep their pooches as clean and dry as possible.
Many will be sporting our very own all-in-one mudsuit/rainsuit on the trip to the show ring – so watch out for them if you are there – and quite a few have been both suited and booted by CountryMun.
Our show (benching) boots are brilliant for keeping paws and legs clean until the dog gets to its bench.
So – what were the top five purchases for crufts pooches? Overall winner was our luxury towelling rug coat which dries your dog FAST and keeps it warm in the car – followed by our showboots, stopper pad protectors, Quickie rain coat and all-in-one mud/rainsuit.
Sadly we can’t be there to join in the fun – but rest assured that we are there in spirit and we wish everyone the best of luck.
Obviously, they can’t all be winners – but they can have great fun taking part.
We would love to see any pictures of dogs taking part this year and hopefully we could post them on our blog – so please send any pix to [email protected] |
Q:
copying files in tcl
I have a query in "file copy" tcl command. I tried storing all my files to a list and used it in my command. But tcl is not recognizing those files.
for example:
Files are abc.log , foo.log , bar.log
if these files are appended to a list say list_file and If I substitute the list_file in my command
lappend list_file abc.log foo.log bar.log
file mkdir ../../abc
file copy -- $list_file ../../abc
I am getting an error message " error copying , no file or directory". If I try the same by directly specifying the file names (instead of list) it works. Please guide me with this
A:
To elaborate on @evil-otto's answer...
{*} is only available since Tcl 8.5; for earlier versions either eval or multiple invocations could be used.
Constructing a command using eval:
set cmd [list file copy --]
lappend cmd abc.log foo.log bar.log ../../abc
eval $cmd
(Read this to learn why using lists is a must when creating commands to be evaluated.)
Multiple invocation (a no-brainer):
foreach fname $list_file {
file copy -- $fname ../../abc
}
|
# Dedication
This is for my mother, who did whatever it took.
# Contents
1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Dedication
4. Contents
5. Author's Note
6. Prologue
7. Chapter One
8. Chapter Two
9. Chapter Three
10. Chapter Four
11. Chapter Five
12. Chapter Six
13. Chapter Seven
14. Chapter Eight
15. Chapter Nine
16. Chapter Ten
17. Chapter Eleven
18. Chapter Twelve
19. Chapter Thirteen
20. Chapter Fourteen
21. Chapter Fifteen
22. Chapter Sixteen
23. Chapter Seventeen
24. Chapter Eighteen
25. Chapter Nineteen
26. Chapter Twenty
27. Chapter Twenty-One
28. Chapter Twenty-Two
29. Chapter Twenty-Three
30. Epilogue
31. Acknowledgments
32. Announcement
33. About the Author
34. Copyright
35. About the Publisher
# Author's Note
This story touches on the process of healing after an abusive relationship. If this is a topic that you're sensitive to, please be aware. I hope I have treated the issue, my characters, and you, the reader, gently.
# Prologue
Once upon a time, Chloe Brown died.
Nearly.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, of course. Disturbing things always seemed to happen on Tuesdays. Chloe suspected that day of the week was cursed, but thus far, she'd only shared her suspicions via certain internet forums—and with Dani, the weirdest of her two very weird little sisters. Dani had told Chloe that she was cracked, and that she should try positive affirmations to rid herself of her negative weekday energy.
So when Chloe heard shouts and the screech of tires, and looked to her right, and found a shiny, white Range Rover heading straight for her, her first ridiculous thought was: _I'll die on a Tuesday, and Dani will have to admit that I was right all along._
But in the end, Chloe didn't actually die. She wasn't even horribly injured—which was a relief, because she spent enough time in hospitals as it was. Instead, the Range Rover flew past her and slammed into the side of a coffee shop. The drunk driver's head-on collision with a brick wall missed being a head-on collision with a flesh-and-blood Chloe by approximately three feet. Metal crunched like paper. The middle-aged lady in the driver's seat slumped against an airbag, her crisp, blond bob swinging. Bystanders swarmed and there were shouts to call an ambulance.
Chloe stared, and stared, and stared.
People buzzed by her, and time ticked on, but she barely noticed. Her mind flooded with irrelevant data, as if her head were a trash folder. She wondered how much the repairs to the coffee shop would cost. She wondered if insurance would cover it, or if the driver would have to. She wondered who had cut the lady's hair, because it was a beautiful job. It remained relatively sleek and stylish, even when she was hauled out of her car and onto a gurney.
Eventually, a man touched Chloe's shoulder and asked, "Are you okay, my darling?"
She turned and saw a paramedic with a kind, lined face and a black turban. "I believe I'm in shock," she said. "Could I have some chocolate? Green and Black's. Sea salt is my favorite, but the eighty-five percent dark probably has greater medicinal properties."
The paramedic chuckled, put a blanket around her shoulders, and said, "Would a cuppa do, Your Maj?"
"Oh, yes please." Chloe followed him to the back of his ambulance. Somewhere along the way, she realized she was shaking so hard that it was a struggle to walk. With a skill borne of years of living in her highly temperamental body, she gritted her teeth and forced one foot in front of the other.
When they finally reached the ambulance, she sat down carefully because it wouldn't do to collapse. If she did, the paramedic would start asking questions. Then he might want to check her over. _Then_ she'd have to tell him about all her little irregularities, and why they were nothing to worry about, and they'd both be here all day. Adopting her firmest I-am-very-healthy-and-in-control tone, she asked briskly, "Will the lady be all right?"
"The driver? She'll be fine, love. Don't you worry about that."
Muscles she hadn't realized were tense suddenly relaxed.
In the end, after two cups of tea and some questions from the police, Chloe was permitted to finish her Tuesday-afternoon walk. No further near-death experiences occurred, which was excellent, because if they had, she'd probably have done something embarrassing, like cry.
She entered her family home via the north wing and skulked to the kitchen in search of fortifying snacks. Instead, she found her grandmother Gigi clearly waiting for her. Gigi whirled around with a swish of her floor-length, violet robe—the one Chloe had given her a few months ago on Gigi's fourth (or was it fifth?) seventieth birthday.
"Darling," she gasped, her sparkling, kitten-heeled mules clacking against the tiles. "You look so . . . peaky." From Gigi, who was both a concerned grandparent and a painfully beautiful ragtime legend, this was a grave statement indeed. "Where _were_ you? You've been ages, and you wouldn't answer your phone. I was quite worried."
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry." Chloe had left hours ago for the latest of her irregularly scheduled walks— _scheduled_ because her physiotherapist insisted she take them, _irregular_ because her chronically ill body often vetoed things. She was usually back within thirty minutes, so it was no wonder Gigi had panicked. "You didn't call my parents, did you?"
"Of course not. I presumed, if you'd had a wobble, that you'd collect yourself shortly and command a passing stranger to find you a taxi home."
_A wobble_ was the delicate phrase Gigi used for the times when Chloe's body simply gave up on life. "I didn't have a wobble. I'm feeling quite well, actually." _Now, anyway_. "But there was . . . a car accident."
Gigi managed to stiffen and gracefully take a seat at the marble kitchen island simultaneously. "You weren't hurt?"
"No. A lady crashed her car right in front of me. It was all very dramatic. I've been drinking tea from Styrofoam cups."
Gigi peered at Chloe with the feline eyes that lesser mortals tended to fall into. "Would you like some Xanax, darling?"
"Oh, I couldn't. I don't know how it would react with my medication."
"Of course, of course. Ah! I know. I'll call Jeremy and tell him it's an emergency." Jeremy was Gigi's therapist. Gigi didn't strictly _need_ therapy, but she was fond of Jeremy and believed in preventive measures.
Chloe blinked. "I don't think that's necessary."
"I quite disagree," Gigi said. "Therapy is always necessary." She pulled out her phone and made the call, sashaying to the other side of the kitchen. Her mules clicked against the tiles again as she purred, "Jeremy, darling! How _are_ you? How is Cassandra?"
These were all perfectly ordinary noises. And yet, without warning, they triggered something catastrophic in Chloe's head.
Gigi's _click, click, click_ merged with the _tick, tick, tick_ of the vast clock on the kitchen wall. The sounds grew impossibly loud, oddly chaotic, until it seemed like a tumble of boulders had fallen inside Chloe's head. She squeezed her eyes shut—wait, what did her eyes have to do with her hearing?—and, in the darkness she'd created, a memory arose: that crisp, blond bob swinging. The way it remained so smooth and glossy against the black leather of the gurney.
_Drunk,_ the nice paramedic had said, sotto voce. That's what they suspected. The lady had been drunk in the middle of the afternoon, had mounted a pavement and plowed into a building, and Chloe . . .
Chloe had been standing right there. Because she walked at the same time of day, so as not to interrupt her work routine. Because she always took the same route, for efficiency's sake. Chloe had been standing _right there._
She was too hot, sweating. Dizzy. Had to sit down, right now, so she wouldn't fall and crack her head like an egg against the marble tiles. From out of nowhere she remembered her mother saying, _We should change the floors. These fainting spells are getting out of hand. She'll hurt herself._
But Chloe had insisted there was no need. She'd promised to be careful, and by God, she'd kept her promise. Slowly, slowly, she sank to the ground. Put her clammy palms against the cool tiles. Breathed in. Breathed out. Breathed in.
Breathed out, her whisper like cracking glass, "If I had died today, what would my eulogy say?"
This mind-blowing bore had zero friends, hadn't traveled in a decade despite plenty of opportunity, liked to code on the weekends, and never did anything that wasn't scheduled in her planner. Don't cry for her; she's in a better place now. Even Heaven can't be that dull.
_That's_ what the eulogy would say. Perhaps someone especially cutting and awful, like Piers Morgan, would read it out on the radio.
"Chloe?" Gigi called. "Where have you—? Oh, there you are. Is everything all right?"
Lying bodily on the floor and gulping air like a dying fish, Chloe said brightly, "Fine, thank you."
"Hmm," Gigi murmured, slightly dubious, but not overly concerned. "Perhaps I'll have Jeremy call us back. Jeremy, my dear, could you possibly . . . ?" Her voice faded as she wandered away.
Chloe rested her hot cheek against the cold tiles and tried not to add more insults to her own imaginary eulogy. If she were in a twee sort of musical—the kind her youngest sister, Eve, adored—this would be her rock-bottom moment. She'd be a few scenes away from an epiphany and an uplifting song about determination and self-belief. Perhaps she should take a leaf from those musicals' collective book.
"Excuse me, universe," she whispered to the kitchen floor. "When you almost murdered me today—which was rather brutal, by the way, but I can respect that—were you trying to tell me something?"
The universe, very enigmatically, did not respond.
Someone else, unfortunately, did.
" _Chloe!_ " her mother all but shrieked from the doorway. "What are you doing on the floor?! Are you ill? Garnet, get off the phone and get over here! Your granddaughter is _unwell_!"
Oh dear. Her moment of communion with the universe rudely interrupted, Chloe hauled herself into a sitting position. Strangely, she was now feeling much better. Perhaps because she had recognized and accepted the universe's message.
It was time, clearly, to get a life.
"No, no, my darling, don't move." Joy Matalon-Brown's fine-boned face was tight with panic as she issued the nervous order, her tawny skin pale. It was a familiar sight. Chloe's mother ran a successful law firm with her twin sister, Mary, lived her life with almost as much logic and care as Chloe, and had spent years learning her daughter's symptoms and coping mechanisms. Yet she was still thrust into full-blown panic by the slightest hint of sickness or discomfort. It was, quite frankly, exhausting.
"Don't fuss over her, Joy, you know she can't stand it."
"So I should ignore the fact that she was lying on the floor like a corpse?!"
_Ouch._
As her mother and grandmother bickered over her head, Chloe decided the first universe-mandated change in her life would be her living quarters.
The mammoth family home was suddenly feeling rather snug.
# Chapter One
Two Months Later
"Oh, you are a gem, Red."
Redford Morgan attempted a cheerful grin, which wasn't easy when he was elbow deep in an octogenarian's toilet bowl. "Just doing my job, Mrs. Conrad."
"You're the best superintendent we've ever had," she cooed from the bathroom doorway, clasping one wrinkled hand to her bony chest. Her shock of white hair fairly quivered with emotion. Bit of a drama queen, she was, bless her.
"Thanks, Mrs. C," he said easily. "You're a doll." _Now, if you'd just stop shoving bollocks down your loo, we'd be best mates_. This was the third time in a month he'd been called to flat 3E for plumbing issues, and frankly, he was getting tired of Mrs. Conrad's shit. Or rather, of her grandsons'.
Red's rubber-gloved hand finally emerged from the toilet's depths, clutching a soaking-wet clump of paper towel. He unwrapped the little parcel to reveal . . . "This your vegetable casserole, Mrs. C?"
She blinked owlishly at him, then squinted. "Well, I'm sure I've no idea. Where _are_ my spectacles?" She turned as if to hunt them down.
"No, don't bother," he sighed. He knew full well it was vegetable casserole, just like it had been last time, and the time before that. As he disposed of the clump and peeled off his gloves, he said gently, "You need to have a word with those lads of yours. They're flushing their dinner."
" _What?_ " she gasped, clearly affronted. "Noooo. No, no, no. Not my Felix and Joseph. They never would! They aren't wasteful boys, and they love my dinners."
"I bet they do," he said slowly, "but . . . well, Mrs. C, every time I come over here, I find a little parcel of broccoli and mushrooms clogging your pipes."
There was a beat of silence as Mrs. Conrad grappled with that information. "Oh," she whispered. He'd never heard so much dejection in a single word. She blinked rapidly, her thin lips pursing, and Red's heart lurched as he realized she was trying not to cry. Holy fucking hell. He couldn't deal with crying women. If she dropped a single tear, he'd be here all night, eating bowls of vegetable casserole with enthusiasm and sparkling compliments.
_Please don't cry. I get off in ten minutes and I really fucking hate broccoli. Please don't cry. Please don't—_
She turned away just as the first sob wracked her thin shoulders.
_Sigh._
"Come on, Mrs. C, don't be upset." Awkwardly, he peeled off his gloves and went to the sink to wash his hands. "They're just kids. Everyone knows kids have as much sense as the average goat."
Mrs. Conrad let out a little burble of laughter and turned to face him again, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. Old people always had hankies. They hid them on their bodies like ninjas with throwing stars. "You're right, of course. It's just . . . Well, I thought that casserole was their favorite." She sniffled and shook her head. "But it doesn't matter."
Judging by the wobble in her voice, it really did.
"I bet it's a damned good casserole," he said, because he had the biggest fucking mouth on planet earth.
"Do you think so?"
"I know so. You have the look of a woman who knows her way around the kitchen." He had no idea what that meant, but it sounded good.
And clearly, Mrs. Conrad liked it, because her cheeks flushed and she made a high, tinkling sound that might have been a giggle. "Oh, Red. Do you know, I happen to have some on the go right now."
Of _course_ she did. "Is that right?"
"Yes! Would you like to try some? After all your hard work, the least I can do is feed you."
_Say no. Say you have Friday-night plans. Say you ate five beefsteaks for lunch._ "I'd love to," he said, and smiled. "Just let me go home and get cleaned up."
It took him thirty minutes to shower and change in his own flat, down on the ground floor. Came with the job. Since he led a life of daring excitement these days, he swapped his charcoal overalls for— _drumroll, please_ —his navy blue overalls, fresh out the washer. Truth be told, he had no idea what he was supposed to wear for dinner with an old lady, but his usual shit-kicker boots and old leathers didn't seem quite right.
It was only as he locked his front door that it occurred to Red—this whole situation might not be quite right. Was he supposed to have dinner with tenants? Was that allowed? He didn't see the harm in it, but he was fairly new to this superintendent lark, and he wasn't exactly qualified. Just to be sure, he pulled out his phone and fired off a text to Vik, the landlord—and the mate who'd given him this job.
Can I have dinner with the nice old lady in 3E?
Vik's reply came fast as ever.
Whatever gets you going, mate. I don't judge.
Red huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes as he put his phone away. And then, out of nowhere, he heard it.
Or rather, _her_.
Chloe Brown.
". . . see you for brunch, if I can," she was saying. Her voice was sharp and expensive, like someone had taught a diamond how to speak. The sound scrambled his mind, her crisp accent reminding him of people and places he'd rather forget. Of a different time and a different woman, one who'd clutched her silver spoon in one manicured hand and squeezed his heart tight in the other.
Chloe's husky timbre and the memories it triggered were the only warnings he received before rounding a corner and coming face-to-face with the woman herself. Or rather, face-to-throat. As in, she was right fucking there, and they collided, and, _somehow,_ her face slammed into his throat.
Which hurt. A lot.
The impact also did something terrible to his airflow. He sucked in a breath, choked on it, and reached for her at the same time. That last part was an automatic reflex: he'd bumped into someone, so now it was his job to hold that someone steady. Except, of course, this wasn't just _anyone_. It was Chloe whose waist was soft under his hands. Chloe who smelled like a garden after a spring shower. Chloe who was now shoving him away like he had a communicable disease and spluttering, "Oh, my—what—? Get off!"
Cute as a button, but her tone cut like a knife. He released her before she had an embolism, wincing when his callused hands caught on the pastel wool of her cardigan. She stumbled back as if he might attack at any moment, watching him with flinty suspicion. She always looked at him like that—as if he was thirty seconds away from murdering her and wearing her skin. She'd treated him like some kind of wild animal ever since the day they'd met, when he'd shown her around the flat he never believed she'd lease.
She'd moved in a week later and had been disturbing his peace with her ice-queen routine ever since.
"I—I have no idea how that happened," she said, as if he'd secretly orchestrated the whole thing just for a chance to grab her.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to assure her that this wasn't a mugging or a botched kidnapping attempt—that, despite his tats and his accent and all the other things that made classy women like her judge guys like him, he wasn't _actually_ a dangerous criminal. But all that came out of his mouth was a useless wheezing noise, so he gave up and focused on breathing instead. The pain in his throat faded from a poisonous yellow to a faint, lemon twinge.
He didn't even notice her sisters until they started talking.
"Oh, Chloe," said the shortest sister, Eve. "Look what you've done! The poor man's coughing up his garters."
The other sister—Dani, they called her—rolled her eyes and said, "Do you mean _guts,_ darling?"
"No. Should we do something? Go on, Dani, do something."
"And what should I do? Do I look like a nurse to you?"
"Well, we can't let him choke to death," Eve said reasonably. "What a waste of a gorgeous—"
Chloe's voice carved through the bickering like a blade. "Oh, be quiet, both of you. Weren't you just leaving?"
"We can't leave _now_. Our favorite superintendent is in crisis."
See, while Chloe had hated Red from the moment they'd met, her sisters, Dani and Eve, seemed to love him. They shared her cut-glass accent, but not her apparent classism. He thought of Dani as the elegant one, with her shaved head and her floaty, black outfits. She had a smile so pretty it should be illegal, and she flashed it like a lightbulb whenever their paths crossed. Eve, meanwhile, was the fun one, the baby sister with long, pastel-colored braids and an air of frantic energy that crackled around her like lightning. She liked to flirt. She also liked to wear polka-dot outfits and clashing shoes that offended his artistic sensibilities.
If either of _them_ had taken flat 1D five weeks ago, that would've been just fine. But no—it had to be Chloe. Had to be the sister who made him feel like a rough, scary monster. Had to be the uptight princess who'd decided he was dangerous simply because of where he came from. Why she even lived here, in a cheerfully middle-class block of flats, was a fucking mystery; she was obviously loaded. After Pippa, he could spot the gloss of a wealthy woman from miles away.
But he wouldn't think about Pippa. Nothing good ever came of it.
"I'm fine," he choked out, blinking his watery eyes.
"See?" Chloe said quickly. "He's fine. Let's be off."
God, she irritated him. The woman had just cut off his fucking oxygen and she still couldn't show him common courtesy. Absolutely unbelievable. "Nice to see you're still sweetness and light," he muttered. "Teach those manners at finishing school, do they?"
He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. She was a tenant. He was the superintendent, by the grace of God and his best mate. He was supposed to be polite to her no matter what. But he'd figured out weeks ago that his good nature, his filters, and his common sense all disappeared around Chloe Brown. Honestly, he was shocked she hadn't reported him already.
That was the weirdest thing about her, actually. She snapped at him, she sneered down her nose at him, but she never, ever reported him. He wasn't quite sure what that meant.
Right now, her heavy-lidded eyes flashed midnight fire, narrowing behind her bright blue glasses. He enjoyed the sight on an aesthetic level and hated himself for it, just a little bit. High up on the list of annoying things about Chloe Brown was her beautiful bloody face. She had the kind of brilliant, decadent, Rococo beauty that made his fingers itch to grab a pencil or a paintbrush. It was ridiculously over the top: gleaming brown skin, winged eyebrows with a slightly sarcastic tilt, a mouth you could sink into like a feather bed. She had no business looking like that. None at all.
But he knew he'd mix a million earth shades to paint her and add a splash of ultramarine for the square frames of her glasses. The thick, chestnut hair piled on top of her head? He'd take that down. Sometimes, he stared at nothing and thought about the way it would frame her face. Most times, he thought about how he shouldn't be thinking about her. Ever. At all.
Each word deliberate as a gunshot, she told him, "I'm so awfully sorry, Redford." She sounded about as sorry as a wasp did for stinging. As always, her lips and tongue said one thing, but her eyes said murder. He was generally considered an easygoing guy, but Red knew his eyes were saying murder right back.
"No worries," he lied. "My fault."
She gave a one-shouldered shrug that he knew from experience was rich-people speak for _Whatever._ Then she left without another word, because their verbal battles were never actually that verbal, beyond the first few passive-aggressive jabs.
He watched her spin away, her poofy skirt swishing around her calves. He saw her sisters follow, and waved a hand when they sent him concerned, backward glances. He heard their footsteps fade, and he pulled himself together, and he went to Mrs. Conrad's flat and ate her awful casserole.
But he didn't think about Chloe Brown again. Not once. Not at all.
* * *
Some people might say that writing a list of items to change one's life after a brush with death was ludicrous—but those people, Chloe had decided, simply lacked the necessary imagination and commitment to planning. She gave a sigh of pure contentment as she settled deeper into her mountain of sofa cushions.
It was Saturday night, and she was glad to be alone. Her back pain was as excruciating today as it had been yesterday, her legs were numb and aching, but even those issues couldn't ruin this peace. When she'd put pen to paper in her quest to get a life, finding her own home had been the first entry she'd written. She'd met that goal, and—unnerving superintendents aside—she had nothing but good to show for it.
Through the slight gap in her living room window's curtains, she caught a glimpse of the September sun's evening rays. That warm, orange glow rose above the hulking shadow of her apartment building's west side, making the courtyard nestled at the center of the building all shadowy and peaceful, its blooming autumnal shades rich as earth and blood. Her flat was similarly soothing to the nerves: cool and silent, but for the gentle whirr of her laptop and the steady tap of her fingers against the keyboard.
Happiness, independence, true solitude. Sweeter than oxygen. She breathed it in. This was, in a word, bliss.
It was also the moment her phone blared to life, shattering her calm like glass.
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Chloe allowed herself precisely three seconds to wallow in exasperation before grabbing her phone and checking the display. _Eve._ Her little sister. Which meant that she couldn't simply switch off the ringer and shove her mobile into a drawer.
Drat.
She hit Accept. "I'm working."
"Well, that simply won't do," Eve said cheerfully. "Thank goodness I called."
Chloe enjoyed being irritated—grumpiness was high on her list of hobbies—but she also enjoyed everything about her silly youngest sister. Fighting the curve of her own lips, she asked, "What do you want, Evie-Bean?"
"Oh, I'm so glad you asked."
_Fudge._ Chloe knew that tone, and it never boded well for her. "You know, every time I answer your calls, I quickly find myself regretting it." She hit Speaker and put her phone on the sofa arm, her hands returning to the laptop balanced on her knees.
"What rubbish. You adore me. I am catatonically adorable."
"Do you mean _categorically,_ darling?"
"No," Eve said. "Now, listen closely. I am about to give you a series of instructions. Don't think, don't argue, just obey."
This ought to be good.
"Karaoke night begins in one hour down at the Hockley bar—no, Chloe, stop groaning. Don't think, don't argue, just obey, remember? I want you to get up, put on some lipstick—"
"Too late," Chloe interrupted dryly. "My pajamas are on. I'm finished for the night."
"At half-past eight?" Eve's enthusiasm faltered, replaced by hesitant concern. "You're not having a spell, are you?"
Chloe softened at the question. "No, love."
Most people had trouble accepting the fact that Chloe was ill. Fibromyalgia and chronic pain were invisible afflictions, so they were easy to dismiss. Eve was healthy, so she would never feel Chloe's bone-deep exhaustion, her agonizing headaches or the shooting pains in her joints, the fevers and confusion, the countless side effects that came from countless medications. But Eve didn't need to feel all of that to have empathy. She didn't need to see Chloe's tears or pain to believe her sister struggled sometimes. Neither, for that matter, did Dani. They understood.
"You're sure?" Eve asked, suspicion in her tone. "Because you were awfully rude to Red yesterday, and that usually means—"
"It was nothing," Chloe cut in sharply, her cheeks burning. Redford Morgan: Mr. Congeniality, beloved superintendent, the man who liked _everyone_ but didn't like her. Then again, people usually didn't. She shoved all thoughts of him neatly back into their cage. "I'm fine. I promise." It wasn't a lie, not today. But she would have lied if necessary. Sometimes familial concern was its own mind-numbing symptom.
"Good. In that case, you can definitely join me for karaoke. The theme is duets, and I have been stood up by my so-called best friend. I require a big sisterly substitute as a matter of urgency."
"Unfortunately, my schedule is full." With a few flicks of her fingertips, Chloe minimized one window, maximized another, and scanned her client questionnaire for the section on testimonial slide shows. She couldn't quite remember if—
" _Schedule?_ " Eve grumbled. "I thought you were abandoning schedules. I thought you had a new lease on life!"
"I do," Chloe said mildly. "I also have a job." _Aha_. She found the info she needed and tucked it away in her mind, hoping brain fog wouldn't turn the data to mist within the next thirty seconds. She hadn't taken much medication today, so her short-term memory should be reasonably reliable.
_Should_ be.
"It's Saturday night," Eve was tutting. "You work for _yourself_. From _home_."
"Which is precisely why I have to be disciplined. Call Dani."
"Dani sings like a howler monkey."
"But she has stage presence," Chloe said reasonably.
"Stage presence can't hide everything. She's not Madonna, for Christ's sake. I don't think you are grasping the gravity of this situation, Chlo; this isn't just a karaoke night. There is a competition."
"Oh, joy."
"Guess what the prize is?"
"I couldn't possibly," Chloe murmured.
"Go on. Guess!"
"Just tell me. I am bursting with excitement."
"The prize," Eve said dramatically, "is . . . tickets to Mariah Carey's Christmas tour!"
"Tickets to—?" Oh, for goodness sake. "You don't need to _win_ those, Eve. Have Gigi arrange it."
"That's really not the point. This is for fun! You remember, _fun_ —that thing you never have?"
"This may come as a shock to you, darling, but most people don't consider karaoke exciting."
"All right," Eve relented, sounding rather glum. But, as always, she brightened quickly. "Speaking of fun . . . how is that list of yours developing?"
Chloe sighed and let her head fall back against the cushions. Heaven protect her from little sisters. She should never have told either of them about her list, the one she'd written after her near-death experience and subsequent resolution. They always made fun of her itemized plans.
Well, more fool them, because planning was the key to success. It was thanks to the list, after all, that Chloe's imaginary eulogy was now looking much more positive. Today, she could proudly claim that if she died, the papers would say something like this:
At the grand old age of thirty-one, Chloe moved out of her family home and rented a poky little flat, just like an ordinary person. She also wrote an impressive seven-point list detailing her plans to get a life. While she failed to fully complete said list before her death, its existence proves that she was in a better, less boring, place. We salute you, Chloe Brown. Clearly, you listened to the universe.
Satisfactory, if not ideal. She had not yet transformed her life, but she was in the process of doing so. She was a caterpillar tucked into a universe-endorsed chrysalis. Someday soon, she would emerge as a beautiful butterfly who did cool and fabulous things all the time, regardless of whether or not said things had been previously scheduled. All she had to do was follow the list.
Unfortunately, Eve didn't share her patience or her positive outlook. "Well?" she nudged, when Chloe didn't respond. "Have you crossed anything off yet?"
"I moved out."
"Yes, I had noticed that," Eve snorted. "Do you know, I'm the last Brown sister living at home now?"
"Really? I had no idea. I thought there were several more of us roaming the halls."
"Oh, shut up."
"Perhaps you should move out soon, too."
"Not yet. I'm still saving my monthly stipend," Eve said vaguely. God only knew what for. Chloe was afraid to ask, in case the answer was something like _A diamond-encrusted violin, of course_. "But you moved out weeks ago, Chlo. There's all sorts of things on that list of yours. What else have you done?"
When in doubt, remain silent—that was Chloe's motto.
"I knew it," Eve sniffed eventually. "You are letting me down."
"Letting _you_ down?"
"Yes. Dani bet me fifty pounds that you'd abandon your list by the end of the year, but _I_ —"
"She bet you _what_?"
" _I_ supported you like a good and loyal sister—"
"What on earth is the matter with the pair of you?"
"And this is how you repay me! With apathy! And to top it all, you won't help me win Mariah Carey tickets."
"Will you shut up about the karaoke?" Chloe snapped. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. "Darling, I can't talk anymore. I really am working."
"Fine," Eve sighed. "But this isn't the last you've heard of me, Chloe Sophia."
"Stop that."
"I won't rest until you're no longer such a boring—"
Chloe put the phone down.
A second later, a notification flashed up on her screen.
Eve: :)
Chloe shook her head in fond irritation and got back to work. The SEO of local restaurants, hair salons, and the other small businesses on her roster wouldn't maintain itself. She sank into the familiar mental rhythm of research and updates . . . or rather, she tried to. But her focus was shattered. After five minutes, she paused to mutter indignantly at the empty room, "Dani bet fifty pounds that I would abandon the list? Ridiculous."
After ten, she drummed her fingers against the sofa and said, "She simply doesn't understand the fine art of list-based goal setting." The fact that Dani was a Ph.D. student was neither here nor there. She was too rebellious to grasp the importance of a good, solid plan.
Although . . . Chloe supposed it _had_ been a while since she'd taken stock. Maybe she was due a check-in. Before she knew it, her laptop was closed and abandoned in the living room while she strode off to find the blue sparkly notebook hidden in her bedside drawer.
Chloe had many notebooks, because Chloe wrote many lists. Her brain, typically fogged by pain or painkillers (or, on truly exciting days, both), was a cloudy, lackadaisical thing that could not be trusted, so she relied on neatly organized reminders.
Daily to-do lists, weekly to-do lists, monthly to-do lists, medication lists, shopping lists, Enemies I Will Destroy lists (that one was rather old and more of a morale boost than anything else), client lists, birthday lists, and, her personal favorite, wish lists. If a thing could be organized, categorized, scheduled, and written neatly into a color-coded section of a notebook, the chances were, Chloe had already done so. If she didn't, you see, she would soon find herself in what Mum called "a wretched kerfuffle." Chloe did not have the time for kerfuffles.
But the single list contained in the notebook she now held was not like all the others. She opened the book to the very first page and ran her finger over the stark block lettering within. There were no cheerful doodles or colorful squiggles here, because, when she'd designed this particular page, Chloe had meant business. She _still_ meant business.
This was her Get a Life list. She took it rather seriously.
Which begged the question—why were its check boxes so woefully unticked?
Her questing finger moved to trace the very first task. This one, at least, she had accomplished: _1._ _Move out._ She'd been living independently— _really_ independently, budgeting and food shopping and all sorts—for five weeks now, and she had yet to spontaneously combust. Her parents were astonished, her sisters were delighted, Gigi was yodeling "I told you so!" to all and sundry, et cetera. It was very satisfying.
Less satisfying were the five unachieved tasks written beneath it.
* 2. Enjoy a drunken night out.
* 3. Ride a motorbike.
* 4. Go camping.
* 5. Have meaningless but thoroughly enjoyable sex.
* 6. Travel the world with nothing but hand luggage.
And then there was the very last task, one she'd checked off with alarming swiftness.
* 7. Do something bad.
Oh, she'd done something bad, all right. Not that she could ever tell her sisters about _that_. Just the thought made her cheeks heat. But when she took her notebook back into the living room, guilty memories dragged her gaze, kicking and screaming, toward the window. The forbidden portal to her _something bad_. The curtains were still closed, the way she'd left them ever since her last transgression—but there was that little gap of light trickling through.
Perhaps she should go and pull the curtains tighter, cut off that gap completely, just to make sure. Yes. Definitely. She crept over to the wide living room window, raising a hand to do just that . . . but some sort of malfunction occurred, and before she knew it, she was twitching the curtain to the side, widening the gap instead of closing it. A faint shard of light stretched toward her across the courtyard's patio, merging with the last gasps of the dying sun, and she thought to herself, _Don't. Don't. This is horribly invasive and more than a little creepy and you're just making everything worse—_
But her eyes kept on looking anyway, staring across the narrow courtyard, through a not-so-distant window to the figure limned within.
Redford Morgan was hard at work.
_Call me Red,_ he'd told her, months ago. She hadn't. _Couldn't._ The word, like everything else about him, was too much for her to handle. Chloe didn't do well around people like him; confident people, beautiful people, those who smiled easily and were liked by everyone and felt comfortable in their own skin. They reminded her of all the things she wasn't and all the loved ones who'd left her behind. They made her feel prickly and silly and frosty and foolish, twisting her insides into knots, until all she could do was snap or stammer.
She usually chose to snap.
The problem with Redford was, he always seemed to catch her at her worst. Take the time when some yummy mummy had cornered Chloe in the courtyard to ask, "Is that a wig?"
Chloe, perplexed, had patted her usual plain, brown bun, wondering if she'd slapped on one of Dani's platinum blond lace fronts that morning by mistake. ". . . No?"
The yummy mummy hadn't been impressed with Chloe's lack of conviction and had therefore taken matters into her own hands. Which, in this case, had involved grabbing Chloe's hair as if it were a creature at a petting zoo.
But had Redford witnessed _that_ disaster? Of course not. Nor had he heard the woman's chocolate-smeared child call Chloe a "mean, ugly lady" for defending herself. Nooo; he'd swept onto the scene like a knight in tattooed armor just in time to hear _Chloe_ call the woman a "vapid disgrace to humanity," and the child a "nasty little snot ball," both of which were clearly true statements.
Redford had glared at her as if she were Cruella de Vil and let the yummy mummy cry on his shoulder.
And then there'd been that unfortunate incident in the post room. Was it Chloe's fault that some bonkers old lady named _Charlotte_ Brown lived directly above her in 2D? Or that said bonkers old lady, sans spectacles, had mistakenly broken into Chloe's post box and opened the letters within? No. No, it was not. It also wasn't Chloe's fault that she, incensed by the _literal crime_ committed against her, had reacted in the heat of the moment by finding the old lady's post box and pouring her morning thermos of tea through the slot. How was she to know that Charlotte Brown had been awaiting seventieth birthday cards from her grandchildren in the United States? She _wasn't_ to know, of course. She wasn't psychic, for heaven's sake.
She'd attempted to explain all of that to Redford, but he'd been glowering so very hard, and then he'd said something awfully cutting—he was good at that, the wretch—and Chloe had given up. Superior silence was much easier to pull off, especially around him. He turned her into a complete disaster, and so, by day, she avoided his company like the bubonic plague.
But at night, sometimes, she watched him paint.
He was standing in front of his window, shirtless, which she supposed made her a pervert as well as a spy. But this wasn't a sexual exercise. He was _barely_ even attractive in her eyes. She didn't see him as an object, or anything like that. From a distance, in the dark, with that sharp tongue of his tucked away, she saw him as poetry. He had this visceral quality, even when he was glaring at her, but especially when he painted. There was an honesty, a vulnerability about him that captivated her.
Chloe knew she was flesh and blood and bone, just like him. But she wasn't alive like he was. Not even close.
He was in profile, focused on the canvas in front of him. Sometimes he painted haltingly, almost cautiously; other times, he would stare at the canvas more than he touched it. But tonight, he was a living storm, dabbing and daubing with quick, fluid movements. She couldn't see what he was working on, and she didn't want to. What mattered was the subtle rise and fall of his ribs as his breathing sped up, and the rapid, minute movements of his head, birdlike and fascinating. What mattered was _him_.
His long hair hung over his face, a copper-caramel curtain with shreds of firelight throughout. That hair, she knew, hid a strong brow, probably furrowed in concentration; a harsh, jutting nose; a fine mouth that lived on the edge of smiling, surrounded by sandy stubble. She liked to see the fierce concentration on his face when he painted, but she knew it was for the best when his wild hair covered all. If she couldn't see him, he wouldn't see her. And anyway, she didn't need to see his face to drown in his vitality. The spill of copper strands over those broad shoulders; the ink trapped beneath his pale skin; that was enough.
If someone asked her what his tattoos looked like, she wouldn't be able to describe the images they displayed or the words they spelled out. She'd speak about the dense blackness, and the pops of color. The faded ones that seemed ever so slightly raised, and the ones that flooded him like ink spilled into water. She'd speak about how strange it was to choose to bleed for something, simply because you wanted to. She'd speak about how it made her feel and how she wanted to want something that much, and on a regular enough basis, to build her own equivalent of his countless tattoos.
But no one would ever ask her, because she wasn't supposed to know.
The first time she'd stumbled across this view, she'd turned away instantly, squeezing her eyes shut while her heart tried to break free of its cage. And she'd shut her curtains. Hard. But the image had stayed with her, and curiosity had built. She'd spent days wondering— _Was he naked?_ Naked _in front of his window? And what had been in his hand? What was he_ doing _in there?_
She'd lasted three weeks before looking again.
The second time, she'd been hesitant, shocked by her own audacity, creeping toward the window in the dark and hiding behind almost-closed curtains. She'd peeked just long enough to answer her own questions: he was wearing jeans and not much else; he was holding a paintbrush; he was, of course, painting. Then she'd stared even longer, hypnotized by the sight. Afterward, she'd crossed _Do something bad_ off her list and tried to feel good instead of guilty. It hadn't worked.
And this time? The third time? _The last time,_ she told herself firmly. What was her excuse now?
There was none. Clearly, she was a reprehensible human being.
He stopped, straightened, stepped back. She watched as he put down his paintbrush, stretched out his fingers in a way that meant he'd been working for hours. She was jealous of how far he could push himself, how long he could stand in one place without his body complaining, or suffering. Or punishing him. She twitched the curtain wider, her envious hands moving of their own accord, a little more light spilling into her shadowed guilt.
Red turned suddenly. He looked out of his window.
Right at her.
But she wasn't there anymore; she had dropped the curtain back into place, spun away, slammed herself against the living room wall. Her pulse pounded so hard and so fast that it was almost painful at her throat. Her breaths were ragged gasps, as if she'd run a mile.
He hadn't seen her. He hadn't. He _hadn't_.
Yet she couldn't help but wonder—what might he do, if he had?
# Chapter Two
Why would a woman who all but hated Red spend her evening watching him through a window?
He couldn't say. There was no good reason. There were bad reasons, reasons involving fetishes and class lines and the shit certain people considered degrading, but he didn't think those applied to Chloe Brown. Not because she was above lusting after a man she looked down on, but because she didn't seem the type to lust at all. Lust couldn't exist without vulnerability. Chloe, beneath her pretty exterior, was about as vulnerable as a bloody shark.
So maybe his eyes had deceived him. Maybe she hadn't been watching him at all. But he knew what he'd seen, didn't he? Thick, dark hair pulled into a soft bun; the sky-bright glint of those blue glasses; a lush figure in pink pin-striped pajamas with buttons marching up the front. Cute as a button, neat as a button, always dressed in buttons. He knew exactly who lived in the flat that faced his across the courtyard, and he knew—he _knew_ —that he'd seen her last night. But why?
"Red," his mum barked. "Stop _slicing_ so loud. You're ruining my nerves, you are."
The distraction, ridiculous or not, came as a relief. He was sick of his own repetitive thoughts, a murky, khaki color in his mind. He turned to face his mother, who was perched at the table wedged into one corner of her tiny kitchen, right beside the window. "You want to complain about my chopping, woman? When I'm over here to make _you_ lunch?"
"Don't get cheeky," she said, giving him the death stare. She was legally blind in one eye, but lack of sight didn't stop her irises from stabbing him.
He tried to look innocent. She huffed grandly and turned back to the window, twitching the net curtains aside. She ruled her cul-de-sac with an iron fist and spent most of her time waiting for supplicants to arrive.
This time, the supplicant was Shameeka Israel, a doctor at the Queen's Medical Center. When she came for Sunday lunch with the great-aunt who lived three doors down, Dr. Israel became Our Meeka, or alternatively, Little Gap. She arrived at the window with a pot of oxtail curry and said, "Here, Ms. Morgan. Auntie made you some for the cold."
Mum's glower softened at the sound of the doctor's voice. "Gap. You're a good girl. When are you going to marry my Redford?"
"Soon, Ms. Morgan. All right, Red?"
He winked at her through the window. "It's a date."
She grinned, flashing her gap teeth, then put the oxtail inside the windowsill and said her good-byes. As soon as her Lexus pulled out of the car park, Red whisked the pot away from his mother's grasping hands. She'd already lifted the lid, stuck a finger into the curry, and sucked.
"Oi," he scolded. "You'll spoil your lunch. I'm making you pistou soup."
"What in God's name is that?"
"The balls off a badger. Steamed."
She snorted, screwing her angular face into an expression of disgust. "Sounds about right." Mrs. Conrad wasn't the only drama queen in Red's life. Add his mum and Vik to the mix, and he was practically drowning in them.
He was just about to tell her the actual ingredients of pistou soup when she leaned toward the window, her voice rising to the level of a low-flying airplane. "Oi, Mike! I can see you, you scumbag! Get over here."
Mike was, essentially, Mum's good-for-nothing boyfriend. This was how they flirted. Red took himself to the stove and stirred his pistou soup, pointedly ignoring the things Mike shouted back. The guy was in his seventies, drank like a fish, and was round the bookies every afternoon like clockwork. Red did not approve.
It wasn't as if he could say anything about it, though. Not when Mum had warned _him_ about his last girlfriend, Pippa, and he'd merrily ignored her to the bitter, bloody end. He wasn't exactly Mr. Relationship Expert. But he wouldn't think about Pippa, or London, or his countless mistakes, because it only pissed him off, and Red hated feeling pissed off. Chill and cheerful was more his speed.
He was just regaining his equilibrium, clearing the dishes after a decent lunch, when Mum approached his most sensitive subject with all the delicacy of a rampaging rhino.
"Back to selling any paintings yet?"
Ah, his favorite topic. "Not yet," Red said calmly. A little too calmly, but Mum didn't seem to notice.
"Gee up, babe. You've been messing about for years now."
_Years?_ "It's only been eighteen months."
"Don't correct your mother."
He really didn't get enough credit for his boundless patience. Maybe he should make himself an award. _To the Much-Put-Upon Redford Thomas Morgan, in Recognition of Endurance in the Face of Pointless Questions About Art._ Something like that.
"You can't let that nasty little rich girl destroy your career," Mum went on.
_Too late._ Red squirted a liberal amount of washing-up liquid into the bowl.
"Don't give me the silent treatment, Redford. Answer me. What've you been up to? You _are_ working, aren't you?"
"Yes," he sighed, because if he didn't tell her something she'd nag until his ears bled. "Mainly freelance illustration. Building my portfolio." _Again._ "I just finished these pen-and-ink drawings of a brain and a bottle of port."
Mum looked at him as if his head had fallen off.
"Lifestyle magazine," he explained. "An article on erectile dysfunction."
She huffed and turned fully away from the window, spearing him with her still-seeing eye. It glinted suspiciously from behind her amber-tinted glasses. "You've been drawing pictures for magazines since you were a boy. What are you waiting for? Sell some bloody paintings again. You have done some, haven't you?"
Oh, yeah, he'd done some. He'd been painting as obsessively as always, and some of it was even half decent. But it was _different_. It was different, and he was different, and the things he knew were different, and after all the bad decisions he'd made . . .
Well. Red had plenty of work to sell. But thus far, he didn't have the balls to show it to a single soul. Every time he considered it, a familiar, cut-glass accent reminded him of a few things. _You try so hard, Red, and it's pathetic. Accept what you are, sweetie._ _You were nothing before me, and you'll be nothing after me._
Chloe Brown's bladelike enunciation had nothing on Pippa Aimes-Baxter's.
And why the fuck was he thinking about Chloe again?
"You gonna be a landlord forever?" Mum demanded.
He shook his head sharply, like a dog, brushing off the unwanted memories. "Vik's the landlord, Mum. I'm his superintendent."
"You should take a leaf out of Vikram's book, in my opinion. Who could stop that boy? No one. Nothing."
True. Vik Anand, aside from being Red's best mate, was a minor property mogul who'd given Red the superintendent job after . . . well. After Pippa. Red was only vaguely qualified, but he hadn't fucked anything up yet, and he was a decent plumber. Decent electrician. Excellent decorator. Damned hardworking.
Shit at the admin, but he did his best.
Aaaand, he was making excuses.
"You're right," he said, scrubbing out a saucepan, squinting when his hair fell into his eyes. It was like seeing the world through tall, dead grass at sunset. His fingers were turning red in the almost-boiling, bubbly water, the tattoo of _MUM_ across his knuckles as bold as ever, each letter sitting just above his granddad's silver rings. That tattoo hadn't been his brightest teenage decision, but the sentiment remained: he loved the hell out of his mother. So he looked over at her and repeated, "You are absolutely right. Tomorrow morning, I'll get on it properly. Start planning. Think about a new website."
She nodded, turned back to her window, and changed the subject. Started gossiping about Mrs. Poplin's witless nephew who'd gone and knocked up the girl from the corner shop who had a missing front tooth, could you believe?
Red _Hmmm_ 'd in all the right places and thought about how to make Kirsty Morgan proud. He ended his visit with a kiss to both of her cheeks and a promise to pop in during the week, when he could. Then he put on his helmet and leathers, got on his bike, and sped home to the apartment building that was his blessing and his excuse.
He was not prepared for the spectacle he found outside.
# Chapter Three
Walking improved heart health, significantly reduced one's chances of breast cancer, and qualified as a relatively low-impact sport. Despite this last fact, and despite the New Balance walking trainers Chloe had bought especially, her knees were bloody killing her.
"You," she muttered to the pavement beneath her feet, "are a first-class scoundrel."
The pavement refused to respond, which struck her as rather petty. If it was bold enough to jar her bones with every step, it should be bold enough to defend its reprehensible solidity.
Then again, Chloe's current predicament _could_ be her own fault. She'd skipped her painkillers this morning because she was feeling lively—so she probably shouldn't have spent the last twenty-seven minutes messing around outdoors, gulping down the crisp autumn air and pushing herself just a bit harder than usual. Hindsight was 20/20, and all that.
She could feel familiar tendrils of soreness burrowing into her body's weak points, could see the dull gray of exhaustion at the edges of her mind. But she was nearly home now. Chloe wandered across the little park opposite her building— _Grass! Thank Christ_ —and planned to reward herself with some lovely drugs, fluffy pajamas, and several dark-chocolate-chip cookies. Dark chocolate, obviously, was an extremely healthy choice. The antioxidants canceled out the sugar almost entirely.
Oh—there was a cat in a tree.
She stopped short, her thoughts scattered. A cat. In a tree. Had she stumbled into the pages of a children's book? To her right stood the oak tree that dominated most of this random green area, and in the highest, spindly branches of that oak sat a cat. It was both a familiar concept and a completely baffling sight. For all that she'd heard of cats in trees, she'd never actually come across one.
She folded her arms, squinted against the too-bright, too-pale sky, and listened to the creature's plaintive _miaow_ s.
After a moment, she called, "You sound as though you're stuck."
The cat screeched its affirmative like a miniature murder victim. It was small, but wonderfully fat, with fur so gray as to seem almost black, and piercing eyes that said, _Surely you won't leave me here?_
Chloe sighed. "Are you sure you can't get down? I don't mean to be rude, but you know how this goes. Some gullible, bleeding-heart type clambers into a tree after a cat, only for said cat to leap mischievously down at the last second—"
Another shriek, this one blatantly indignant.
"Fair point," Chloe conceded. "Just because you appear well, doesn't mean you don't require help. I, above all, should know that. I will call the fire brigade for you."
The cat miaowed some more and glared down at her, a skeptical smudge against the sky. She was now quite certain that it was saying something like, _The fire brigade, you wasteful cow? Don't you realize we are in an era of austerity? Would you take much-needed public services away from children trapped in bathrooms and old ladies who've left the iron on? For shame._
This cat, like most of its species, seemed rather judgmental. Chloe didn't mind; she appreciated bluntness in a beastly companion. And . . . well, it had a point. Why should she bother the fire-type people when she had a semifunctional body of her own? Fetching this cat might not be the cleverest way to end her walk, but then, staid, sensible Chloe Brown was dead. _New_ Chloe was a reckless, exciting sort of woman who, in moments of crisis, didn't wait for the assistance of trained professionals.
The thought plucked at her like a harpist plucked at strings. She vibrated with ill-advised intent. She would dominate this tree.
A decent hand- and foothold were required to begin; she knew that from watching a young Dani scamper up and down these things for years. The oak's trunk was both soft and hard under Chloe's hands, its bark crumbly and damp, its core immovable. She liked the contrast, even if it scratched at her palms and threatened to snag on her leggings. Her waterproof jacket made an odd, slithery noise as she reached up toward the first branch. Then her fingers closed around a sturdy bough, and she heaved herself up as her feet pushed off the trunk, and everything felt utterly free.
Her muscles were still weary and her joints still ached; the only difference was, she no longer gave a damn. There was a nasty little voice in her head that warned her she'd pay for this, that her body would demand retribution. She had been practicing telling that voice to eff off, and she did so now. The cat's whining spiked as she climbed, and Chloe chose to interpret that as enthusiastic cheerleading. _Well done, human!_ miaowed the cat. _You're a total badass! You should definitely add this to your Get a Life list so that you can cross it off immediately and feel extra accomplished!_
Chloe considered, then discarded, the cat's generous suggestion. The Get a Life list was an historical document that she couldn't bring herself to alter.
"Thank you, though," she panted, and then worried about the fact that she was panting. Her lungs were working overtime and every breath felt like the edge of a saw. She had a metallic taste at the back of her mouth that reminded her, unpleasantly, of blood, and also of the days when she'd had to run laps in PE. Apparently, this climb was wearing her out—but she'd been taking irregular walks for years, damn it. Surely she should be a semipro athlete by now? Apparently not. The human body was an inconvenient and unreasonable thing.
She kept climbing, anyway, and developed a system. She'd drag herself onto a sturdy branch, shuffle along on her bottom—rather undignified, but it couldn't be helped—reach for the next branch, drag herself up . . . and so on. It worked like a charm and took forever, probably due to her frequent rest breaks. And then, all of a sudden, she got so high that the branches thinned out.
Oh dear.
Chloe was not petite. She was on the taller side, big boned, and well insulated for the winter. Like a rabbit. Except the insulation lasted all year round. Her size wasn't something she often thought about, but as she reached a particularly slender branch, she could suddenly think of nothing but. She eyed the branch suspiciously. Could it take approximately fifteen stone of woman? She doubted it.
"Cat," she said, or rather, wheezed. "You might need to come down just a bit. Throw yourself into my arms, perhaps." She released her death grip on the branch, clenched her core to ensure her balance, and held up encouraging hands. "Come on, then. Leap of faith and all that."
The cat did not look impressed.
"I won't drop you," she said. "Promise. I'm an excellent catch. I played netball for the county team, you know."
The cat gave her a hard stare.
She sighed. "Yes, it was over a decade ago. Which is mean of you to point out, by the way."
Perhaps the cat appreciated her honesty, because it extended one delicate paw and seemed to consider a path of descent.
"That's the spirit, darling. Down you pop."
With alarming agility, the cat did indeed come down. Chloe was surprised, all things considered, that it didn't leap comfortably out of the tree and leave her behind. Judging by its suddenly silky movements, it must've been able to. And yet, instead of making its escape, it hopped from one branch to the next until it came to rest on her lap, precisely as directed.
She stared at the bundle of smoky fur currently nuzzling her stomach. After a moment of astonishment, she choked out, "You can't actually understand me, can you? Because if so, don't worry. I'll protect your secret to the death."
From beneath her, a rough voice punched through the Sunday quiet. "So will I."
She almost fell out of the tree.
After that heart-jolting moment, Chloe clutched a nearby bough for balance and blinked down at the source of the words. She found Redford Morgan squinting up at her, his hands in his pockets, his fine mouth curved into what must be a smirk.
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. She became uncomfortably aware of the cool, prickly sweat coating her skin, the strands of frizzy hair that had escaped her bun, and . . . oh, yes, the fact that she was sitting in a tree, talking nonsense to a cat. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Embarrassment leaked past her most stalwart defenses to flood her cheeks with unwanted heat. She searched for something appropriately cutting to say and discovered that every intelligent thought in her head had evaporated.
Gigi's voice came to her like a divine message. _Keep calm, Chloe, dear. And whatever you bloody do, don't fall._
Sound advice from Imaginary Gigi.
"Hello, Mr. Morgan," she croaked, then kicked herself. _Mr. Morgan?!_ She'd regressed. _Redford_ had been bad enough. At this rate, she wouldn't call him "Red" until 2056.
His strange little smirk widened into a full-blown grin, and she realized that he hadn't been smirking at all. No; he was holding back laughter, his amusement dancing through the air around him like an electrical current. His big body practically vibrated with it. She considered telling him to just get on with it—to laugh at her, since she was sure she made a hilarious picture right now. But before she could work up the words, he spoke again.
"Are you stuck, Ms. Brown?"
She didn't miss the emphasis he put on her name, as sarcastic as the single eyebrow he raised. Goodness gracious, he'd better stop that. Looking at him was distracting enough; if he started to _emote,_ her brain might short-circuit. Human beings so very vital should not be allowed to roam the streets unsupervised. Someone—Chloe—could die of fascinated envy and sheer self-consciousness.
"No," she said, with great dignity. "I am not stuck." It wasn't necessarily a lie, since she hadn't tried to get down yet.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because I wouldn't mind giving you a hand."
She snorted. How on earth would he _give her a hand_ down a tree? "Are you on drugs, Mr. Morgan?"
His smile turned into a scowl. The expression didn't suit his catlike eyes or his upturned mouth, which just made it all the more effective. "No," he said shortly. Then he tutted loudly and shook his head, as if he despaired of her. Actually, he _did_ despair of her; he'd made that rather clear.
For some reason, instead of ignoring him to prove how very little she cared, she found herself blurting, "I didn't mean that in a bad way." Which was true, actually. She'd been joking, only jokes had never been Chloe's forte. Something about the delivery. "It's Sunday, after all. No work, few obligations. A perfectly acceptable day for recreational drug use."
He blinked up at her, his scowl replaced by bafflement. "Do you take drugs on Sundays, then?" he asked finally.
"I take drugs every day," she said. Then she remembered that he was the superintendent of her building and added, "Legal drugs. Very legal drugs. Doctor's orders."
His eyebrows flew up. They were the same amber-copper shade as his hair, so they stood out starkly against his pale skin. "Is that right?"
Time to change the subject. Otherwise, he'd start asking questions, and she'd answer out of politeness, and then they'd be sitting there discussing her medical history as if it were a topic as mundane as the weather.
"Do you know," she said, sinking her icy fingers into her troublesome cat friend's fur, "I think I might be stuck after all."
He folded his arms. Considering his height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the beaten-up black leather jacket he wore, the overall effect was slightly intimidating. "Thought you said you weren't?"
"Don't be a pain," she huffed, then immediately regretted it. The problem was, _she_ was in pain, which tended to shorten her fuse. Her joints were stiff and aching, her lower back was screaming, and during physical catastrophes, her politeness was always the first function to go.
But Red, for once, didn't snap back. Instead he squinted up at her and asked slowly, "You okay?"
She stiffened. "Yes."
"Are you hurt?"
_Hurt? No. Hurting? Always._ "Are you going to help me or not?" she demanded.
He rolled his eyes. "You do know how to charm a fella." But he unfolded his arms and pushed off his jacket, clearly preparing for action. The leather landed at his feet like a dead thing, which she supposed it technically was. Unless it was fake.
"Is that real?" she asked, nodding toward it.
He arched an eyebrow again—the show-off—and approached the tree in his T-shirt and jeans. "That's what you're worried about right now?"
"I'm the sort of person who climbs trees to rescue cats. Clearly, I care deeply about animal welfare."
"You a vegetarian?"
Well. He had her there. "Not yet."
"Not yet?"
"I'm working on it." Ethical consumption had been easier at home, where they had a cook.
He grinned up at her, grabbed a branch, and started climbing. "Right. You only eat veal on Sundays, that sort of thing?"
"Certainly," she quipped. "Which is no worse than doing drugs on Sundays."
"Chloe. I don't do drugs on Sundays."
There; he'd used her name. Now was the perfect time to follow suit and use his. The one everyone else called him, not _Redford_ or _Mr. Morgan_. But she felt so awkward about it that she couldn't figure out what to say, and in the end, after an uncomfortable pause, she . . .
Well. She simply blurted out, "Red."
And that was it.
He hauled himself up another branch—he was much quicker and more graceful than she'd been, the awful man—and cocked his head. "Yeah?"
Oh dear. "Um . . . do you know this cat?"
His climb continued. She tried not to stare at his hands and his forearms and the way his biceps bunched beneath his shirt as he lifted himself up. "Why," he asked, "would I know that cat?"
"I'm not sure. You are in a position of authority in the local community."
He eyed her suspiciously. "I change lightbulbs for old ladies and send out rent reminders."
"Sounds like authority to me."
The cat, which had been purring quietly, chose that moment to miaow again. Chloe scratched it between the ears. She appreciated the vocal support.
"Whatever you say," Red muttered, and then he was directly beneath her. Proximity to him unnerved her more and more every time they met. Which might have something to do with the mountains of guilt she carried after spying on him repeatedly.
At least she knew for sure, now, that he hadn't seen her last night. Because if he had, he probably would've left her to die in this tree.
"So, is it real?" she asked, mostly to divert her own train of thought.
"Is _what_ real?" he shot back, sounding more than a little exasperated. His voice was gravelly, its cadence oddly musical, his words flowing together in an elision of consonants and shortening of vowels. He sounded as dynamic as he looked.
"The leather."
"No, Chloe. Don't worry. I'm not running around wearing a dead cow all the time." He reached up from the branch beneath her and said, "Can you hold my hand?"
Could she? Possibly. Should she? Debatable. His touch might stop her heart like an electric shock. Then again, she was hardly in a position to refuse. "Let me secure the cat," she mumbled.
"Fuck the cat. It's playing you like a violin."
Her gasp tasted of ice and pollution. "How _dare_ you? This cat is an angel. Look at it. Look!"
He looked. His eyes were pale green, like spring pears. He studied the cat thoroughly before saying in very firm tones, "That thing could climb down any time it wanted. It's having you on."
"You're a heartless man."
"Me?" he sputtered, as shocked as if she'd accused him of being Queen Victoria. " _I'm_ heartless?"
She drew back, affronted. "Are you trying to suggest that I'm the heartless one?"
"Well, you did—"
"Please don't bring up the post room incident."
"Actually, I was going to bring up the time you made Frank Leonard from 4J cry."
Chloe huffed out a breath. "I did _not_ make him cry. He was already teary when the conversation began. It was all a misunderstanding, really."
Red grunted skeptically.
"Honestly, I see no need to rehash the past when I am in a tree, selflessly saving a cat."
"If you want to make this a competition," he countered, " _I'm_ in a tree saving a cat and a woman."
"You are absolutely not saving me, thank you very much."
"Oh? Shall I get down, then?"
"Fine. Throw a tantrum, if you must."
"Throw a—?" Red's incredulity was quickly cut off by a growl. "I'm not doing this with you."
She blinked down at him. "Doing what?"
"Arguing. I don't argue with people."
"That sounds dull," she murmured.
"You—just—hurry up before I lose my shit, would you?"
"You've not already lost it?"
"Swear to God, Chloe, you've got three seconds." He waved the proffered hand around for emphasis. There was a smudge of magenta ink beneath his thumbnail.
Chloe sighed, then picked up the cat to see if it would permit such familiarity. It did. Reassured, she unzipped her jacket a bit, stuffed the cat inside, zipped it up again. A furry kitty head rested against the hollow of her throat, a warm body curling up against her chest. The sensation was so wonderful, for a moment she almost forgot the pain clawing at her senses.
She rather liked this cat.
After fiddling for as long as possible, she put on her big-girl knickers and reached for the hand awaiting her. It was the third time she had ever touched Redford Morgan. She knew, because the first time—their first handshake—had sent a thousand tingling darts shooting up her right arm, darts that had dissolved into a strange, pleasurable sensation that was not unlike a muscle relaxant, and she had not approved. The second time, when they'd bumped into each other a few days ago, had only reinforced her decision to avoid all physical contact with the man.
Yet here she was, feeling his callused palm in hers, this time not for a handshake but a—she reluctantly admitted to herself— _rescue_. The usual darts of sensation returned. Red didn't appear to be sending them on purpose, so she decided, for once, not to hold it against him. Sometimes, when she saw him roaming the halls or the courtyard with a heartrending smile for everyone but her, she wished she had nothing at all to hold against him.
Usually when she'd taken her strongest painkillers and was therefore high as a kite.
"Can I keep it?" she asked, to distract herself, more than anything else.
"Keep what?" he frowned as he helped her climb down. His grip on her was steely; his other hand cupped her elbow. He supported almost all of her weight and pulled her onto a lower branch.
"The cat," she said, and concentrated on not falling tragically to her death.
"What are you asking me for? Put your feet here, look."
She put her feet where she was told. They were now a meter closer to the ground. Red climbed down a little bit, then reached up to help her again.
"I'm asking you," she said, as he maneuvered her like a particularly unwieldy doll, "because you are the superintendent, and pets are not allowed."
"Oh, yeah. You can't keep it then, can you? On your left, now," he added. " _Left,_ I said. Chloe, d'you know your left and right?"
"Be quiet," she muttered, and finally put her feet in the right place. "Can't you bend the rules due to extenuating circumstances?"
"Extenuating circumstances such as . . . the fact that you're an extra special princess?"
"Precisely. I knew you'd understand."
"How d'you know the cat doesn't belong to someone?"
"No collar."
"Still, it—good God, woman, what are you doing? This branch. _This_ one."
"Don't get snippy," she muttered.
"Are you trying to break your neck?"
"So dramatic. I'd break an arm at most. Of course, it has occurred to me that if I landed poorly, I could break my neck at any height. Especially since, as I'm holding a cat, I'd probably twist to avoid squashing the poor thing to death." She paused, considered. "But that's a worst-case scenario. I'm sure we don't need to worry about it."
Red halted his steady descent to stare at her. Then, from out of nowhere, he burst into laughter. It was a short, bright sound accompanied by a stunning smile, and she enjoyed it an unhealthy amount. She decided to ignore him and focus on studying the branches below. When she craned her neck a touch too vigorously, her body responded with a stab of pain through her shoulder blade. He, being a certified nuisance, noticed her slight wince and abruptly stopped laughing. Those sharp eyes excavated her expression. She'd seen him look at one of his paintings just like this, shortly before picking it up and throwing it against a wall.
He said, "Something's wrong with you."
She flinched. Her chest cracked wide open. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You sure you didn't hurt yourself? Seems like you're in pain."
Oh. Of course. She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, her tension easing away. "It's nothing."
After a slight pause, he continued their descent. "You know," he said conversationally, "I think we're about the same age. I, too, enjoyed the era of _Xena: Warrior Princess_ and Captain Janeway."
"How nice for you."
"And just because I'm rescuing you—"
"Incorrect."
"—like a proper knight in shining armor, don't mean I think you're all . . . you know. Damsel-in-distress-like."
Chloe huffed out a breath, a cloud of air pluming from her nostrils. Definitely more dragon that damsel. "Point?"
"Point is, if you've hurt yourself, I'm not gonna be a prick about it."
"Oh?" she asked through gritted teeth.
"Yeah. Like I won't _insist_ you come back to mine so I can have a look at you."
"Good."
"But I will _suggest_ that you let me see you home and get you settled. And make you a cuppa. To warm you up." Before she could quite get her head around that, he said, "Here we are, then," and jumped down. When his booted feet hit the ground, she realized they'd done it. They'd finished. Well, almost. She was crouched awkwardly on the last branch.
She wondered how badly the landing would hurt her already-screaming bones.
Red smiled up at her. It was the kind of sweet and effortlessly handsome smile that heartthrobs deployed in rom-coms, and she didn't trust it an inch. "Want me to catch you?"
"I'd rather die."
He shrugged, put his hands in his pockets, and started humming "Devil Woman."
She clutched the cat against her chest and jumped. Coincidentally, landing felt a little bit like dying. Her body had become a giant bruise. She swallowed a thousand curses, breathed through the urge to vomit, and felt like the silliest woman on earth. Why in God's name had she done this to herself? The cat licked the hollow of her throat, its sandpaper tongue warming her shriveled heart. _Ah, yes._ She'd done this because she was a pathetic ninny.
Red didn't bother to hide his concern. "You okay?"
For once, the apartment building's sweetheart was turning his nice-guy brand of nosiness her way. It might've been satisfying if she'd actually wanted his attention.
With great effort, she straightened up and attempted to smile. It felt more like a grimace. He winced at the sight as if horrified. She stopped. "I'm fine. Good-bye."
With that 100 percent believable lie expertly deployed, she made her escape. It was slow and steady, with little dignity, great pain, and greater determination. Being rescued from trees was all well and good, but she didn't need a rescue from herself.
# Chapter Four
Red let Chloe limp off to her flat with a cat stuffed down her jacket. Then he found the motorbike he'd dumped shortly after spotting her, parked it, and settled in for a thrilling evening of minding his own damn business. He lasted about five minutes before grabbing his ring of master keys, turning up at her door, and knocking.
If she didn't answer, he'd assume she'd fainted or some shit and let himself in.
He was only checking on her because she was a tenant. Making sure she hadn't hurt herself was his job. The fact that she'd climbed up a tree to save a cat, and bantered with him in a weird, stuck-up, posh-girl kind of way, meant absolutely nothing. She was an unrepentant snob who'd possibly spied on him last night. He didn't give a fuck about her sarcastic sense of humor, or the cute little cardigans she wore, or her fantastic bloody face. But on a regular human-concerned-about-another-human level, he really wished she'd answer the door.
He knocked one more time, raked a hand through his hair, and started worrying. When she'd left, her mouth had been tight, her skin gray beneath a sheen of sweat. Her words had grown rushed, strained, even sharper than usual. She'd moved stiffly, her body hunched with something more than cold. It was obvious she had some tree-related injury and didn't want to admit it, but Red was not above bullying it out of her. He had plenty of practice bullying his mother, after all.
He was reaching for his key when the door finally opened a crack. A large, dark eye peered suspiciously out at him.
Red arched an eyebrow. "Where are your glasses?"
"You're a very nosy man," she said. "What do you want?"
"Word on the street is, you've got a cat in there."
She looked him right in the eye and said, "Mr. Morgan. Would I ever?"
His lips twitched into a smile he didn't want to give. "I think I'll check, if you don't mind."
"I mind awfully."
"Still, though."
With a sigh gustier than a hurricane, she let him in.
Chloe was one of those women who always looked tidy. Even up a tree, she'd been in color-coordinated walking gear that could only be called _appropriate_. So the state of her home made him stop in his tracks.
She didn't appear to notice. She was too busy shuffling down the hall, dodging empty bottles of water lined up like bowling skittles and what seemed to be countless Amazon Prime delivery boxes. He picked his way through the chaos and followed her into an equally disordered living room, where fancy furniture was covered with pillows, books, empty mugs, and video-game cases that said PS4 on the front.
Oh, and then there was the cat.
It lay stretched across the glass coffee table, surrounded by a rainbow of prescription medication. Chloe picked up the boxes of pills, ignored the cat, and asked, "Happy?"
He stared. "The cat's right there."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." She hesitated, then took a nervous little breath. He wondered if she was about to confess to murder. Instead, she said, "I don't suppose you'd make some tea? Lavender for me, please."
He stared. Had she just—? Did she really think he would—? Well, holy fuck. The balls on this woman. "Used to servants, are you?"
"Oh, yes," she said.
It took him three solid seconds and one aborted scowl to realize that she was joking. Chloe Brown had just made yet another joke in that deadpan, oddly self-deprecating way of hers, which she really had to stop doing because he was starting to enjoy it.
She turned to leave the room while he questioned his grip on reality. "If you hear any ominous bangs," she called, "knock. If I don't respond, you can rush in to my rescue."
". . . Knock?" he echoed blankly.
"On the bathroom door," she told him, as if he was being particularly thick. "I've decided to use your presence as supervision."
"Super—?" Too late. She'd disappeared, mountain of medication in hand. "All right then," Red said to the empty living room.
The cat miaowed.
"Shut it, you. If she's hurt herself, you're to blame."
The cat was blatantly unrepentant.
Red went to make the tea.
The kitchen was comparatively tidy and reasonably clean. It had a few additions to the standard outfit, too: most notably a dishwasher, sleek and quietly efficient, which he had _not_ authorized. She also had a plush little seat, the kind found at fancy bars, placed randomly by the oven. Odd. She had countless different flavors of tea, plus some PG Tips—thank Christ—all in the usual place. No milk in the fridge, but there was an army of juice cartons in there, plus a ton of stacked-up Tupperware boxes. Those boxes were filled with salad, chicken, tuna, sliced cheese, and more. Like a little pre-chopped buffet.
Someone was looking after her. Or she did all this herself because she was proper anal. Red looked out at her tornado of a living room and decided that the first option seemed more likely. Now, why would someone look after Chloe Brown? Maybe she was a spoiled brat. Maybe she needed the help sometimes. Maybe he should mind his own business and make the fucking tea.
He made it, helped himself to the biscuit tin as payment, enjoyed what appeared to be a homemade gingersnap, and grabbed a couple more. In the living room, he spotted empty packets of fancy chocolate among all the rubble. If he was going to bring Chloe Brown food, which he would never do, he'd bring something sweet. She seemed like a sweet sort of woman.
And he seemed like he'd lost his mind.
He made space for the tea on the table, between rubbish and cats, and perched on the sofa beside a PlayStation controller and a spray of shiny business cards. The cat didn't seem particularly interested in the tea, but Red kept half an eye out even as he studied the cards.
Sublime Design Online
Web design, SEO, social media branding, and more
Chloe's details were on the back.
_Huh_. Fancy that. He needed a website; apparently, she made them. Not that he'd ever hire her. Ideally, he'd prefer a web designer he didn't want to strangle.
"Nosy, nosy, nosy," Chloe said.
He looked up to find her leaning against the doorway, not in a casually charming sort of way, but in a can't-stand-up-straight sort of way. He leaped to his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Absolutely. Are you eating my biscuits?"
He shoved the last one in his mouth and mumbled, "Nah."
"I saw you."
"I see the cat."
"Point taken." Her walk toward him was slow and painful to watch. She moved like someone who'd taken a beating. If he hadn't helped her safely down that tree himself, he'd assume she'd fallen. She was wearing her glasses now, at least, along with an enormous pink dressing gown and a pair of equally enormous bunny-ear slippers. The slippers surprised him until he remembered that Chloe used cuteness to disguise her inner evil. Sort of like Professor Umbridge.
Except he couldn't imagine Professor Umbridge saving a cat from a tree. Never mind. He'd think about that later.
Her eyes seemed a little too bright and unfocused. Her hair was down, floating around her face in fluffy waves that reminded him of thunder clouds. She patted at it self-consciously with hands that . . . shook? For fuck's sake. He barely resisted the urge to pick her up and carry her off to bed. Didn't want her to take it the wrong way. He also didn't want to care about her problems, but he knew himself well enough to realize that he'd care for a great white shark if given half the chance. He helped. Always. He just couldn't help himself.
"You shouldn't barge into people's homes," she said, "if you can't cope with a minor state of undress."
He sat down, realizing that he'd been staring. She seemed embarrassed by the scrutiny. "Sorry. I'm fine. I'm an intrepid home barger. Don't worry about me."
"I wasn't." She collapsed onto the mammoth sofa like a sack of potatoes, surrounding him with a cloud of soft, floral scent. "Give me the tea, would you?"
He gave her the tea. She cradled it like a baby and sipped with obvious relief. He watched her as closely as he could, which was pretty fucking close. And Red noticed things. Like the faint _V_ between her eyebrows, the grimace she couldn't quite fight. The moisture that gleamed on her throat and collarbone, maybe left over from the shower, as if she hadn't dried off fully. The bare curve of her calves, visible beneath the hem of her dressing gown. That last part wasn't relevant to his suspicions, so he didn't know why his mind got stuck on it. Whatever.
Finally, he asked, "Are you going to admit that you're hurt?"
"I am not hurt," she said, "I am in pain." Her voice was bright in a dangerous sort of way, like a knife flashing in the sunlight. Like she was ten seconds and one irritating question away from skewering him.
He used his most patient, judgment-free tone. "Difference being . . . ?"
"I'm always in pain, Mr. Morgan. Especially when I do ridiculous things like climb trees for ungrateful cats."
"Red," he corrected absently, while puzzle pieces slotted together in his mind. "Chronic pain?"
She looked up at him, clearly surprised.
"What? I know things."
Her eye roll could only be described as epic. "How wonderful for you."
That, apparently, was the end of that. She didn't seem inclined to explain further, and if she wasn't hiding some urgent injury, the whole thing was none of his business. He told himself that very firmly: _None of my business. None of my business. None of my fucking business._ She'd have people to call when she needed them, the way his mum called him when she fucked up her insulin. There was no reason for him to hang around any longer.
But he should finish his tea, shouldn't he? It wouldn't be polite to leave it.
He sat and stared out of the window, sipping his almost-cold brew. Beside him, Chloe did the same. He could see his own window through hers, across the narrow courtyard. Could see his abandoned easel and even a few naked canvases piled around the room. Prime spying position, this was.
He gulped down the last of his tea and looked over to find that her eyes were closed, her face slack.
"You want me to bugger off so you can sleep?"
"I'm not tired," she said instantly. "I'm just resting my eyes."
Since that was clearly bullshit, he should leave. Yet he found himself hanging around and blurting out pointless crap like "So you're a web designer."
"Yes," she murmured.
She was so quiet, her usual snap-crackle-flame extinguished, that he found himself wanting to bring it back any way he could. Even if that meant pissing her off. "Wouldn't have thought you'd bother with a job. What with your family being loaded and all."
It worked, kind of. She cracked open one eye like a sunbathing lizard and managed to look haughty while doing it. "You don't know my family is wealthy."
He snorted. "You gonna tell me they're not?"
She closed the eye.
"So why do you work?" he asked, not because he was genuinely curious, but because he wanted to keep her lively. That was all.
She sighed. "Perhaps the monthly amount I receive from the trust is not enough to keep me in sea-salt chocolate and tea. Or maybe I am addicted to ordering antique Beanie Babies for thousands from eBay. It is possible that all my clothes have tiny diamonds sewn into the seams."
He couldn't help himself. He laughed. "You're so fucking . . ." So fucking unexpected. Like maybe she wasn't the vicious snob he'd once assumed. Like maybe she was just an awkward, sarcastic grump, and he should stop losing his temper around her.
Christ, he didn't even _have_ a temper unless he was around her. And he'd learned the hard way that letting a woman fuck with his contentment was a stepping stone on the way to bad shit.
Maybe that was why he found himself saying, "Just so happens that I need a website."
"Really?" Her tone was dry as sandpaper, but somehow, he could tell that she was interested.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
"You're probably one of the posher designers, right? Bet you charge out the arsehole."
"Indeed I do." She opened her eyes, and something zipped up his spine when their gazes met. It was hot and cold all at once, unexpected and unexplainable. He was still trying to figure it out when she added, "Since you're being so decent about the cat, I might give you a discount."
Red arched an eyebrow. "What cat?"
The tilt of her lips was so tiny, it could barely be called a smile. If he _did_ decide to call it a smile, well—it would be the first time she'd ever smiled at him. Not that he'd been keeping track.
"This is only until we find the owners, mind," he added quickly.
Her not-smile widened like a waxing moon. "It has no collar."
"Don't look like a stray to me, though. It'll be chipped."
"I'll find out," she said.
"Good. And keep it inside, yeah?"
"I'll see if one of my sisters has time for an emergency kitty litter run."
Red sighed, resigned to the pitfalls of his own nature. "I'll do it."
She gave him one of her usual looks, all irritated and snooty. He was trying not to bristle when she followed up with actual words, words he really hadn't expected. "You're so _lovely,_ " she scowled. "I don't think I can stand it."
He blinked, an unsettling warmth creeping up the back of his neck. Which meant—bugger this skin of his—that he must be flushing like a teenager. He looked away and shoved his fingers through his hair. His voice was gruff when he said, "It's nothing."
There was a pause before she laughed, the sound low and disbelieving. "Oh, my goodness. You _blush_."
"Nope." He knew full well his face was bright red, but he lied anyway.
"You _do_. This is hilarious. I should compliment you more often."
"Please," he said wryly, "don't." Clearly, he couldn't take it.
"Fine. I promise to be consistently awful." She smiled, _really_ smiled. It was bright and lopsided and absolutely stunning. It only lasted for a second, but he saw the impression of it behind his eyelids the way he might see a firework that had gone out. Then she frowned and raised her fingers to her lips, as if she was confused by her own moment of happiness. Which, aside from anything else, was pretty fucking depressing. She looked at him, her eyes narrow and considering, like he was some kind of lab rat. "Alive," she murmured under her breath. "Hm."
His eyebrows rose. "Pardon?"
She cocked her head. "I think . . . I do believe I have a proposition for you."
There was nothing seductive in her tone, but the words sent a twisted kick of _something_ through his chest. He'd watched too many rubbish spy films where propositions always ended in blow jobs. "What's up?"
"It's rather a long story." She bit her lip. "Actually, never mind the story; you don't need to hear it. The short version is that I need to ride a motorbike."
He'd have been less surprised if she'd gone with the blow job thing. Chloe Brown. Motorbike. Didn't really compute. He wracked his brain for a passable response and finally came up with "Okay?"
She nodded. "And you, obviously, _have_ a motorbike."
". . . Yeah, I do."
"Would you like a free consultation? For your website?"
". . . I might."
"Then it's settled." She closed her eyes again. "I'll give you one, and you'll take me for a ride. Do you mind if we handle the details another time? As it turns out, I _am_ rather tired."
He opened his mouth to say something like "Now wait a fucking minute," but all that came out was "Uh."
"I'll be in touch."
That's what she said. _I'll be in touch._ Like she'd just interviewed him for the position of motorbike chauffeur and would let him know how he'd done in due time. Christ, she was so far up her own arse, it was a miracle she could see the sun.
"Good-bye," she added.
He was stuck between telling her to piss off, remembering that she was a tenant, and wanting to die of laughter.
Then she cracked open one eyelid and said suspiciously, "You're not one of _those_ men, are you? Because you'd be surprised by how loud I can scream. Years of vocal training."
Red stood. "Nope. No. Don't worry. Going."
"Thank you," she murmured.
He went.
Ten minutes later, he was in his own living-room-slash-studio, watching Chloe "rest her eyes" through the window. She looked pretty fucking asleep to him, but that was none of his business. He just wanted to check that the cat hadn't curled up on her face and suffocated her or something. Cats couldn't be trusted, as Vikram was telling him through the phone.
"Nasty little buggers. They piss behind sofas, you know."
Red ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the window. "If you say so. Look, it's just until we find the owners. Woman from 1D grabbed the thing out of a tree, so she's not about to chuck it over to the RSPCA."
"Hm, 1D," Vik mused. Red shouldn't have mentioned specifics. Vik was too clever for his own good and had a fantastic memory. "Ain't that the one you're always moaning about?"
Red glared at thin air. " _Always?_ "
"Always."
"Nope."
"Alisha!" Vik bellowed. "Red's on about the rich bird from 1D again."
In the distance, he heard Vik's wife holler back, "Oh, he isn't. Tell him to bloody shut up about her."
"See?"
"Fuck off."
Vik sighed dramatically. "There's no shame in having a type, mate. The posh ones never did it for me, but—"
"Vik."
"—your tastes leave a lot to be desired."
" _Vik_."
"One month, and the cat's got to go," Vikram said, smoothly changing the subject. _Thank Christ._ "And don't let it out of the flat. If anyone sees it, there'll be hell on earth."
"That's what I told her. I'm dropping some litter off in a bit."
"Oh yeah? She can't get it herself?"
Well, no, she probably couldn't. "I'm the superintendent."
"Right," Vik snorted. "That's exactly why."
"Yep."
"Not like you're soft on her."
_Not bloody likely._ "You know me. I'm soft on everyone."
"True enough, mate. True enough."
Red put the phone down. He spent the rest of the day avoiding his window.
# Chapter Five
Chloe's youngest sister played five different instruments, but her greatest asset was her voice. Eve Brown had, as Gigi would say with great significance, _lungs_. So when she burst into Chloe's flat belting out "Defying Gravity" like Idina Menzel on Broadway, the cat reacted as if an earthquake had hit.
Chloe watched her placid companion fly into a state of major feline alarm. She'd learned since rescuing it a couple of days ago that this particular cat was not like most others; it lacked all grace and spatial awareness, as evidenced by its current path of evacuation. Streaking off in the direction of the bedroom, it managed to hit the sofa, the base of a standing lamp, and the door frame before making good its escape. Chloe had decided that this nervous clumsiness marked the two of them as a fated pair. She had also, in moments of exhaustion or panic, been known to bump into a door several times on her way through.
Eve bounded into the now cat-less living room and trilled, "We come bearing snacks!" Then, seeing Chloe's wince, she removed one of her ever-present AirPods and stage-whispered, "Oh, sorry. Do you have a headache?"
"No."
"She's lying," Dani said, appearing in the doorway with far too many shopping bags. She wore a fluffy gray hat to protect her shaved head from the cold. "I always know when you're lying, Chlo. I've no idea why you bother. Tea?"
Chloe rolled her eyes and snuggled deep into the nest she'd made on the sofa. "Is it tea? Or is it one of your bush concoctions?"
Dani waggled her eyebrows menacingly and raised the shopping bags. "Don't worry, darling. Evie baked devil's food cake to make the medicine go down."
Ten minutes later Chloe was indeed armed with a steaming mug of mysterious, spicy liquid and a fat slice of gooey chocolate cake. She shoved the latter into her mouth with shameless enthusiasm and let her eyes roll back, headache be damned. "This is divine."
"I made it just for you," Eve said, and patted Chloe's knee like a concerned mother. It had been three days since the Grand Climb, and Chloe had been on the sofa throughout because her body was throwing a tantrum. Her sisters, being painfully nosy, had finally caught wind, and had therefore descended upon her to treat her like a baby. It was mildly irritating and simultaneously endearing, because it involved both pats and heavenly chocolate cake.
"Thank you. You're a very good baker."
"I'll put that in the window of my cake shop one day," Eve said brightly. " _I am a good baker. My sister says so._ "
Chloe raised her brows. "Cake shop?"
"That's the latest plan," Dani called from the hallway. "But don't ask her about it, or she'll start whining about the tyranny of skeptical parents who refuse their daughters business loans, and you know I can't stand her spoiled-brat routine." Ignoring their youngest sister's outraged gasp, Dani marched back into the room with a hissing cat in her grip. "Now," she said, holding up the squirming bundle of fur. "Is this the creature you rescued?"
"No," Chloe murmured. "That's one of the countless other cats I acquired two days ago."
"Shut up." Dani squinted into a pair of narrowed, feline eyes, her expression stern, her jaw set. She had a habit of grinding her teeth when she was concentrating especially hard. Finally, she ended the interspecies staring contest and announced, "I judge this cat to be . . . a boy."
"Excellent," Chloe said, quite satisfied. "We'll name him Smudge."
"Oh, Chloe," Evie tutted. "You ought to name him Cat, like Holly Golightly."
The nerve of little sisters. Bossy boots, the lot of them. With a withering glare, Chloe said, "Don't tell me how to raise my children. His name is Smudge. The end."
"Wonderful." Dani set Smudge down and he ran off in a blur of smoke. After a minor collision with a table leg, he was gone. Dani snorted and slipped into their old Nana's patois. "Him 'fraid like puss."
"Of everything," Chloe admitted. "I think that's why he was stuck in the tree, actually: he could've gotten down, but he was too scared."
The air in the room changed, excited grins blooming like flowers, all eyes turning to Chloe. "Ohhh, yes," Eve sang, leaning back against the cushions. "The _tree_. That you _climbed_. Like a _badass_! Care to share?"
Ah. Chloe smiled coyly. "It was rather impressive," she murmured, feigning modesty.
"Do tell," Dani drawled from her position sprawled out on the floor. Honestly, the woman was allergic to chairs. She was also good at ferreting out lies. But would she notice a minor (read: huge and ginger) omission? Hopefully not, because Chloe had no intention of bringing up Red's role in the palaver.
"I saw the cat, I got the cat. It was all very athletic. I climbed that tree like . . . like Lara Croft!"
"With sweaty cleavage and frequent, strangely sexual grunts?" Dani mused.
"With effortless expertise," Chloe corrected. Inaccurately.
"I'm sure you were quite Byronic," Eve said.
There was a short pause before Chloe deciphered that one. "Darling, do you mean _heroic_?"
"No."
Dani rolled her eyes. "Regardless, I'm glad you did it. Climbed the tree, I mean. Sorry that it triggered a spell, but also glad."
"Are you really, Dani?" Chloe narrowed her eyes, all suspicion. "Because it was part of my plan to be fabulously reckless and extremely exciting, and a little birdie tells me that you have a personal investment in my failure."
"Oh, don't be like that, darling. It's only fifty pounds; of course I'd rather lose. And anyway, I don't remember 'cat rescuing' or 'tree climbing' being on the list. Am I wrong?"
"No," Chloe admitted. "This was an extracurricular activity."
"Well, then. My fifty pounds is safe. But what will you do about the cat, long-term? Pets aren't allowed here, are they?"
"I've made a temporary arrangement with the superintendent," Chloe said, then mentally kicked herself.
Her sisters, predictably, collapsed in a chorus of lustful shrieks and sighs. " _Red,_ " Eve said with such feeling you'd think she and the superintendent were Romeo and Juliet made flesh.
" _Redford Morgan,_ " Dani purred, vixenish in a way Chloe had never mastered. Danika Brown was a left-wing academic and amateur spiritualist who shaved her head because "hair is just _so_ much effort," but beneath it all, she took after Gigi. If Dani had been the one rescued from a tree by a handsome man, or woman, for that matter . . . well, she'd have secured said rescuer's affections by the time they hit the ground.
"How _did_ you broker this deal?" Eve asked innocently, fluttering her lashes.
"She offered her body of course," Dani grinned.
"Oh, be quiet, the both of you. I'm not so desperate as that."
"Because sleeping with that man would be such torture," Eve snorted. "He is sex on a stick, Chlo. And he's so _sweet_."
"Sweet?! Clearly, you barely know him."
"Which is why I'm not yet pregnant with his babies. What's your excuse?"
"Her excuse," Dani said, "is that he's so hot, he short-circuits her little robot brain."
"My robot brain is huge, thank you very much," Chloe sniffed. "And he does not _short-circuit_ anything."
Dani gave a slow smile, an action that had been known to cause proposals, jealous fist fights, and in one notable case, a minor car accident. "Wonderful," she purred. "In that case, I expect you to sleep with him as soon as possible. Isn't sex on your list?"
Chloe narrowly avoided choking to death on her own astonishment.
"It _is,_ " Eve piped up. "Oh, go on, Chlo. Shag him. Tell us all about it."
Good gracious, sisters were a nightmare. "Men," Chloe said firmly, "are not for me." _Especially not_ that _man. I wouldn't know what to do with him._ But her mind proposed several heroic suggestions, and her mouth went dry.
Dani cocked her head. "Finally decided to try women? Wonderful."
"I am trying no one, thank you very much." Clearly, her subconscious needed the reminder as much as her sisters did.
"Why not?" Eve demanded, her romantic nature clearly offended.
"You know why not."
"Clearly, I don't."
_Sigh_. "It's too much work. I can't be bothered."
Two sets of dark, unimpressed eyes speared her.
She doubled down. "It's very awkward, dating while disabled. People can be quite awful. And you know I don't have much energy to spare for social nonsense."
" _Social nonsense,_ " Eve snorted. "I swear, Chloe, you are so full of it."
Eve clearly didn't realize that "social nonsense" was Chloe's succinct way of phrasing "the constant disappointment that is human nature." She'd learned the hard way that people were always looking for a reason to leave, that affection or adoration or promises of devotion turned to dust when things got tough. Losing Henry had shown her that. Waking up one day to realize that her friends, bored with lists and rain checks and careful coping mechanisms, had left her behind . . . that had been unnecessary emphasis on a painful lesson. Chloe's family was abnormal in their loyalty, and she loved them for it, but they didn't seem to understand that others couldn't be trusted. Better to be alone than to be abandoned.
She refused to let that happen again.
But if she explained those facts, her sisters would insist she'd simply had a bad experience, then start insulting everyone who'd ever left her. And then Chloe would be forced to remember all the things she'd lost, and to wonder, for the thousandth time, what it was about her that made her so easy to leave.
It was time to change the subject, and also her pajamas.
Pushing off her blankets and rising to her feet caused a moment of dizziness, but she'd been ready for that. She waited. The encroaching blackness faded. "There," she smiled, pleased with herself. "Right as rain."
Dani looked up in alarm. "Where are you going?"
"I'm just popping into the shower. Won't be long." That was an unrepentant lie. She would indeed be long, and everyone present knew it.
"Would you like some help?" Eve asked.
"I'm not that bad." Chloe rolled her eyes and left her sisters in the living room. As she peeled off her worn-in pajamas and settled into the bathroom's plastic shower seat, she thanked God for the disability aids all ground-floor flats came with. After grabbing her shampoo and conditioner, she switched on the water and tipped her head back under the spray.
It had been a frustrating few days. She'd fallen into an infuriating cycle when she'd climbed that tree. Physical overload led to pain and a complete dearth of spoons, also known as mind-numbing exhaustion; which led to extra meds and insomnia; which led to sleeping pills and too much brain fog; which led to, in a word, misery.
When she found herself trapped in that cycle, Chloe was supposed to do certain things. Things like socializing with all her nonexistent friends, despite her inability to brush her teeth and change out of her pajamas. Things like forcing her battered body into excruciating Pilates positions, because it was _sooo_ good for the muscles. Things like meditation, presumably so that she could think more deeply about how much she resented her own nerve endings. These, obviously, were the suggestions of specialist consultants who were rather clever but had never lived inside a body in constant crisis.
What Chloe actually did to cope was take her medication religiously, write fanciful lists, play _The Sims,_ and live through it. Sometimes it was hard, but she managed by whatever means necessary.
Right now, her aches and pains had faded to a low background hum and her mind felt clearer than it had in ages. She scrubbed the three days' fever sweat from her scalp, smiling as she fingered the cute little kinks growing out at her roots. It was almost time for another chemical relaxer; she didn't have the endurance to care for her natural texture, pretty as it was. After conditioning, she lathered herself with entirely too much scented soap, standing long enough to rinse all the necessary bits. She watched the water send white suds sliding over her skin, like clouds moving over the earth. When she was sick and tired of being sick and tired, she clung to moments like this: the first shower after a flare-up.
Bliss should be held on to with both hands.
Some time later, Chloe was clean and dry and neatly outfitted in a tea dress and matching jumper—though her jumpers were all designed to look like cardigans. She liked the little buttons, but her fingers couldn't always handle slipping them in and out of holes. Her glasses were freshly polished and her hair was in a sleek bun. She'd taken her anti-inflammatories, her weakest painkillers, and the pills that protected her stomach lining from the damage caused by her other pills.
Then she'd returned to the living room, largely ignored her bickering sisters, and written several lists: people to email, jobs to catch up on, mood and diet diaries to fill in. Last of all, she'd put a note in her journal, under the weekly to-do section. It was a single word.
_Red._
She hadn't been sure what else to put. What did one write about a man with hair like a fall of fire and silver rings on his fingers, a man who smiled at everyone and didn't feel awkward about it, a man who was the exact opposite of boring Chloe Brown?
Apparently, just his name.
She drifted back to reality to find her sisters arguing about Lady Gaga, because of course they were.
"It was a stepping stone. Everyone stumbles during a period of growth."
"It was ruinous, Evie. I mean!" Dani threw up her hands. "After the majesty of _Born This Way_ —"
"You only like _Born This Way_ because it's all dark and evil and rah-rah-rah."
"Don't be ridiculous. I like it because it's unapologetically sexual and ironically German."
"You're ridiculous."
"Says the woman who prefers 'Paper Gangsta' to 'Judas.'"
"Oh, please," Eve scoffed, clearly disgusted. "That track is the biggest waste of vocal talent ever created."
Dani arched an eyebrow. "Darling. You act as though you've never heard a Miley Cyrus song."
Eve's scowl wavered, then disappeared. She giggled. Dani laughed.
Chloe rolled her eyes. "If you two are quite finished . . ."
Truthfully, they shouldn't be here at all. Dani had a never-ending list of Ph.D. things to accomplish, and Eve was always embroiled in some favor or other for one of her many friends. But they'd come anyway, because they were her parents' agents in the secret war to Monitor Poor Chloe's Health—and because they wanted to make sure that she didn't pass out in the shower and crack her head open. Chloe wanted to make sure of that, too, so their presence was always appreciated on days like these. But they had other places to be, lives to live, et cetera.
And Chloe had an item to check off her Get a Life list. All she had to do was get the ball rolling.
So she shooed her sisters out of the flat, kissing cheeks and arranging a film night, vowing to visit Gigi soon—Eve would pass on the message—and showering them in sarcastic remarks because she'd rather die than actually say _Thank you_. She hadn't always been like this, a tongue with the tip bitten off, her feelings squashed into a box. But help and concern, even from the people she loved—even when she needed it—had a way of grating. Of building up, or rather, grinding down. Truthfully, guiltily, sometimes simple gratitude tasted like barely sweetened resentment in her mouth. So she didn't express it at all.
When they were gone, she felt deflated and unusually alone, even though Smudge had reappeared from his hiding place. She stood in her empty living room, which was now tidier, thanks to Dani, and stared at the window across the courtyard.
She'd googled Redford, of course. She'd even used her proper computer, the dual-monitor desktop in her bedroom, despite the fact that her touchscreen laptop and a small mountain of pillows were far more comfortable. She'd simply needed as much visual detail as possible. It had been a purely professional exercise: she'd wanted to find out if he already had an online presence, and if she was right in assuming that the website he needed had something to do with his art. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, exactly—but what she'd found were images of his work, images beautiful enough to take her breath away, shared on multiple sites and social media accounts by fans who asked each other where Redford Morgan had gone.
_He's busy charming tenants in a block of flats in South Nottinghamshire. And yes, to answer your countless questions, he is indeed still creating._
She'd also found tabloid photographs, ones that surprised her far more than his talent and popularity. They'd shown big, rough Redford Morgan exiting glittering events on the arm of some society blonde with huge teeth. The woman was pretty and well-dressed, with glossy hair and designer shoes. She looked at Red the way a wolf eyed a sheep.
That was when Chloe had stopped googling. Something about that look sent a shiver creeping down her spine. Something about _witnessing_ that look felt like . . . snooping. Which she had vowed to stop doing. For that very reason, she'd decided to forget all about her research, to act as though she knew nothing of Red's life. She would be the picture of ignorance, and therefore innocence, at their website consultation.
She hoped.
# Chapter Six
When Red was six or seven, he'd had a babysitter named Mandy. Mandy was only about thirteen herself, but she'd watched him in the evenings for a tenner a week, which in those days was enough money to keep her rolling in snacks and the occasional sneaky cigarette. She was a proper bookworm, but she'd wanted to do a good job watching him and all. She'd compromised by shoving him into bed early and reading aloud from her book of the moment for an hour or two. He blamed Mandy, to this day, for the strange quality of his dreams.
Thanks to her copies of _Alice in Wonderland_ and _Peter Pan,_ Red's nights were always a bit too vivid. He had Technicolor dreams, through-the-looking-glass dreams, down-the-rabbit-hole dreams. Dreams where shooting stars streaked fuchsia across bruised, sunset skies, and people didn't move so much as swirl into existence toward him, and music lived under his skin. It wasn't exactly normal, but it was what he'd grown used to. Which was why last night's dream had disturbed him so much.
Last night's dream had been different.
Dark, for one thing, pitch black, as if the lights were off inside his mind. Hot, hot like a midsummer evening, the air sultry and rich. And he'd been with a woman. Touched her, kissed her, woken up with his own come painting his belly and her name on his lips.
_Chloe_.
Suffice it to say, he wasn't too happy about the implications. His wet dreams were few and far between because he was a grown man, and when they did happen, they involved cheerful, faceless women who didn't mind getting come on their tits. Maybe Chloe wouldn't mind getting come on her tits, either—Dream Chloe certainly hadn't—but she definitely wasn't cheerful or faceless. She also wasn't orgasm safe.
He couldn't stop reliving that dream, though. That fantastic fucking dream.
After a morning of mucking up basic maintenance, and an afternoon of struggling to bleed 3B's radiator—which was impressive, since it should be categorically impossible to fail at bleeding a radiator—he'd given up and gone home. He was now sitting in his bedroom like a lemon, as if returning to the scene of the crime would render him able to focus again. Un-bloody-likely, but Christ, something had to give.
Red fell back against the pillows and sighed. He was beginning to think he had some kind of fetish for unsuitable women. First there'd been Pippa, and now this disturbing interest in Chloe. It wasn't _attraction,_ exactly, couldn't be, because Red had only ever been attracted to women he actually liked. No, this was something else. Something that whispered to him even now, heating his skin with memories of last night, swallowing up his good intentions and making his cock swell against his thigh. He took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers against the sheets. He resisted sudden, twisted temptation for as long as he could.
Which turned out to be about five seconds. Then he cracked like a perverted egg.
He was still wearing his uniform overalls, so it took one hand to pop open the buttons, reach past the waistband of his shorts, and palm his cock. When his mind helpfully produced the three-day-old memory of Chloe's bare calves and gleaming collarbone, he was caught between self-disgust and relief. On the one hand, it was incredibly weird that those glimpses were enough to get him going. On the other, it was also pretty convenient, since he would never actually see her naked body.
He could imagine it, though. And he did. Inside his mind, Chloe Brown was in his bed because she belonged there. He had no idea _why_ she belonged, and Dream Chloe was in no state to explain it to him, but she definitely did. He could feel her soft skin against his, her breath in his ear, her nails digging into his biceps. A phantom scent haunted him, salty like the ocean air on a seaside holiday—or like the sweat between the bodies of two people chasing sensation.
He squeezed the base of his shaft and felt an electric pulse of pleasure. His other hand moved to cup his heavy sac, full and firm and tight against his palm. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried by the realization that this wouldn't take long. A minute, at most. He stroked himself hard, twisting his fist as he reached the swollen head, smoothing slick pre-come over sensitive skin with his thumb.
Sinking into her was tempting, but he moved down her naked body instead. Eyes shut against the truth of his own weakness, he breathed her in, bathed in her heat. Lowered his head. Swept his tongue over her, parting plump labia to tease her clit and taste the wet, scorching center of her cunt. In the real world, he shuddered, as if his body was overwhelmed. His next breath sounded more like a gasp. He stroked himself faster and thought about how she'd react, how her thighs would tighten around him and her hips would arch up toward him and that dangerous voice of hers would crack on his name—
Someone knocked at his front door.
Red shot out of bed and stared down at himself. His overalls gaped open in a helpful little window of perversion, displaying his jutting cock—also known as the undeniable evidence of what he'd almost done. But, he told himself feverishly, last night didn't count since it had been a dream, and this didn't count because he hadn't actually come. _It didn't count._ Everything was fine. He cleared his throat, shoved his traitorous dick out of sight, and headed for the bathroom. On his way, he called in the direction of the door, "Just a sec."
The last voice he'd wanted to hear replied, "Please, don't hurry on my account." A crisp, deadpan tone that he now knew signified a joke.
Red froze, asked God what he'd ever done to deserve this, then remembered his activities of approximately sixty seconds ago and realized the answer. Hoping he was wrong, knowing he wasn't, he choked out, "Chloe?"
"Very astute, Mr. Morgan."
_Shit_.
"Just . . . hold on," he ordered, jerking back to life. He rushed to the bathroom, his heart pounding. Hands were washed, uncomfortably warm cheeks were cooled with tap water and his overalls were buttoned up. Completely. To the very top. He had the strangest idea that his virtue wasn't safe around her, which was the single weirdest thought he'd ever had. He pulled himself together—eventually—and went back to answer the door. And when he saw her, he understood why he hadn't been able to get her off his mind.
His dreams couldn't truly re-create her. Something about her was too striking to remember accurately, as if his brain didn't have the right tools. She watched him with those endless eyes, folding her arms under her breasts—but he wouldn't look at those—and arching her eyebrows. One, as always, winged higher than the other. Just like one corner of her lush mouth tilted a little higher, making her look as if she was smirking.
Actually, she _was_ smirking. She cocked her head and asked, "What on earth has happened to you?"
Red looked down sharply, searching for whatever had given him away. The baggy cut of his clothes hid the fact that his cock was, for some reason, still hard. He stared at his own hands and found them unusually paint-free and, more important, come-free. Because he hadn't actually come. Which was key information. He met her gaze and said, as calmly as he could manage, "What do you mean?"
She studied him suspiciously. "You're all flushed. Your hair is a mess. And . . ." She leaned forward, squinting at his chest. "I think you've done your buttons incorrectly."
Oh, for fuck's sake. She knew. Somehow—perhaps because she was a witch who haunted his dreams—she _knew_. And now she'd hold it over his head, use it as a weapon, because that's what people like her did. He knew it. He'd learned it well. He—
"Redford Morgan," she said severely, "have you been sleeping on the job?"
He was so relieved, he almost passed the fuck out. He clutched the door frame and released a heavy breath, his hair hanging around his face as his head fell forward. Then he remembered that he was trying to seem normal, unsuspicious, and not at all like a man who wanked over women— _tenants_ —he barely knew. He straightened and cleared his throat in what could only be described as the guiltiest move of all time. Chloe was eyeing him with obvious confusion.
"I was," he lied. "I was taking a nap."
"Hmm. I expect you're one of those people who doesn't respect the power of ten hours a night."
"I thought it was eight?"
"Rubbish. It's definitely ten."
The glint in her eye said she was prepared to argue. He decided not to push it and searched for another subject. His gaze landed on the sturdy black case hanging from her shoulder. "Got something for me?"
"In a way. It's my laptop. I thought I'd call round and see if you were free for the consultation." She stepped forward. There was so much authority in that single step that he automatically stepped back. All of a sudden, she was in his flat. How the fuck had that happened? And how the hell was he going to get her out again?
He opened his mouth to say, _Please go away,_ then remembered that he wasn't a rude prick and closed it. Fact was, he couldn't stand men who treated women differently because they were desirable. And really, the dream wasn't that big a deal. He just needed a good shag, and she was undeniably gorgeous, and his subconscious had slammed both facts together. That was all.
Red shut the door and said, "Yeah. Now's good."
"Wonderful." Her smile was small and impossibly sunny. Her skirt swirled around her legs as she turned to face him. It was a floofy sort of vintage skirt, white with bright red poppies creeping up from the bottom. He liked it. But then, he liked all the prissy shit she wore. Despite himself, he let his gaze drift to her legs. He could see her calves again today, and her ankles, circled by the leather straps of her shiny shoes. He drank in every detail like some sexually deprived Victorian bloke.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Fine."
From behind the turquoise frames of her glasses, her gaze narrowed. "You really don't seem like yourself."
"You don't know me."
There was a pause before she admitted, "True." Her shoulders were still thrown back and her nose was still firmly in the air, but for a moment she seemed . . . vulnerable. Like he'd upset her.
His first instinct was to apologize. Then he remembered that he'd told the truth, that he didn't like her, and that she'd definitely spied on him. He shouldn't care about her feelings. He was determined not to care about her feelings.
She followed him to the living room until, halfway down the hall, he remembered that he didn't actually _have_ a living room, since he'd turned it into a studio. He recalled the little chair in her kitchen, and how plush and cushioned it had been, with a proper back to it. He stopped. Scowled at nothing in particular, or maybe at himself, and said, "I don't suppose you'd be too comfortable on a shitty wooden stool, would you?"
She gave the fastest, tiniest wince, but he saw it, somehow. _Note to self: stop looking at Chloe so hard._
"Not comfortable, no," she said awkwardly. Judging by the way she avoided his gaze, she didn't quite know how to say, _I absolutely cannot sit on a shitty wooden stool._ He'd chalk that up to shyness, but he knew she wasn't shy. So why wasn't she making unselfconscious demands, like she had three days ago?
_Maybe she's uncomfortable because you're being a broody twat._
Oh, yeah. Maybe. A slight glower had sneaked onto his face while he wasn't looking. The air in the hall vibrated with tension that was all his. Guilt dragged at him. He, in turn, dragged a hand through his hair. "Listen . . . Sorry if I'm being a bit of a prick. I'm, er . . . still tired."
She gave a tight smile and a shrug. "It's all right if you've changed your mind, you know."
He said, very intelligently, "What?"
"About our deal. A consultation for a ride?"
_Not that kind of ride,_ he told his cock firmly.
"I'm aware that I browbeat you into it," she went on. "I have a tendency to do that."
He'd never have guessed.
"But if you're having second thoughts, please feel free to say so. Don't worry about my feelings. I have very few."
He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was taking the piss with that last part. When Chloe joked, she sounded slightly more serious than when she was _actually_ serious. Still, he couldn't stop himself from protesting. "I'm sure you have more than a few."
She shrugged again.
"I haven't changed my mind," he told her.
She smiled a little bit, and his heart stammered. She looked so quietly, secretly pleased, so impossibly sweet, and he just—he couldn't—oh, for fuck's sake.
"All right then," she said, tentative warmth in her voice.
Oh, for fuck's _sake_. Even if she was rude and she made him feel like a monster of a man, he could not be a dick to Chloe Brown, not anymore. He accepted that fact and reassured himself that this wouldn't be like the last time. He wouldn't trip and stumble into the life-ruining black hole of making excuses for a seemingly perfect woman. He couldn't. For one thing, he didn't think Chloe was perfect at all. For another, they weren't in a relationship and never would be. So there. He was safe.
They stood for a moment, staring at each other like a pair of tits. He cleared his throat and said, "Change of plans. Do you mind sitting in my room?"
Her lips didn't smile but her eyes sparkled like diamonds. "I don't know. You're not going to ravish me, are you?"
He almost choked on his own tongue.
"Good Lord," she laughed, while he caught his breath and his wits. "Don't look so horrified!"
"I'm not—I mean— _horrified_ is a strong word."
She shook her head. "Really. I was only joking, Redford."
"Red," he corrected, because he had nothing else to say.
"I was only joking, Red."
He cleared his throat. "Just to, ah, just to be clear, you're not . . . horrifying."
"Of course I'm not," she said. "I'm extremely attractive. Now, shall we go and sit down?"
He bit back a smile and took her to his bedroom. Then he wondered what the fuck he'd been thinking. Did blue balls lower intelligence? Maybe. It was the only reasonable explanation for him setting Chloe loose in his room, also known as the scene of his almost orgasm. He couldn't look at her. He also couldn't look at the bed, but he knew the blankets were rumpled where he'd lain, and . . .
Well. He'd rather not think about it, to be honest.
"This isn't very artistic," she said wryly, her eyes everywhere. She stared for a long time at the art history books stacked on his dresser. He found himself wanting to check that he'd closed his underwear drawer.
"What were you expecting? Finger paintings on the walls?"
"Is that your area of expertise? Finger painting?" She looked down at his hands. His palms tingled with the false memory of touching her.
He curled his hands into fists and shook his head. "Figurative. Acrylic. I—never mind. I'll have to show you, won't I? For the website?"
"Yes," she said faintly. "For the website."
Red grabbed the armchair he kept in the corner of the room and shoved it closer to the bed. Chloe sank gracefully into its tattered, tartan depths. She crossed her legs, which probably made her skirt ride up a little bit, but Red wouldn't know, because he absolutely was not looking. He had firmly instructed his eyes to focus only on her ears (which, while cute, weren't especially arousing) or her nose (ditto) or the wall behind her. So far, things were going okay-ish.
Once she was settled, he went and grabbed a piece to show her, something he'd finished just last week. After all, there was no use in showing her what he _used_ to do, how it had all been lucid and bright and hopeful. He wasn't the same anymore, and that was that.
But when Red returned with the canvas, he found himself hesitating before his bedroom door. Something uncomfortable tightened in his stomach, making the back of his neck prickle. Nerves. He was absolutely shitting it, which was how he'd felt the last few hundred times he'd tried to show someone his art. Ever since it had changed, that is. Ever since he'd fucked almost everything up, and the bits of his life that he hadn't messed with had been fucked on his behalf. But this, he decided, was the perfect way to get over his weird performance anxiety, because he didn't actually care about Chloe's opinion.
The thought clanged in his head like a lie, but he stepped into the room before he could figure out what that meant.
"Here," he said gruffly, handing her the canvas and perching on the edge of his mattress. She was silent as she accepted the piece, studying it for long moments while he looked anywhere but her.
Then the quiet stretched so far that his attempt to remain cool wore thin, wavered, snapped. He gave in and looked, needing to see her reaction, even though he absolutely did not care.
The awed expression on her face gave Red the shock of his fucking life. Really. It was a near-violent jolt of power to his system, one that left his blood pumping harder and his vision clearer, sharper. A slow smile of surprise tugged at his lips. Surprise, and dizzying, hard-exhale relief.
Chloe was . . . delighted. That was the only word for it. She stared at the eerie, blood-toned landscape with its impossible hues and fantastical proportions as if she knew exactly how he'd felt when he painted it. As if every emotion he'd poured onto the canvas had remained like a little slice of leftover soul, and now that slice was slapping her in the face. Energy. Exuberance. Mystery. Strength. Giddy satisfaction with your own bad behavior. That was what Red had shoved into his paint on the night he'd created this piece, _Neverland,_ and that was what he saw reflected in her eyes.
Finally, she cleared her throat, seemed to school her expression, and said, "You're very talented. Not that I know what I'm talking about."
Her words were measured and polite, but it was too late. He'd seen. He'd seen, and it had touched something deep and wild in him that was probably best left undisturbed. Something that made him feel more firmly settled in his own skin. He wanted to touch her, just to see if things felt different now. Now that he knew she saw something the same way he did.
But if he went around grabbing her for reasons he could barely explain, she'd probably whack him over the head, and she'd be well within her rights. So he curled his suddenly curious hands into harmless fists and told himself that the air didn't taste like reassurance or renaissance or redemption. He'd always been dramatic when it came to things like this. He was a puppy and someone loving his art was a killer scratch behind the ears. That was really it.
She handed him the canvas and he tossed it onto the bed and returned to his earlier tactic of looking anywhere but her face. It didn't help. He'd almost managed to forget that he wanted her, but the raw emotion he'd just seen had brought the need right back. He knew he was supposed to say something, but his scattered brain couldn't quite remember what.
Oh. Yeah. She'd complimented his work. So this was the part where he said . . .
"Thanks." He tried not to wince at his own voice. Too low, too rough, too obviously affected.
She pursed her lips and looked down at her knees, her dark lashes fluttering behind her glasses. She wasn't cursed with translucent skin like his, but he could've sworn she was blushing. Probably because he'd been so obviously grateful for the slightest compliment.
Feeling the need to explain, he said, "I haven't shown anyone my new stuff in a while."
"I know," she said, then looked up with wide eyes and clapped a hand over her mouth.
He arched an eyebrow, smiled at the _Oh, shit_ expression on her face. "You know, huh?"
"For goodness' sake," she murmured.
"What's that?"
"Forget I said anything."
"No, thanks." He leaned forward. "Explain that, please."
She looked tortured as fuck. It was great. "I—well—I had some time free over the past few days, and so, in the name of preliminary research and everything, I, erm, googled you."
Ah. Why was he not surprised? "You know," he drawled, "for a woman who called me nosy about a thousand times the other day, you have a bad habit of peeping through windows."
She froze. Stuttered, "What—what do you mean?"
He smiled easily and felt evil. "Turn of phrase."
"Oh." The tension flooded out of her so fast, she deflated through sheer relief. If he'd had any doubt that her spying had been intentional, rather than a passing glimpse at her weird, shirtless neighbor . . . well, that doubt was officially dead. Chloe had watched him, and she felt guilty about it. He wondered when she'd confess.
Because she would confess. She had no filter, as most of the building had already learned.
She shifted uncomfortably and said, her voice brisk, "As an artist, you should really be on Instagram."
"Don't change the subject. Are you nosy with everyone, or just me?"
"I could link the feed to your website," she said desperately. "People do that. It's very pretty."
Instagram? Throwing his work up, not just for people to see, but on an app literally designed to display your fucking approval rating? The whole concept of internet likes had always unsettled Red, even when he'd been more confident in his abilities. "I'll think about it." _Lie_. "We're still talking about you."
"We are not." She looked horrified, so he had to keep going.
"You like to research everything," he guessed. "No; you like to know everything. You're one of those 'knowledge is power' people."
"Knowledge _is_ power," she shot back.
"I bet you were a massive teacher's pet at school." He was grinning. Hard.
"I bet you were an aimless slacker," she said archly.
"I bet you always file your taxes on time."
She was clearly scandalized. "Who doesn't file their taxes on time?"
He burst out laughing. "Oh, Chloe. You're cute as fuck, you know that?" He had no idea how any of those words had slipped out, but he couldn't exactly snatch them back. And he didn't quite regret setting them free.
"Cute?" She wrinkled her nose. "No. No, I'm not."
She shouldn't be. "You are."
Primly, she threw his own words back at him. "You don't know me, Red."
Which was when he realized that he _had_ upset her earlier, when he'd said exactly the same thing. That bothered him. A lot. He said, "I'd like to know you," then realized it came off like the world's worst chat-up line. Quickly, he added, "If I'm gonna let you on my bike, I need to know you're good people."
"Well, that's easy enough to discern. I saved a cat the other day, remember?"
He shrugged and leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. Slowly, reluctantly, he realized that he was comfortable around her—which made about as much sense as a toothless shark. "I remember. But I don't know if I care. I'm not a fan of cats."
"And why not?"
"They're judgmental."
"I had no idea that it was such a reprehensible trait. I expect to see you on the news soon, protesting the judiciary."
He snorted and tried again. "Cats are snooty."
"Or perhaps," she said wryly, "you're simply projecting your expectations."
"Perhaps," he replied, mocking her crisp words, "I prefer pets who aren't afraid to get dirty and don't lounge around looking down on people like the queen of bloody Sheba."
"Actually, Smudge would be the _king_ of Sheba."
Red smiled despite himself. "Named him, have you?"
"Clearly."
"Took him to the vet's yet?"
"I've been indisposed."
He was going to have to buy a bloody dictionary to keep up with her vocab, but he could read between the lines. "All right. So, Smudge. Has he been . . . ?" Red trailed off politely.
Her eyebrows rose in question, one winging higher than the other. He felt that delicate, uneven arch in his gut. She really was beautiful.
And he really was easily distracted, staring at her like this. He cleared his throat, gave her a significant look, and said, "Smudge. Have they . . . You know."
Judging by her frown of confusion, she did not.
Give him fucking strength. No way was he saying this plain to a woman like her. She'd get it eventually.
Only, she didn't. He raised his eyebrows. He cocked his head, clicked his tongue, and looked down. Nothing worked. Chloe remained blank as a computer with no power. In the end, he gave up on subtlety and blurted, "Someone got rid of his knackers yet?"
She blinked, looking completely unoffended by his choice of words—while he, for some reason, could feel heat creeping up his neck. Irritating, irritating, irritating. Cool as anything, she told him, "I have no idea." Like it was ludicrous to think she would.
"No idea?" he echoed.
"I haven't looked." She wasn't looking at him, either. Her eyes wandered around the room with the sort of interest aliens and androids showed in sci-fi films when they came to earth for the first time. Meanwhile, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Great.
Probably sounding more annoyed than he should during a conversation about a stray cat's bits and bobs, he demanded, "How'd you know he's a boy, then?"
She arranged her skirt over her legs, an action he saw in his peripheral vision but absolutely refused to focus on. He was focusing on her ear, and that was that. But the smooth, inviting sound the fabric made, like she was running her palms over it, pressing it tight . . . Maybe she secretly knew he was developing a minor obsession with her thighs, and this was her subtle and ingenious torture. Yeah. That sounded likely.
He was so busy thinking ridiculous thoughts, he almost missed her baffling explanation. Calmly, she told him, "We know Smudge is a boy because Dani decided he was."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was almost afraid to ask. "And how did she do that?"
"Do you know," Chloe said, apparently confused, "I'm not sure I understand your obsession with genitals, Red."
His eyes, which had been doing so well, slid from the safe zone of her left ear to the decidedly _un_ -safe zone of her skirt-covered lap. _You and me both, love_.
"Why do you ask, anyway?"
He jerked his eyes back north. "If he'd had the chop, that'd suggest owners."
"You don't need to worry, you know. I _am_ going to take him to the vet. I'd hate to steal someone else's pet."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'll come with you. Just to make sure."
She gave him a look. He saw humor dancing in her eyes, a bright sparkle that matched the strange fizzing in his own chest. "You're a very rude man," she said.
" _I'm_ rude?" He snorted out a laugh. "God almighty, that's rich, coming from you."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Sorry, I thought I was being obvious. It means you're rude as fuck."
Apparently, she was actually shocked by that information. She gaped at him as if he'd started speaking in tongues, and then she made an odd little wheezing sound. Finally, she said, "Well, I _never_."
"What? No one's ever told you that before?"
"Of course they have! But I've been on my best behavior with you."
He couldn't stop grinning. "Seriously? You're serious. _Seriously._ "
"Well, this week, at least."
He'd have loved to respond to the outrage in her voice, but he was laughing too hard.
"Stop that," she commanded, but she was smiling wider than he'd ever seen before. Her cheeks plumped up and her eyes danced and goddamn, she was even prettier than usual. "Stop! It's not that funny."
But, for some reason, it was. It was fucking hysterical. His breath came in gasps and his belly felt tight and his laughter bounced around the room. Then she reached out and pushed him. _Shoved_ him, really, her palm flat against his chest, sending an odd warmth through his body. He fell back against the bed, still laughing helplessly—but he grabbed her wrist as he went. And pulled.
And she came tumbling onto the bed with him.
Yeah. He stopped laughing then, that was for sure.
She landed almost on top of him. Her wrist felt oddly delicate, like the bones were made of china. Her palm still rested against his chest; her other hand was on the bed, holding most of her weight. Still, she was close enough that he could feel the swell of her tits against his ribs, the curve of her belly against his hip, the weight of her thighs over his. Red swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and willed his cock not to embarrass him, even though it already was. In a last-ditch attempt to maintain control, he closed his eyes.
Which was a mistake.
"I—sorry," she murmured. He felt her breath against his throat as she spoke and remembered a night they hadn't shared. _Fuck._
"My fault," he replied. His voice was rough; his eyes still closed; his hand still curled around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing. He could feel his own good sense flying out the window. The little demon that sat on his shoulder and whispered bright ideas like _Drop out of college,_ and _Let your mate tattoo you in his kitchen,_ and _Follow your heart,_ said slyly that now was not the time for website consultations. Now, according to that demon, was the time to roll her over, push up her skirt, and make her beg.
Thankfully, he was old and wise enough to ignore that suggestion. He let go of her wrist, and she clambered off him. He sat up. They stared at each other. She straightened her glasses and tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan and gave a nervous little laugh.
The idea of mouthy, snotty Chloe Brown being _nervous_ made him itch. Wasn't right and it wasn't natural. He needed to fix it. "How about we postpone the consultation?"
The subtlety of her expressions—the way she beat them down before they could fully form and shoved them into a box—wasn't enough to fool him anymore. He saw the slight slump of her shoulders and the way she blinked too hard, and knew she was disappointed.
"Can't seem to concentrate today," he went on.
"All right," she said briskly, bending to pick up her laptop. She hadn't even got it out of the bag. "I quite understand. I'll just—"
He ignored her. "Usually, when I get like this, I go for a ride."
She looked at him, her eyes even wider than usual behind her glasses.
"Fancy it?"
There was that smile of hers. Like the rising sun.
# Chapter Seven
The neat little car park was at the rear of the building. Its flat tarmac and faded white lines were brightened up by intermittently placed leafy things, as if the designers had some sort of greenery quota and had shoved in a few plants to meet requirements at the last minute. Red's monster of a bike stood next to one of those plants, the shiny, electric-blue chrome a harsh contrast to the pale branches of the spindly birch sapling.
Chloe imagined that if the things in this car park were characters in an American high school movie, the motorbike would be a big old bully, and the poor little tree would be one of its victims. In its final year of compulsory education, that bike would be voted "Most Likely to End Up in Jail." She didn't think she should ride a school bully that was likely to end up in jail. She'd put this on her list because it seemed the epitome of reckless insouciance, but now that it might actually _happen,_ she was feeling neither reckless nor insouciant.
But she took a deep breath and told herself sternly to buck up and get on with it. She would stick to her list, fear be damned, because people didn't change their lives by meekly giving up at the first heart-pounding hurdle. She was ready for this. Actually, she wasn't, but she'd do it anyway. She'd already agreed. She'd even made Red wait while she went home to put her laptop away. She couldn't back down now, just because one little crash might result in her brain being decimated.
Although, she did rather need her brain. For things. And stuff.
"Chloe." Red's voice was loud in the deserted car park, so deep it almost made her jump out of her clothes. Wait, no: _skin_. She meant skin.
"Yes?" she squeaked, dragging her gaze from the enormous bike to the enormous man standing beside it.
His eyebrows were raised, his lips slightly tilted. That was his resting expression, the opposite of her chronic bitch face: happy, curious, open, friendly. Why did she even like him?
Wait a moment—did she like him?
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she said brightly. "Just thinking about the potential likelihood of brain decimation."
His smile widened at that, slow and steady and achingly handsome. Ridiculous man. Brain decimation was a serious business.
"You got any hard numbers on that?" he asked. "Odds, percentages?"
She scowled. "No, but if you'd give me a minute I could probably calculate some." That would wipe the amusement off his face, guaranteed. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, because _of course_ her vintage-replica swing skirt had pockets. There was a reason sartorial upheaval hadn't been mentioned on her Get a Life list; Chloe was already the coolest dresser on the planet. "Where do you think I'll find the most reliable crash statistics? Gov.uk?"
"Maybe," he mused. "Or maybe, I don't know . . . ScaredyCats.com?"
She looked up with a scowl, outraged. "What on earth is that supposed to—?"
He held out a big, clunky-looking helmet and interrupted her quite happily. "Give me your glasses."
"I'll do no such thing," she snapped, yanking the helmet out of his hands. She eyed it suspiciously, then studied the motorbike compartment he'd pulled it out of. The compartment that also doubled as a seat. _Hmm._ That didn't suggest the sort of structural integrity she typically desired in a vehicle.
"Glasses might not fit under the helmet," he said mildly. "It's full-face. You know, to reduce the chances of brain decimation."
She snorted, was silent for a moment as she studied the helmet. Then, in a fit of irritation, she muttered, "Don't act as though it hasn't crossed your mind."
Something hot and wild sparked in his gaze, a sort of sharp-edged teasing that reminded her of a wolf on the hunt. He leaned toward her over the bike and asked, "As though _what_ hasn't crossed my mind?"
She shivered slightly, despite the thermal vest under her clothes and the jacket she'd picked up from her flat. And she remembered what had happened in his bedroom, when she'd fallen on top of him like a ninny, and sparks of sheer sensation had taken over her entire body. After a shamefully long silence, she blurted, "Brain decimation. The risk of brain decimation has definitely crossed your mind."
He gave her a crooked smile that seemed, for a moment, oddly triumphant. Then he straightened, shrugged, running a hand through all that glorious, sunset hair. "I don't let myself worry about that. If I die, I die. Could happen on this bike if I'm not careful or my luck blows. Could happen tomorrow morning if I trip and fall in the shower." He grabbed his own helmet. "You still in? It's okay if you're not."
She swallowed down her instinctive response, the worries she never voiced. Things like _I could get hit by a drunk driver in broad daylight while walking down the street. I could fall in the shower, not by chance, but because that's what I do. I fall sometimes. I could fall right now, and hit my head, and die._
Except, if she fell right now, she had the oddest feeling Red wouldn't let her hit the ground.
She took off her glasses, turning his face into a pretty haze of pale cream and red-gold. "I'm in."
"Good." She could hear the grin in his voice. While she shoved on the helmet, he put her glasses . . . somewhere. The fact that she didn't know exactly where, and didn't really care, was testament to her new footloose and fancy-free attitude. She'd been right about her plan, about her list: the process of completing each task involved multiple adjustments in attitude and countless bite-sized moments of bravery, and those would all add up. By the time she finished, she'd have more than check marks and a few stories to tell.
She'd have a life.
The world beneath the helmet was strange and insulated, and her lack of sight didn't help, but Red talked to her. Like he knew she'd need some kind of guiding light, some reassurance. He said, "I'm touching you now," and then he did. His hands began fiddling with her helmet, adjusting it until it felt more comfortable. Then he zipped up her jacket. The action was brisk, over in a second, but it felt weirdly intimate in a way that made her stomach dip.
Which was silly. So, so silly. Who cared if he'd zipped up her coat? That was something parents did for their children. Clearly, he thought of her as a child. Which annoyed her on multiple levels, a few of which she didn't feel comfortable examining right now.
He, of course, was completely unaffected throughout her mental debate. "All you need to do," he said, with his typical mix of easygoing authority, "is keep your feet on the rests and hold on to me. I'll get on first and hit the throttle. It's loud. Don't freak out."
Apparently, despite witnessing her Lara Croft–like tree climbing the other day, he still thought she was the sort of woman who needed to be warned about loud noises. Depressingly, he was right.
He straddled the bike, and she wondered absently if he might be persuaded to straddle her. Purely so that she could cross item number five, meaningless sex, off of her list. She dismissed that rogue thought instantly, however; Redford wasn't a suitable candidate. Aside from the fact that his hotness was vaguely terrifying, she couldn't sleep with men who were clients, or men who lived just across the courtyard, or men who already knew certain things about her health and would therefore nervously reject all advances as if her vaginal canal were made of glass.
The bike roared to life like an angry lioness. She managed not to jump and was very proud of herself.
"Get on," Red told her.
She held her skirt down awkwardly as she swung one leg over the chrome beast. And then, there she was, sitting casually on a motorbike. It thrummed, huge and hot and weighty, between her thighs. And right in front of her was Redford, his back looking extraordinarily broad in black leather. She wasn't sure if she was intimidated or aroused. She checked in with her nether regions and discovered that she was both. Righto, then.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, Red's long, strong fingers wrapped around her calf and she almost fainted. He squeezed and something inside her clenched. Okay, not "something": her pussy. Good Lord. Then she realized abruptly that he was trying to tell her something. Right, yes, she was paying attention. She was a Very Good Chloe and she was taking this Extremely Seriously.
Gosh, his hands were big.
"Right there," he shouted, and squeezed her calf, and let go. _Boo._ But at least she understood what he meant: _Keep your feet where they are, right on those convenient little rest things I mentioned._ As if she'd forget. She'd be following his disgracefully minimal instructions to the letter, thank you very much.
Then he reached back, caught one of her hands, and pulled. Next message, presumably: _Hold on to me_. He didn't need to remind her of that, either; she'd watched enough teen romance films to know how one behaved on the back of a hot guy's motorbike. She committed fully, shuffling closer to wrap her arms around his waist, lacing her fingers over his taut abs. She'd seen those abs naked. He wouldn't be giving her a ride if he knew _that,_ now would he?
Guilt whirled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous and extremely evil. It was wrong of her, to let him treat her so nicely when she knew he had reason to despise her—actual reason, rather than misunderstandings and awkwardness. She should confess. She had to. It was the right thing to do.
"Ready?" he shouted.
_Not in the slightest._ "Ready."
The engine growled. The world began to move. She reflected that her god-awful guilt had been a blessing in disguise because it had distracted her from reasonable concerns about her impending doom. Her stomach lurched even though she knew they were only going five miles per hour, because that was the car park's speed limit and Red was a very good and rule-abiding superintendent. Under her breath, beneath a helmet that was suddenly far too small, dark, and hot, she murmured, "It's only five miles per hour. It's only five miles per hour. It's only—"
They turned out of the car park and the bike shot forward like a bullet.
" _Good Lord,_ " she shrieked at the top of her voice. She hadn't thought she could get any closer to Red, but she was now in danger of crawling into his skin. Her grip on his waist had become more of an "iron bar" situation. He probably felt like he'd been strapped into an electric chair on death row. _She_ felt like she'd been strapped into an electric chair on death row, because anything that made her unprotected human body move as quickly as this was clearly a death sentence, and she couldn't exactly escape by throwing herself off, now could she?
Out of nowhere, she felt Red's glove-covered hand on hers. He squeezed, once, and she remembered that he was driving, actively controlling the beast beneath her. They weren't just flying through the world willy-nilly on a murder machine. An odd sort of calm moved through her and she remembered what he'd said earlier. _If I die, I die._
If she died, she'd be doing so on the back of an intensely sexy superintendent's motorbike. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.
The blurry world grew even blurrier as their speed increased. She felt like data lost in the stream. Cars and buildings whipped by, as if the two of them were moving through time and dimensions rather than just space. It reminded her of the way she'd been years and years ago, running through crisp air as if she were flying, the thought of pain and life-changing fatigue never even crossing her mind.
The thrumming heat of the engine beneath her began to feel like a comfort, and then, all at once, like a tease. So did the body in front of her, though he wasn't doing a damned thing to make her feel that way. It was past time to accept that Redford Morgan made her as hot and bothered as Enrique Iglesias in the "Hero" music video, with considerably less effort. That was why she felt so odd and unsettled around him: because he shoved her into motion the way he had this motorbike, as if he had the key to her motor. Being around him without melting was another bite-sized step of bravery, just like every item on her Get a Life list.
Maybe he could help her come alive. Maybe he could help her with the rest of her list.
She bit her lip and her teeth felt too sharp for her mouth, as if she'd turned into a predator. She couldn't see a damned thing without her glasses but suddenly it didn't matter; she had wild eyes, that was all, wild just like the rest of her. Her skin was electrically charged, so she could do whatever she wanted—including make another deal with the boldest man she knew. There was safety in transactional relationships, after all. If he refused to help her, or if he tried and got tired and gave her up as a lost cause, it wouldn't rip her heart out like every other exhausted abandonment had.
It would just be the end of a deal.
But then she remembered that, when this ride ended, she'd have to confess what she'd done. That she'd invaded his privacy, that she'd practically stalked him. She highly doubted any deals would be forthcoming after that.
Would they?
* * *
Pippa had ridden with him once.
She hadn't liked it, which was fine. Red knew perfectly well that certain thrills weren't for everyone. The fact that his girlfriend had no tattoos hadn't bothered him—why would it?—so the fact that she'd hated the bike hadn't bothered him, either. He still remembered the way she'd stumbled off it that first time, yanking off her helmet so her glossy hair spilled out like a waterfall. He always remembered images like that.
She'd spat, "Never again, Red!" and when he'd laughed, she'd lost her temper and called him an imbecile with dog-shit sensibilities. For some reason, at the time, he'd thought that was a fight with his feisty girlfriend rather than an insult that would gnaw away at something vital in him. Maybe that was his problem in a nutshell: he'd seen cruelty like that as a challenge. And he'd felt rewarded when she wanted him, grateful when she stood at his side with all her poise and polish and easily recognized _personhood_ in galleries where he felt barely human.
So, when she'd posed for Instagram photos on his bike, the one she hated so much, he hadn't let himself think it was odd. He'd watched her post the pictures with captions implying she was some badass biker chick, and then he'd locked his bike up and gotten in her chauffeur-driven car, just the way she liked it. Everything was for show. He'd been an accessory in more ways than one.
He had no idea why he'd taken Chloe out today. Why he'd agreed to her deal when he knew damn well he could pay for the consultation with actual cash. This was supposed to be his personal pleasure, now, never to be used again. Maybe he was falling back into bad habits, seeing cruelty as a challenge. But everything in him rejected the idea that Chloe could ever really be cruel. And besides, he didn't see her as a challenge; he saw her as an enjoyable pain in the arse. She made him irritable, yeah, but worse, she made him . . . curious. Oddly energized in a way he'd been craving, a way that felt so simply _good_.
And the way she felt sitting behind him right now? That made him satisfied.
Her thighs squeezed him as she screamed, which he liked more than he should. The screaming because it was so wild, so unexpected, and so full of glittering excitement. The squeezing because she was so soft and so hot, plastered against him like they were the only two people on earth. As if his physical fascination with her needed any more fuel. He'd only meant to run around the block real quick, but he was worried that if he stopped now, he might do something awful, like kiss the fuck out of Chloe Brown. And Christ, wouldn't that be the end of the world?
It would, he told himself. It really fucking would.
He spent the next ten minutes concentrating harder on the road than he had since his very first ride, forcing himself to calm down. By the time they pulled into the same car park where this fiasco had begun, his body was mostly under control. There was just the secret, burning core of him, smoldering for her. Good thing she'd never see it. He could almost pretend it wasn't there.
He cut the engine, toed the stand, dragged his helmet off, and sucked down some much-needed air. Behind him, he felt her fidgeting like a little kid. He held out his hand in silence, and she gave him her helmet and slipped off the bike. He stood. Wondered if, despite that one exhilarated scream, she'd actually hated it. Wondered why she'd wanted to go out in the first place. Opened his mouth to ask.
And was hit by an asteroid that felt suspiciously Chloe-shaped, slamming into his side and throwing its arms around him.
"That was amazing," the Chloe-shaped asteroid murmured. Didn't sound like Chloe; there wasn't an ounce of sarcasm in those three words. No hesitance or snooty distance, either. Just all this intense _feeling,_ like she was full of the same white-lightning thrill he'd always chased and savored, like touching her should give him an electric shock. And it kind of did—not because of the palpable excitement coming off her, but because of the way her breasts pressed against his arm. Asteroids weren't supposed to have fantastic tits.
He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and tried to seem disinterested. After dinner at Mrs. Conrad's, Vik had made it clear that friendship with tenants was fine—but the last thing Red needed was for someone to wander out here and see him grabbing the prettiest woman in the building. Knowing his luck, they'd investigate further, find out about Smudge, and decide that Chloe was trading sexual favors for pet privileges. Tenant wars could be ruthless and she might end up with a scarlet letter painted on her front door, which would take him fucking forever to scrub off.
"Thank you," she said.
"Uh," he replied, smooth as fuck. ". . . No problem." To add to his air of charm and intelligence, he patted her shoulder again. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
She pulled away abruptly, as if she'd just realized who she was hugging. Somehow, she managed to put a good three feet between them in about a second. The woman moved like a shot when she was embarrassed—and she _was_ embarrassed, with her eyes focused on the tarmac and her lips pressed tight, awkwardness rolling off her in waves. He could tell now, as if he knew her, all of a sudden.
As if he'd put on those 3-D glasses at the cinema and was finally seeing every side of her.
She was fiddling self-consciously with her hair, smoothing down frizzy little flyaways that popped right back up again. Cute as fuck, this button of a woman. He tore his gaze away and opened the bike's pannier, retrieving the case that usually held his shades, but currently held Chloe's glasses. Her eyes were all soft and unfocused without them. For a moment he wondered if she took them off when she had sex, or if she wouldn't want to give up even that ounce of control.
Then he told himself to stop being such a fucking weirdo and held out the specs. "Here you go."
"Thanks." She took them, quick and wary, like a squirrel snatching nuts from his hand. "What are you smirking at?"
He couldn't help himself. He said, just to piss her off, "You hugged me."
She narrowed her eyes behind those familiar blue frames, set her jaw, crossed her arms. " _And?_ " She could have silenced a thousand men with that one scary syllable. He wondered how many people had been shocked to realize that, despite the posh accent and the prissy outfits, she was a tough motherfucker all the way to her bones.
"I didn't have you down as a hugger," he drawled, locking up and strolling back toward the flats.
"I should hope you don't have me down as anything," she said primly, falling into step beside him. "I am, as I've just proved, an eminently unpredictable woman."
He barely managed to choke back his laughter, turning it into a mangled sort of cough.
She shot him a glare and said, "I _am_."
Red had to lean against the nearest wall for support. He doubled over in the narrow walkway leading to the back entrance, laughing so hard he might break something.
She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips and a mutinous expression that clearly hid a smile. That mouth of hers said one thing—abject irritation—but her eyes shone and crinkled at the edges in a way that felt like champagne bubbles looked. A way that let him keep laughing.
When he finally managed to calm down, she asked archly, "What, exactly, is so amusing?"
He let his head rest against the wall for a second, let his eyes slide shut while he savored the ache in his abs. He hadn't laughed this much in a fucking century and it felt better than a three-hour massage. "For one thing," he said dryly, "if you were such a wild card, you probably wouldn't have to tell me."
She sniffed. "Maybe I simply don't trust your skills of observation."
"Fair enough. Observation's more your thing, ain't it?"
She stared at him, biting her lip. Her laughing annoyance faded away, along with most of the warmth in her brown skin. "Red, I—" She stopped, swallowed, squared her shoulders. "I have something to tell you."
Ah, shit. He couldn't resist prodding her guilty conscience, and now she was going to confess. She'd open her mouth and spill the secret of her spying into the open, and then he'd have to ask her why she'd done it, and she'd make it clear she saw him as a creature in a zoo, and he'd have to go back to disliking her.
Suddenly, he didn't want to dislike her. It had been difficult. This new, laughing, teasing thing was easy.
"You going to tell me why you wanted to ride a motorbike?" he asked lightly. "Because I've got to be honest, I'm dying to know." He was giving her an out. She'd take it, right?
Wrong. She rolled her lips inward, shook her head, and he thought, _Come on, Button, don't be so bloody decent._
Behind his back, he pressed his palm to the wall until the brick bit into his skin. He didn't want to hear her admit how little she thought of him when she'd just made him feel so . . . free. So he did the only thing he could think to do; he kept needling her. "Is it because you have a biker fetish?"
Just as he'd hoped, her mouth popped open in a shocked little _O_ and her dark eyes flooded with outraged humor instead of cold anxiety. "I— _what_? No. No, I do not have a biker fetish." She wrinkled her nose at the words, as if the idea horrified her.
For some reason, he felt compelled to point out, "I'm not technically a biker, myself."
She blinked.
"Not that it matters." For fuck's sake, what was he doing? Shaking his head, Red got back to the point. "Tell me, then. Why?"
He could see the indecision in her face, where last week he'd have seen nothing but cold blankness. She was trying to decide if she should tell him—or rather, _what_ she should tell him. In the end, to his relief, she didn't broach the topic that would change everything between them.
Instead, she said, "I have a list."
His eyebrows rose. "A list?"
"Yes. A list of fun or exciting things that I intend to do, for . . . for reasons. And riding a motorbike was on the list."
He grinned. So, Chloe had some kind of bad-girl bucket list? Hilarious. "Reasons, huh? What reasons?"
"It doesn't matter," she said quickly, which only fed his curiosity. "What matters is that I have a proposition for you."
Goddammit, his dick just wouldn't stop reacting to that phrase. "Yeah?"
"Yes," she confirmed crisply. "But we probably shouldn't discuss it here. We'll need to make some sort of appointment. Set the time aside. It's quite in-depth."
His lips twitched. Did she know she was adorable? Was she _trying_ to be adorable? Maybe this was something they taught at private schools. Maybe she was reeling him in right this minute, and he'd wake up in a year's time with his life in pieces, her perfume all over him, and a distinct feeling that he'd lost his fucking mind. But no, he reminded himself; these days, no one could reel him in unless he let them.
"Just tell me," he said. "Give me a hint."
She rolled her eyes. "Where is your patience?"
"Same place I left my shame."
"I pity your mother. You must have been an infuriating child."
"I'm her _favorite_ child," he corrected.
"You can't have any siblings, then."
"Wow. That hurts, Chloe. Gets me right here." He clapped a hand over his chest because he was gravely wounded.
She snorted, zero sympathy. "Since you apparently _have_ to know, I was thinking that perhaps . . . well, perhaps you could help me complete some other items on my list, the way you helped me today. And in return, I could build your whole website for free."
His scowl was automatic. "I may not be loaded, but I can pay for the bloody website. I have savings. And anyway, it's a business expense." Been a while since he'd had any of those, but since he was about to be back _in_ business . . .
"No. If you help me, I have to do something for you in return, so it's fair. Even. A deal, like this. And the website's all I can offer. It would be an exchange."
He frowned at her insistent tone. "Just exactly how much 'help' do you need? What's on this list?"
"Well, as I said, we should probably discuss it elsewhere." Her gaze darted around like government spies might be lurking in piles of dead leaves. Like her list was some big, dangerous secret.
"The more you hesitate," he told her, "the more I imagine terrible and/or kinky explanations."
" _Kinky?_ " she echoed, then slapped a hand over her mouth like she'd just blurted out, _Fuck the pope_. "I—no. It's not. It's just a list of things I want to do. Fun, exciting things."
"Like bondage?"
"Like _camping,_ " she snapped.
He'd been hoping she'd get all flustered and give it up, but he really hadn't expected her juicy secrets to include . . . camping. "Seriously? You want me to help you _camp_?"
She nodded stiffly. "You're probably much better with the outdoors than I am. You certainly couldn't be worse. I also need to go out drinking. You know, partying. Which I'm sure will be much safer with someone who, erm . . . looks like you."
Well, he couldn't argue with that. "What else?"
"As if that isn't enough?" She shook her head ruefully. "There's more on the list, but nothing you can help with."
"What. Else?" Not that he was desperate to know, or anything. He was just curious. This list was . . . unexpected, like jigsaw pieces that didn't quite fit together yet, but hinted at a surprising picture. He wanted to see the picture. That was all.
"Oh, well, I want to travel the world with nothing but hand luggage." The words eased out of her like a creak from a carefully opened door, as if she were tiptoeing around the idea. Like it was silly. Like he would laugh.
The truth just up and fell out of his mouth. "As goals go, that's fucking amazing."
Her face lit up, then closed down as she wrestled it under control. She was the queen of deadpan, after all. "Do you think?" she asked in a tone that said, _I don't give a shit, but go on_.
"I do," he said, and she gave in and smiled. She might as well have stabbed him in his dignity, the way his body responded to a measly curve of those full lips. He'd always thought she was beautiful, but she seemed to get prettier every time they spoke, which was bloody inconvenient. He cleared his throat and said, "So . . . you want my help with your adventure list."
Although, going out for a drink didn't seem like an adventure. More like a Friday night.
"My Get a Life list," she corrected.
He frowned. "What—?"
"And in return," she cut in, "I'll build your site. It's a fair trade. Trust me."
Trust her? He didn't. These days, he barely trusted himself. And the way she talked about this list . . . it wasn't sitting quite right with him. He should say no. He opened his mouth to do just that, but a question came out instead. "How did something as ordinary as camping end up on the same list as traveling the world?"
She shrugged, wandering over to the wall opposite his. And then she was leaning, just like him, like they were mirror images. "Life experience tends to start small and build up, doesn't it? You might camp as a child and end up traveling in your twenties. But mine didn't build up, exactly, for all sorts of reasons. I have these different levels to catch up with. I chose the ones that seemed important, and I suppose I . . ." She shrugged, let out a self-conscious little laugh. "Well, I suppose I shoved them all together. Is that silly?"
_Say yes._ "No. Do you need to sit down? Shall we go inside?"
"I would love to sit down," she said, "because I happen to be happiest when curled up on something soft. But I don't strictly _need_ to sit down, not yet, so I will push myself a little."
Push herself. Sounded like she pushed herself a lot, in a lot of different ways. He should find out why. Better yet, he should avoid getting tangled up in her mysterious list, because he knew himself, and he knew it would lead to getting tangled up in _her_.
Red was trying to avoid tangles right now. He had enough in his own head, and they'd happened because he'd been here before. Because he'd felt this same urge to get swept up by a pretty, posh girl's charming quirks, and it really hadn't ended well. He'd rather ride naked through Trinity Square than get himself wrapped up in yet another mess. He'd rather eat a damned rock. He'd rather—
"So," she asked softly, "will you help me?"
And he, Mister Shit for Brains, said, "Yeah."
# Chapter Eight
He still didn't know why he'd agreed. Why he'd jumped headfirst into the murky waters of someone else's weirdness when his focus should be on his own issues. He was so completely pissed with himself that irritation kept him up all night, distracted him the next morning, and ate at the edges of his concentration while he made his way to Vik's house.
Luckily, when he arrived, Vik was too busy eating some foodie salad to notice anything was up. The guy was usually sharp as a tack, his big, dark eyes like CCTV cameras, but stick some grub in front of him and he lost track of every fuck he'd ever had to give.
After letting Red into his fancy three-story town house, Vik jerked his thick head of curls toward the stairs and said around a mouthful of bright leaves and white cheese, "You still want to paint that view?"
"No," Red said dryly, hefting the art supplies slung over his shoulder. "I'm just here to flirt with Alisha."
"Yeah, well, she's out. I knew you were coming."
Red snorted, kicked off his shoes, and made his own way up the stairs. Vik followed like a lanky shadow, face still buried in his bowl. Every now and then, as they climbed to the attic floor, he'd give a disturbingly orgasmic groan and mumble, "You really have to try this."
"What is it?"
"Spinach, pomegranate seeds, feta cheese, balsamic—"
"I'll have the recipe for Mum." When they reached the attic, Red peered into the mysterious bowl, surprisingly drawn to the colors, the textures. Deep, gleaming pink that reminded him of biting kisses. Soft, creamy white, like gasping murmurs of pleasure. The contrast made him think of other juxtapositions, like shiny shoes and velvet skin.
Christ, he was in a strange mood today.
He turned away from the surprisingly inspiring salad to survey the bare and slightly dusty attic space. Alisha hated what she called "tat," so the Anand house was the tidiest, most streamlined space he'd ever seen, with no drawers full of crap or biscuit tins filled with thread, or spare rooms stuffed to the brim with old record players and books that would never be read. They had no use for the attic at the top of the house, and so it remained empty, the walls a neat, plain white and the floorboards pale blond. All of which made the play of light through the roof windows absolutely stunning at a certain time of day.
This time of day.
Red loved light. He craved it. Once upon a time, everything he'd created had been all space and glow and refracted rainbows through crystal. But these days, all he seemed to produce were vivid fever dreams that he occasionally liked, until he remembered what he'd been before.
Did that mean he was ruined, or just changed? He hadn't decided yet, but he'd known for a while that this space would be the perfect place to find out. That, if he couldn't catch his old self here, it was really gone. He needed to know so he could move forward, but he'd been almost afraid to find out.
Then he'd shown Chloe that painting. He supposed having someone else's eyes on his work had made it more real. He supposed the fact that she liked it, too, had made him brave, which said a lot about his strength of character—or lack, more like—but fuck it, he needed all the encouragement he could get. He focused on his breathing as he set up by the windows, and by the time he was ready to paint he was almost in a meditative state.
Which Vik, of course, immediately shattered. "So," he said, as Red stared at the mess of blue and white on his palette. "You're painting again. That's new."
"Not," Red grunted, half of his mind elsewhere. He could talk while he worked, but it usually wasn't polite.
Luckily, Vik had years of experience in interpreting. "It's not new? You've been holding out on me."
Red squinted up at a sky of solid, slow-moving, cotton-wool cloud. Today, autumn was cruelly bright instead of dully gray. This was perfect. But how perfect would it be if he inverted the shades, to catch the way all that white sent the softest, slightest pain shooting through sensitive eyes? After a moment's thought, he grabbed a different tube of paint.
"Ah well," Vik went on between mouthfuls of salad. "If you've been hiding it, this is progress, right? You're not hiding anymore."
It took a moment for Red to really hear those words as he built up color on his little canvas. His new work habit—standing in front of his courtyard-facing window half naked—hadn't felt like hiding at the time. But now he found himself noticing that, for months, he'd only ever painted at night. Even though he'd chosen that room as a studio, set up by that window, for the light itself.
_Hiding._ According to the pang in his chest, he had been. He shrugged as he daubed cerulean over violet. "Getting my shit together."
He could hear the smile in Vik's voice. "Yeah? You feeling good?"
Red snorted. "Who are you, Dr. Phil?"
"Ah, don't start that manly crap. We talk about our feelings in this house, boy."
"Can I talk about my feelings for your wife?"
"This bowl would be a great hat on you."
Red rolled his eyes and studied the skyline. On the outskirts of the city, there were plenty of bleak council flats, like grim obelisks kissing the clouds. Like a monument to the massive gap between rich and poor in this country, they symbolized a truth the wealthy preferred to avoid. Usually, he'd paint them out of the picture, replacing them with coppery autumn trees or a gold sunset—with bright, brilliant beauty. But for some reason, today, he couldn't make himself do it. His changed mind kept demanding, _Why should I?_
Why should he create a more palatable version of reality? Why should he paint for anyone but himself?
He'd grown up in flats like those, his home one monstrous headstone among a row of eight. Looking at them now, he _felt_ something. It wasn't clean or simple, but it was powerful, and it was worth sharing. He mixed a deep pink, like love's blood, and tried his best to do that feeling justice.
As Red worked, Vik's chatter slowed, then stopped. Silence rose up to cradle Red like soft blankets, and before he knew it, he wasn't thinking anymore. He used to take it for granted, that lack of thought, the ability to turn off the constant churn of his mind. But when he put the final touches on his work, and came back to himself, it was a shock to realize he'd "gone" somewhere else. That he'd escaped constant self-awareness for a while. He hadn't known he had it in him anymore.
But apparently, Vik had. He clapped Red on the back as he came over, his eyes stuck on the charred carcasses, swallowed up by wild, thorny nature, that Red had turned the flats into. Vik had grown up in flats like those, too. Red held his breath.
The rubber-band tension stretched, then snapped back. The sting was the kind that made you feel alive. Vik squeezed his shoulder and muttered, "Proud of you, mate."
For a second, Red was proud of himself—of his work—too. Then came hesitation. He hadn't produced anything like his old stuff. He'd forgotten to even try. In front of him was a vivid, half dream, half nightmare of a landscape, the kind that made him feel flushed and frantic and reckless. So he had his answer. He'd lost himself. He took a moment to breathe through that realization, to sit with the finality of it. Oddly, it didn't choke him. In fact, knowing it once and for all felt a little like lifting a weight.
He swallowed and wiped his paint-spattered hands on his jeans before turning to drag Vik into a hug. They stood like that for long moments, until Red managed to form a half-decent sentence. "You're always behind me."
"Well, not always. That'd be a bit fucking weird."
They both laughed, Red's sounding rusty—but not as rusty as it had been. He'd laughed with Chloe yesterday, first a bit, then a lot, and it had loosened something in him.
Maybe that was why he'd agreed to help her. Yeah, that must be it.
Now, if he didn't know any better, he'd think she could hear his thoughts—that she'd been waiting for him to figure out his shit and truly accept the deal between them. Because when he pulled out his phone to take a picture of what he'd done, to commemorate it in some wild, nervous moment of _just-in-case,_ there was an email from her in his inbox. He probably should've left it, should've looked at it later, but something curious zipped up his spine and he found himself opening the curtest email he'd ever received.
Red,
Our in-person consultation efforts failed miserably due to a lack of focus on both sides. From now on, email seems the most efficient choice. Questions:
1. Do you own a domain name, and if so, where is it registered?
2. Do you have any ideas or examples of websites you find pleasing/effective?
3. What is/are the main purpose(s) of this site? Exposure, direct sales, portfolio, etc.?
4. Do you participate in social media, and if so, which platforms?
5. Do you have an ideal time line in mind?
Rgds.,
Chloe
_Rgds.,_ she said, like she was too bloody busy to type out the full word. And anyway, wasn't that email-speak for _fuck off_? But she was the one in his inbox, talking about things like "a lack of focus on both sides."
That phrase in particular gnawed at him, the way his granddad's soft old mongrel used to gnaw at people's knuckles. Both sides, huh? He wondered if her lack of focus had anything in common with his. If she felt this insistent, dizzying tug toward someone she should barely like, the way he did. The idea made something inside him coil up tight, like a spring. Made him remember the wide-eyed look she'd given him when they'd tumbled onto the bed together yesterday.
He must be petty as hell, because he hoped prim and proper Chloe was an absolute mess over him, that she'd stayed up last night thinking about him with every ounce of the frustration he'd felt over her. No—double the frustration, just because.
Imagining her tangling the sheets as she rolled around, irritated, unable to get his name out of her head, made him feel . . .
"What are you grinning at?" Vik demanded, craning his neck to see the phone.
Red locked the screen. "Email."
"Since when do you get so jolly over emails? Hate to be the one to tell you this, but those foreign princes are usually—"
"Ah, fuck off."
"Who was it from?" Vik asked, nudging Red's shoulder. "Because I'll use my considerable stalking talents to find out anyway, so you might as well just tell me."
Red sighed, wishing that was a joke. "It's from a web designer. I'm getting a site done."
"No fucking way. Look at you, off like a shot all of a sudden. You're on it."
Red put the phone in his pocket, already mentally typing his reply. "Yeah. I suppose I am."
* * *
Dear Chloe,
I don't think we failed _miserably_. You didn't seem miserable on the back of my bike, unless I misunderstood the screaming.
And, about yesterday—I already knew I couldn't focus, but I had no idea you couldn't, either. What distracted you? I'm curious.
So, these questions.
1. I don't have any of the shit you need for a website.
2. Copying sites I like is a smart idea, so I went and found some for you. Is this what doing homework feels like? I usually skipped mine.
3. The site is for exposure, but I like the idea of direct sales. Would that mean building a shop?
4. No social media. Hate that shit.
5. As for time line . . . I'm not picky. This is a favor, after all. Fit me in around your actual work.
Speaking of favors—where are we at with this list of yours?
Regards (see how easy that was?),
Red
Red,
No, I wasn't miserable on the back of your racing death machine. As for my lack of focus: concentration is something I occasionally struggle with. Not that I allow it to impact my work.
Re: direct sales, yes, we would build a shop into the site, and you—through that avenue, at least—would control your own sales, etc. Examples attached.
An Instagram feed on the site would add a dynamic, social element. As an artist, it seems wise to have an account. Consider it.
I don't think we should discuss my list until we've at least hammered out these details. You helped me tick off an item yesterday. I should start my end of the deal before we go forward. I don't want you to feel you're being taken advantage of.
REGARDS,
Chloe
DEAR Chloe,
If you weren't miserable on the racing death machine, what were you? Describe it to me, just so I can make sure I haven't traumatized you.
I'd definitely like a shop. The direct sales thing sounds right up my alley, and if I don't sell some of these pieces soon I'll end up drowning in canvas.
I'm not joining Instagram, though.
And I don't feel taken advantage of. You're really into balance, huh? Why is that?
(Since you did so well with regards, let's push it a bit.) Best wishes,
Red
To one Mr. Redford Morgan,
You haven't traumatized me. The ride . . . surprised me. But I liked it. Please don't worry. I really did. And even if I hadn't, I liked making progress on the list.
The shop is a go, then. As for Instagram, you really should get over your Too Cool for School reluctance and just sign up. This behavior is modern hipsterism.
I don't think anyone needs a specific reason to avoid incurring excessive debt. We've made a deal and I am taking it seriously. The end.
Best,
Chloe
Dear Ms. Chloe Button Brown,
Glad to hear you're not traumatized. Confession: I already knew you liked it, because afterward, you stared at me like I'd just rocked your world. Which is a great look on you, by the way. Feel free to shower me in hero worship more often.
But—let me get one thing straight—are you saying that finishing the list and enjoying the list are two separate issues, or something? Isn't the list made up of things you _want_? Things you fantasize about, maybe?
I'm really hoping you didn't just call me a hipster, by the way. I've read that sentence like ten times, hoping you wouldn't dare. I am not a fucking hipster. I don't even have a mustache. I just think Instagram is where self-esteem goes to die.
"Debt" is an interesting word to use, when you're talking about two people helping each other out. Are you scared I'll help a little too much, and you won't be able to help me back, and next thing you know, I'll be banging your door down like a bailiff and I'll take your laptop as retribution? Because that's definitely not going to happen.
Yours _sincerely_ ,
Red
Dear Red,
(You write emails as if they're letters, and it's ridiculous, and now you've got me doing it. Disgraceful.)
"Button"? I do have a middle name, but that definitely isn't it. As for my supposed hero worship of you, I am sorry to say that you have made a mistake. The truth is, I am occasionally mesmerized by how outrageously ginger you are. I do hope that doesn't hurt your feelings.
The list has nothing to do with "fantasies." I told you before, it's about building life experience. I suppose I should tell you that I was almost hit by a car. When my life flashed before my eyes, it was rather uneventful, so I'm taking the necessary steps to rectify that. It's really quite simple.
I think your definition of a hipster is roughly a decade behind the times, which frankly makes you even more of a hipster. Read my words now, very carefully: You. Need. An. Instagram. Account.
I'm so glad we had that talk.
I'm also very happy to hear that you don't ever plan on trying to take my laptop, because, while I do spend a lot of time indoors, the length of a murder sentence might be a touch too long, and prison beds would absolutely ruin my back.
Yours, supposedly,
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
(Emails are internet letters, so my way is the right way. You're welcome.)
"Button" because you always seem to be wearing them, and I don't know where you find all those old-fashioned clothes. What's your actual middle name? I bet it's something ridiculous, like Fenella.
You should be really proud of yourself, by the way. It takes a lot of guts to admit to a man that you're mesmerized by his amazing hair, and I appreciate the compliment. I promise not to bring it up too often. Once a day, tops.
That's rough about the whole "near death" thing. Really, it is. But—and I'm not trying to tell you what to do here—but don't you think, if your life ever flashes before your eyes again, you should remember all the shit you enjoyed? Rather than the stuff other people care about? I don't know. Just a thought.
As for the Instagram account . . . you really are so damn bossy. I thought maybe the bossiness was a case of speaking before you think, but you're typing these emails out. You're reading them back to yourself. And you're still so fucking bossy. Incredible. I mean, don't get me wrong—I'm not even complaining anymore. I respect it.
Still not getting an Instagram account, though.
Yours SINCERELY,
Red
Dear Red,
Buttons add a certain dignity to an outfit, in my opinion. And I'll have you know that my clothes are actually retro, and they are very stylish.
My middle name is Sophia. I suppose it has a similar ring to Fenella, but it's not quite as ridiculous. Sorry to disappoint.
Perhaps I should've been clearer on the hair— _mesmerized_ is such an ambiguous word. What I meant to say was, is it true that gingers have no souls?
The list is really not up for debate, since it has already been immortalized, and since I am committed, and also because I'm right and you're wrong. I trust you understand.
I'm starting to think that your aversion to Instagram hides some deeper-seated issue. You mentioned it being where self-esteem goes to die. I hope you know I'm not suggesting that you use it for selfies and the like, though really, there is no need to be shy. You generally look passable.
Yours sincerely (this is beyond silly),
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
Just so you know, I like your clothes. Not that I go around telling women about their clothes, like anyone cares, but I realized it sounded like I might _not_ like them, and that isn't accurate. I know you're into accuracy. So. There we go.
Although I hate to break it to you about those buttons, Button—they're more cute than dignified. Sorry.
Sophia isn't even slightly ridiculous, but I forgive you. And, on the subject of my soul, the rumors are true. Don't have one. So watch your step.
If you want to talk about my Instagram "issues," I want to talk about how hung up you are on this list, and why. Does that sound like a fun conversation? Because I'm ready when you are.
Good to know I look passable, though. For a soulless ginger, and everything.
Yours sincerely (not silly),
Red
Dear Red,
Well, thank you. You are, of course, correct; I always look excellent. But if you actually intend to start calling me Button, I may sew one into your tongue.
While it would be very thrilling to think I rode on the back of a soulless demon's motorbike, I feel compelled to point out that your behavior suggests you do in fact have a soul. For example, the way you let that very boring man from the third floor barge up to you whenever he likes to whine about the lightbulb that keeps going out. Clearly, he's doing something questionable with that lightbulb. And yet, you keep replacing it.
I have seen sense and decided to abandon the Instagram topic. For now.
And, since I feel like you might have misunderstood, I wasn't being serious before. You really do look fine. Nice, even. And you have lovely hair.
Yours sincerely,
Chloe
Dear Button,
I would love to see you try and sew something into my tongue. Really. I need to witness this in action. I'm sure you have a detailed plan. Are there drugs involved, a good whack over the head, or are you just planning to hold me down somehow?
I can't really comment on a tenant's behavior, but I can confirm that, considering the number of times I've been up to SOMEONE'S flat to change _the same fucking lightbulb,_ I really must have a soul. An extra shiny, golden one.
And don't worry; I knew you were joking. I was joking, too. But I might fish for compliments more often because you really snapped up that bait.
By the way—you've now spent the whole day emailing me, a client. That's a lot of hours, really. So maybe we should talk about your list tomorrow, just to make sure everything's even.
Yours,
Red
Dear Red,
You'll soon get to see my violent plan in action, since you flagrantly ignored my button threat, and extorted compliments from me, too. Come over tomorrow when you finish work, and I will attack. Or show you the list. We'll have to wait and see.
Yours,
Chloe
# Chapter Nine
For some reason, emailing Red all day made Chloe alarmingly upbeat. Of course, the universe put a stop to that cheer the moment she went to bed by cursing her with a numb right foot that kept her awake all night.
Some people (like singularly unhelpful and clearly underqualified physical therapists, unsympathetic GPs, and that supremely irritating second cousin who ate all the stuffing at Christmas) assumed that a lack of feeling in certain body parts shouldn't affect sleep at all. Her insomnia in such situations, they said, was something she could easily overcome. Chloe liked to remind those people that the human brain tended to keep track of all body parts, and was prone to panic when one of those parts went offline. Actually, what Chloe _liked_ to do was imagine hitting those people with a brick. But she restrained herself to scathing explanations and used her brick-hitting fantasies to occupy her when sleep refused to come.
After hours of numb-footed hell, she dragged herself up to feed Smudge, who had spent the night beside her offering moral support. If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she'd been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.
Thus fortified, and wrapped up in her favorite plush, gray onesie, she settled on the sofa and opened her laptop. Sitting at her desk wasn't happening today, no matter how much fine detail her monitors allowed. In the end, though, Chloe's choice of computer didn't matter—because, after 0.5 seconds of staring at a pixelated screen, she developed a sudden headache. Or perhaps someone had shot her. It felt roughly the same.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I will not be defeated."
Smudge miaowed supportively.
She opened her eyes and got to work.
* * *
Hours later, a knock came at the door. Chloe sat bolt upright and realized three things in quick succession:
1. She had fallen asleep. Oops.
2. The flat had warmed up considerably since this morning, because she was now far too hot in her onesie.
3. It was after five o'clock and Redford Morgan was here.
" _Fudge,_ " she muttered darkly, swiping the drool off her cheek. Judging by the fine lines and indents under her fingers, she had a mess of pillow creases on her face, too. Wonderful.
She glowered at Smudge, who was stretched out across her PlayStation with outrageous disregard for the house rules. "Why didn't you wake me?"
He waved his tale with open belligerence.
"Oh, you are _useless_. I bet you wouldn't nudge me awake during a fire. Get off there, would you?"
He casually kicked out his back paw, knocking her copy of _Overwatch_ off the TV cabinet.
"I swear," she huffed, rising to her feet and adjusting the Velcro straps of her wrist supports. "I've no idea what to do about your attitude. This is your last warning."
She tried to sound stern, but as she hurried to answer the door, she heard mocking kitty laughter echoing behind her.
Still, she couldn't worry about feline insubordination right now. She was too busy worrying about other things, like how utterly unprepared she was for Redford's arrival. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. She'd had a _plan_ —one that involved her looking calm and put together, not half asleep in a onesie designed to make her resemble a giant lemur. She hovered awkwardly by her own front door, smoothing flustered hands over her hair, wondering if her and Red's increasingly familiar emails yesterday meant they were now proper friends, or if she'd simply read too much into things.
Well, she was about to find out.
Her heart pounding thickly at the back of her throat, Chloe opened the door. And there he was, her exact opposite: cool, calm, hands in his pockets, a slow, easy smile spreading over his face. Her stomach swooped along the roller coaster curve of his mouth, the defined cupid's bow a pulse-racing drop. She ordered her lungs to continue breathing normally, but it was too late; they'd already decided to gulp down air like it was going out of style.
"Hey," Red said.
"Hmm," she replied, because coherent speech was for other people. She looked away from his disturbing smile and found herself confronted, instead, by his eyes: warm, pale green, like sun-baked grass, with fine lines at the corners that might as well be a smile in themselves. Her cheeks flushed hot. She abandoned his face entirely, in favor of his body. He was wearing a gray T-shirt that clung slightly to his broad chest, and black jeans that hinted at his heavy thighs. She could just _lick_ him. South of the belt.
"Chloe," he said.
She looked up sharply.
He arched an eyebrow, cocking his head at her until his hair slid over his shoulders like silk. Had she told him, yesterday, during those funny, giddy, friendly emails, that he had lovely hair? _Divine_ would've been more accurate.
"You okay?" he asked.
Was . . . she . . . okay . . . ? No. He was disgracefully, disgustingly handsome, and her head still ached, she was still exhausted, and her numb foot was tingling painfully back to life. But that was really no excuse for gaping at him with her tongue hanging out, so she pulled herself firmly together.
"I'm fine. Just tired. Sorry." She stepped back to let him in, running her thumbs over the line where her wrist supports ended and her skin began. _Whatever's gotten into you, Chloe Sophia Brown, exorcise it before you make a fool of yourself_.
He gave her a sympathetic, head-to-toe glance that reminded her—as though she could forget—of how terribly pathetic she must look. "Were you asleep?"
"Ah, yes," she admitted, trying for an airy laugh. It came out a bit too strained, but she forged on. "Now we've both caught each other napping, haven't we?"
She'd thought that joke would make things less awkward, but he flushed abruptly, brilliantly red. Scarlet heat colonized his whole face from the throat up.
"Yeah," he said after a strange little pause. "Napping." He cleared his throat and nodded down the hall. "So, shall we . . . ?"
Right, yes. He was here about the list, and she'd decided last night while lying awake—in between chatting with Smudge and imagining violence against everyone who'd ever wronged her—that she would treat said list as a professional endeavor. Of course, her lack of preparation today put them off to a bumpy start, but as she led Red to the living room, she felt confident she could put things back on track.
"Nice tail," he said from behind her.
She'd forgotten the onesie had a tail. Dear God, how could she forget it had a tail?
"Thank you," she said stiffly, because she was committed to regaining control over this situation. She even arranged her tail carefully before sitting down on the sofa, just to prove how utterly unconcerned she was by it.
The corner of Red's lips curled into a faint half smile as he watched. He hovered over her like an alien spaceship, seeming even huger than usual from this angle, his hair swinging forward to frame his sharp cheekbones. He didn't say another word about her tail, despite his little smile. Instead, he simply asked, "Can I sit down?"
Oh—there wasn't any more space on the sofa. She shoved away a few stray notebooks, two of her twelve pencil cases, an unopened bank statement, and a bar of sea-salt chocolate.
He snorted and sat. His weight made her sofa sink in the middle, like a marshmallow being poked. Her fleecy bottom started to slide toward the dip, closer to him. She grabbed the sofa arm and held on for dear life. Then she realized how silly that must look and let go.
"So," she said brightly. "The list! Let's discuss."
He leaned back, propping his right ankle on his left knee in that way people did when they didn't mind taking up space. Chloe had never really gotten the hang of it.
"Is that why I'm here?" he asked lightly. "For the list? I thought you were going to hold me down and sew a button onto my tongue."
Good Lord, had she really said that yesterday? What on earth had come over her? She typically saved that sort of lunacy for her sisters. "Upon reflection, I decided that holding you down would be beyond my physical capabilities."
"I don't know about that," he said. "You're shorter than me, but you're pretty tough."
For some reason, the fact that he thought she was tough made a pleased little smile curve her lips. She wiped the smile away instantly, however, because it was ridiculous. She _was_ tough. Basic facts being acknowledged should not make her chest all tingly and light.
She found the right notebook, a deep, glittering blue with black-edged pages, and turned to face him. "Since you haven't actually called me that cursed name today, I think we can hold off on your punishment."
His eyes caught hers, and he grinned in a flash of soft lips and white teeth. "I appreciate that, Button."
She slapped the notebook against his chest, biting her lip so hard she was surprised she didn't taste blood. "Shut up. Focus. We have a list to discuss."
To her surprise, he actually obeyed, the humor in his gaze replaced by something calmer, more curious. He took the notebook, and for one breathless second his thumb brushed the side of her hand, just above the straps of her wrist support. Then he was opening the book, intent on the words she'd written inside, while she was left staring at her own hand like a ninny, wondering why it seemed to fizz.
"This it?" he asked, studying the first page—the only one she'd used. "Seems kind of short."
"That isn't the original version," she told him, fiddling with the zip of her onesie. God, she was hot. "I wrote a new one that only includes the things you'll be helping me with."
Because she'd rather die than hand him the actual list, complete with item number five (meaningless sex) and the ticked-off item number seven (do something bad, e.g. _spying on him_ ). This safe, censored version only featured three things: riding a motorbike—which she'd included just to cross off, for the encouragement factor; a drunken night out; and camping.
"See?" she said, nodding over his shoulder. "Just like we discussed."
"What about your traveling?" he asked, still studying the list. He had the most adorable frown of concentration, three vertical lines between his eyebrows. A tall middle one, and then two shorter ones on either side, like a hug.
Chloe blinked. She was losing her mind.
Clearing her throat, she said, "You can't help me with traveling, so I didn't include it."
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I thought we should talk about that. I want to make sure you realize that traveling the world with hand luggage is basically backpacking."
She shrugged, unzipping her onesie ever so slightly. A tiny bead of sweat had started to drip down her spine. "Well, I was envisioning a rucksack containing a large supply of clean knickers, painkillers, chocolate, and a toothbrush. If that's what backpacking is—"
"Close enough," he cut in dryly.
"Then a backpacker I shall be." She had this wild idea that it would feel more like an adventure if she was missing most of the things she needed to survive. She'd be an intrepid lady version of Indiana Jones.
He looked up, and she swallowed. It turned out his concentration frown was even more arresting when it was aimed at her. "It just doesn't seem like your thing. That's all."
"It isn't. That's the point." She _did_ want to travel, but the "only-hand-luggage" part was supposed to be a challenge. "Once I've completed the rest of the list," she told him, "I'll be so used to daring exploits that backpacking will seem completely manageable."
He laughed, then realized she was serious. "Ah. Okay. But aren't you worried about your—?"
"If you ask about my health I will strangle you."
He choked down another laugh and nodded gravely. "Fair enough. You know what you're doing."
Debatable, but she was working on it.
"All right," he said, with that abrupt firmness that usually indicated someone was ready to take action. "You got a pen?"
Her mind blanked with confusion for a second—she really wasn't firing on all cylinders today—before she nodded and found one among the debris. Smudge had moved, at some point, from the PlayStation to the equally forbidden coffee table. She shot him a warning glare, which he haughtily ignored, before handing Red the pen. It was gold, with a clear little ball at the top filled with glitter and pink stars.
Red held the pen up to the light for a moment, staring at it with the oddest expression on his face—a sort of quiet, bone-deep pleasure, his smile slight and fond. He asked, "Where'd you get this?"
Of all possible interests they might share, she hadn't expected pretty pens to be one of them. But she supposed an artist would like beautiful things. "A shop on Etsy. I can email you the page."
"Yeah," he said, shaking the pen, watching the glitter dance. "Thanks. Can I write in this?" He tapped the notebook.
"You can." Although she really hadn't expected him to.
"All right. Let's see . . ." He flipped over to a clean page and wrote something down, those sharp eyes narrowed, his big, work-roughened, paint-spattered hand dwarfing the golden pen. "You free tomorrow night?"
"No. I promised my sister I'd watch _My Fair Lady_ with her to make up for my lack of commitment to karaoke."
Red looked up, his expression a cross between confusion and wry amusement. "Uh . . . what?"
"Nothing," she muttered, waving a hand. Apparently, she overshared now. Wonderful. Very cool, extremely professional, everything was going swimmingly. Kill her now.
"Okay," he said slowly, a knowing light in his eyes. "Babysitting Eve. Got it. Saturday?"
She didn't ask how he'd known the sister in question was Eve. "I'm free on Saturday."
"Great. I'll take you out for drinks then."
For some reason, it wasn't until he said those words that she realized where he was going with his questions. Or rather, where he'd already gone. Her mouth dried up as if she were hungover in advance, and her onesie grew even warmer, like a furry torture chamber. "Saturday night," she laughed nervously. "So . . . so soon."
He looked up again, his three-line-frown back. "Is that okay?"
"Oh, yes. Why wouldn't it be?" she squeaked. Saturday night, drinking and dancing, just as she'd planned. Lovely. Delightful. The stuff of dreams.
"Because," Red said slowly, "if you don't want to do it—"
She sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous."
He ignored her. "—you could just . . . not do it."
"Preposterous."
"Since this is _your_ list and all," he finished gently.
She glowered. "The list is not up for debate. I look forward to Saturday, when we will go to various shady establishments and drink far too much alcohol together."
"Yeah," he said dryly, scribbling something on the page. "I bet. Anywhere in particular you want to go?"
She wracked her brain, trying to remember the places she and her friends used to visit—back when she'd had friends. But she'd been at university then, in another city. She had no idea what was good here, where was fun. She sat up straight, cleared her throat, and said calmly, "I shall leave all major decisions to you. Just—make it, you know. Edgy."
He arched an eyebrow, scribbling a few more lines. "Edgy. Aye aye, Captain Button."
"Oh, shut up."
"Next," he said, "camping. Want me to handle that, too?"
Since he was turning out to be surprisingly organized, it wasn't difficult to say "Yes." He was supposed to be helping her, after all. And, since he was ordinary in all the ways Chloe and her family were not, he presumably had a touch more experience in outdoor pursuits than she did.
"All right," he said, then seemed to stop and think for a second, all his swirling vitality pausing along with his hands. She recognized this considering stillness from the nights she'd spied on him.
But she wouldn't think about spying on him. She was overheated enough without guilt adding to the issue, and one of the many curses of fibromyalgia was an inability to maintain homeostasis. If she got _too_ hot, she'd simply pass out. She decided to open a window while Red was too distracted to ask why. He was staring at nothing beside her, running his knuckles back and forth over his lower lip.
She'd never seen him do that before. How fortunate that, the first time she witnessed it, there was a mountain of fleecy fabric in place to hide the way her nipples reacted.
She opened the window—ah, sweet air—and returned to the sofa just as he started writing again. His voice absent, he asked, "How long did you want to camp for?"
_As little time as possible_. "Oh, just a night should do," she said awkwardly. "I know you're very busy."
"I could do Saturday to Sunday, next week?"
She didn't need to check her schedule to know she was depressingly unengaged on those evenings, and most evenings, forever after.
_No. Not forever. You're getting a life, remember?_
"That should work for me," she said brightly.
"Cool. I have a place in mind, but I'll look into it and let you know." He finally put the pen down. His writing, she noticed, was surprisingly neat. There was wildness there, but it was carefully restrained. Every now and then it trickled from the swooping curl of a _g_ or _y_ , burst from the seams of an _I_. Before she could stare any longer, he snapped the notebook shut and put it on the coffee table, along with the pen. "There's something I need to ask you."
The slow, deliberate way he said those words, as if he were plotting his way through a booby-trapped room, put her on her guard. "Yes?" she asked crisply.
He turned his whole body toward her, his right knee disturbingly close to her thigh. She could feel the heat and the life and something else, something that tightened her belly, radiating off him and sinking dangerously deep into her. She stiffened and stared straight ahead.
"Come on, Chlo," he said softly. "Don't do that. We're . . . friends, aren't we?"
She didn't know what surprised her more—that casual shortening of her name, the kind of easy intimacy she'd had from no one but her sisters in years . . . or the fact that he thought they were friends. "A week ago you barely even liked me."
Most people would probably deny that, but he just shrugged, smiling slightly. "You didn't like me, either. But now that I know you better, I think you're funny and secretly sweet, and I _do_ like you. I'm hoping you like me, too."
A weightless, tingling warmth suffused her as she battled a big, silly smile. Yesterday, she'd almost convinced herself that the dizzying tone of his emails was just his natural charm, the one she'd seen him flashing around like fifty-pound notes plenty of times. Apparently not. Apparently, he'd meant the little jokes and the kindnesses.
What a relief, since she had, too.
But her pleasure at his words, at the way he described her, was too enthusiastic, so she reined herself in. Changed the subject. Reminded herself he wanted to ask difficult questions. "Fine. We're friends. Now what is it?"
His smile didn't waver, as gentle as his words. "I know you're sick," he said. "I'm not trying to get full details, or anything. But if you've never done this stuff because of your health, I need to know what the risks are. What to do if you need help. All that shit."
_Sigh._ "I have fibromyalgia. Chronic pain, chronic fatigue, migraines, random periods of muscle weakness. Physical exertion can result in flare-ups, but I know my limits."
He arched an eyebrow. "Except for the times when you climb trees to save cats."
"I knew my limits then, too," she sniffed, relaxing a little, leaning closer to him. God, why was she leaning closer to him? "I simply decided I wanted to rescue Smudge more than I wanted to be sensible. But I wouldn't do that with you," she added quickly. "And I won't need to. I'm not physically incapable of completing those tasks, though I might require accommodations that others wouldn't. I don't need your help because of my disability. The list is about . . . something else."
Red nodded slowly, his gaze focused on her like a laser. There was an unexpected warmth in that gaze, one that tricked her into speaking further when she should have shut her mouth.
"I didn't used to be, you know . . ." She waved a hand. "A socially inept control freak."
His lips curved. "That's not exactly what I'd call you."
"I'm sure you'd choose something more blunt."
"No," he said, but that was all he said. And now she wanted to know what he'd been thinking. Too late; he swept the conversation along. "So what changed? What made you start thinking of your life in two halves—before and after?"
Her heart stuttered for one dangerous moment. "I . . . how did you—?"
"I have some experience with that feeling myself," he said, raking a hand through the silken sunset of his hair. He sounded vaguely sad. "I guess I recognize it in you."
"Yes," she murmured, because that made sense. "I see it in your paintings."
His eyes widened for a moment and color appeared on his high cheekbones. "Oh."
Now she was blushing, too. She hadn't meant to embarrass him. She certainly hadn't meant to admit so much knowledge of his art. She got too comfortable around him and things slipped out when they shouldn't. "I only meant—I was researching, for the website, and I found some of your older work, and there's a distinct—"
With a kindness she didn't really deserve, he cut her off. "I know what you mean. It's fine." He studied her for a moment as if her skin were translucent, and he could peer inside her head if only the light hit her just right. She felt uncomfortably like the light was hitting her just right. "You know, for someone who happily admits to being rude, you seem to care a lot about hurting my feelings."
Her derisive snort was automatic, a familiar shield. "Don't flatter yourself. I care about everyone's feelings."
"Yeah? What about your own?"
She sucked in a breath to say something cutting or witty or otherwise distracting, only it got caught in a tangle at the back of her throat.
"Tell me what happened," he said, his proximity turning her pulse into a tempest. "Tell me about your before."
# Chapter Ten
Red didn't know why he was pushing, why he felt so ravenous for any scrap of the woman sitting before him. But when she curled her knees under her and faced him completely, when those spilled-ink eyes met his and her velvet voice wrapped around him, it felt right. It felt like exactly what he'd wanted.
Even though her quiet words ripped into his chest.
"I used to have friends. I used to have a fiancé, even." She said that with a wry smile and an arch of those winged eyebrows, like she thought that might surprise him. It did, and it didn't. She wasn't a social person, exactly, but she was damned hypnotic. Of course she'd had friends. And yet, apparently, she'd also lost them.
"I suppose the end of all that started when I got pneumonia," she said, hooking her arm around a nearby cushion, pressing it to her chest. "Apparently, I nearly died. All I remember is how it felt." He wondered if she noticed she was squeezing that cushion, the sort of vulnerable move she usually avoided like the plague. Probably not. In the space of a few seconds, she'd somehow become so distant.
"My bones were like eggshells. There was this cold, wet toad squatting on my chest, too heavy and chilling for me to breathe right." She said it so steadily, but he saw a hint of remembered panic in her eyes. "I remember being so angry with myself, because it was so silly, the way I got sick. I used to play netball, and I'd been nervous about a particular game. I stayed out in the rain with some of my friends, running drills. We won the match, but I was in the hospital a few days later. Obviously, I survived," she quipped, as if he needed a reminder of her continued existence.
He didn't laugh. "But . . . ?"
"But," she went on grimly, "my body was different. The weight on my chest, and the cold—they faded, as I got better. But my bones still felt fragile. It never went away. Over the months, I noticed more and more problems. I was exhausted all the time. I got these awful headaches for no reason. And there was the pain—always, so much pain. I'd go for a walk and feel like I'd worked every muscle to the point of tearing. If I spent too long on my laptop, my hands would hurt so badly I cried. I started feeling afraid of my own body, like it was a torture chamber I'd been trapped inside.
"But when I asked for help, no one would listen. I'm lucky my family believed me, because for years, they were the only ones. I remember one doctor asked to speak with my father, even though I was an adult. He told my dad I was physically fine, but they should look into my mental health." She laughed, but the sound was too loud, too edgy, grating against his skin.
Red curled his hands into useless fists in his lap, fighting the urge to touch her. To stroke her hair or pull her into a hug, the way he might if she were someone—anyone—else. Usually, he offered comfort to help other people. But she looked so determinedly brittle right now, eyes sharp, jaw hard, chin up, he knew comfort wasn't what she wanted. He'd only be doing it for himself, because he could see how trapped she'd felt, and it made him feel hollow inside.
"I mean, don't get me wrong," she said dryly, "my mental health _was_ a mess at that point. And having actual medical professionals dismiss me really didn't help, so . . ." She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
"Of course it didn't," he said, his voice rough, almost rusty, with the anger he didn't want to show. "Whether something bad is coming from your body or your brain, it makes no difference. Still feels like shit, right? Still hurts. Still needs fixing. They shouldn't have dismissed you, even if it was in your head. When it comes down to it, everything we feel is in our heads."
She opened her eyes. Wet her lips. Nodded slowly, and looked a little bit less tortured. When she spoke again, her voice was smooth and arch and familiar. "I do hate to admit when you're right, but you happen to have stumbled upon a sensible opinion, there."
Somehow, for her, he dredged up a smile. "Must be a blue moon. Keep going."
She swallowed so hard, he heard it. "Right. Yes. Well. I was diagnosed, in the end. My consultant believes major physical trauma can trigger conditions like mine. She thinks it was the pneumonia. But that doesn't really matter. What matters is that, for years, I had no idea what was really happening to my body. No painkillers, no physical therapy, no medical support whatsoever. So I did what I had to do. I developed my own coping mechanisms. The problem is, they weren't particularly healthy."
He wondered what it was like, to cope constantly. Tiring, probably. Stressful, definitely. Doing it alone didn't sound healthy at all.
"I avoided anything that might make me feel worse," she said. "I was afraid." No inflection. No emotion. As if she was reading someone else's story from a sheet of paper. "I quit netball. I quit my postgrad degree. I stopped going out with my friends. I didn't stay up late because sleep was too precious. I refused to make plans because I never knew when my body might force me to change them. My friends disappeared one by one. I suppose my problems made them feel guilty."
"And your fiancé?" Red asked softly.
"Oh, Henry," she laughed. "He lost patience almost immediately. He didn't believe me."
" _What?_ " Red had been trying to stay calm throughout this story, to avoid showing his own reactions in case they affected what she chose to share. But he couldn't have hidden his disgust in that moment, not even if he'd pulled out his own fucking tongue.
She shrugged, but a smile teased the edges of her mouth, as if she found his obvious horror amusing. "There was no blood test or scan or injury to prove that I was really in pain. He was very logical, you see. He needed evidence and I had none."
"Your word isn't evidence? Your feelings aren't evidence?" Red demanded, his tone harsher than he'd intended. But he couldn't help it. He'd seen the change in Chloe when her pain got too serious to handle. Fuck, he saw her _now,_ when she was trying to seem fine but was clearly exhausted. Black circles under her beautiful eyes, weariness clinging to her like a shadow. How the fuck could someone who planned to marry her just ignore all that?
"Henry thought I was malingering," she told him. "That I was being pathetic, I was too demanding, I needed too much support." Her lip curled, displaying a flash of anger that had been absent so far, one he was actually relieved to see now. "He disappeared on me without much remorse, but I consider that a lucky escape."
So did Red. "He doesn't sound like marriage material."
Her eyes slid to his, sparkling with humor. "No."
"He sounds like the type of guy who finds out his wife has cancer and starts screwing his secretary to relieve the stress."
"Yes," she said, smiling now.
"Fuck him."
"I pity whoever is," she smirked. Then she waved a hand and the moment of camaraderie passed. "I've learned how to manage my symptoms, now, of course. I have medication, physiotherapy, cognitive therapy. I'm fine, really. But I feel like a part of me hasn't caught up with that. Like I'm still afraid of myself. That's what the list is for. To help me get my bravery back."
She began that speech sounding like her usual self, but toward the end she started to mumble, her voice growing smaller, her eyes skating away from his. Like she was embarrassed to say the most badass thing he'd ever heard.
He couldn't let that stand. "Hey."
She pursed her lips and glared at him without much heat. "What?"
"If this list is supposed to make you braver, you're gonna be fucking Wonder Woman by the time we're done."
She snorted, rolling her eyes, but he could tell she was pleased. It oozed out of her like jam from a layer cake, and he was lapping the sweetness up, desperate for more.
"Also," he added, "just to make it really clear: your fiancé was a fucking donkey cock for leaving you."
He liked the way she laughed at that, not her usual, low chuckle, but a gasping, breathless giggle that she clearly hadn't meant to show him. She pressed her hands to her plumped-up cheeks as if she could push the laughter back inside, but it didn't work. She just kept going, and his grin grew wider and wider.
"Your friends were fucking useless and all," he told her. "Load of twats, the lot of them."
She pressed a hand to her chest, over the ridiculous, furry all-in-one thing she was wearing. "True," she managed between giggles. "Very true. Although, I don't know why I told you about that. It's not the point. It's incidental."
Did she really believe that, when he could see her pain a mile off? When her eyes shuttered with sadness as she talked about the people who hadn't stuck by her? His voice softened. "You should make new friends now. You shouldn't be lonely."
That wiped the smile off her face, though not from her eyes. She scowled at him, trying to look outraged. For some twisted reason, he liked it. "I don't need new friends," she said, "and I am not lonely."
"You are," he insisted, partly because it was true, mostly because he enjoyed pissing her off almost as much as he enjoyed making her laugh.
Stubborn as fuck, she shot back, "I am not."
"You are."
"Redford Morgan, I will throw you out of my flat."
He grinned. "But I have a key."
"Which you would never use without due cause," she countered, "because you are a very good superintendent."
There was that flash of dizzying sweetness, the one she kept teasing him with. The one that made his grin turn wicked and his voice dip low, even as his logical brain screamed that flirting was a shitty idea. "Oh yeah? How good?"
She blinked rapidly, and he could've sworn she was blushing. "Well, I . . . I don't know," she muttered awkwardly. "I don't actually have much experience with superintendents."
"So I'm your first. Good to know."
She was definitely blushing now. " _Red_."
"I'm just teasing you, Button." He was, wasn't he? Teasing her, and enjoying it way too much. "Don't faint on me now."
"Right," she said dryly. "Excuse me while I swoon."
She looked hot enough to, in that outfit. The fluffy, gray pajamas swallowed her whole, and even though she'd opened a window earlier, he could see a bead of sweat creeping down the line of her throat. His eyes followed that tiny drop's path like he was a wolf and it was lunch. Now he'd noticed it, he couldn't look away. Couldn't drag his thoughts away. Couldn't remember what, exactly, they'd been talking about—only that he'd made her blush and he'd enjoyed it.
The drop had reached the hollow between her collarbones now, exposed by her slightly lowered zipper. He wanted to lick it away.
Wait—no he didn't. No. He. Didn't.
Oh, for fuck's sake. Yes he did.
"Red?" she said, her voice a little bit shaky. But not the way it had been earlier. This time, it shook the way his muscles did when he was pushing it at the gym. Like she was aching with adrenaline.
"You should really take that off," he said, his throat dry, his mouth moving like it belonged to someone else.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She patted nervously at her hair. "Take what off?"
"Your clothes," he said, because he was concerned for her health, obviously. "Whatever that thing is you're wearing. You should take it off."
* * *
Chloe replied, rather intelligently, "Eep."
"You're sweating," Red went on, his gaze oddly fixated at the base of her throat. Probably staring in mild disgust at the aforementioned sweat.
For approximately the thousandth time that day, she cursed her numb-footed, sleepless night and all that it had led to. There he sat, devastatingly handsome, and she was sweating in a lemur outfit like a child who didn't know how to dress herself.
She tangled her fingers in the fabric, scrabbled for the last scraps of her dignity, and said firmly, "I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine." His gaze moved from her throat to her face, studying her with a stomach-clenching intensity that made her blood shudder its way through her veins.
The way he watched her made Chloe feel so . . . present. Noticed. Touched, and not in the emotional way. Her skin tingled in anticipation of a contact that would never be made. She was suddenly, disturbingly conscious of the fact that she wore very little under this onesie. _Very little,_ as in, he could rip down the zip and she'd be standing there in nothing but her knickers.
This odd attraction she felt toward him was getting out of hand. She kept hearing a feral edge to his voice that couldn't possibly be there, felt a heat in his gaze that must be 100 percent her imagination. She tried to control her breathing and look innocent, as opposed to looking like the depraved mess she was. It didn't work.
"Chloe?" Red nudged, his little frown returning. She wanted to smooth it out with her fingers.
"What?" she asked faintly.
Gigi appeared helpfully on her shoulder and said, _"Don't mumble, darling. Nice big voice. Repeat after me: 'I want to ride you like a stallion.'"_
Dani appeared on Chloe's other shoulder and drawled, _"Don't forget to say, 'Please.'"_
A tiny, phantom Eve joined the fray and said, _"Don't listen to those two. Actions speak louder than words. Jump him."_
"You're too hot," Red said.
"I'm not."
He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. The contact sent a jagged shock of arousal through her. She didn't mean to react, but her next inhale came rather sharply—so sharply she made a soft, hungry sound. And he noticed. Oops. After a pause, he caught her chin and turned her to face him, which was unfair, because staring straight ahead had been her only coping strategy. His gaze unraveled her expertly in approximately 2.3 seconds. She saw the precise moment that he realized she was a breathless, horny little demon with a ridiculous crush on him. His eyes widened slightly, as if she'd shocked him witless.
Then those spring-green irises heated, were slowly swallowed up by dark pupils. He sighed, almost shakily. He leaned closer and bent his head until his brow rested against her temple, skin on skin, technically chaste. And yet, it felt so reckless, so charged, so shockingly intimate. His hair was a curtain cutting the both of them off from reality, silk swinging softly against her cheek. The scent of him, warm and earthy and comforting, imprinted itself in her mind, forever associated with this moment. This trembling, achingly close moment when they breathed, deep and desperate, in sync.
Once upon a time, Chloe remembered, she had absolutely loved sex.
"So, it's like that," he murmured, the words almost tender, sinking into her skin.
"No." Her voice was a ragged whisper, broken by sharp inhalations. She was drinking down his presence before he could take it away.
He laughed softly, each puff of air a kiss to her sensitive throat. "You are such a shitty liar."
"True." She closed her eyes. The way he drew her in, from his smile to his confidence to his honest charm . . . this attraction was forceful and unexpected, a riptide lying in wait beneath the smooth surface of her own mind. Now she'd sunk a bit too deep and been snatched under.
She wasn't sure which way was up anymore.
He found the fingers she'd tangled up in fleecy fabric and eased them gently apart, which was a relief, because she'd been in danger of clenching her fists hard enough to hurt herself. It took her a second to realize that he was holding her hand. She could feel his cool, dry palm against her clammy one, right up to the point where her wrist supports covered her skin. _He was holding her hand._ He was lacing their fingers together carefully, as if to connect them. Why?
She didn't know how to ask, and since she liked it, asking seemed silly anyway. He might come to his senses and let go. _She_ might come to her senses and pull away. Far better to keep quiet.
He kissed her jaw. Softly, so softly, but she still whimpered.
He'd been so slow and languid, but at the sound of that whimper, everything about him tensed. He murmured roughly, "I like that," and brushed his lips over her skin again, as if to tease out more sound. Her nipples tightened, but she swallowed her breathy sigh. So he tried harder, though it felt lighter. His tongue flicked her earlobe, traced the shell of her ear. She moaned. He made a low, raw noise of satisfaction and held her hand tighter, as if he were sinking, too, and he needed something to cling to.
She was dissolving like sugar in hot tea. Her breaths were shallow, her temperature was rocketing in a way that had nothing to do with her outfit, and her desire was a drumbeat pulse pounding between her legs. Her pussy was so swollen it felt like a fist clenched between her thighs. She was coming apart at the seams. Thank her lucky stars that all he'd done so far was tease, because if he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might faint dead away.
If he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might bite back.
And then what? Would he strip her naked, shag her senseless, and see her on Saturday night to continue the list? She didn't know. She didn't know. What did it mean, when a man you made deals with and sent slightly flirtatious emails to licked your ear and held your hand? What did it _mean_? It certainly wasn't professional, or transactional, or simple. Not in her case, anyway. She was quite sure of that.
He slid a hand over the back of her neck, warm and solid and deliciously firm. Sensation spiked between her legs. "Chloe," he said, his voice like gravel. "I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?"
He turned her on so badly she felt dizzy. She couldn't look at him, because she knew what she'd see: living, breathing sex, a man who could so easily make a mess of her. She was melting for him and they barely knew each other. She wanted to sob out her pleasure and he'd barely done anything to cause it. She. Was. Losing. Control.
She made herself whisper, "Stop."
He obeyed her the same way he did everything: calm, easy, as though it had been his idea. His mouth left her skin before she'd even finished speaking the word. The warmth of his proximity faded and she knew he'd pulled back. He squeezed her hand once before he let go.
His expression was unreadable—but his cheeks were flushed. Her mind fixated on that because it seemed so impossibly vulnerable. Impossible full stop. Why would he be flushed? He was cool and confident and probably made women wet with a bit of hyper-sexy hand-holding a few times a week, just to keep himself sharp. Except, according to the kiss of crimson painting his high cheekbones, maybe he didn't.
The sight of that flush—of the slightly glassy look in his eyes, of his soft, parted lips—filled her with reckless regret. She wanted to grab him by the hair and drag him back. She wanted to twine their fingers together again and ground herself in him. It was on her list, after all—meaningless sex. But some wise and protective instinct, hidden deep in the prehistoric part of her brain, warned her that nothing would be meaningless with someone like Red. And if it wasn't meaningless, she didn't want it. When it came to feelings, to relationships, to _more,_ Chloe was off men.
He shut his eyes for one long moment, and when they opened again he looked a little more like himself and a little less like a creature sent from Planet Lust to sex her to death. Which was good. Very, very good.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, clearly concerned. "Did I . . . ?"
Gosh, he was sweet. She needed to get him out of here before she cracked completely.
"I'm fine," she said brightly. Possibly a touch _too_ brightly, but it was too late now; she was committed. "I'll see you on Saturday, to continue with the list." She sounded like a chipmunk on helium.
He hesitated, then said quietly, "Do you still want to do that? With me, I mean? It's okay if you don't."
_Oh, I want to do a lot with you._
She was going to have to start tapping herself on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Her mind was out of control and needed training.
"Yes, I still want to do that. With you. I promise, everything's fine." She stood up and made vague, shooing motions in his direction. "Off you go, then."
He stood, too, smiling now. "I wrote the details in your little book. I know you like plans."
"Wonderful. Fabulous. Much appreciated." She shoved him bodily out of the room.
His smile widened. "I take it you don't want to talk about—?"
"Good-bye, Redford!" She herded him toward the hall.
"—about me kissing your—"
"Ah, ah!" She strode past him to unlock the front door, holding it open. "No more talk. I am a poor, disabled woman who is not to be harassed with unnecessary conversation."
He burst out laughing.
She pushed him out of the door.
# Chapter Eleven
Saturday evening had never been so fraught.
Two days—and a few too many flushed, forbidden daydreams—after that Very Professional Meeting with Red, Chloe sat with her laptop perched on her knees and her sparkly blue notebook in one hand. He had indeed written out the details for her, right down to the bars and nightclubs they would visit. And, as she passed the time until his arrival by researching those establishments online, she couldn't help but notice that they were all very close together.
Close enough that walking from building to building probably wouldn't tire her out.
She closed her browser window with a tut, still not sure if she was pleased by that discovery or if she found Red's behavior presumptuous. She had a feeling it was the former, but she so wanted to believe the latter. It would make it considerably easier to resist feeling mushy things toward him. And, since escaping his intoxicating presence and remembering that men possessed less loyalty than the average flea and caused more emotional trouble than they were worth, Chloe had decided she must indeed resist.
It wasn't that she assumed he'd leap at the chance to become the next fiancé to abandon her. But, whatever their relationship, he would leave her life eventually—everyone did, in the end—and it would be easier to watch him go if they kept the kissing to a minimum. It would probably be easier if they kept the funny, flirty emails to a minimum, too, but he'd kept sending those, and . . . well. Ignoring him would be rude. Plus, he took her mind off of certain things. Somewhat.
On the coffee table, Smudge was delicately licking his own arsehole in flagrant convention of the established house rules—a sight that, bizarrely, plucked at something sad beneath Chloe's breastbone. Beside him sat Chloe's phone, and from the speakers a familiar voice was emanating. It had not stopped emanating, in fact, for the last ten bloody minutes.
"You're very grumpy today, darling," Gigi said. "Are you feeling delicate?"
"No," Chloe said, the word both flat and honest. She was physically passable; her misery was 100 percent emotional today. Being unhappy made her irritable. Even more irritable than severe back pain.
"Well, whatever is the matter, then?" Gigi asked.
Redford-based confusion and Saturday-night anxiety aside, Smudge was the matter. Chloe had finally taken him to the vet's yesterday, and what had she discovered? Why, that he had an owner, of course. An owner who'd put a chip in him like he was some sort of computer. The vet assured her that chips were both humane and safety conscious, but since Smudge's chip meant that she absolutely could not keep him, she found herself violently opposed to the concept.
"Darling," Gigi murmured, "are you growling?"
Chloe gave herself a little shake. "Absolutely not. Why would I ever do such a thing?"
Gigi sighed fondly. "Such strange granddaughters I have. I'm so proud. Your father is depressingly ordinary."
Chloe's dad was a financial analyst with zero inclination toward the outrageous, which disappointed Gigi no end. He never took off his herringbone coat, and speed-walked everywhere, and said things like "Bear with me a moment, please." He'd spent Chloe's entire school career slipping encouraging notes into her book bag because he knew how much she hated English class. If Martin Brown was ordinary, she wished everyone else would be. But she didn't bother saying any of that, because Gigi would roll her eyes and call his tie choices _utterly uninspired_.
"I'm not strange."
"You are, darling. Not as strange as Danika, I'll grant you, but still. Now, what have you been up to today, my sweet little onion?"
_Onion_ was not the weirdest thing Chloe had ever been called by her grandmother. "I took my stray cat to the vet and discovered that he belongs to a control freak with no respect for the sanctity of the feline body. Her name is Annie."
" _Annie?_ Outrageous. I despise her already."
"She is on holiday, if you believe it," Chloe said acidly. "Her cat is missing, and she has gone abroad!"
" _Thoroughly_ shocking," murmured Gigi, who had once gone on a cruise of the Mediterranean while her third husband remained at home with a shattered femur. Of course, as she had informed all who questioned her decision: _"_ I _did not tell the fool to shatter his femur during a perfectly lovely July."_
"When she returns," Chloe bit out, "she will phone me, and I will be expected to hop to it and give back her cat. Well, I don't know if she's fit to own a cat. I found Smudge in mortal peril!"
A reasonable person might have pointed out that no cat had ever died of falling from a tree, and also that cats were uncontrollable creatures, but luckily, Gigi wasn't reasonable. She said in soothing tones, "The woman is an unfit mother. I'm sure of it."
"So am I! Do you know—" Chloe was cut off by a knock at the door. Her middle melted like chocolate fudge cake. She hadn't realized the time. It was Red. The skin over her collarbone tingled, as if he'd marked her with his heated gaze.
"Are you there, darling?" Gigi nudged.
Chloe cleared her throat and locked her inappropriate thoughts away. _Back in the vault you go._ "I have to go. Someone's at the door."
" _Someone,_ hm?" Gigi said gleefully. "Why, darling. Whoever could it be? You sound flustered."
"I'm not flustered. And I don't know who it is."
"You sound," Gigi murmured, "as though you are telling fibs."
How could she tell? She could always tell. It must be a grandmotherly superpower. "We'll talk about this later," Chloe squeaked. "Got to dash love you bye!" She ended the call, huffed out a breath, then patted her robe self-consciously. Between worrying about tonight and worrying about Smudge, she'd somehow managed to lose all sense of time—and now Red was here, and she was barely dressed, and oh, God, this was all going horribly. She grabbed Smudge for good luck and rushed to get the door.
Still, she felt oddly buoyant—almost giddy—as she went.
Redford was big and broad on her welcome mat, his smile almost tentative, his hair spilling over his shoulders like liquid fire. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms ridged with fine veins and thick tendons, and sprinkled with barely visible, golden hair. Not that she was staring, or anything.
"Evening," he said, his voice low and rich. And calm. Always calm. Clearly, he was not at all bothered by the fact that the last time they'd seen each other, he'd slid his _tongue_ over her _ear_.
Well, if he wasn't bothered, then neither was she. "I'm very sorry," she said, holding Smudge against her chest. "I'm afraid I'm going to make us late."
* * *
Chloe's email that afternoon had been short and to the point, but Red must have learned her language these past few days, because he'd known straightaway she was upset.
Took Smudge to the vet. He's chipped. Has owner.
Oh, yeah. She was upset. But she obviously didn't want to talk about it, so he hadn't planned on bringing it up.
Then she answered the door with that apologetic frown, her lip caught between her teeth and Smudge held against her chest, and he couldn't have kept his mouth shut for all the money on earth. "Are you okay?" he asked, completely ignoring what she'd just said, because apparently he was that kind of guy now.
She raised her eyebrows, that divine, Rococo face as striking as ever. "I'm in a mood, but then, I usually am. Why?"
"I got your message about Smudge, and—"
"I don't want to talk about Smudge," she said, her voice sharp.
Not so long ago, that sharpness would've jabbed him like a thorn. Now it popped his heart like a balloon, because he knew it meant that she was hurting, and hiding, and dealing with her feelings all alone.
Women who saved cats and wrote ridiculous lists and took deals painfully seriously shouldn't deal with their feelings alone. No one should.
But before he could tell her that, something about her seemed to soften, and she said quickly, "We're going to have fun this evening. It will be a list-ticking success. That's what I want to think about. Not Smudge."
He ran a hand through his hair and nodded, holding her gaze. Her eyes were big and dark and a little too bright behind her glasses. He wanted to touch her, but all things considered, that was probably a bad idea. So he kept his clumsy hands to himself, and swore silently that he'd make her smile tonight. One way or another. "All right," he said.
The tension between them dissolved, or maybe it had just faded for a while. "Come on, then," she said brightly, stepping back to let him in. Which was when he noticed her outfit—or her lack of one. She was wearing some silky robe thing, and the skirt ended just above the knee. He'd been drooling over her fucking ankles for weeks. Now he stared at the inch of thigh just above her knees and decided he should've jacked off before he came over. Twice. Three times, even. His balls ached just looking at her. Was this normal? This couldn't be normal.
She shoved the cat at him, turned in a dangerous whirl of short, silky skirt, and started off down the hall.
Red stared at the cat. The cat stared at him. If he were the kind of man who really understood animals, he might say this particular cat was sending him a telepathic message that went something like, _Get your dirty pervert eyes off my mum._
"Sorry, mate," he muttered, and shut the door, and made his way to the living room.
She was bending over by the TV, switching off all the plug sockets. The hem of her robe lifted for a split second and he caught a flash of bare, brown skin before he looked away. All his nerve endings sparked to life, even as he begged them to calm the hell down. Everything in him turned hot and liquid, except his dick, which was, of course, rock fucking hard. He sat down and held Smudge over his lap.
And, because God was having a great time taking the piss out of Red today, Chloe turned around and zeroed in on the sight with a smile. "I thought you didn't like cats?"
"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "Maybe I judged before I really got to know them. They're not as snooty as they seem. My bad."
He watched as surprise flickered across her face. "Oh." She shot him a quick, shy smile and his heart burst like a firework. "Okay then. Um . . . I'm just going to get dressed. I'll be five minutes."
"Don't rush. It doesn't matter if we're later than we planned."
She gave him the same indulgent nod mothers gave their nonsense-babbling toddlers and hurried out of the room, probably intending to ignore him.
While she was gone, Red decided to occupy himself by listing the many, many reasons why he shouldn't lust after Chloe anymore, even if he desperately wanted to, really enjoyed it, and wasn't totally sure he could stop.
1. 1. He'd come on to her and she had very firmly shut him down. No matter how much he thought about the taste of her skin, or the sound of her moans, it wasn't happening. So he should stop torturing himself now.
2. 2. If he didn't stop, she might notice, and then she'd be uncomfortable. He was her superintendent, for Christ's sake—which he probably should've thought about before he'd put his hands on her. He couldn't make her uncomfortable. It just wasn't right.
3. 2.5 Vik would slaughter him. And then Alisha would beat his corpse with a hairbrush.
4. 3. Thoughts of her were starting to distract him at work.
5. 4. He hadn't masturbated this much since he was a kid, and he was worried his balls might permanently shrivel up like walnuts.
He was just working on number five when Chloe reappeared, ruining everything. He'd thought the robe was bad, but now . . . now, she wore a dress the color of gold-edged moonlight, the fabric stretching tight over roller-coaster curves that deserved their own hazard warning. That outfit cupped every inch of her the way his hands wanted to. Her cleavage was so deep she might as well just throw in the towel and go topless. He consoled himself with the fact that the dress was longer than the robe, until she moved and a thigh-high slit made itself known. Fuck.
Her face wasn't any easier to look at. Her eyes yanked him in like twin black holes and her lush lips shone with some kind of makeup. Her hair was different, pulled back in a thick, fancy braid he didn't know the name of, one he'd like to wrap around his fist while he kissed her pretty mouth.
He was fucked. He was absolutely fucked.
She came to stand in front of him, clutching a little gold bag. "Is this appropriate?"
Appropriate? He cleared his throat. _Don't fuck up. Don't fuck up. Don't fuck up._ "Well. It doesn't have buttons, but it'll do."
She laughed and hit him on the shoulder with her bag. He wondered absently if he'd survive the night.
# Chapter Twelve
Walking toward the entrance of a nightclub was like leaping back in time. Except, in her teens and early twenties, Chloe had never felt the cold, whereas right now she was shivering her barely supported tits off.
The night was made of layered shadows and flashing, neon lights, rain an icy threat in the air that kissed her overheated skin, freezing her nervousness dead. She was too busy regretting her skimpy outfit to question if she should be here at all. That, she supposed, was a solid silver lining.
Red was in front of her, his big body a wind barrier she shamelessly huddled behind. He was holding her hand, tugging her along like a boat, and she knew he did it so they wouldn't get separated in the busy dark—only, she couldn't help but remember the last time he'd held her hand. Her heart pounded now just as fast as it had then. He'd been so tender, to touch her like that as he pulled her apart with his kiss. She still couldn't decide what it meant. Her logical brain said, _It means he_ likes _you, obviously!_
And maybe—probably—he did. But it couldn't be that simple, or that lovely. Things never were, for Chloe.
Their first stop of the night had the cheapest drinks, which, Red had explained in the taxi, was strategic. She'd tried to point out that expensive drinks wouldn't bother her, but he'd muttered something about posh money wasters and told her to get into the spirit of the thing. So here they were, heading toward a slightly shady-looking club with a small field of cigarette butts littering the pavement in front of it. There was a sign the color of her glasses above the door that read bluebell. Bluebell's pounding music took every other nightclub's pounding music by the throat and squeezed. The closer they got, the more she wondered if she ought to have brought some earplugs.
Red nodded at the massive, black-coated bouncers, dragged her through the doors, and then they were inside. Everything was dark, flashing, and sweaty. She didn't like it.
No—that wasn't right. She simply wasn't used to it, or drunk enough to enjoy it yet. Of course, a little voice in her head muttered that the hangover she would incur from drinking enough alcohol to make this place palatable would also leave her bed bound for a week. She squashed that voice. It was a party pooper and it belonged to the old, boring Chloe, not the Chloe who rescued cats.
Wait. She wasn't supposed to be thinking about Smudge.
Red somehow carved out a space for them at the bar. She found herself caged between his chest and the sticky surface, his hands braced on either side of her body. He bent his head to her ear, and the feel of his breath against the side of her throat made everything between her legs tingle. She pressed her thighs together while he shouted over the music, "What do you want?"
Good thing she'd already decided on this, or her poor, scrambled brain wouldn't have been able to produce an answer. "Cherry Sourz." It used to be her favorite.
Apparently, Red didn't approve, because he snorted, the puff of air hot against her skin. Still, he caught the bartender's attention, and before she knew it, three vivid pink shots were lined up in front of her, along with a glass of something dark. She was supposed to be paying for everything tonight—that had been her intention, anyway—but Red had handed over a note before she got the chance. She tilted her head back to glare up at him. He winked at her and picked up his glass. Coke and something, she thought, or maybe just Coke.
Then he brought it to his lips, and she caught the sharp scent as his throat bobbed with each long swallow. Coke and something, definitely. As definite as the slick arousal growing between her legs.
It really had been too long, if the heat of his body and the sight of him swallowing were enough to make her jittery like this. She faced front and grabbed a shot. It went down easy, but she found herself making a face. It was sweeter than she remembered. And, speaking of memories—this had been a lot more fun when she'd shared a row of shots with her girlfriends, drinking one after the other, shrieking foolishly afterward like they'd done something shockingly wild. But Beth wasn't here, Sarah wasn't here, Catie wasn't here, none of them were here, and this wasn't ten years ago. She bit her lip and downed the next shot.
Then she felt Red's hot breath against her skin again, smelled sharp alcohol as he spoke. "You okay, Button?"
She held up the last shot of cherry Sourz and shouted, "Will you drink this?"
"You don't want it?" He narrowed his eyes.
Awkwardly, she told him, "I want you to have it."
He nodded as if that made a lick of sense, took the shot, and downed it. She took his glass in turn and had a taste, pretending it didn't thrill her that they were now sharing a glass. He'd ordered rum and Coke. She licked his drink off her lips and tried not to enjoy it too much.
"Hey." He took the glass back, his free hand running down her arm in an action he probably meant to be soothing. It set her on fire. "Slow down," he said. "Give yourself a second."
She bristled, all—okay, _most_ —of her arousal forgotten. She was seconds away from a scathing comment on men who thought they could tell women what to drink when he leaned down and spoke again.
"Getting properly wankered," he said in an academic sort of tone, "is a fine art. It is if you want to avoid the messier side effects, anyway." While she absorbed that, he caught the bartender again. She didn't know how he managed it. Must be one of the benefits of giant gingerism: he was impossible to miss.
The bartender produced two bottles of water— _boo_ —and four more shots. Red shoved a water at her and paid again. Then he finished his rum and Coke in two impressive gulps, and drank his own water, which made her feel less indignant.
"All right," he said finally, splitting the shots in half. "You and me. Let's have it."
Surprise filled her, chased by pure pleasure. She swallowed her share easily this time, barely shuddering at the taste, and when he did the same, something inside her felt lighter. Warmer. Chloe giggled at nothing and let her head tip back onto his shoulder. For one dangerous second, his arm wrapped around her waist and squeezed. His hair spilled over her skin as he bent his head closer.
Then he let her go, as if it had never happened at all. He caught her hand, stepped back, and they were moving again, their clasped palms their only connection now. Chloe wobbled behind him like she was on stilts. She hadn't realized just how integral Red's chest had been to her structural stability during the last ten minutes. Stumbling after four shots? How mortifying. But fun, too.
Until she realized where Red was leading her, anyway. To the dance floor. Because that was what she wanted. She'd told him so in the taxi: she wanted to go out, get drunk, and dance. Except, now that they were headed in that direction, deep into a churning mass of bodies, she didn't want to do that at all. It was flooding back suddenly, how much she'd always hated this part. With her friends, she remembered, she'd bobbed awkwardly at the edge of the group, feeling like a ninny.
That wasn't how she wanted to feel tonight.
She tugged at Red's hand and he looked back at her, raising his eyebrows in question. When she looked at the dance floor and shook her head, he changed course without a word, pulling her smoothly toward the sticky, shadowy booths in the corner. They slid into one beneath an alcove, and by some audio-architectural miracle, the volume lowered just enough for Chloe to hear herself think. Thank God. All this pounding and pulsing was making her vaguely homicidal.
"What's up?" Red asked, his knee nudging hers. She looked at their legs beneath the filthy table and a thought danced wildly through her mind: he could touch her. He could slide his hand up her skirt right now, and no one in this hellhole would be any the wiser.
Then she looked up, met his endless eyes, and could've sworn he was thinking exactly the same thing. Each flash of strobe lights in the room lit up another facet of the hunger on his face. But he didn't move. He sat and waited patiently to hear that she was okay.
And suddenly, she was bored with lying to him. Must be the alcohol. "I don't like it here," she shouted.
He gave her a look that seemed to say, _Color me shocked._ But there was no gloating in his response. "Want me to take you somewhere quieter?"
"Yes. No. I—" She hesitated, her mind whirring. This, tonight . . . It wasn't what she'd really wanted. Because she hadn't known what she'd really wanted when she'd put this on the list. She'd been hunting for an indescribable thrill, a feeling she remembered from nights out with her friends, but she'd misunderstood where the feeling came from. It wasn't about drinking and partying in some dingy club.
It had been about the people. The constant laughter they shared, too high on each other to care that they were being obnoxious. Group trips to the bathroom like a small army unit, where the mission objective was helping each other squat over filthy toilets without their dresses touching the seat.
Belonging.
Maybe her list wasn't quite as perfect, or as clinical, as she'd assumed. Because this was the first item she hadn't enjoyed crossing off, and she couldn't deny that she was disappointed.
But she could fix this, couldn't she? Plans changed, didn't they? Wasn't that why she'd written the list in the first place—to become the kind of woman who turned disappointments around, who thought flexibly and did what she wanted to do?
Yes, she decided. Yes. That was exactly why.
She turned back to Red, found him waiting with those three little lines of concentration between his eyebrows. "I want to go somewhere else," she shouted.
He nodded. "We can do that."
But she wasn't done. "I want to know what you do for fun."
His frown cleared, replaced by a startled, hesitant pleasure. "Yeah?"
"Yes. Show me."
* * *
They left the club, and Red put his jacket over Chloe's shivering shoulders. He wouldn't miss the warmth—when he was around her, he burned from the inside out. She must be tipsy as fuck, because she didn't push him off or say something smart; she just smiled all pretty and held his hand as they cut through the cold, wet night.
Since the moment she'd decided to abandon their plan, she'd been electric. Vibrating brilliance, her walk slow and loose hipped, all the barriers and little hesitations he was used to from her fading away. Like she'd turned fearless.
He liked it. He liked her so happy that her soft, full lips had a permanent curl, that her eyes sparkled and her cheeks plumped. Tiny drops of rain spattered the lenses of her glasses, beaded on the flyaways frizzing from her hair, slicked her skin until she gleamed under the streetlights like a jewel. He slung an arm over her shoulders and she let him. Joined together like that, they strode through familiar, sleepless streets.
Leaving this city for London had been Red's first mistake of many. He'd thought he needed to do things in a certain way, as rigid then as Chloe was now about her list. But being around her was really driving home how wrong he'd been: there was no single way to reach any goal. He should've been flexible, should've stayed in the city he loved and tried to succeed as himself, instead of going somewhere else to be someone else beside a woman who'd never really given a fuck about him.
He still wasn't sure how to take things back to the start, how to build the life he wanted on his own terms—but tonight, he looked up at the stars and knew, really fucking knew, that he'd figure it out. He _was_ figuring it out.
The funny thing about Chloe was, when he wasn't busy panting after her . . . she made his head a hell of a lot clearer.
"I think you'll regret asking me to do this," he admitted, his voice rising over passing traffic and distant music and the shouts of drunken students waiting at a nearby bus stop.
"Why?" Her shoes made little squeaking noises against the wet pavement. "Are your hobbies so depraved?" Her voice was rich with a flirtation he didn't quite trust. If she could sound that unreservedly into him, she was a little bit drunk.
Lightly, he said, "I think you'd like it if my hobbies were depraved. But no, they're not. They're boring."
"I'm supposed to be the boring one. You're supposed to cure me."
Was that what she thought? His chest tightened, his frown automatic. Chloe Brown was the furthest thing from boring on this planet. He didn't say that, though, because she wouldn't hear it. "This definitely won't cure you."
"Oh." She pouted. He tensed every muscle in his body to stop himself from leaning down and biting that plump lower lip. Then she stopped walking, cocked her head, and murmured, "Let me guess. We're here?"
He looked up with a start, and shit, she was right. He hadn't even noticed. She split time into something endless and wonderful, like crystal splitting light into rainbows. Or maybe he was so fucking hungry for her he was slowly losing his grip on reality. One of those.
"Yep," he confirmed. "We're here."
In a tucked-away section of the city, the kind lined with boutiques where only the rich bothered to window-shop, there was an alleyway. It was the kind of alleyway that would look suspicious and possibly dangerous in any other part of town, but here it just seemed mysterious. It helped that they could see light twinkling at the other end, and hear raucous nightlife a few streets over. It also helped that the alleyway itself was lined with art, fairy lights wrapped around the easels.
The first piece was an abstract vinyl print that, when you squinted just right, looked like a huge, pale, flower petal. When you squinted just wrong, it looked like dead skin. The second was a stark, stylized oil painting of a panda on acid. The third canvas, the last dropped bread crumb, looked like Roy Lichtenstein had taken on Klimt. He didn't hate it, exactly.
"Random art in an alley," Chloe said. "Is this really what you do for fun?"
He tensed a little, wondering if she'd say something that stripped him painfully to bloodied flesh, like Pippa would have. But then he remembered that Chloe was nothing like Pippa, which was why he'd brought her here. Because watching her chase what she wanted made him realize it was time. Because this would be easier with her than it would be alone. Because she'd asked him to show her something honest, whether she realized it or not, and this was as honest as he knew how to be.
And because she was too careful, too sweet, too cautiously loving to ever smash anyone's heart to pieces for a laugh.
"Yep," he said finally. "This is what I do for fun."
They were a few paces from the open doorway that was his goal. A distressed sign hung over it that read julian bishop art gallery.
"Adorable," she murmured.
Sounded like she was talking about him, but she couldn't be. He looked at her. She was. He started to speak, but his voice came out a little too rough, so he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. "You calling me cute, Chlo?"
"I am. You giant, blushing art nerd."
Well, if he hadn't been blushing before, he surely was now.
Stepping over the threshold after avoiding this world for so long was like getting something pierced. He'd had his nose done when he was twenty-one, which had been a mistake on a face like his, and now he remembered the sudden, sharp push and watering eyes. He felt half a second of panic before deciding he couldn't be arsed to make a big deal out of this, even inside his own head. He was here. It was done.
Because of Chloe. Strange, that.
The gallery's entryway was tiny, housing a flight of spiral stairs. "You all right with those?" he asked.
"If I said no, would you give me a piggyback?"
His lips twitched. "Yeah."
"Good to know," she murmured wryly. "But don't worry, I'll manage." She turned, studying the little space around them. It was sparse and pretentious, which was all part of the fun. The white paint on the walls flaked horribly and the floors would probably give your bare feet splinters, but the paintings left to stand in the street had price tags in the low thousands. The stuff upstairs would be even more expensive.
Artists were all a lost cause, he thought, himself included.
The only interesting thing in this cramped space was the pink-painted garden chair jammed into a corner. A sign was tied to its seat with clashing red silk: don't sit on me, i'm famous.
Chloe arched a brow. "Gosh. A chair that reminds me of my grandmother. I feel so at home."
Here was something he hadn't considered: how hilarious Chloe's sarcasm would be in a place like this.
"Always wondered what the chair's famous for," he said.
She flashed him a look. "You don't _know_?" Her face took on the faintly bored, slightly amused expression he'd seen on countless classy women in galleries fancier than this one. He'd never been in on the joke, even when his girlfriend was leading the jokes, but Chloe was about to bring him in. "Madame Chair comes from money, of course."
"Oh, of course. I remember now. She was on _Celebrity Big Brother_."
Chloe arched an eyebrow, bit down on her growing smile. He could almost see the laughter trapped in her throat, but she refused to let it out. "Was she, indeed? And how did she do?"
"Not great," he sighed. "Long story short, Madame Chair got into an argument with a _Hollyoaks_ actress about the ingredients of fast food. Ended up stuffing a frozen chicken nugget down the poor girl's throat live on national TV."
Chloe choked, coughed, wheezed. Red patted her helpfully on the back. Apparently that knocked the last of her control loose, because she dissolved into helpless laughter. He stood there and watched as she bent double, clutching his jacket and gasping for air, completely carefree and unrestrained. Watching her made his heart feel oddly warm and . . . glowy. Like he could stand here and soak up her happiness forever.
That sounded a little bit like heaven.
After long, joy-filled moments, she straightened, dabbing at her eyes beneath her glasses. Her voice slightly hoarse, she said, "Now, then. Shall we go up, or did you bring me just to see the chair?"
# Chapter Thirteen
Despite the poky hallway downstairs, Chloe wasn't surprised to find that the gallery itself was a loft space with cavernous ceilings, bright, clean lights, and scarred, white walls that gave the space an ancient sort of quiet. There was an exhibit, and people with champagne glasses wandered around muttering seriously to each other. Red ignored every curious and censorious stare aimed his way, leading her inexorably toward his destination.
Because there had been a destination all along. She realized that when he stopped in front of a trio of paintings and nodded at the little plaque beside them. It said, joanna hex-riley, courtesy of the wrathford art institute. He said with a happy exhalation, "Joanie."
"Do you know her?"
"Met her in London. We were friends. Heard this was here a little while back."
"London?" she asked, and his face closed off like she'd yanked out his plug. She wet her lips and tried again. "What happened with your friend?"
He shrugged, coming back to life. A touch of amusement played at the corners of his lips. "Nothing happened. I left. I didn't stay in touch."
"Why not?"
"Lots of reasons. Lately I've been wondering if they were good ones. No, that's not true." He smiled wryly. "I know they weren't. So I'm gonna work on that."
Then he went all silent and brooding, which was highly unusual behavior in a man who handed out smiles the way traffic wardens gave out tickets. Luckily Joanna Hex-Riley's paintings were fascinating enough to stop Chloe from doing something silly, like hugging him until he softened again.
She couldn't begin to guess at how the artist had done it, but the pale, naked woman who took over each canvas managed to look almost transparent in places, as if pieces of her were fading into nothing. It was an interesting effect. It gave her interesting . . . feelings. Not entirely pleasant ones, but she was still impressed by them.
It was a while before Red spoke again. "We can go somewhere else if you want."
"I'm fine here. Will you tell me something?"
"Maybe."
"When did you know you wanted to do this?"
He didn't bother asking what _this_ was. "School trip. I was nine. Almost didn't go because we didn't have the money to spare. But at the last minute my granddad scrounged it up from God knows where, so I went."
She smiled. "He sounds like a useful sort of man."
"Yep." Red held out one of his hands, those thick, silver rings shining dully under the bright lights. "He always wore these."
"And now you always wear them."
"Yep."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
His face tightened slightly, painfully. "Years and years ago. He was old. I only miss him sometimes."
"My Nana died when I was twenty-six. My mother's mother. I know what you mean."
He put a hand on her shoulder and the tips of his fingers brushed her bare skin, close to her neck. A shiver seemed to roll through her and into him, like he'd hooked into her current and now they were connected. Their eyes met. His were dark and hot and secret as a jungle, his mouth slightly parted in surprise, or maybe something else. She wondered what he'd taste like. Right now? Alcohol, probably.
She'd like to get drunk off that mouth. She'd like a lot of things. It was strange, and a little worrying, to realize that while she was rapidly sobering up, her thoughts weren't getting easier to control. At least, not when it came to him.
"You were saying," she nudged him, "about the trip. Go on." _Also, please take your hand off me before my uterus explodes with lust. Actually, does the uterus even_ feel _lust? Note to self: learn more about own genitals._
"We went to the National Gallery. Before that trip I never realized art could be a job. In my world, jobs were awful. They chipped away at you and made you miserable, deep inside where no warmth could touch. You only did them because you'd starve and die if you stopped. But that trip . . ." He shook his head and she saw the echoes of wonder in his expression. "It changed everything for me."
He was quiet for a moment and she watched him with a new kind of hunger. A hunger that came from an unfamiliar place, that had nothing to do with his vitality or with his beauty, but with the ordinary things about him that were starting to feel like oxygen. This hunger was urging her to sneak inside his head and devour everything she came across. But that would be a little creepy, possibly violent, and probably illegal, so she settled for asking questions.
"What's something you want to do but haven't yet, something that would affect you just as deeply as that trip?" _Something like my list?_
"Why?" he asked teasingly. "You gonna make it happen? Because my birthday isn't till June."
"I have a strict socks-only birthday present policy."
His eyebrows shot up. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means the only birthday presents I give to people are socks."
He snorted. "Sounds like you." Then, just as she began to think he'd avoid the question, he said, "One day I'm going to MoMA. New York."
The Museum of Modern Art? She wasn't surprised. Nor was she surprised that he'd phrased it so decisively. _I'm going._ It wasn't a dream: it was a reality he hadn't gotten around to yet.
Fired up, she said boldly, "I'm going to New York, too. Not for the museum; I just want to go. As part of my list."
"You'll love it." He was wonderfully, achingly earnest, excited for her, not a hint of doubt on his face. He thought she would do it. The confidence he wore like a cloak was covering her, just as surely as his jacket. "Everything's instant," he said, his voice a mixture of awe, fondness, and bafflement. "It's all sharp lines. It's fucking wild."
"You've already been?"
"Oh, yeah." His hair fell in front of his eyes as he nodded, and the urge to push it back was so strong, she had to curl her free hand into a fist.
Of course, if she was brave, she'd reach up and do it. He touched her all the time. But he was confident in his way, and she was learning to be confident in hers. She asked another question. "You were there, but you didn't go to MoMA?"
His easygoing smile turned flat. "I went with my ex. We didn't get around to it."
She wondered if that ex was the blonde from the pictures online, the one with the shark eyes. Before she could think of a polite way to ask—or a subtle way to pry his deepest, darkest secrets straight from his head—they were interrupted. Which was probably for the best, since she'd been mentally shopping for futuristic brain scanners like a villain in a superhero film.
A tall, thin man in a black turtleneck came to hover a few meters away from them, huffing loudly and throwing pointed looks like knives. Chloe had noticed more than a few people shooting them suspicious or disapproving glances, but this wasn't as easy to ignore. Red turned his head, very slowly, toward the man. She couldn't see the expression on his face, only the long fall of his hair. And, of course, she saw the other man's reaction to that look. The way he blanched and scurried off like he'd seen a wolf headed his way.
Red turned back to her, rolling his eyes. "Nothing changes."
"Doesn't it?"
"You know," he laughed, "I used to think you were a snob. But when it comes to this stuff, you're just oblivious, aren't you?"
"You thought _what_?" She tried to look horrified. " _Gasp,_ et cetera. I can't believe you thought I was a snob."
"Neither can I. You're just a cute little hermit who hisses at sunlight."
She laughed, because it was funny, and felt warm, because it was fond. But once her amusement faded, she couldn't stop herself from pointing something out. Or rather, she didn't _want_ to stop herself. "I'm not completely oblivious. I am black, you know."
His eyes widened theatrically. "Shit, are you? I had no idea."
She snorted.
"Of course I know, Chlo. And I realize you must . . ." He trailed off, as if he wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.
Which was fine, because Chloe knew exactly what _she_ wanted to say. "The thing is, Red . . . some of us have so many marginalizations, we might drown if we let all the little hurts flood in. So there are those, like me, who filter. I think you've noticed that I filter a lot. It's not some inbuilt shield made of money. It's just something I'm forced to do." She shrugged. "And that's not to discount the differences between us that fall in my favor. It's just an explanation." The fact that she'd even bothered to tell him this said something dangerous. It said that he might matter a little bit. But, hopefully, he wouldn't realize that.
His hand came to rest on her shoulder again and stayed there until she looked him in the eyes. His expression was . . . unexpected. Contrite, gentle, slightly amused. She understood that last part when he said wryly, "I'm an arse, aren't I?"
"Not especially, but I feel as though I should take any opportunity to call you one."
He chuckled softly. "Fair. Chloe, you don't need to explain shit to me. I'd say it's more the other way around. Though I'm grateful that you did. Listen . . ." His voice changed, becoming slightly uncertain. "I've got, uh, baggage? When it comes to class. And, in my head, I keep putting it all on you. But I'm sorry about that. I'll stop."
_Sorry_. He'd barely done anything wrong. He'd given her a slightly negative feeling caused by a series of implications based on practically nothing. Which wasn't to say those feelings didn't _matter_ ; only that it was rare for others to take them seriously. Yet here he stood, watching her with actual remorse. Something in her softened like warm butter.
She lifted her chin and made her words as crisp as she could. "I suppose I forgive you, then."
He laughed. "Not your fault you're a princess, after all."
"And it's not your fault you're in constant, tongue-tied awe of my sophistication."
He spluttered, choked, and then they were both snickering together like unruly children. She almost forgot they were in the middle of a gallery, until a cultured baritone cut into their laughter.
"Red. Still charming the ladies, I see."
The huffy turtleneck wearer was back, accompanied by the man who'd spoken. He was in his forties or fifties, dark-skinned and classically handsome, wearing a suit so sharp, it should be kept away from infants and waterbeds. He had a shiny white smile and twinkling eyes, and his clear pleasure at seeing Red was giving Turtleneck heart palpitations.
"Julian," Turtleneck spluttered indignantly. "These are the _individuals_ I told you about. I'm quite certain they aren't guests of the—"
"Go away, Tom."
Turtleneck Tom blinked. " _Well,_ " he said ominously. He was quivering with indignation. Nobody cared. He stormed off.
"Redford Morgan," Julian grinned—Julian Bishop, the gallery owner, Chloe presumed. Interesting. "You've not changed a bit. I know you secretly enjoy making my guests nervous."
"Ah, fuck off," Red said cheerfully, and dragged Julian into a hug. There was a collective intake of breath around them as the guests waited for Red to stab Julian, or shoot him, or perhaps rip out the other man's throat with his teeth. When nothing much happened, aside from Julian laughing and hugging Red back, the crowd slowly began to lose interest.
The two men clapped each other on the back and threw insults. "I heard you were home. I mean, I _heard_ you, stomping around in those boots like a giant."
"Sorry we can't all be pocket-sized. Wish I was little like you, but . . ."
Julian, who was all of two inches shorter, rolled his eyes. "How's your mother?"
"Same as always. Can't do fuck all with her." Red's voice, always warm, became a blanket by the fireplace in winter. He loved his mother. Chloe probably should've guessed, what with the tattoo on his knuckles, but now she heard him and she _knew_. "How's your dad?"
"The same as always. Incorrigible. Where have you been?"
"Avoiding you, aren't I?"
"So it seems." Julian turned serious as the two men stepped apart.
"Nah, come on," Red said. "I've been busy." His easy charm was dialed up to ten, his smile slow and confident as ever, his broad body relaxed because he was comfortable in his own skin. Except, for once, she didn't believe it. For once, he seemed to be performing. She was absolutely certain that he was utterly uncomfortable. She remembered how quietly edgy he'd been at his flat, when he'd put his art in her hands and tried to pretend the moment wasn't ripping him open.
She knew Red's disappearance from this world had started about eighteen months ago. Now the question clanged in her head like slow, heavy church bells. _What happened eighteen months ago to make him feel like this?_
"Hmm. Will you introduce me to your friend?" Julian asked, twinkling in her direction. Someone should cover those pretty eyes of his. They might cause an accident.
"This is Chloe," Red said. "Chlo, Julian."
She nodded. "Hello."
"Hello to you, too," Julian murmured, taking her hand. He didn't shake it. He kissed it. His lips were firm and the kiss was light. She didn't want to smack him for it, nor did she find herself battling the urge to climb him like a tree. And so she didn't pull away.
Red didn't seem to approve, narrowing his eyes at his friend. "Leave her alone," he said, and put an arm around her shoulders.
"Why?" Julian grinned.
"She's a lady, she doesn't like shady art dealers. Do you, Chloe?"
Chloe said, very seriously, "I try not to judge people."
"That's bullshit," Red said. "She's being polite. She thinks you're obnoxious and your eyes are too small. Tell him, Chloe."
"You have lovely eyes," she said to Julian, quite sincerely.
"I told you, she's a lady. She can't insult you to your face, but she's thinking it. Anyway, we're in a rush. I just popped in. We have to go."
Julian snorted. "So soon?"
"We've got a hot date at McDonald's. Don't want to miss it. She gets pissy without regular carbs."
Well, that was technically true.
"Wait a moment," Julian said, and produced his card, smooth as silk. "Since you apparently lost my number . . ."
Red looked slightly guilty as he stuffed the glossy rectangle into his jeans pocket. "Yeah, sorry about that, mate. I'll ring you."
"It doesn't have to be about work. I want to know how you've been."
Red paused, then said again, "I'll ring you." Because it hadn't been true the first time. He dragged Julian into a one-armed hug, then caught Chloe's hand and led her out of the room the same way he'd led her in: with too much determination to resist. They passed Turtleneck Tom on the way out and Red actually growled at the poor man. He growled! Chloe tried not to be thrilled, but it happened anyway.
They broke out into the crisp dark and he didn't let go of her hand.
"So," she said. "You know the owner."
Red shrugged his massive shoulders, speaking simply, a restrained energy she couldn't name winding through each word. "Used to spend a lot of time in there, looking around, wondering how it all worked. Had no one to tell me. Then his dad—that was Julian Bishop the Second. His dad's the first. His dad asked me one day if I had any questions. He helped me a lot."
"That's lovely," she murmured as they wandered up the cobbled alleyway. Ahead, she saw a glimpse of city lights glinting like jewels in the dark. The rain had become moisture hanging in the air, and the cool, wet scent of it cleared her head. But even without the buzz of alcohol, she felt brave. Funny, that. "Julian Junior seemed rather nice."
"He's a twat," Red muttered. "Kissing your fucking hand."
"Why shouldn't he kiss my hand?" she asked, because she was an attention-seeking little monster, hunting gleefully for evidence of jealousy.
He snorted, his breath a white cloud in the cold air. "First time I shook your hand," he said, "you acted like I'd electrocuted you."
Ah. He'd noticed. Well, subtlety had never been her strength. "I felt as if you had," she admitted.
He turned to look at her. He was shadowy, his hair catching most of the low light, his eyes difficult to see. But she felt them burning into her, impossible to escape. "Did you, now?"
* * *
"Don't take that the wrong way," Chloe told him quickly.
Red would love to take it the _right_ way. The same way he suddenly wanted to take her: all the way to bed. A sparkling energy had hummed between them all night, too powerful to ignore—lust and chemistry turned intoxicating by delicate, newborn trust.
He was almost positive Chloe wanted him the way he wanted her, but that didn't mean she intended to do a damned thing about it. In fact, she definitely didn't; she kept making that clear. And he wouldn't push. He couldn't be that guy. So he let her comment pass, changing the subject, resisting the bait she hadn't meant to throw out.
He cleared his throat and asked, "Are you drunk?" because she wasn't wobbling anymore, and because it was as unsexy a subject as he could think of.
She flashed him a smile that was both grateful and embarrassed, then cocked her head as if testing herself. "I don't think so."
"Good." When they emerged from the alley, he pulled her toward the Day Cross, a random stone monument to no-one-knew-what, tucked beside the old cathedral. "You want to sit down before we walk back?" He had no idea how long she could comfortably stand, but he wanted to talk for a while, and he kept remembering the little chair in her kitchen. She seemed fine, but then, she seemed fine all the time . . . and yet she was in pain all the time, too. When it came to looking after Chloe, that pretty face of hers couldn't be trusted.
She was suspicious, as if his offering a seat on a local monument was all part of some evil plan. "On the steps?"
"Oh, sorry. For a second there, I forgot you were classy as fuck." He wasn't being sarcastic.
"Actually, I got over my aversion to sitting on the ground a couple of years after I got sick. Needs must, and all that. But, er . . . you don't mind?"
He fought a frown that wasn't for her, but for whoever had made her feel like sitting in the street with a friend was some big sacrifice rather than just another thing people did. "No, Chloe. I don't mind." But he did remember, now, how shitty her old friends had been. How shitty a lot of people must be to her, the way she acted sometimes. He'd seen how people treated his mum, after all, because she was diabetic. Like being unwell was a crime or a scam or a self-indulgence.
Whether she admitted it or not, what Chloe really needed was a decent fucking friend. And what Red really wanted, badly enough to surprise himself, was to give her that. To show her every kindness she should take for granted. To make her smile and laugh and feel like herself.
The way she did for him.
They sat down, and everything around them seemed to slow, grow quiet, fade away. This side of the monument faced another narrow, cobbled street, not quite an alley but as poorly lit as one. The churchyard was behind them, and farther up were the old Galleries of Justice. In the day, this street would be full of schoolkids on trips and historically minded tourists, but right now it was deserted. They were alone in the center of the city, like a heart that didn't know who it beat for.
Quietly, Chloe said, "I think Julian would exhibit your work."
He shrugged. Pushed his hair out of his eyes. Drummed his fingers against his thigh. The knee of his jeans was wearing out again.
"Do you disagree?" she asked.
"Nope." The _p_ popped like a gunshot. He sighed at himself and tried to sound like less of a miserable, defensive fuck. "I just . . . don't think I want that."
Her shiny shoes had ties that wrapped around her ankles. He watched the bows float up and down as she tapped her feet thoughtfully, her words coming slow but certain. "You don't want anyone to exhibit you. You don't want to be in galleries or museums at all, do you?"
It was a relief, like exhaling after months of holding his breath, to hear the way she said that. No incredulity in her voice, like he couldn't possibly manage it. Just quiet interest, like she trusted him to do shit his own way.
He trusted himself to do shit his own way, too. That was a dizzying realization.
"I'm an independent artist," he said with a faint smile. "You're making me an online shop. I'll work with collectives and all that. I don't need places like Julian's."
"Anymore," she finished.
If she asked about the past right now, he would tell her everything. It was on the tip of his tongue. She'd shown him hers, with the list and the fiancé and the filtering. Now it was his turn. And he didn't even mind, because she felt like the kind of person you could say anything to.
He wished she didn't think she was boring.
"You disappeared," she murmured. "You disappeared, and your work changed, and you don't want the same things anymore."
He nodded.
"And you only ever seem to paint at night."
He stiffened before she did. Realized what she'd just admitted before she did. It took her a moment to freeze, to flick a nervous glance at him, to stutter, "Um . . . ah . . ."
This was the part where he said, _How do you know I only paint at night?_ After all, he'd just been perilously close to revealing every one of his secret scars. He should be dying for a subject change. Instead, he was dying for . . .
She took a breath, sat up straight, and said, "I have a confession to make."
Her voice was soft and wavering. He found her hand, flat on the cold stone, and laced their fingers together. Hand-holding had never been his thing, exactly, but it felt natural—or necessary—with Chloe. Like an anchor.
"All right," he said, as if he didn't already know. "So confess."
"I don't know if I should. No, no—I have to. Especially because we're friends. You said that, didn't you, Red?"
"Yeah. We're friends." Although he'd never wanted to kiss his other friends' wrists just to feel their pulse racing under his lips. For example. But still, friends.
"All right." She smiled, but it was a nervous sort of smile. "Well, you know the list I showed you is . . . censored, I suppose. And there's an item you haven't seen that, um, that you've already helped me cross off."
His eyebrows rose. This wasn't going where he'd expected it to. "Okay?"
"I wanted to do something bad." She sounded tortured.
He found himself smiling. "Uh-huh?"
"So I . . . well, I . . . Oh God."
"Just spit it out, Chlo. You're killing me."
She spat it out, all right. "Imighthavemaybekindofspiedonyoualittlebitlikethroughthewindow?"
He blinked. "What?"
"I _spied_ on you." Her voice was clearer this time, since it was a banshee-level wail. "Like a _weirdo_. I mean, the first time was an accident, and I only did it twice after that, but that's twice too many, and you were _basically_ naked—which is not why I did it—"
"So why did you do it?"
She bit her lip, her eyes widening slightly. Probably because he'd asked like it was fucking life or death. He held his breath, wondering if her answer would ruin this. Ruin everything.
It didn't.
"I watched because . . . when you paint," she said softly, "you seem so vital. It was addictive. It felt like coming to life."
Something in his chest, sort of . . . skipped. Pleasure rolled through him the way fire warmed cold hands: slow and intense and so sharp you weren't quite sure if it hurt, but didn't mind either way. He didn't realize he'd been staring at her in silence until she begged, "Oh my God, say something."
The nerves in her voice squeezed at his heart. "It's okay," he said quickly. "I already knew."
Her jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?"
"About the spying, I mean," he clarified. "Not about the, er . . . coming to life part." He was grinning as he said it.
She set her jaw and stared at her knees. "I shouldn't have said that. And how did you already know?" She had the nerve to sound irritated with him, which, for some reason, he liked. He liked a lot of things about her, in fact, with a summer-sky-blue intensity that almost made him want to look away.
"Rule of thumb," he told her. "If you can see someone, they'll probably see you."
"But . . ." She spluttered helplessly. "It was dark outside!"
"Your lights were on. My lights were on. Do you know how windows work?"
"Oh, shut up." All at once, her indignation faded. "I'm sorry. I'm really, _really_ sorry. You should hate me."
He'd expected to. He'd thought her reasons would drag him back to dark places—that she'd been consuming him for her own amusement, that maybe she'd been watching him the way she'd watch animals at the zoo. But she hadn't been. Her explanation was nothing like he'd once expected. It was . . . sweet, as if she'd put a hand on his heart for a moment. And really, he didn't actually care who saw him painting—hence why he did it in front of a bloody window.
But, all things considered, he thought she was bullshitting just a little bit. "Not that I don't believe your flattering explanation, but are you sure you didn't watch _partly_ because I was half naked?"
She gasped. "Of course not. Outrageous. As if I would ever. I'm not a pervert, you know!"
"Then why'd you feel guilty?"
Her pretty, pillow mouth formed a perfect _O_. It was getting so dark he could barely see her, but strips of orange streetlight sliced over her jaw, glinted off her glasses, illuminated her sparkly, skirt-covered lap. Maybe he should take that as some kind of sign. Maybe the universe was telling him to kiss her, take off her glasses, and push up her skirt.
Yeah, right. What had they _just_ said? They were friends. F R I E N D S.
But then she pursed her lips, and sighed, and said with an air of confession, "I suppose you're right."
He stilled. Cleared his throat, because it suddenly felt rougher than sandpaper. "Right about what?"
She glared, as if he was being difficult. "You know what you look like."
_You know what you look like._ Coming from Chloe, that might as well have been a fucking ode to his attractiveness. And now she narrowed her eyes at him, chin up, as if daring him to have a problem with that.
There was only one problem, really: the fact that they weren't touching. So he stopped holding back, and his free hand cupped her cheek, cradling that beautiful fucking face. She breathed in sharply, caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he teetered on the edge of a possible mistake. Would she regret him, after tonight? Would she see him as a failed plan, a thing she couldn't control and wanted nothing to do with? Would she leave him, and everything wonderful growing between them, behind?
He couldn't let that happen. But he couldn't let this moment pass, either.
"I'm going to ask you something," he said softly, studying her face—the _V_ between her eyebrows, the heat in her eyes, the vulnerable flash of pink inside her mouth, revealed by her parted lips. He wanted that mouth. He wanted that vulnerability. "I'm going to ask you, and I don't want you to worry about anything. Not a fucking thing, Chlo. We're friends. This doesn't have to be complicated. I'm not going to make it complicated. Okay?"
He heard her breath hitch slightly as she nodded. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay. So ask."
"Should I make you moan again?"
Her answer was so fucking sweet. "Please."
# Chapter Fourteen
She'd thought he would kiss her. He bit her instead.
The tip of his nose bumped hers, his big hand cradled her jaw, and his teeth grazed her lower lip. Soft and slow. Tugging slightly. She felt that tug right between her thighs, a molten rush. He bit again, harder, and arousal shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, as if they were trying to catch his attention like a pair of shameless hussies. She approved. More bites, everywhere. Clearly telepathy wasn't his strong suit because he didn't rip off her clothes and devour her, one breast at a time; he licked her lip instead. His tongue swept out to soothe the tingle left behind by those bites, except it didn't work. That wet slide turned the tingle into a spark, a current, a bolt of lightning. She moaned.
He pulled back, slowly, slowly. "There," he whispered.
"More," she told him.
"Know what I'd do with you, if you were in my bed?" His voice was gravel and bittersweet longing. "Kiss you until I couldn't taste myself anymore. Just fruit tea and too much mouth. Put my hands on every inch of you. So soft, Chlo." He swept his thumb over her skin. "How do you do that?" His voice cracked as if she'd ruined his life by moisturizing after she showered. He shook his head and laughed, apparently at himself. "I want to make you cry. I bet you get like that, don't you? When it's too much. When it feels too good."
She'd been wrong about his lack of telepathy. He was an excellent mind reader. "Maybe. Sometimes."
He groaned. The thumb stroking her cheek moved lower, parting her lips. She bit him back. He swallowed so hard she heard it. She sucked his thumb into her mouth. He groaned again. Then he ruined everything. "Tell me why you stopped me. Before."
She hesitated, uncertainty draining most of her pleasure. She couldn't tell him, not without revealing too much of herself. What was she supposed to say? That she already liked him far too much? That he made it too easy to be intimate, to be honest, to be weak in a way that felt so good but also left her open to so much hurt?
She didn't want to have that conversation, to admit how she'd worried then, or how she wanted him too badly to worry now. She could see how easy it would be to fall for this man. She could see the phantoms of all the feelings she could develop for him, like premonitions. And she could see him throwing those feelings in her face, the way people always did.
Her body was vulnerable enough without her heart following suit.
So she reminded him gently, "You said you wouldn't make this complicated." _Please don't make this complicated. I really want to put my mouth on you._
He gave her a rueful smile and murmured, "I did, didn't I?"
"Your rules, Mr. Morgan. Please abide by them."
As she'd hoped, her crisp, mocking tones widened his smile. "Shut up. Come here." Her stomach dipped as he lifted her, then put her between his spread thighs. Her back was against his chest. He leaned against the stone pillar of the monument they were absolutely not about to defile. From his position behind her, he murmured in her ear, "Comfortable?" His breath shivered over her skin. She felt his voice rumble in his chest, pleasure zipping down her spine.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Are you cold?"
"No." Because he'd wrapped his arms around her, shielding her from the night air with his big, warm body. And because all she could feel at this moment was a painful mix of pleasure and frustration.
"Good," he said. His lips brushed her frantic pulse. "Let's play _I want_."
She settled against him, put her hands on his thick forearms as if she could stop him from letting go. " _I want?_ As in, I want to trace the tattoos on your chest with my tongue?"
A long breath shuddered out of him. "Yeah. Like that."
The fact that he was turned on by something as simple as her words made her brave. Reckless. Wild, for a woman like her. "As in . . ." She thought for a moment, flicking through fantasies she'd never let herself fully acknowledge. "I want to lie naked with you just to know what your skin feels like against mine?"
"You're good at this." He shifted behind her. The hard jut of his erection hit the base of her spine.
"I want to see your cock," she blurted, then bit her lip.
He groaned. Pressed his face against the back of her neck. "My turn."
"Tell me."
"I want to see _you_. Right now, in the light. I want to see how you look when you're so turned on it's making you shake."
He was right, she realized; she was shaking. "Oh."
"I want to put my hand under your skirt and feel how hot your pretty cunt is. But I bet you wouldn't let me do that in public."
She sucked down a gulp of cold air to stop herself from burning up inside. "Certainly not," she lied.
"I want to know how wet you are right now."
"Very," she whispered.
He put a hand on top of hers, laced their fingers together. "Touch yourself, if I can't. Will you do _that_ in public?"
When she slid her hand under her skirt, his came along for the ride. But she didn't lead for long. He took over, as if he couldn't help himself, all firm, easy strength. Slowly, he trailed their interwoven fingertips over her inner thigh. Chloe swallowed a gasp. "This is cheating," she breathed.
"Nope," he said softly. "Ain't this what they call creative problem solving?"
She couldn't speak. She had no oxygen left; the hypnotic circles he made, the sensations he sent dancing over her skin, had stolen every last breath from her lungs. There was too much blood in her veins, too much need pulsing through her clit. Her belly was tense and trembling, her body rigid, every muscle taut. She was on the verge of overloading in the best way possible.
The uneven click of stumbling heels floated to her ears. Happy shrieks, too-loud chatter: a group of drunken women walking by, just up the street. Friends, probably, out having fun. On any other day she'd feel a pang of jealousy; irritation at herself for holding back from that; annoyance at the world for flinching away from her. Today, though, all she felt was frustration because Red's slow, addictive circles over her thigh had stopped.
She tried to tug his hand back into motion, and he laughed. "You always surprise me, Chloe."
"They can't see us."
"You're bad tonight." His voice was all gravel. "Don't know why I'm trying to behave."
"Feel free to stop trying." She was done pretending to be demure.
He caught her earlobe between his teeth and an arrow of sensation flashed through her. "All right." Rough, wicked words. A switch had been flicked. Beneath her skirt, his hand disentangled from hers. He was bolder without her. He squeezed her thigh and whispered hot against her cheek, "I want to hold you open like this when you take my cock."
When she closed her eyes she could see it: him kneeling over her, forcing her legs apart, fucking deeper and deeper. She whimpered and the sound seemed to spur him on. He pressed his palm against her pussy, cupping her possessively over her underwear, and the same moan shuddered through both of them at once.
"You're soaked. You're fucking—Chloe—"
"Please," she gasped, her hips jerking forward. "Please." The heel of his hand was a delicious pressure against her swollen clit. How did he know where to touch, how to touch? He was some kind of vaginal magician. When he hooked one thick finger under the edge of her knickers she wanted to scream. Bit her lip hard. Shook with the effort of keeping quiet.
Supposedly, Chloe felt more than other people did. Chronic pain literally rewired brain pathways until you were more conscious of your own body than you should be, until you hurt more intensely than was healthy. An inescapable cycle. Only now did she see a potential upside: she must feel more pleasure than normal, too. She _must_. Because surely this wasn't ordinary. Lungs tight, ears ringing, heart shaking instead of beating, and her pussy slick and swollen—this couldn't be ordinary.
But he was shaking, too, his breaths heavy, his body tense behind her. So maybe it was ordinary with Red. Maybe this was just the way things were between them.
He tightened one strong arm around her as if he could hold her steady, keep her safe from the surge of desire threatening to short-circuit her system. But he couldn't, because he was the cause. His fingers parted her folds with heart-stopping certainty, spreading her open like she belonged to him. He delved into her wetness and growled, "God, I'm losing my fucking mind. Kiss me. No. Don't. I'll lose it."
She twisted, tipped her head back, and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. She wanted to consume him. This wasn't quite a kiss, was it? He groaned and found her aching clit, his fingers slick with her arousal. His touch was an easy glide, barely any pressure, just electric sensation. She jerked her hips toward him but he resisted, lightly circling that swollen nub until she felt drugged with pleasure, breathless with need.
He dragged his mouth away from hers and sucked at her jaw, her throat. His usual calm had been shattered, the jagged edges glinting dangerously in the low light. "Turn around. Show me your tits. Please."
She wanted to. So badly. Who _was_ she? Apparently, the kind of woman who thrilled at coarse orders like that, and broke a little bit when they were followed with hoarse manners. She turned, rose up on her knees between his legs. Somehow, he kept stroking her, kept up his beautiful torture. Her hands trembled as she tore open his borrowed jacket and shoved down the front of her dress. He growled, then bent his head and used his teeth to drag down one side of her flimsy bra.
She felt cold air against her tight nipple for a moment before his warm, wet mouth enveloped her, the change a sweet shock, an almost-pain that she craved more of. Wasn't that strange, craving pain? But this pain was different. This pain was good.
And then it was gone, replaced by tendrils of pure pleasure that coiled around her limbs, tightening with each lazy lick. He suckled her breast and circled her clit and she felt that frantic fluttering deep inside that meant she was going to come. She sank her fingers into his hair, hair that looked like fire but felt like cool silk. "Keep . . ." She couldn't get the words out, but she didn't need to. He kept. And kept.
Luckily for both of them, Chloe always came quietly. She didn't have enough oxygen to cry out; the screams building in her chest came out as desperate gasps. Her head fell back as pure satisfaction flooded her body. Red bit her nipple gently and nudged her clit one last time, then chuckled at the strangled sound of protest she made. By the time her heart stopped ramming against her ribs, he was putting her knickers in place and tugging her bra over her breast.
"Come on," he said softly, rearranging her dress. "You're cold." He zipped up the jacket for her, tapped her nose, helped her to her feet.
Was she cold? She hadn't noticed, but she supposed she must be. She wasn't wearing gloves. It wasn't good for her fingers to get stiff.
As they stepped off the monument and into the light, her gaze flitted down to the hard shape ruining the line of his jeans. That didn't look good for him, either. Pre-orgasm, her arousal had made her brave, but now she had to force her words out. "Um, Red . . . I don't suppose—well, I mean, obviously you haven't—and if you—"
"Chloe, love. Please don't say you'll finish me off. I'm trying really hard not to fuck you in a back alley, here."
She bit her lip and let him take her hand, leading her toward the nearest taxi rank. The mist in the air cooled her fevered cheeks and spotted the lenses of her glasses. His strides were long, and she was starting to get exhausted, but she didn't say anything because she was too busy overthinking. Remembering. Feeling a pulse of pleasure inside her, like an echo. Worrying, as always, because she felt so achingly close to him, but she didn't think he felt the same. He was the one who'd said, after all, that he wouldn't make things complicated.
When he'd whispered those words, she'd honestly thought she was okay with it. But that, obviously, had been the horny demon inside her telling lies to get what it wanted. Because now she'd come, and suddenly she was complicated again—complicated and getting dangerously attached.
_Tut, tut, horny demon. Unfair._
They were almost there when Red realized she was lagging behind. Instantly, he stopped, squeezing her hand. "Sorry."
"It's okay."
"Are you tired? I can—"
"I'm _fine,_ " she snapped. She was not fine, but it had nothing to do with his walking too fast.
He shot her a suspicious look. He was beautiful. She wanted to kiss him. They hadn't actually done that, and she knew why she'd avoided it: because she was afraid he might taste her feelings on her tongue. Because she was tumbling headfirst into a connection that probably wasn't as deep on his end.
She wondered why he hadn't kissed her.
He stepped closer, cradled her jaw in his hands. "Hey, Button," he said softly. "What's wrong?"
Her breath hitched like she might cry, which she absolutely would not do. Instead she would take a deep breath and tell him calmly that they should forget about tonight because it was already messing with her head. That he should stop holding her like something precious. That he was absolutely wonderful, honestly, he was, and that was exactly why he must never touch her again, or call her Button, or even smile at her. His smile was very handsome, handsome enough to trick her into ill-advised feelings that could not end well; better safe than sorry.
Always, she was better safe than sorry. And better left alone than left behind.
But, before she could say any of that, everything went to hell in a handbasket.
"Is that my Chloe?" The question rang through the air, slightly slurred and more than a little incredulous.
She froze. Oh, for heaven's sake, no.
" _Chloe!_ " the voice repeated, unmistakable now.
Disaster had struck. The end days were nigh. She already wanted to sink into the floor. She jerked back from Red until his hands fell from her cheeks, but that did absolutely nothing to help the situation. The man who seemed to be attempting a no-strings-attached affair with her was about to be subjected to one of her bonkers family members. Because men loved to meet the relatives of the women they got off on public monuments. They _loved_ that. It was well-known.
"Darling! It's me!"
Chloe turned. "Yes, Aunt Mary. I know."
"Don't be so _dour_!" Aunt Mary beamed. "I'm thrilled to see you out and about, my darling, I'm absolutely thrilled."
If it weren't for the purple lipstick, the spiky heels, and the, er, volume, Chloe might think she was standing face-to-face with her mother. Mary was Joy Matalon-Brown's twin, and also, possibly, the reason Chloe had been born. Chloe held a private theory that her parents had bonded over the surreal experience of growing up with a mother like Gigi and a sister like Mary. Her poor, ordinary dad and sensible, highly strung mum had been thrown together by a shared experience in stress and long-suffering sighs.
"I'm pleased to see you, too, Aunt Mary." It wasn't exactly a lie: Chloe loved to spend time with her aunt. In a controlled environment. Under very particular circumstances. "You look nice."
Aunt Mary lifted one fuchsia-booted foot. "Imitation croc skin, darling. Aren't they absolutely hideous?" She was beautiful, intelligent, a successful partner in the Matalon family law firm, and therefore took great pleasure in dressing however she wished.
"Very striking," Chloe nodded.
"You're a doll. Now, who is this, darling? He's very quiet. I so adore quiet men."
Oh, God. The twinkle in Aunt Mary's hazel eyes did not bode well. Surely the last thing Red wanted was to face the full, inquisitive force of that twinkle and all that it threatened. What could she say to avoid it? _He's my friend?_ That sounded like a euphemism. _He's a man I love spending time with and also want to lick, and I'd like to care for him, but I don't really dare?_ That sounded like an inappropriate and inconvenient truth.
"He's no one," Chloe said quickly.
Aunt Mary cocked one perfectly threaded eyebrow. "What an interesting name."
This situation, Chloe realized with a spike of panic, was rapidly getting out of control.
She could feel Red beside her, slightly behind her, and usually that might be reassuring. But after what they'd done tonight, and how uncertain it made her feel, and how awkward this was—well, his presence didn't seem quite as soothing as usual. She couldn't even bear to look at him. Her frantic gaze wandered over Mary's shoulder, where she spotted a gaggle of exuberant fifty-somethings teetering about in high heels. "Don't let me hold you up, Aunty. Your friends are waiting."
Mary rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. They're so drunk, time has become an alien concept." She raised her voice from foghorn to rushing train. "I'm talking about you, Sheila! You gin fiend!"
"Aunt Mary—"
"Sorry darling, sorry, back to your friend. Do introduce us."
"He's the superintendent of my building." Chloe was running out of options. Hopefully the mention of her living arrangements would prove a solid distraction.
"Oh," Aunt Mary said, wrinkling her nose. "Your little . . . look, darling, I completely understand wanting to leave the family home. I told your mother many a time that they were suffocating you. But really, this communal situation—"
"It's a life experience," Chloe interjected. "Anyway, so sorry, but we're late for a building-type meeting, so we must dash."
Aunt Mary looked suspicious. "A building-type . . . ?"
"It's something you do," Chloe said wisely, "when you live in flats." Aunt Mary had lived in mini mansions her entire life, both in England and as an infant in Jamaica. Hopefully, she'd have not a clue what people did when they lived in flats.
"How awful," she said faintly. "I'll let you get on, my darling." She leaned in to kiss Chloe's cheek and whispered, "I do hope you've asked your new friend for test results. Your immune system is very weak, and accidents do happen no matter the precautions—"
" _Aunt Mary!_ " Chloe snapped. "Go away!"
"I'm off! I'm going!"
As her aunt hurried back to her friends, Chloe eased out a sigh of relief. "Well. That was relatively painless." She turned, finally, to Red.
His hands were in his pockets, his eyes fixed somewhere over her head. He nodded slowly.
She swallowed. "Sorry. Aunt Mary can be overwhelming."
"That what that was?" he asked mildly. "You being overwhelmed?"
Chloe twisted her fingers in the material of his jacket, zipped up over her dress. She had this awful, doomed feeling in her stomach. This disturbing certainty that he was upset. But she'd done the right thing, keeping him at arm's length there, protecting him from misunderstandings that would only embarrass them both. Hadn't she? "Mary, she just, she gets overexcited about things, and I didn't want to give her the wrong idea. She's my mother's twin. They tell each other . . . things."
He turned, started walking again. His pace was easy to keep up with this time, but he didn't take her hand. "Right. And what would the wrong idea be? That we even know each other?"
He _was_ upset. He'd misunderstood her reasons. The impulse to apologize tugged at her gut, so strong it felt like the urge to vomit. She swallowed acid and knew, all of a sudden, that she should've introduced him politely and dealt with wrong assumptions later. But she'd panicked. How long had it been since she'd let herself care about someone new, even the tiniest bit? She had no idea how to handle things like this, no idea what the parameters were—she barely even understood what _uncomplicated_ meant when it came to two people touching each other.
She had to fix this, without slipping up and saying too much, revealing too much. Her mind raced. Her throat tightened.
In silence, they reached the line of taxis, waiting under harsh streetlights that ruthlessly illuminated his brilliance, her mistakes, and probably every pore in her T-zone. Before he could grab a car, she blurted out, "What should I have said?" She tried to make her voice light, teasing. "That you're helping me get a life in return for a website?"
He softened slightly, laughed gently. "No. No, I guess you couldn't tell her that."
She laughed, too, or tried to, but it sounded off. Her breaths were strange, sucking in air when her lungs already felt full, exhaling harder than was comfortable. "You're my . . . my bad-boy tutor," she quipped. Ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. He would hate that.
His smile tightened. "I wouldn't say I'm—"
"Services including but not limited to illicit orgasms." _Services?_ Why did she say that? Why, why, _why_ did she say that?
He looked like she'd just punched him in the stomach. But only for a second. His mouth was a thin, flat line when he turned away from her. "Right. Yeah."
It was guilt that burned away her panic. She felt as if she'd been body snatched for the last ten minutes. She blinked hard and smoothed her hands uselessly over her hair. "Oh, Red, I didn't mean—"
"No, don't take it back now," he said calmly. "You're already confusing the fuck out of me."
"I'm sorry."
"And I'm pissed. Good talk." He strode away from her toward a taxi, bending to talk with the driver, his voice low and tight. His anger seemed to surround him like jagged spikes. Or like knives she'd shoved into his back. She was a sad little mess and an absolute traitor. He would never stand beside her and call her no one, no matter how awkward the situation was. Self-imposed isolation had eroded many of her social skills, but for heaven's sake, could she be any more of a . . . a twat?
Apparently, she could. Because she knew she needed to say something, anything, that would fix the mess she'd made and erase the new, stiff way he held himself. But all through the drive home, she remained painfully silent.
And then they were back, and he walked her to her door, and she gave him his jacket. He nodded, he left.
And she hadn't said a word.
# Chapter Fifteen
Red sat on the floor of his studio, the afternoon sunlight glinting off the silver buttons of his overalls. It was Monday and he was on duty, but he hadn't been able to focus since yesterday morning—when he'd woken up to an apology text from Chloe that he didn't know how to answer. Ever since, two very different cards had been burning a hole in his wallet.
Julian's, of course. And Dr. Maddox's.
The one in his hand right now, crisp and white and heavy as a brick, was the doctor's.
His mother had given him this card six months ago and asked him to get therapy. He'd promised he would, but he hadn't said _when,_ and Maddox's details had peeked out from behind his library card ever since, whispering that Red was a coward and a big baby and for God's sake he needed to talk to someone. But he'd been coping fine without. Painting was his therapy and it always had been.
He looked to his right and his gaze fell on the canvas he'd essentially destroyed last night, vicious yellow-green worked into its surface so hard that it had ripped.
Maybe painting wasn't doing the job anymore.
He raked his hands through his hair and laughed bitterly. All this, days of confusion and angry acrylic shades, because he couldn't decide what to do about Chloe fucking Brown. He was supposed to see her this week, to check the progress on his website. They'd arranged the meeting last week, before everything had gone to shit. But then . . . well, everything had gone to shit. And now he was trapped in a familiar whirlpool of past and present, one he was starting to get really fucking bored with.
It went like this: first, he'd remember what Chloe had done. How she'd treated him like a dirty secret, like a giver of illicit orgasms—might as well borrow her words, since she'd put it so perfectly. And he'd feel sick.
But then he'd remember that she hadn't looked pleased with her own knifelike phrase. She'd looked guilty. She'd looked miserable. She'd said instantly, unreservedly, _I'm sorry,_ and when he thought about that, he was filled with the urge to give her a chance to explain.
Until Pippa forced her way into his head, with her tears and her clever words and her own gasping, weepy _I'm sorry_ s, the ones that somehow turned him into the brute who'd started it all. The ones that always made him apologize for everything she'd done. His rational mind would say, _It's not the same. They're not the same. That's not even close to what Chloe was doing_. But his chest would still feel tight and his hands would freeze when he tried to pick up the phone and call her.
All of which suggested it was time to pick up the phone and call Dr. Maddox instead.
He eyed the card suspiciously. Dr. Maddox's first name was Lucinda. He used to live on the same street as a lady with a one-eyed mongrel called Lucinda. He'd really liked that dog. Maybe that was what people called a sign, or maybe he was being a twat.
He heaved out a sigh and put down the card, reaching for the canvas he'd ruined, running his fingers over the tear. He was overthinking again, and pissing himself off. Time to change tack. He had another problem to agonize over, one he hadn't let himself acknowledge yet: Vik might let Red have dinner with old ladies, but he would _not_ approve of Red fingering a tenant in the street. Or anywhere, really. A bed wouldn't have made it more professional. He should be at Vik's right now, confessing all and tendering his resignation.
For some reason, the thought didn't disturb him as much as it should.
Red paused for a moment, staring blankly at the canvas in his hand. He thought again, deliberately, about quitting. About leaving the safe little hiding place Vik had given him. No clanging, panicked alarm sounded in his head.
All right. That was interesting. That was good. He worked at the discovery like a loose tooth.
This job was supposed to be temporary, but the two-year mark crept closer, and he knew Vik was worried. So was Mum. Maybe when that milestone finally hit, instead of feeling guilty and pressured and trapped by his own insecurities, Red could be leaving. Suddenly, it didn't feel impossible. He was more confident now, ready to display his work, and he'd been researching sales tactics, marketing, and whatever. He should try. He'd get a part-time job, too, if he couldn't make enough money. Whatever it took, he'd claw his way back to his dreams. The only question was whether his new stuff was good enough to sell—but he'd find out soon enough, when Chloe finished his website.
And here he was, back at Chloe again—thinking, without a moment's hesitation, that she'd hold up her end of the deal. He sat with that for a second. It wasn't the kind of assumption he'd have made about Pippa; no, if this were Pippa, she'd take away what he wanted most, to punish him for being angry, or to manipulate him into forgiving her. But Chloe wasn't going to do that. Of course she wasn't. She never would.
He put down the canvas and picked up the card. Took out his phone. Dialed the number. After three long rings and three thousand rapid heartbeats, a cool voice said in his ear, "Dr. Maddox's office, this is Jonathon speaking. Can I help?"
"Yeah," Red said, then cleared his rough throat awkwardly. "Hi. Uh . . . I think I'd like to make an appointment?"
* * *
For her own peace of mind, Chloe had decided to stop thinking about Redford Morgan. Which was, admittedly, difficult, since her sisters were devoting their every waking moment to bothering her about Redford Morgan.
He was definitely avoiding her. She'd never gone more than a day without glimpsing him around the courtyard or the corridors before, and their email thread was conspicuously silent. He'd answered her apology text two days ago, but only to say, It's fine. It clearly wasn't fine. She didn't know how to reply. He knew that she was sorry, so she should give him space, as much as he needed, even if what he needed was space that lasted forever. Even if the thought made her stomach twist.
She was a mess, and her family's meddling wasn't helping the situation.
True to form, Aunt Mary had informed her twin that Chloe had been _seen_ with a _man_. Mum had, of course, told Dad, and Dad had grumbled at Gigi, who had promptly called to recommend La Perla lingerie because "I know you like to budget, darling." She'd also passed on the gossip to Dani and Eve, both of whom had proceeded to blow up the sisterly group chat with encouraging, if inappropriate, GIFs and profoundly annoying questions. It hadn't taken them long to realize that Chloe's _"mysterious gentleman, rather large, gorgeous hair"_ was Red.
Chloe had muted her chat app after two days of nonsense. Her sisters had begun sending emails. She didn't open them, of course, but the subject lines were depressing enough. Dani's latest had been entitled LOVE POTION RECIPE: REQUIRES ONE (1) LOCK OF GINGER HAIR.
But, today, annoying sisters were the least of Chloe's worries. Because today was the day she was to give Smudge back.
She stood in front of the apartment building, pet carrier in hand, knowing Red would be here for moral support if she hadn't horribly insulted him. Not that she was self-flagellating. She'd received communication from the footloose, fancy-free, and clearly irresponsible _Annie_ yesterday, and now the woman wanted "her" cat back. Hah. Hers indeed. Just because she'd purchased him, raised him, and fed him for quite some time, didn't necessarily make Smudge Annie's. Chloe had snuggled with him for many hours and also rescued him from a tree. Hers was definitely the greater claim.
And yet . . . she couldn't steal, especially not a pet, so she found herself standing by the building's front doors, waiting for Annie to arrive. Chloe had suggested this location because her flat might be difficult to find, and also because she didn't want to have to invite this woman in and engage in pleasant chitchat. It was difficult enough standing here, ignoring Smudge's questioning miaows. She knew exactly what he was asking, of course: _Why on earth have you put me in a box, you baffling woman?_
She couldn't bring herself to reply.
The woman was three minutes late, which only reinforced Chloe's poor opinion of her. But then, at 11:04, she heard the slap of flat shoes against pavement and the jingle of what sounded like a large bunch of keys. A moment later, a tall, slim woman with honey-colored curls came into view, covered neck to shin by an oversized camo coat. Despite the odd outfit, she was pretty, with soft features, skin a few shades deeper than her hair, and eyes so bright, Chloe could see them from meters away.
"Hi," the woman said, hurrying over. "Chloe, right? Nightmare parking around here. Annie, by the way, I'm Annie. Oh, is that Perdy? Yeah, that's Perdy. Hey, Perdy! Hi! Hi, baby!" She bent to poke a finger into the cat carrier, then straightened. "You are Chloe, right? I'm not getting your name wrong, am I? I forget names. I like your glasses."
Chloe intended to say, _Yes, that's me, hello, and thank you._ What came out of her mouth, in clearly scornful tones, was "Perdy?"
"Short for Perdita," Annie said fondly. "You know, from _101 Dalmatians_."
"But he's not a dalmatian."
"She," Annie said, and reached for the cat carrier. For one tense moment, Chloe worried her fingers wouldn't release the plastic handle. But her subconscious behaved itself—for once—and she didn't start a fight over a cat in the middle of the street.
Of course, if she had, it wouldn't be the most scandalous thing she'd done in the street recently.
"He's not even spotty," Chloe insisted, ignoring the wild and unfounded claim that Smudge was, of all things, a girl.
Annie gave her a strange look and said, "You're funny. Want to go for a coffee?"
"I . . . er . . . sorry?"
"You're funny. Bit strange. Want to go for a coffee? You are Chloe, aren't you? Thanks for finding Perdy. My great-aunt Amy was supposed to be watching the girls while I was in Malmö—I've been in Malmö by the way, fabulous place, have you been?—but she got confused—my great-aunt—because I have quite a few cats and I suppose she is quite old. Also, there's that one fox. Yes, in hindsight, it is quite confusing."
Somehow, through a haze of bafflement so thick it might as well have been a brick wall, Chloe managed to croak, "Pardon?"
Annie gave her an indulgent smile, as if she was being an absolute ninny, and shoved a hand into a cavernous coat pocket. "Hmm, now, where is my . . . oh." She produced a handful of debris. There was an empty Lindor wrapper, an enormous set of keys, what looked like a few foreign coins, a faded receipt, and . . . "Take my card. There. See it?"
It really couldn't be missed. It was hot pink and glittery. Chloe took it gingerly by the corner.
"Give me a ring and we'll go for a coffee. My treat! Because you found Perdy."
"I don't drink coffee," Chloe murmured, honestly enough, as she studied the card. It read: annie amande, knicker whisperer.
What in the bloody hell?
"Tea, then," Annie said brightly. "Got to dash. I'm late. Come on, Perdy, let's be having you, you great big wandering nitwit. Off we go, off we go, off we go." She turned and hurried up the street again.
Chloe stared after her, feeling slightly dazed. When Annie's tall figure disappeared around a corner, Chloe looked at the card in her hand again: knicker whisperer? What could that possibly mean? There was a website, along with several social media links that would probably reveal all, but she didn't want to go searching. Didn't want to spend any more time dwelling on that odd woman and her strange invitation, because it would only remind her of one fact: Smudge was gone.
She shoved the card into her pocket and strode back into the building, driven by an urgent need to get home. It took her a moment to realize that the odd wetness sliding down her cheek was a tear. Oh, how mortifying. She was crying over a cat she'd had for only a couple of weeks, and in public, too. Worse than that, she actually felt . . . sad. More than sad. Devastated. As if someone had ripped a hole in her chest.
The only thing that could possibly make this situation worse would be bumping into Red. She would hate that. It would be awful, horrible, the end of the world, so she was glad when she made it to her flat without seeing him.
Very glad indeed.
* * *
When someone knocked on Chloe's door the next day, it never occurred to her that it might be Red. She had gotten used to the weight of his absence. She'd closed her curtains because she refused to accidentally spy on him. She was giving him space, damn it.
But there he was, on her doorstep, only four days after she'd ruined everything.
"Hey," he said.
She swallowed, which hurt. Right now, everything hurt. He couldn't have shown up at a worse time if he'd tried. She felt like bird poop and she looked _under the weather,_ which was a phrase her cognitive therapist had told her to use instead of calling herself hideous. But really, sometimes, human beings just looked hideous. There was no shame in it. Or at least there wouldn't be if Red weren't standing there on her doorstep looking delicious.
She opened her mouth to croak a startled _hello,_ but he held up a hand to cut her off. He was unusually smile free, severe and serious in a way that made her nervous—not because he was upset with her, but because he was upset at all.
Redford Morgan should always be smiling.
He raked a hand through his hair and said, "I just want to make it clear that I'm incredibly pissed at you. But . . ." He cleared his throat, looking slightly unsure. "But I don't think you meant to—to say what you said. I'm still pissed, though. And I'll be pissed until I'm ready to stop."
She nodded slowly, not entirely sure why he was explaining the mechanics of human anger, but quite certain that it was important to him. "Okay."
For a moment, he seemed almost painfully relieved. Then his eyes narrowed at her faint, raspy voice, and he said accusingly, "You're sick."
She supposed she should be flattered he couldn't tell by sight alone. But something about that speech he'd just made, and the look on his face, was nagging at her brain. "It's nothing. You know you're allowed to be angry, don't you? In general, I mean. And at me. You are allowed to be angry at me."
He faltered for a moment. "Of course I know. I just said all that, didn't I?"
Suddenly, she realized what was bothering her. He _had_ just said as much—but he'd spoken as if he was trying something new and he wasn't entirely sure that it would work.
"You need to lie down," he said, interrupting her thoughts.
"Don't be silly. This happens all the time." Although, she _would_ love to lie back down. In fact, she might just . . . sit. Red wouldn't make her feel like some kind of freak because her body was giving out on her and spoons were a distant memory. She leaned against the wall, then started to slide down it, just a little.
He frowned. "Are you passing out right now?"
"That's usually much more sudden," she said absently. "I'm just going to sit right here . . ."
"Or we could do this." He stepped into the flat and picked her up.
"Oh. Um. What are you doing?"
"Carrying you. Work with me, here." Presumably, he meant that she should stop kicking her legs around awkwardly. Since she was very, very tired, and since walking felt like being stabbed in the lower back, she did. He nudged the door shut and said, "Where d'you wanna go?"
"I've been in the living room. Red, I'm really, really, super, eternally sorry about—"
"You should stop talking. You got tonsillitis or something?"
"Or something. But it'll pass soon. This is just what happens when I get too tired or I don't eat right—"
"Or you step on the cracks in the pavement." He put her down gently in the little nest she'd made on the sofa, then knelt on the floor beside her. "You know, for such a funny-sounding word, fibromyalgia is—"
"A motherfucker."
" _Chloe!_ Did you just swear? You never swear." He paused. "That was fun. Do it again."
"No," she said primly.
He chuckled, shook his head, and she'd missed him so much her heart cracked open like an egg. Sticky emotion spilled out. The remnants of her protective shell were scattered around in tiny shards.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. An explanation, a real one, was necessary, but she couldn't bear to look at him as she did it. If she focused on her knees, Chloe decided sensibly, Red wouldn't be able to see the truth of her feelings in her eyes. "That night," she sighed. "I know you said it wasn't complicated, but it complicated things for me. I suppose that's just how I am. As soon as you stopped touching me, reality kicked in, and I started panicking about what it meant and what you wanted, or didn't want, and—well. In short, I overthought everything and made several colossal mistakes, and I'm sorry."
"Chloe. Look at me."
Her first instinct was to refuse, like a toddler rejecting vegetables. But that wouldn't be very mature, and immaturity had gotten her into a mess just last weekend, so she made herself face him.
He was running his knuckles over his lips thoughtfully, studying her with those three little lines between his eyebrows. Like he didn't know what to make of her. Finally, he said, "So it complicated things, huh?"
She swallowed hard, his pale gaze freezing her in place. He was endlessly hypnotic. Her voice a thready whisper, she confirmed, "Yes."
Quietly, he said, "Complicated things for me, too. It's funny—you're so smart. And I feel so fucking obvious. But you don't seem to know what I want from you."
She shook her head. "No. I don't." _Or maybe I do and I'm too afraid to face it._
As if he'd heard the echo of her thoughts, he leaned closer, raising a hand to her cheek. "I should show you." His fingertips traced the curves of her face, her jaw, her throat, his eyes following the movement as if he were mapping her out. His focus was so formidable, it stilled the earth and stopped time. It made her feel . . .
But that was it. That was all. Red's focus simply made her _feel_.
She released a shuddering breath. Her heart thudded a bruising rhythm against her chest. She supposed he'd kiss her now, and she'd succumb to his sexual onslaught, or something along those lines—only, she realized with a wince, she didn't quite feel up to it. Sitting this close to him made her skin feel like shivering silk, but arousal was a whimper beneath the scream of her body's aches, pains, and sheer exhaustion. Abruptly, she remembered nights with Henry, nights when he'd turned away from her with disgusted mutters after failed seductions that only embarrassed them both. _If you didn't want to, you should've just said._
She _had_ said. She'd said, _Henry, I'm sick,_ and he'd thought the power of his bloody penis would make it all better.
Well, she wasn't about to go through that again—not even with Red, no matter how much she liked him. Chloe stiffened under his featherlight touch, and he faltered, concern softening his gaze. Not anger. Just worry. Good. Perhaps he wouldn't react badly at all. Her breaths came a little bit easier.
Firmly, she told him, "You should know that I want you, but tonight I don't feel particularly—"
"Chloe," he interrupted softly, his frown back in place. "Sweetheart. You really _don't_ know what I want, do you?" He caught her hand, pressing his lips to the slice of her palm framed by her wrist support's Velcro straps. After a moment, he said carefully, "I'd like to stick around tonight. Just to hang out. That okay?"
She felt dizzy with relief. He wouldn't make things difficult and he wouldn't make her push him away. Thank goodness, because, for once, Chloe really didn't feel like pushing anyone away. "Oh. Right. Yes. That's fine." Apparently, she'd lost the ability to form complex sentences.
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Nice to know you want me, though."
"Oh, God." Heat flooded her cheeks even as a rueful smile curved her own lips. "Don't be awful."
"Can't help it. And, just so you know, it's mutual." His gaze darkened. "But we'll talk about that another time."
For a second, the promise of that other time—of that conversation and all it might mean—hung hot and heavy between them. Rather how she imagined his body might feel covering hers.
But then she remembered why a conversation like that could be difficult—because if Red wanted more than just touches in the dark, if he wanted what she wanted . . . Chloe might be too afraid to reach out and take it. The promise of more with him glittered like broken glass, beautiful but potentially deadly. Good things usually hurt in the end.
But she was being maudlin and getting ahead of herself and overthinking—which hadn't served her well the last time. Brushing the ghost of her mistakes aside, Chloe sat up straighter—ignoring the stabs of pain sliding between her vertebrae—and asked, "You do forgive me, don't you?"
"I do." He reached for her again, and her heart practically stopped beating. She remembered the warmth of his touch and the cold of those silver rings with hazy desperation, as if the last time had been a fever dream. But all he did was tap one of the buttons on the front of her pajamas and say, "You do know how to apologize, Button. I forgive you just fine."
Well, that was a relief, at least.
# Chapter Sixteen
Chloe wanted him. That's what she'd said, loud and clear, in a way he'd never expected to hear—at least, not outside the bedroom. She struck Red as the sort of woman who'd only share her desires when she was already halfway to orgasm. Who'd whisper hot commands and sweet confessions in the dark. But she wanted him, and she'd said it out loud.
She also didn't know what he wanted—which, he supposed, was understandable. Because it was only here and now that his purest want—his _need_ —had become fully clear to him. When it came to Chloe, it turned out Red's ultimate goal was to make her happy. That was it. That was all. The realization jolted him like a thousand volts to the heart. He felt . . .
He felt something she might not want him to feel. Something she seemed almost afraid of. Her gaze flickered away whenever his words were too intense or his voice too tender—he knew that. He'd noticed that. So he shoved the soft warmth in his chest aside; he'd examine it later.
Chloe's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he drank in the sight of her. She was wearing pink, pinstriped pajamas with buttons down the front, the kind grumpy old men wore. She had a lot in common with grumpy old men, actually, except for the part where he was desperate to kiss her.
Instead of her hair's usual neat, shiny bun, it looked like she'd grabbed the dark waves with a fist, shoved a hair tie over them, and hoped for the best. It was what Red did with his own hair when he was working out. Judging by her small mountain of blankets and the mess strewn across her coffee table, it was what _she_ did when she felt like shit. He was probably the worst kind of monster because Chloe was sick, but he still thought she was unbelievably sexy. Then he remembered that she was always sick, so maybe poor health wasn't something that should de-sex a person.
Definitely couldn't de-sex Chloe.
He cleared his throat and stood, looking around the room. The empty water bottles and cardboard boxes she left by her front door had reproduced like bunnies, creeping down the hall until they were visible from here. "You should call me when you need things recycled."
"Maybe," she mumbled, snuggling deeper into her blankets.
"Definitely. It's my job." Although a cautiously excited voice in his head whispered, _Not for long._ This idea he'd had about finding his own place, about trying again with his art . . . it wouldn't let go. He rolled it around his mind like whiskey in his mouth while he gathered Chloe's empty teacups and glasses of juice.
"Don't clean up," she told him. "I can cope, you know."
"And I could cope without electricity, but why the fuck should I?"
She tutted. "Surely you have better things to do with your evening."
_Nothing I'd enjoy more than being here with you_. The words flashed up in his mind without permission, but thankfully he controlled his mouth more easily than his thoughts. "You can't get rid of me, Button. You're mine tonight. I booked you."
"You booked . . . ?" Her eyes flew open. "Oh, my goodness. I completely forgot. Your website."
His lips quirked. "You forgot? You mean your brain is actually a squidgy gray thing and not a computer? I've been wondering."
She didn't smile back. "I have done something, you know. I have the home-page design to show you, and I wanted to go through the shop's functionalities, but we'll have to move to my desk—" She sat up and winced. Just a tiny tightening of her features, but he felt like someone had ripped out his heart.
"Sit your arse down. Relax. It's not a big deal."
"Don't you want—"
"No," he said firmly. Then, when she looked genuinely disappointed, he added, "Send me a link tomorrow. I'm—"
She leapt on his hesitation, her eyebrows raised. "You're . . . ?"
_Eager._ "I'm starting to get excited about work again. That's all." He shrugged, as if it didn't make him feel electrified. "So I'll look tomorrow. If you're feeling better."
She gave him a delighted, if faintly exhausted, smile. "That's wonderful. That's fantastic."
"Uh, thanks. So, do you want more juice, or not?"
The smile became a narrow glare. "I can get my own juice."
"But why would you do that when you have a willing servant?"
She rolled her eyes. He knew why she hesitated. Considering the way her so-called friends and fiancé had dropped her, she was sensitive about letting people get close. When she finally closed her eyes and said, "Continue, if you must," he felt like he'd climbed a fucking mountain.
When he returned to the living room, she sat up for the juice without wincing and he said, "Is it me, or do you seem better than you were ten minutes ago?"
"You're right." She took a sip. "The power of your company has cured me. The doctors were right about natural endorphins all along."
"Uh . . ."
"It's because the buprenorphine patch I put on finally started pulling its weight. I am drugged to high heaven. It's delightful."
"Oh. Good."
"I should have powered through," she told him, "since it's my strongest painkiller and I'm not supposed to build up an immunity to opiates in my thirties, but I was fed up with feeling my joints scrape together inside me like knives, so I have no regrets."
He stared. "You really are a badass."
She waggled her bunny slippers. "Yes."
"Have you eaten?"
She shrugged, sipped her juice some more, and said in a suspiciously casual tone, "Not yet."
Ah. She was one of those. He should've known. "I'll put that another way: When did you last eat?"
Chloe's face took on the shiftiest expression ever made by a human being in the history of the world. She hid guilt about as well as the average family dog. "I'm not sure." As if on cue, her stomach rumbled. She looked down irritably and muttered, " _Et tu?_ "
"Today?" he nudged.
She shrugged.
Oh, for God's sake. "You haven't eaten today? Are you serious?"
"I couldn't be _bothered,_ " she snapped.
"Right, sure. You're too lazy to feed yourself. It's not because you feel like shit or anything."
"Oh, be quiet."
He stood, and she looked up at him, something bleak and resigned in her gaze. In the second before she schooled her expression, he realized that she thought he was leaving. His heart constricted. He wanted to find every friend who'd ever ditched her, and especially her fucking fiancé, and force them all to walk barefoot across a room full of Legos for the rest of their lives. Not that he'd been thinking much about punishments.
"What do you want to eat?" he asked briskly, hoping she wouldn't hear the emotion rumbling beneath his voice.
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You—I don't—"
"You like stir-fry?"
She shot him a mutinous glare, like he'd offered to piss on her PlayStation or something. "Red—"
"I mean, who doesn't like stir-fry? Weirdos, that's who." He headed for the kitchen.
It took a second or two, but she stumbled after him, her blanket wrapped around her like a cape. Cutest, prissiest Batman he'd ever seen. When she said, "Red, you're _not_ cooking for me," he smiled to himself, just a bit.
* * *
The flat's little kitchen, all tiles and steel, always seemed cold to Chloe—but today, the air vibrated with sultry heat even before the stove was turned on. That was Red's fault. He stood in front of the fridge looking horribly sexy in his usual T-shirt and jeans, bending over at an angle that should be illegal for men who had backsides like his. She sat in her comfortable little kitchen chair and fiddled with the neckline of her pajamas. Maybe her current haze, partly feverish fatigue and partly the patch on her back pumping drugs through her skin, was a blessing in disguise. If she weren't feeling so rubbish it would be much, much harder to ignore how pretty he was.
"Who does all this food prep?" he asked, popping up from the fridge door with far too many boxes balanced in his arms. What was he making, gourmet chow mein?
"Eve."
"The rainbow girl? Really? She's . . ." He put the boxes down and waved his hand in a way that conveyed Eve's chaotic vibe perfectly. "If I'd had to guess one of your sisters, I would've said—what's her name, Danielle?"
"Danika," she corrected automatically. Being around him was so incredibly easy, she forgot how strange their relationship was sometimes. How he didn't know basic things about her, like her sister's full name, but he knew she loved Smudge and didn't trust and wanted to be brave.
She wished he knew more. Wished he knew everything. Wished she could share it all with him. That wasn't a desire Chloe felt often, or at all, but he made everything . . .
Safe.
"Christ, woman," he spluttered, interrupting her thoughts and bringing a smile to her lips. "Why do you have a kitchen drawer full of fancy pens?" He shut the offending drawer in disgust and turned toward another. "Where are your spoons?"
"Red. Don't. I don't want you to cook for me. And that's not—"
Too late. He'd opened the next drawer, which was full of her spare medication. But he didn't gawk at the countless colorful boxes, old painkillers she'd abandoned because they made her mouth too dry to talk, or because she'd gotten used to them and upgraded like an addict grown accustomed to the hit. He didn't ask about them, either, or slam the drawer shut and give her a part-pitying, part-worried look like her mother would. Instead he shook his head and said, "You got everything in this kitchen but cutlery, Chlo." Then he turned to the next drawer, discovered the spoons, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
Funny. Chloe was used to seeing her life and her illness as normal, but she wasn't used to other people acting the same way.
"Now," he said, popping the lid off one of the boxes and grabbing pre-sliced peppers. "If you really don't want stir-fry—because, let's face it, you are a weirdo—this is your last chance to tell me."
"You are not cooking for me." There; that sounded firm, reasonable, and mature. Kind of.
"Why not?" he asked just as reasonably while he rifled through her cupboards.
"Because you're not a bloody home helper!"
He turned to look at her. "Chloe. _Language._ "
"Oh, for—"
He interrupted, his tone serious, his words quiet. "Stop worrying, okay?" His search of the cupboards abandoned, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. Her gaze absolutely did not catch on the shift of his biceps or the raised veins on his strong forearms. Well, it did, but only for a second. "You think this is a big deal because, no offense, you've had a lot of people in your life who claimed to care about you but didn't act like it. That's not me. I can cook, and right now, you can't. So I'm doing it for you because that's how people should behave; they should fill in each other's gaps. Don't think about it too hard."
She nodded slowly, staring at her clasped hands for a minute as inconvenient, mushy emotions flooded her. Then she released a slow, shaky breath and finally said what she'd wanted to say for a while, but hadn't been able to force past her clenched teeth. "Thank you."
"No worries," he said easily. And she didn't even wonder if he meant it. There was no doubt in her mind that he did.
Red found a wok and opened more boxes; poured oil into the pan and yanked out what seemed to be every seasoning she owned. Then he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes as if at himself, and said, "You got a hair tie?"
"I never know where they are," she admitted. Except for the one currently in her hair, which she tugged free and handed to him.
"Thanks." Bright blue paint stained some of his nails. His fingertips grazed hers. Her body lit up inside, reacting as if he'd offered to rip off her clothes and do her on the counter—not that she wanted him to, because she really wasn't feeling very well, and it would be murder on her lower back. She sternly informed her nipples of these pertinent facts, but they gestured rudely at her and continued to tingle like a pair of slutty batteries.
Meanwhile, Red somehow managed to remain gorgeous while wearing a man bun.
When the kitchen filled with the sharp sizzle of cooking food, she spoke again. "So, you like to cook?"
"I like to cook for other people," he said. "Cooking for myself is okay, but it's not exactly the same."
Something about that revelation filled her with equal parts relief and disappointment. "I see."
Though his focus was on the food, he arched an eyebrow, amusement dancing over his expression. "What do you see, Button?"
"You run around making dinner for everyone." She'd meant that to sound teasing, but it came out a little bit . . . not.
His smile widened as he shot her a look. "Jealous?"
She snorted. "Pardon me? Of course I'm not jealous." When had she become such a shameless liar? Her dad would be so disappointed in her new habit of casual deceit.
"That's good. Be weird if you were jealous of my mother."
And now she was mortified. She wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, as if she could disappear inside it. This was what came of _liking_ men: rampant idiocy. She opened her mouth and searched for a way to dig herself out of that particular hole.
But Red didn't seem to think it was necessary. When he looked at her again, his obvious amusement was replaced by curiosity. "Hey," he asked, as though it had just occurred to him. "Where's Smudge?"
Her heart lurched. She'd been hoping he wouldn't notice. "Gone."
Red stilled. "Gone?"
"Annie came back a few days ago. She was in Malmö." Chloe narrowed her eyes. "She calls Smudge _Perdita,_ which would be an excellent name—I love _101 Dalmatians_ —except that Smudge isn't a dalmatian, so it's ludicrous."
For some reason, Red didn't agree with her on the name. He didn't comment on the name at all. He abandoned his post at the stove and before she knew it, he was standing in front of her. He sank his hands into the tangled mess of her hair. He kissed her head and she almost fainted dead away. He said gravely, "I'm sorry, Button."
"I don't care," she mumbled, breathing deep. Not because he smelled like fresh sheets and warmth and blueberry shampoo; she was just breathing. "Smudge wasn't even my cat."
"I'd get you a new one, but you know the rules."
"I don't _want_ a new one."
He smiled down at her. "Did you cry?"
"I . . ." _Say no. Say no. Say no_. "Only a little bit."
Red seemed satisfied. "As long as you cried, you'll be okay. That's what my mum always says." He went back to the wok and her head felt cold without his hands cradling it.
Since she was saying things she shouldn't tonight, she murmured, "I'd quite like to meet your mother. I mean," she added quickly, "I'd be interested to see what she's like, because you're so . . ."
He arched an eyebrow. "I'm so?"
"Infuriating."
"Right. Don't know how you put up with me." He chuckled. Shot her a knowing look that made her cheeks burn hotter than the sun.
"She gave me her card," Chloe blurted. "Annie, I mean. And do you know what it says?"
"Something shit," he guessed, "because we hate her."
"It says 'Knicker Whisperer.'"
Red's lips twitched. "That's . . . interesting. I mean—weird. Very weird."
"I know it's funny," Chloe sighed. "It's brilliant. Unique and intriguing and catchy, and the card is beautifully designed, and I bet if I go to her mysterious knicker-whispering website, that'll be great too." She huffed and glared at nothing in particular. "What is that woman's _game_? What is her _angle_?"
"Why'd she give you the card?"
"She says we should have coffee. I don't believe it. I'll turn up and she'll text and say, so sorry, she's in Venice."
Red ignored almost everything she'd said, which was both irritating and hilarious. "So she wants to be friends?"
Chloe stared at him. "I don't see why she would. We spoke for all of five minutes."
"But she made a big impression."
"She _took_ my _cat_." The man had lost his marbles, clearly.
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Maybe you made an impression on her, too."
"What about me could possibly make an impression?" Chloe demanded.
Red stared at her for a little too long. She bit her lip. He smiled. "Look, all I'm saying is, Annie might like you. And you might like her, if you gave it a chance. You have similar taste in cats."
"You are not funny."
"I want you to make a friend."
"You're my friend," she snapped. "New topic. When are you setting up that Instagram account?"
"I don't know." He tried to run a hand through his hair, failed because it was tied up, and tutted.
Now a slow smile curved _her_ lips. "I can do it for you, if you're busy." In all fairness, he _was_ often busy, tending to old ladies and feeding street urchins and painting magical masterpieces like a patron saint of goodness and art. But she didn't think that was the problem.
"You don't need to do that," he said. "I'll . . ." She'd bet money that he was trying to say, _I'll do it,_ but couldn't quite make himself.
"Funny," she murmured. "I didn't notice before."
He gave her a suspicious look. "Notice what?"
"That you're scared of social media."
" _Scared?_ " He scowled, turning to face her _._ "Chloe. I'm not—it's—you're winding me up again, aren't you?"
"I'm simply acknowledging your obvious aversion to—"
He pointed a stern finger at her. "Stop trying to confuse me. I'm not saying shit." He was blushing, slashes of pink high on his cheekbones. His ears, too, which she'd never seen before, since his hair was usually down.
Something in her chest softened like a marshmallow, which couldn't be healthy. "I'm serious," she said. "I'll do it for you. I'll manage it for you. You wouldn't even have to look at it unless you wanted to." She didn't know why he felt this way, when once upon a time his work had been everywhere. But she didn't need to know. She'd take care of this, to give him space to take care of himself.
He looked at her for a long moment before taking his phone out of his pocket. She watched with a frown as he tapped at the screen, his embarrassed flush barely fading, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, just as her understanding dawned, he came over and held out the phone.
"There," he said, showing her the log-in screen. "I downloaded Instagram."
She stared. "I—Red—I didn't mean to pressure you."
"You didn't. I said I was going to do it, and I meant it. I'm serious about this. So, if your professional opinion is that I need one . . ."
"I'm not an expert," she said quickly, suddenly self-conscious.
His gaze snared hers, so simply trusting, it burned all her hesitation away. "You're a successful small business owner," he said, "and you know computer shit."
She snorted. "'Computer shit'?"
"Be quiet. I'm concentrating." He tapped some more, and before she knew it, he was showing her yet another screen—a blank account with his name on it. "That's that," he said, looking slightly surprised by himself. Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and his blush deepened. "Thing is, I really don't know much about this stuff. So maybe, you could, uh . . . maybe you could help me?"
He was so sweet, she was in danger of losing a tooth. Soft warmth flooded her at the sight of this huge man with his pink cheeks and hard jaw. Then came admiration, because he'd smashed through the brick wall of self-doubt like it was nothing. The same wall she often struggled to even approach.
"Whatever you want," she told him, and she'd never meant anything more.
"Thanks," he said gruffly. He caught her hand for one heart-stopping moment, and squeezed. Then he turned away, back to the wok. "Let's get some food in you."
* * *
Apparently, feeding Chloe made her sleepy. Very, very sleepy. Red washed up while she dozed on the sofa, then checked her biscuit tin for more of those homemade gingersnaps. He scored big time and munched on them while he made tea. Did Eve bake these as well as prepping all the food? Because if so, next time she flirted with him, maybe he should flirt back. It would be an amazing plan if he wasn't completely hooked on her sister.
But he was.
He returned to the living room and sat beside Chloe as gently as he could. Since he was overgrown, his weight shifted the cushions a little too much, and she stirred.
Her lashes fluttered. Eyes opened. She'd taken off her glasses, so she looked at him without focusing and gave him a soft little smile. Maybe every single atom in his body imploded, re-formed, and _ex_ ploded at the sight of that smile. Maybe. But he tried to keep that to himself.
"You should go to bed," he told her.
"I won't sleep. I can already tell."
"Weren't you just sleeping?"
"Nothing so satisfying as that, I assure you," she muttered, and cradled the tea in both hands. "I don't suppose you'd like to watch something over-the-top and faintly ridiculous. I feel like cowboys. Oh—space cowboys. Do you like space cowboys? You probably don't." The tangled waves of her hair were a dark cloud around her face. She gave him a sideways look through the wild chestnut strands, eyebrows raised, lips pursed at the edge of the mug.
He told her truthfully, "I love space cowboys."
But they only got twenty minutes through an episode of _Killjoys_ before Chloe's eyelids drooped. Red turned off the TV, put her glasses safely on his head, and scooped her up in his arms. His heart beat brighter than it had before. She turned everything pink—pink like poofy skirts and pinstriped pajamas and the tip of her tongue when she tapped it against her teeth. Pink like he was fucking gone for her. Pink like the little decorative pillows on her bed. He nudged them off and laid her down, and she mumbled, "Red?"
"Yeah, Button?"
"C'mere. You smell like sleep."
He didn't know what that meant, but he decided it was a good thing. After a moment's hesitation, he tucked the covers over her, then crossed to the other side of the bed and lay on top of them.
He'd just stay here for a while until she fell asleep again. He'd practice some of the techniques Dr. Maddox had mentioned at their first appointment today—taking the time to arrange his thoughts and feelings, sinking into positive moments. He was supposed to write shit down, but he preferred to visualize, and the doc had said that was okay, too.
So Red lay back, closed his eyes, and thought about Chloe's smile. About stir-fry and space cowboys. About feeling like himself. He counted the moments of clarity he'd teased from his messy mind today, and he was proud. He let himself feel good, good, good.
It was surprisingly easy.
# Chapter Seventeen
When he woke, the bedroom was bright. Birdsong and cold air floated through the open window, and Chloe was standing by her dresser in a towel.
This was an excellent way to wake up. "Hey, Chlo."
She screeched, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "You're awake!"
Her hair was dripping wet, her skin glistened with little water droplets, and the towel wrapped around her only hit midthigh. "Yeah," he said roughly. "I'm awake."
She made a strangled sort of noise and grabbed some stuff from the dresser. He looked away from her thighs long enough to notice she was holding a pile of clothes. Then he looked back at her thighs.
"Be a gentleman and close your eyes," she sniffed.
"Do I have to?"
"Not anymore, because I am leaving." She clutched her clothes to her towel-clad chest and rushed off toward the bathroom. Under the slick strands of her hair, he caught sight of something on her upper back, a pale rectangle that looked kind of like a bandage. No, he realized, it was like a giant nicotine patch. Maybe some kind of medication. Then she slammed the door shut.
He stood, ran a hand through his hair, and wondered how the hell he'd managed to fall asleep.
Abruptly, the bathroom door opened again, just a crack. Chloe called, "Do you still have my hair tie? I can't find any of the others."
He tugged it off his wrist and handed it through the slight gap in the door. "You feeling better?"
"Quite."
"Details," he ordered, though he expected she'd tell him to piss off.
Instead, after a pause, she said, "I'm still exhausted. But I'm not _tired_. That helps." She shut the door. Her next words were muffled through the wood. "Thank you."
_You smell like sleep._ "Anytime."
When she came out again, he was sitting on the bed, trying not to look like a man who'd barely resisted the urge to snoop through everything she owned. It had been hard because this room was so Chloe, from the sci-fi-looking computer with two screens on her desk, to the pretty row of shoes tucked just under her bed. There was stuff everywhere: candles she'd never lit, fancy bottles of perfume she'd clearly never used, notebooks stacked in piles so high she'd surely never use those, either, and a thousand pictures of her family. It was adorable.
"Sorry about that," she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt. It was sunshine yellow, with a thick white stripe at the bottom. Made her skin glow. Made him want to go over there on his knees. Her hair was up and sleek as glass, her glasses perfectly polished. "I meant to take my clothes into the bathroom with me, but I forgot."
"I didn't mind." Understatement of the year.
She gave him a look. "I have a spare toothbrush, if you want it. You could also just go home. However, I thought I might make you breakfast, to say thank you for dinner."
That took his attention away from her legs, which was no mean feat. "You want to make me breakfast?"
"Don't sound so surprised. If you like eggs and toast, I am more than capable."
"No, I just—" He just wasn't used to women doing things for him. He did things for them, and that was it. That was how it worked. He ran a hand through his hair and realized that, apparently, that wasn't how it worked anymore. "All right. I like eggs. Thanks."
He found the spare toothbrush. Her bathroom shelf was full of products that matched: she bought the same brand and scent of shampoo and conditioner, body wash and moisturizer, because of course she did. She liked flowers, and strawberries. He added that carefully to the list of things he knew about Chloe Brown, a list that was longer than he'd ever expected it to be, but still not long enough. Maybe it would never be long enough.
Still, it was satisfying, as the morning went on, to add to that list again and again. First, it was _Chloe makes great scrambled eggs._ Then it was _It feels good to wash dishes while Chloe dries._ Finally he realized: _Starting my day with Chloe feels like starting my day in front of a canvas._
When they finished washing up, Red had a smile on his face that he already knew would last until he went to bed that night. Then, all at once, he turned left, Chloe turned right, and they both moved at exactly the wrong time. Or maybe it was exactly the right time. It felt right, when she stumbled into him. It felt right, gripping her waist to steady her. It felt right, her hands pressing against his chest.
So right he didn't move away.
She must be able to feel his heart pounding. He was surprised it wasn't visible through his clothes. She tilted her head back to look at him, her lips parted. Was this how she'd look, just before he kissed her? He wanted to add that knowledge to the list.
She said, her voice still a little hoarse, "Sorry. Gosh, sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going." But she didn't move, either.
His hands tightened at her waist for a moment before he forced himself to relax. It was a long, slow process, loosening every tense muscle in his body, reminding the unthinking part of himself that he couldn't just put his mouth on hers. He meant to let go of her completely, meant to step back, meant to say something.
He only managed the last of those goals. And what he said wasn't exactly sensible. In fact, he didn't know how it sneaked past security to roll off his tongue. "Do you know what I want yet, Chlo?"
At his rough whisper, she froze. She hadn't exactly been moving before, but now everything about her was unnaturally still, as if she wasn't even breathing.
He closed his eyes and cursed himself. Too much. Too—
"Yes," she said softly. "I do. And I think I'm scared."
When he opened his eyes, she was dragging her teeth over her lower lip, her frown agonized. The expression on her face practically ripped his heart open. He swallowed. Kept pushing, because screw it. "Why? Do you think I'd hurt you?" He didn't add, _Like everyone else._
She seemed to hear the words anyway. "Maybe." Her frown deepened and she shook her head irritably. Against his chest, her hands curled into fists, fingers tangling in his T-shirt. "No. Yes. I just—I'm always afraid that . . ." She looked up at him, realization dawning on her face. "Red. I think I'm being a coward."
"There's a big difference between being a coward and putting your emotional safety first," he said. He knew all about that.
Then again, so did she. She was nodding slowly, but her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "There is a difference. I look out for my own safety all the time. Constantly. That's not what this is. The urge I have to avoid this," she murmured, almost to herself, "it's like . . . it's like going to bed at nine sharp every night. Like refusing to make plans, even with my sisters. Like staying inside for a year because I don't think I can handle catching a cold."
He blinked, distracted for a second. "You did that?"
Her smile was a quicksilver flash. "The first few years were not good, Red. I was not good. This list isn't the first challenge I've had to set myself." She wet her lips, her eyes drifting away from his face as she sank into her thoughts. "But I always succeed. One way or another. I always take the next step, no matter how long it takes."
"Of course you do," he whispered. "You're a tough motherfucker, remember?"
She looked up at him again, her smile wider this time, more certain, like it was going nowhere. Her eyes glittered with something that made his heart feel light in his chest. "That's true. I am. And I want . . . you. All of you. I haven't done this sort of thing in a while, you know. But I'd like to try. Would you?" Her gaze, dark and serious, felt like a weight—the satisfying kind, the weight of expectation that meant someone might, almost, trust you not to fuck up. His whole body went rigid with anticipation, the kind of oh-shit giddy nervousness he usually felt before an exhibit.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Chloe. Yes."
She smiled. And then she kissed him.
It was the slightest brush of her lips over his, once, twice, three times. So soft, so gentle, his heart ached. He held his breath and closed his eyes and bent down for her, so she wouldn't hurt herself. His fingers sank into the lush curves of her hips for one desperate moment before he forced himself to relax, to not maul her like a caveman. At least, not until she asked him to.
Her fingers fluttered at his jaw, like she wanted to touch him but wasn't sure how to do it right. He wanted to tell her that any way she touched him would be right, but he'd rather step on a rusty fucking nail than break this barely-there kiss. Her lips brushed his again and the sensation seared through him like a shooting star, the kind that streaked the sky for long moments after it had passed. She tasted like minty toothpaste, sharp-tongued sarcasm, surprising hesitance. She was killing him. She was absolutely killing him.
Red slid a hand over her jaw and tipped her head back. She sighed as he slanted his mouth over hers and gave her the sweetest kiss he was capable of, because that's what she'd just given him. Slowly, carefully, he sank into the mouth he'd dreamed about. When he felt the edge of her glasses against his cheek, he pulled away to let her take them off—but she followed with a sound of protest. That indecisive hand of hers finally stopped hesitating; she threaded her fingers into his hair and tugged, pulling him closer, trapping him. Apparently, she didn't care about her glasses.
His hand slid down from her jaw to her throat, just because he wanted to feel more of her skin. She hummed low and pulled his hair again, setting off flashes of pleasure like camera pops behind his eyelids. Her tongue licked shyly at his and arousal shot up his spine, bright white and urgent scarlet. She pressed herself against him, full breasts and soft belly and breathless pants into his mouth. One of her hands tugged at his T-shirt before slipping beneath. The glide of her fingertips over his abdomen made him moan like she was sucking him off. _Touch me. Want me_. _Be mine_.
He liked to let her lead, but God, someday soon, he'd touch her, too. Anywhere. Everywhere. He wanted to feel her stomach tremble under his lips when she sucked in a breath, wanted to hear her beg for more as he palmed her tits, wanted to taste her hot pussy melting under his tongue. But he had no idea if she was there yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose it and rush her. She'd only just decided, officially, to do this at all.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, "Slow down, Chlo."
She stopped completely, let go, and stepped away, her gaze awkwardly avoiding his. In an instant, she was stiff and self-conscious. _Not_ what he'd wanted. It was so not what he'd wanted that he had to resist the urge to whine like a dog. Instead, he caught her hand and dragged her back into his arms. "Don't do that," he said against her hair. "This is your spot now. Okay?"
* * *
Chloe hadn't known it was possible to go from mildly embarrassed to melting like goo, but apparently all it took was five short words _. This is your spot now._
Her voice muffled, since she was currently plastered against Red's wonderful chest, she said simply, "Oh."
"And when I said _Slow down,_ I meant, _Give me a second before I come_. Not _Go away_."
"Oh." She looked up.
He straightened her glasses and tapped her on the nose. "Yeah. This is me checking in. I know you're still not feeling great."
She wasn't sure how he noticed things like that. She was up, she was dressed, she was medicated and smiling. He should've had no idea about her slight, lingering headache, or the thrum of pain that her patch couldn't quite touch, insistent enough that she was already frustrated.
She supposed whatever it was about him that made him notice might be the same thing that made her trust him.
"I don't feel that bad," she muttered, honestly enough. On her personal scale of one— _wonderful_ —to ten— _excruciating_ —this was a smooth six. Six was fine. One point above average. On the rare occasions she got down to a four, she often wondered how one found the universe's feet in order to kiss them.
Apparently, though, Red wasn't impressed by Chloe at a Six, because he just snorted. But he didn't let her go. And, when she burrowed deeper into his arms, she felt his hardness through his jeans, pressing into her belly and singing through her blood. Well now. She wasn't letting _that_ go. Not when she'd decided to be brave.
"I think you should kiss me again," she said, "and this time, don't do anything silly. Like stop."
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. "You aren't well."
"I'm never well. And my consultant does like to go on about endorphins being natural painkillers, and—"
"Really? Your _doctor_ tells you that?"
"Well, yes, but usually in a _Chloe, you should go out and have fun_ sort of way." Not a _Chloe, you should clumsily seduce someone by discussing pain management_ sort of way.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, hugging her tighter against him. No avoiding that erection now. She tried to maintain some dignity, succeeded for half a second, then crumbled like feta and rocked her hips into his. The choked groan he gave was . . . pleasing. The way he screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, was intoxicating.
Sounding pained, he asked, "Orgasms cause endorphins, right?"
"They do."
"Want one?"
She blinked at his lovely, flushing throat for a moment. Was this actually working? It seemed so, but she wasn't sure, because she suddenly couldn't think straight. Then her backup brain kicked in—the smaller section of her mind that took over like a generator whenever something wiped out her general brain's power. "Something" such as the casual offer of an orgasm.
The backup brain told him, "I'm still wearing my buprenorphine patch. Which makes it more difficult for me to do, um, that."
"Want to try?"
She exhaled sharply. "Yes, please."
Chloe could not be held responsible for the actions of the backup brain.
He opened his eyes and she saw the naked lust there, as if someone had switched on floodlights in the dark. That sharp green gaze settled on her like a ton of bricks. A ton of sexy bricks. Apparently, bricks could be sexy when they were shooting from Red Morgan's eyes like lasers. She may or may not be delirious with lust. The backup brain was still in control. Never mind.
He cupped her face in his hands like she was something delicate and kissed her like he'd missed her for a lifetime. His callused thumbs swept over her cheeks while their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his erection rigid against her belly. His lips claimed hers hungrily, every slick, hot glide of his tongue tugging at something delicious between her thighs. She moaned, and he pulled back as if that was what he'd been waiting for. The size of his jet-black pupils made his pale eyes seem strange, otherworldly.
"Bedroom," he said.
She ended up sitting primly on the edge of her bed with a tightly leashed storm of a man kneeling between her thighs. He wrapped his big hands around her bare ankles and muttered, "You always wear those fucking shoes . . . and these skirts. You drive me out of my mind." He let go, flicked one of the buttons on her jumper, then frowned. Fiddled with it for a moment. "Chloe . . . are these buttons fake?"
"Of course they are," she said. "Actual buttons would be an inefficient use of limited dexterity."
He laughed like she was a headline act at the Apollo.
Laughing wasn't exactly what she wanted from him right now, but it was so adorable she let it slide. He rested his head in her lap as he chuckled, and she slid her fingers through the golden fire of his hair until he calmed down. When he looked up at her again, his smile was even brighter than his eyes. "You and your fucking cardigans. Your fake fucking cardigans."
"Do you like cardigans?" she asked pertly.
The last of his amusement faded away, replaced by something raw and animal. "I like yours."
She'd never been happier about her own strange obsession with buttons she couldn't use. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled the jumper off over her head. "See? Efficient."
He didn't answer. Apparently, he was too busy staring at her chest. His brow furrowed as if in pain and his eyes fluttered shut for a second before he forced them open again, like he didn't want to miss anything. And then, good Lord, he bit his lip. As if he wanted to bite her. As if she made him hungry.
Well, the feeling was mutual.
She slid her bra straps off her shoulders, but he finally found his voice. "Woman. Don't take that thing off unless you want me to die here."
She rolled her eyes. "So dramatic."
"You don't know how much I want you," he whispered, his gaze devouring her bare skin. "I can't fucking tell you. I don't know how."
Maybe that was true, but right now, she thought she heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes—and felt it, when he ran his hand from her skirt-covered hip, to her waist, to her ribs. He toyed with the lace at the edge of her bra, then leaned forward and kissed her belly. She sucked in a gasp at the rasp of his stubble, the heat of his tongue. Languid need turned the blood in her veins to wine.
She tipped her head back and murmured, "I don't suppose you'd take your shirt off for me, would you?"
"I think that can be arranged." He dragged his shirt over his head. The ache between her thighs only worsened at the sight of him. He was so divine. This close, she finally realized that the tattoos covering his shoulders, his chest, his right side, were the old-fashioned, classic kind that usually came in color, but his were black and gray. An eagle, a stag, a crying woman with roses in her hair—her gaze traced over every intricately shaded piece.
He pushed her skirt up her thighs and said, his voice rough, "I like the way you look at me."
"I—"
His phone beeped, not a call but an alarm or reminder. He took it out of his back pocket, pressed a button, then threw it—actually _threw_ it—out of the open bedroom door.
She blinked. She'd been rather thoughtless this morning. "Oh, Red. You have work—"
"I'm busy. Be quiet."
"I don't think you want me to be quiet." She said it without thinking and was rewarded with a wicked smile.
"No. I don't." He rose up on his knees and kissed her again, licking into her mouth, hungry and filthy in a way that got her really wet, really fast. He hiked up her skirt, but instead of touching her desperate pussy he splayed his hands over her ribs again. Slid higher. Reached into her bra and cupped the weight of her breasts, squeezing, kneading, shamelessly enjoying. She shuddered against him, moaning into his mouth. He bit her lower lip, then sucked away the sting. Each slow pull sparked electric pleasure in her clit. If he didn't get a move on, she was going to start touching herself.
"Here's something I haven't told you," he murmured against her lips. "I love your tits." His thumbs swept over her nipples, circled her sensitive areolas, and when she whimpered, he kissed her again, fast and hard, as if he wanted to take her pleasure into his body. Then he continued. "I love your tits, but not as much as I love your legs. Don't ask me why. I've been fantasizing about your thighs." His hands skimmed back down her body, over her hips and belly, until he squeezed the aforementioned thighs. "All soft and thick and lush." He groaned and pressed hot, openmouthed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone.
She sucked in a breath when his mouth reached her cleavage and kept going. He'd told her to keep the bra on, but now he muttered, "Fuck it," and pulled down a cup until she spilled out. Then the tip of his tongue, impossibly light and achingly delicate, nudged her nipple. At the contact, a moan shot from her lips. Her body arched without permission, her hips rocking forward. He took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and she lost the very last of her control. It was as if she'd been on the edge of consciousness, clinging to lucidity by her fingertips, but now she was tumbling into a dream world. She was lust.
"Red," she gasped, her fingers sinking into his hair. "Oh, my God, Red. More." She grabbed one of his hands and shoved it between her thighs, rocking her swollen clit into his palm. He released her nipple with one last, sweet lick and her sensitive skin tingled from the rasp of his stubble. She wondered how that same sensation would translate against her inner thighs.
God, she wanted that.
"You want to know what I like best?" he asked conversationally, as if this was a perfectly ordinary interaction. As if she wasn't frantically grinding against his hand.
"What?" she gasped, barely caring, barely hearing.
"This," he murmured. "You. My desperate little angel. Losing it for me." He took his hand away and she whimpered. The sound turned into a moan when he finally pulled down her underwear. "Oh," he said. "And this." Without warning, his thick fingers slid through her folds. Her gasp was ragged, torn from somewhere deep inside her. The way he parted her was so intimate, it should've been obscene. He spread her open and said, "Your soft, wet cunt. Oh, Chloe." His thumb circled her clit just right, so right she thought she'd fall to pieces, disappear in a shower of sparks, a fleeting surge of dangerous power. "You're all swollen and slippery and I . . ." He broke off, shut his eyes, his expression agonized, and bit his fist. "No," he muttered. "Not today."
"Yes, today," she ordered, spreading her thighs wider, arching her back, showing him everything he claimed to love so much.
He held her gaze, his thumb still teasing her clit. "I'm not rushing this. Also, I don't think you have condoms."
Oh. Yes. That was a rather intelligent point. "Don't you have one in your wallet, or something?"
He snorted. "You're confused about the state of my sex life. No, there's not a condom in my wallet. And even if there was, I wouldn't give you what you want. I'd need to take my time. And I like hearing you beg."
"You're evil."
"You like it." He cupped her jaw, kissed her gently. He always touched her so carefully, but she didn't feel like he was afraid of breaking her. More like he worshipped her even as he debauched her. More like she was his, and precious, but he planned to come all over her anyway.
_Mmm. Please._
He eased his tongue into her mouth and pushed two fingers inside her—not deep, not hard, just teasing. Stroking. Exploring. When he glided over her G-spot she stopped breathing for a moment. Then she started again, and her next exhalation was a rush of " _Oh, that, stay there, stay there_."
"Yeah?" he whispered against her lips. "Sure you don't want me to—?" He pulled out and she sobbed. Then he circled her clit, fingers wet with her arousal, his touch so certain, she screamed.
And then he went back to her G-spot.
She clutched his shoulders because she felt like she might faint. "Red, please, please—"
"All right, love," he murmured, his fingers moving faster, his warmth fading as he moved away. His next words were a hot breath against her thigh. "You're so beautiful. So beautiful, and the longer I look, the better it gets."
How he could say that, when he was shirtless and stunning on his knees before her, _torturing_ her, she had no idea. Then he lowered his head and flicked his tongue over her swollen flesh, and it didn't matter, because nothing mattered except feeling. Feeling this. Feeling him. His mouth was hot and wet and slow, so slow, as he licked and sucked her clit. His tongue rubbed every inch of her with shameless intensity, slick and thorough and dizzyingly good. She moaned, choked out his name, pulled his hair, but none of that released the divine, impossible pressure building just beneath her skin. He did that. He loved her steadily, thoroughly, his fingers thrusting deep inside her while he lapped, sucked, pressed deep kisses to her labia the same way he'd owned her mouth. She melted, and he licked up her wetness like nectar.
Her orgasm was so powerful she thought she might black out. She released a high, desperate, gasping sound that might've been his name, might've been nonsense, might've been "Oh-my-goodness-this-is-fantastic-thank-you-so-much." Who knew? Certainly not Chloe, because sheer pleasure took up so much of her body that it shoved awareness out of the way to make room. She came until she was nothing but a limp, worn-out mess of a woman with hot tears spilling over her cheeks.
Red held her tight and kissed her hard, and she sucked her own taste from his tongue. Then he brushed his lips over her tears and murmured, "I knew you'd cry."
She wasn't sure how her voice still worked, but she managed to ask, "How?"
"You feel so much," he said simply.
Oh, if he only knew. If he only knew how very much she felt for him.
# Chapter Eighteen
Chloe didn't think it was unreasonable to say that an orgasm courtesy of Red's wicked mouth was now her favorite way to start the day. And, speaking of: an orgasm courtesy of Red's wicked hands was her favorite way to float into sleep. She could say that with certainty, because on Thursday night, he came back after work and made her dinner, and approved the work she'd done on his website so far. Then he took her to bed and stroked her until she fell apart for him.
He wasn't there when she woke up on Friday morning, but he'd left something behind on her desk, right beside her computer: a message scrawled in his familiar handwriting on one of her pink sticky notes.
Call if you need me. I'll see you tomorrow.
(FOR CAMPING.)
Underneath, he'd scribbled a cute little picture of a tree. What, exactly, made the picture cute? She couldn't say, except for the fact that it came from Red.
So, he'd be busy until tomorrow, would he? She found herself smiling at the thought of all the things he might be getting up to. For someone who'd once seemed like her antithesis, he had a secret fondness for plans that made her want to kiss his lovely, blushing cheeks. She ran a finger over his cartoon tree and sighed. Camping. Ick. Not exactly her forte, but she had the oddest feeling that she'd enjoy it anyway. There was a warm, jittery thrill in her stomach, like the screaming smile of someone on a roller coaster.
This, she decided, was how an adventure should feel. Not like an ordeal, the way drinking and dancing had, but like a welcome risk. When she and Red had left that awful nightclub, a seed of possibility had started growing in Chloe, daring and electric: maybe the list should be more than a box-ticking exercise. Maybe it should _mean_ more. Maybe changing it wasn't the end of the world.
Now, that seed had become a sapling, and Chloe was ready to make changes. A little apprehensive, but ready all the same.
She found her glittery blue notebook and sat at her desk, Red's sticky note beside her, a momentous weight in the air. After a moment's hesitation, she crossed out item 2, _Enjoy a drunken night out,_ with quick, sharp lines of her pen. Beside the crossed-out entry, she wrote simply, awkwardly, with a what-am-I-doing wince: _Call_ _Annie_. _Be nice. Make friends._
Dani often said that writing down one's desires, even in the slightest way possible, was a vital step in manifesting one's ideal future. Chloe often replied that that was nonsense, but the truth was, she believed in it. She stared down at the altered list with growing satisfaction, like a streetlight slowly switching on as the sun set behind it. She crossed out item 5, meaningless sex, with relish.
And then she wrote something else: an entirely new entry, because he made her feel entirely new things. Another wish, another manifestation, a stepping stone to an ideal future she only dared to peek at through splayed fingers. One she was determined to reach out and grab.
1. 8. Keep Red.
* * *
Contacting Annie proved to be the easiest list item Chloe had ever completed. When she forced herself to find the mysterious hot pink card and type its number into her phone, she was still on a list-editing high, utterly dauntless. Perhaps that was why, when Annie suggested coffee that very afternoon, Chloe agreed without even checking her schedule.
She was spontaneous, after all. She was flexible. She was committed to her new and improved list.
Hours later, she was also nervous. She sat at a table in a busy, overloud, and likely unhygienic coffee shop in Harebell, which could only be described as the hipster quarter of the city. Of course Annie, with her strange outfits and excellent business cards, had wanted to meet here. And yet, she _wasn't_ here, leaving Chloe to sit by the cold window like a shivering loner.
Wonderful.
But waiting wasn't all bad. It gave her time to text her new favorite contact.
Chloe: Guess where I am?
Red: Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?
Chloe: Not yet.
Red: I hope you haven't gone to New York without me.
She stared at that message for long, happy heartbeats, a thousand wonderful implications threading through her mind like a never-ending daisy chain. Perhaps they'd go to New York together. Because _they_ were together. And they shared goals and future plans. And things.
Chloe: I'd never go without you. I'm at a coffee shop waiting for Annie.
Red: What?
Red: ANNIE Annie?
Red: Actually, I don't care which Annie it is. You're waiting for someone? To have coffee? Not to throw the coffee at them, or anything, but to actually have coffee?
She snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth.
Chloe: YES. Honestly, what on earth do you think of me?
Red: That you're short-tempered and always interesting.
Chloe: You are a very difficult man.
Red: That must make me perfect for you. ;)
She was still smiling when Annie arrived.
"Chloe!" Annie plonked herself down in the seat across the table with a sound like a bubble bursting. "There you are!"
Chloe stared. _There she was?_ She'd been _here_ for the last thirty minutes, for Christ's sake. "Yes," she said dryly. "Here I am."
"So sorry I'm late. I've had a Marmite disaster."
"Oh. That sounds . . ."
"Vitamin rich? Very." Annie's golden curls were pinned almost flat to her head with what appeared to be a thousand black hair slides. She was wearing her enormous camo coat again, but she unzipped it to reveal a surprisingly ordinary outfit that consisted of jeans and a raspberry-colored jumper. "Coffee?" she asked brightly.
Since Chloe had been politely waiting before ordering, and ignoring the death glares of the lady behind the counter, for half an hour, she nodded eagerly before realizing what she was agreeing to. "Oh—no coffee for me, but I'll get tea."
"My treat!" Annie was up and off before Chloe could say another word. She was so . . . _springy_. Energetic. Possibly earnest, potentially a master of sarcasm. Chloe wasn't sure which, but she suspected her own prickliness stemmed from an urgent desire to find out, and a worry that she never would. How long had it been since she'd made and kept a friend? So long she must have lost the ability, rather like a wasted muscle. She should've been doing social exercises alongside her physiotherapy all these years. She found her own distorted reflection in the shiny metal sugar cup at the center of the table and gave herself a stern look. "Pull yourself together," she told the metallic Chloe with the aubergine-shaped head. "Think victorious thoughts. Triumphant thoughts. The thoughts of a woman who succeeds in all endeavors."
"An excellent philosophy!" Annie said.
Oops. Chloe slapped on a smile and tried to look less like someone who encouraged their own reflection in the middle of cool coffee shops.
Annie set down a tray of hot drinks, took her seat again, and said, "So! Are you still cross with me about Perdita?"
"I—erm—oh, gosh, I wasn't _cross_ with you—"
"I know you were. I would be, too, if it were me. Perdy's a _doll_." Annie paused. "Well, as far as cats go. I don't actually like them that much."
Chloe stared. "You don't?"
"Gosh, no. I'm more of a dog person. But the thing is, I have to look after them. It's part of the deal."
"The deal?"
Annie's voice dropped. "With the goddess of the underworld."
Oh dear.
Annie's voice dropped further as she went on, "My _mother_."
Ah. That was quite a bit less bonkers.
"You made some sort of deal with your mother that involves looking after cats?"
"Eleven cats. Thankfully, most are outdoors. I have to keep them all safe and tend to their needs with my own fair hand as much as is possible."
Chloe stared, aghast. "And what on earth do you get out of the bargain?"
"I get to live in my mother's house while she sails the world on a piddling little boat with her third husband, Lee. Now, I know what you're thinking—only three husbands? But my mother was quite young when she had me, so she's not as mature as you'd assume. Hopefully, by the time she hits her sixties she'll have found a rhythm and will be on her fifth husband at least."
"I'm sure," Chloe agreed. "There is nothing wrong with being a late bloomer."
"Certainly not. I myself, however, am a lost cause," Annie said. "Thirty-four years old and not a single husband, divorced, deceased, or otherwise disposed of."
"Me neither. I blame the modern age for an outrageous gap in my education. Schools simply aren't providing their girls with the skills needed to acquire and eliminate spouses."
"Hear, hear. So, since you, like myself, suffer from a lack of life insurance checks and/or alimony, what is it you do to keep yourself in chocolate biscuits and such?"
"I'm a web designer," Chloe said. "I ought to give you my card. It's not as good as yours."
"Flatterer." But Annie looked pleased. She had a Julia Roberts sort of mouth, so it was impossible to miss the smile she tried to hide.
Chloe found herself smiling wider in return. "And what do you do?" Because really, she'd been dying to know, and she still hadn't allowed herself to look.
"I'm a lingerie designer," Annie said.
"Goodness. That's . . ."
"Your bra doesn't fit, by the way."
Chloe blinked and looked down at her own chest. "It—?"
"Sorry. Auntie always tells me not to say things like that. But you seem the type who likes to know what's what."
"I am. How can you tell it doesn't fit?"
"Oh, please don't worry, you look lovely. But I can tell."
Chloe nodded. "So I don't look as if I have one giant, central boob or anything?"
"Certainly not," Annie said immediately. "Not at all."
"Oh, good. Well, I suppose I need to go bra shopping, then." An idea struck her, the sort she'd usually dismiss out of hand. The sort she'd be too afraid to say out loud, in case she was struck down and embarrassed. But Chloe was being brave, these days, so she pulled herself together and blurted it out: "Perhaps, at some point, you'd, er, be interested in advising me on . . ."
"I'll come with you," Annie said immediately. "Shopping. We'll make a day of it."
Chloe beamed. That had been easy. That had been beyond easy. "Wonderful. Yes. Let's."
* * *
Spending the day without Chloe had felt kind of like shaving off his hair. Or maybe Red's appointment with Dr. Maddox was to blame for that. After two sessions in relatively quick succession, he wasn't exactly enjoying therapy, but he was enjoying how much more he understood his own head. And, kind of like Chloe ticking shit off her list, he felt better every time he went.
He could say the same about the phone call he'd had with Vik, even though it had been about as easy as therapy. Telling his best friend he was ready to move on, to leap back into the real world independently and leave this safety net behind? That was one thing. Admitting to his boss that he'd been literally sleeping with a tenant? Not quite the same moment of brotherly love. But at least Vik hadn't driven over to kick him in the nuts. That would've made Red's plans for the weekend a hell of a lot more difficult to accomplish.
Now it was Saturday afternoon and he was standing on Chloe's doorstep with two duffle bags, already smiling. He'd knocked, which meant he was five seconds closer to seeing her again. To hearing her voice, instead of imagining it as he read her texts. To touching her . . .
She opened the door.
The first thing he noticed was her eyes, bright and excited behind her glasses. Maybe because she wanted to see him, too. Or maybe she was unexpectedly buzzed about camping. She certainly looked prepared: her hair was in one of those fancy-looking braids he didn't know the name of, and she was dressed in color-coordinated walking gear. Usually he'd miss her pretty skirts, but the leggings clinging to her thick thighs suited him fine.
"Stop staring at me, you pervert," she said.
He looked up just as she launched herself at him. Between the force of Chloe flinging her arms around him, and the weight of the bags on his shoulders, it was a miracle he didn't collapse. But he managed to stay upright, and his reward was her mouth: she kissed the hell out of him.
Reality shifted, shrinking to a fine point that consisted of nothing but her hands tangling in his hoodie and her tongue easing tentatively over his. She smelled like rain-scattered flowers and warmth and comfort and mindless fucking lust. He couldn't hold her the way he wanted to, so he let his mouth speak for his occupied hands. He tasted her like sweet nectar, bit her lower lip, swallowed her soft little moans greedily. Then, after the shortest forever on earth, she pulled away. Broke the kiss. Rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes, breathing heavily for a moment. The sound of her panting made him smile.
She opened her eyes and murmured, "Hi."
"Hi," he replied, his voice rough. "I take it you're excited to camp?"
She laughed and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind them. "Gosh, yes."
He followed her into the living room, noticing happily that the flat was just tidy enough to suggest that she was feeling okay. "Really?"
"Of course," she drawled. She was kneeling on the floor by a single enormous rucksack, fiddling with the straps and sliding a pink water bottle into a side pocket. "I'm like a child going to Disneyland. I can't wait to be trampled by moose in the night, or perhaps eaten by a bear, or chopped up by a serial killer, wrapped up in pieces of the tent and kept in a freezer for the next five years."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "Button. We don't have to do this. You know that, right?"
"Of course I know it. I want to do something that scares me."
"Camping," he said. "Camping scares you."
"No comment." She gave him a sphinxlike smile. He wanted to kiss it off her face.
"Well, you don't need to worry," he said, finally putting down his massive bags. "I'm not going to let anyone chop you up."
"Right. Because you're a big strong man who can fight off seasoned machete murderers with the power of your mighty masculinity."
He would not laugh. "And we don't have moose, Chlo. Or bears."
She turned to look at him. "I'm quite certain that we do."
"We don't."
"We definitely have bears."
"We don't. If we had bears it'd be in the news all the time. You know, _Fine upstanding British man attacked by a bear, EU to blame, Brexit now_."
"I'm quite certain I saw that headline on a copy of the _Daily Mail_ the other week."
"You didn't, love."
She tutted as if he was being unreasonable. "We'll see. Do you have bug repellent, by the way? I do."
Bug repellent? Where did she think they were going, a swamp? "Are you offering to share?"
She sniffed. "You really should've brought your own. Two bags, and you didn't bring your own?"
"I've got other stuff in my bags," he said, sitting on the floor beside her.
"Such as?"
He unzipped his duffel and pulled out a packet of marshmallows that was the size of a child. "We're gonna make s'mores and shit."
She dropped the bug repellent and jumped him again. Literally threw herself into his lap. He barely caught her, and then she was kissing him, kissing him, kissing him with the kind of hot, dark determination he felt for her, and it was wonderful. Her hands slid into his hair, her body rocked against his, and he felt as if she'd reached into his chest and squeezed his heart because it was suddenly, blatantly obvious that it belonged to her. He belonged to her.
He blinked, dazed, unsure of what to do with all these intense, impossible feelings. She pulled away, her laughter bright and infectious. "S'mores! I do love a man with a food-related plan. I hope you know we're going to finish that bag."
He smiled, but he couldn't even speak. That divine, Rococo face had turned him on and pissed him off from the very beginning, but now when he looked at her he didn't see her untouchable beauty so much as he saw _Chloe,_ his Chloe, with that sardonic tilt to her lips and that superior gleam in her eyes. His heart shook. He ran his hands over her body just to remind himself that he could, that she was real and there and his. She felt soft and lush beneath what seemed to be three or four layers of clothing. He grabbed a handful of her arse and finally managed to say, "That's my girl."
"Shut up, you misogynistic pig." She kissed his right cheek, then his left. "I didn't see you yesterday."
"No, you didn't. Did you miss me?"
"Choke, Redford. Just choke."
He seemed to adore her more every second. This could be a problem. "Come here." He kissed her again because she was addictive. But then he reminded himself that he had specific and important plans, none of which included fucking Chloe on her living room floor. With a sigh, he nudged her off his lap. "All right. Stop distracting me. We gotta go."
" _Distracting_ you?" she said, then grabbed her rucksack and stood, hands on her hips. She was moving faster, more easily than usual, even for a good day. "Honestly, I can't stand you sometimes." But she was smiling, big and uncontained, just like him.
* * *
Red made fun of Chloe's driving all the way to the campsite and she couldn't even bring herself to mind. When he'd learned she actually had a car, he'd feigned deathly shock, which was ridiculous because he must have known already.
"Who did you think was parking in my designated space?" she demanded.
"I had no idea," he said cheerfully. "Drug dealers. Aliens, maybe."
On the way to the site he'd chosen for them, a place named Tyburn's Wood, they got lost three times in a maze of sweet little villages with houses built of stone. After the third time, Red turned off her sat nav and pulled out a bright yellow booklet. She snorted as he opened it on his lap, revealing the kind of massive, multicolored map that made her eyes blur far worse than any line of code ever had. "What on earth is that monstrosity?"
"It's what human beings used to get around for the last couple thousand years. You know, instead of relying on fancy sky computers."
It was all she could do not to veer off the road. " _Fancy sky computers?_ Why, Redford, I had no idea you were such a technophobe."
"Not a technophobe," he said in his lying voice. "Second left up there. No, Chlo, _left_. You really don't know your left and right, do you? Maybe I shouldn't blame the sat nav."
"The sat nav? Don't you mean the fancy sky computer?"
"Fuck off," he grinned.
And so it continued, until they finally reached the campsite.
Tyburn's Wood was, once you got past the vast open field of expensive motor homes, a literal wood. Behind a series of huge log cabins and the neatly organized holiday park, a dense sea of tall, spindly evergreens stabbed the sky, upright and tightly packed like centurions. There were a few clear paths in and out with big, colorful signs depicting various trails and pitch-ready locations. As they unloaded the car—or rather, as Red unloaded the car while Chloe leaned against a nearby wooden fence—he pointed at one of the signs and said, as if he were talking to a toddler, "Look, baby, a map. You remember maps, right? Nice pictures with lines that show you where to go!"
She bent, scooped up a handful of bark chips, and threw them at him.
"Excuse me!" a brusque voice cut in. "Please don't throw the bark!"
Chloe looked over, cheeks warm, expecting to see some campsite staff member glaring at them. Instead she found a pair of yummy mummies with about fifty-eight kids between them, some shoved into sporty-looking strollers, some perched on the women's Lululemon-clad hips, most running around throwing bark at each other and having a fabulous time.
"Erm, sorry," Chloe said.
One of the mums sniffed as if to say, _You ought to know better._
The other mum pursed her lips as if to say, _Setting a bad example for the children!_
The sniff and the lip-pursing were very effective. Clearly, they were excellent mums. As they herded their broods away, Red wandered over to her and murmured, "How come you're never so well-behaved with me?"
"You're not a mum," she said pertly, ignoring how close he was, how rough his voice was, how his body gave off sheer heat and she wanted to wrap up in him like he was a blanket. "You don't get to boss me around."
He dragged his gaze over her from head to toe, slow and sweet and sticky like honey. She wanted him to lick her just like that: thoroughly, everywhere.
He probably would if she asked.
His hands came to rest on either side of her on the fence, so that his arms caged her in, his body crowding hers. His lips hovered over her ear and he whispered, "You'd let me boss you around."
"I would not," she drawled, as if the ghost of his mouth over her skin didn't send delicious little shocks down her spine.
"You sure? Not even if I think you'd like it?" His lips moved from her ear to her throat. He kissed her there, the sweet, subtle glide of his tongue making her body hum with erotic energy. Then he stopped for long enough to ask in a low, rough voice, "Would you let me boss you around if I made it good?"
"Maybe," she admitted, her voice alarmingly breathy.
He kissed her throat again, hotter and wetter this time. "Just maybe?"
" _Yes._ " She bent her head, exposed more of her throat to him, her pulse racing.
"Good. Now, listen carefully . . ." His hand caught hers, but he didn't lace their fingers together like usual. Instead, he gave her something that felt like paper and said seriously, "I want you to read the map."
He stepped away, his slight smile coming into focus as her dizzying lust disappeared. She looked at her hand and found she was holding a printed-out Tyburn's Wood leaflet that, according to the chirpy front cover, included a map of the campsites. Caught between outrage and laughter, she bit her lip, sucked in a breath, and said, "Redford Morgan—"
"Don't worry. I'll help you with your left and right."
"I know my left and right!" she spluttered, shoving at his big, annoying, handsome chest.
"Sure you do, Button," he soothed. Then he wrapped an arm around her waist, dragged her close, and laughed into her hair.
There were sites spread far and wide, but Red insisted they stay close to the edge of the woods. They chose a little clearing where the light filtered through the slender tree trunks like something out of a painting, and Chloe took a minute to fill her lungs with fresh, frosty air, the kind that was just cold enough to seem wet even though it was dry. The setting sun's honeyed rays were so warm, golden fire just like Red's hair, but they couldn't touch the forest's crisp autumn chill. She liked that. In fact, despite her last-minute misgivings, she liked a lot about this particular list item so far.
But she especially liked her companion. She turned to find him already grappling with the tent and said, "Did you choose this spot because of me?" She knew the answer. Just like she'd known she wouldn't need to remind him of how far—or not—she could walk.
He gave her a wary look, then returned to fiddling with tent poles. "You don't know how you'll feel tomorrow morning. Seemed smart to stay near the car."
There was no fighting the smile that crept across her face. She wandered over to him and grabbed a few tent poles of her own. "You're very thoughtful."
"Yeah. I thought long and hard about all the ways I want to defile this tent tonight, and I decided to factor that into our plans." He shot her a grin that only widened when he caught sight of her face. "Aw, Chlo. Am I embarrassing you?"
A blush crept up her throat. She felt like she'd swallowed a star: hot, hot, hot, burning and bright and fundamentally unstable inside. "Does that mean—are you finally going to let me—"
"Screw my brains out?" he offered cheerfully.
She choked on fresh air.
"I _am_ embarrassing you," he said, clearly pleased. "Wait until you see the air mattress."
"The _what_?" she almost shrieked.
He gave her an odd look. "Well, you didn't think I was going to fuck you on the ground, did you? I'm not a _complete_ animal."
"You, sir, are a menace. A menace to good and decent society, and to noble, chaste women such as myself—"
She might have been insulted at how hard he laughed if she wasn't giggling too.
Red put the tent up with disturbing speed, produced both the famous air mattress and a foot pump from his magical duffel bag—"I _told_ you I had more important things than bug spray"—and slipped inside the tent to "arrange" things, whatever that meant. Then he came out and showed her a mysterious tin. Eyes bright in the growing darkness, told her, "Time for the campfire."
She sat in the dirt outside the tent and was very proud of herself for not thinking about wolf poop or grass snakes or possessive, murderous wood fae. "Actually, Red, I've been researching, and campfires are illeg—"
He popped open the weird tin and said, "Chlo?"
"Yes?"
"Shhh." He put the tin into a little well of dirt he'd created and took a silver Zippo from the pocket of his ever-present leather jacket. "No, I don't smoke," he said, just as she opened her mouth. She closed her mouth again. Was she predictable, or did he just know her that well? Possibly a bit of both. She watched in confusion, then something like awe, as he lit whatever was in the tin. He sat back beside her, and they let the flames grow.
"What on earth is that thing?" she asked.
"It's a portable, reusable, relatively safe and eco-friendly"—he valiantly ignored her snort—"campfire. If we want to put it out, we can just put the lid on again."
"Seriously? And that works?"
"Sure. It's science, or whatever. Want to toast some marshmallows?"
It was a juvenile, still probably illegal, and definitely unhygienic activity that belonged to the world of silly American films. "Yes please," she said.
"Good. I lied about the s'mores thing, though. I don't know what the fuck s'mores are."
She snorted. "Neither do I."
Reaching for his bag, he said, "I'll open the marshmallows, you go and collect twigs to stick 'em on."
She stared.
He stared back at her with a stressfully serious expression for two long seconds before he cracked, those catlike eyes creasing at the corners as he threw back his head and laughed. "Oh my God, Chloe. Relax. Look, I bought skewers."
"Oh." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I was really reconsidering this entire thing."
"Camping?"
"Letting you put your tongue in my mouth again."
"Shut up," he grinned. "You'd always let me put my tongue in your mouth."
"Maybe in secret moments of weakness," she admitted. "Give me that. I want to put my own marshmallows on."
"You sure? You don't want the assistance of a marshmallow-skewering expert?"
She rolled her eyes and took the bag of marshmallows from him. "No. But speaking of that expertise—"
"This feels like a great time to make a joke about penetrating soft, sweet things."
She ignored him. "—why are you so good at camping-type stuff?"
"Ah. Well." He stared thoughtfully at the skewer in his hand, his hair falling over his face for a moment. The fingers of his free hand began to drum against his thigh and she wondered, with more than a little regret, how she'd managed to turn camping into a topic that made him nervous or unsettled or whatever it meant, precisely, when he got this way.
Biting her lip, she said hurriedly, "You don't have to—"
"No, it's okay." He looked up at her with a smile, but it was a sad sort of smile. "Honestly, Chlo, it's fine." And then those drumming fingers stopped, and found hers, and now he was holding her hand instead. "I just got a little bit . . . ah, you know how I told you about my granddad who died?"
She nodded, feeling those silver rings against her skin.
"He used to take me places like this. All over. Not that often—maybe once or twice a year, when he had time off—but it adds up, yeah? We lived in the city and he was paranoid about air pollution and all that. He had this idea that spending time in nature every so often could . . . I don't know, clean you out." Red chuckled.
Chloe squeezed his hand, her marshmallows forgotten. "What was his name?"
"Leo." Just the word curved Red's mouth into a smile, and she was struck by an odd, sudden certainty that Redford Morgan's near-constant cheer had come from one man in particular. _Leo._
"He sounds wonderful," she murmured.
"Yeah. He was. Sometimes I wonder . . ."
He trailed off, but she thought she knew what he was going to say. She knew, because she knew him—not just the achingly cool, charming, handsome man who was quick to joke and quicker to help, but the not-so-shiny parts beneath that formed the foundation of who he was. The parts that some people might look away from because they were a little less easy to swallow. The parts that called to her just as much as his sweet smiles. "You wonder if he'd be disappointed in you." The way Red, as she'd realized over these past weeks, was disappointed in himself. "Because of whatever it was that happened to you in London."
He turned to look at her so fast, his hair flew around his face like a flame. "I—London was—" He sighed, his grip on her hand tightening. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I don't know why I brought this up. Did I bring this up? Look, have a marshmallow."
"Red," she whispered. "You don't always have to be okay." She leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He was still for a moment.
But then he looked at her, and smiled, and murmured, "I know. But I am okay, with you." The moment shimmered with something beautiful and delicate, and it wasn't broken when he turned away. It lingered, fine and lovely, under the surface. He pushed a marshmallow onto her skewer, and when she complained, he popped one into her mouth, too. Then he loaded up his own and showed her exactly how close to hold them to the fire, and for how long.
Then, when her mouth was full of the first hot, sticky, melting bite, he caught her gaze and said in the gravelly voice that rolled right over her clit, "Now, in the name of camping, bad decisions, and your list, you and me are gonna play a game."
# Chapter Nineteen
Red watched as the sympathy left Chloe's dark gaze, replaced by something hotter than the campfire. Her lips curled, that familiar, uneven smile so sexy he felt it in his chest—and his balls.
"What kind of game?" she asked. Her tongue snaked out to catch a dripping blob of marshmallow, and every inch of his body snapped to attention. He hadn't thought this whole "toasted marshmallow" thing through. He hadn't considered how fucking irresistible she'd look licking up gooey, white dessert, or how the light of the fire would make her skin glow like polished mahogany and her eyes light up like smoky amber. He hadn't imagined something this innocent could make him want to suck sugar off her tongue and drag her into the tent.
He should've, though. He always wanted Chloe. In every possible way.
She was still waiting for a response, arching those winged eyebrows at him, so he cleared his throat and finally answered, "Twenty-one questions. It's a time-honored camp tradition amongst people who're trying to get into each other's sleeping bags."
She crossed her ankles and leaned closer, her shoulder bumping his. The simple touch shimmered through his core like a shot of molten gold. "I'm assuming you didn't learn that from your granddad."
He swallowed to clear the roughness in his throat. This whole experience was for her, and she seemed to be enjoying it, so he wasn't going to grab her and make it all about his lust—at least, not yet. "I learned it the same place I learned about s'mores, smart-arse. You can't deny, this game looks fun in films."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Isn't it the game where a girl asks something useful like, _What's your favorite animal?_ and then a horny little monster—ahem, I mean a _boy,_ uses his turn to ask if she's ever had anal sex?"
Red's lips twitched. "Maybe. Luckily I'm not a horny little monster"— _lie_ —"so I'll only be asking you very meaningful questions. But you can go first."
She tapped her fingers against her lower lip. "I need more marshmallows to help me think."
"Don't start." He nudged her shoulder. Must have caught her by surprise, because she almost toppled over in response, saved only by his hand on her arm.
"An attack!" she cried, all dramatic as if they were in a film.
"It's not my fault your balance sucks." He pulled her up again. Actually, he sort of . . . _picked_ her up a bit, and settled her between his legs. Now his thighs bracketed hers, her back resting against his chest. She was close enough that he could smell the floral stuff she put in her hair over the smoky sweetness of toasted marshmallows, close enough that her body heat seared into him like a brand.
Perfect.
"All right," he said, trying to sound authoritative. "Now, you start."
She didn't hesitate. "Were you teased at school about your name? And, you know, your hair and everything?"
"Yeah." He wrapped his arms around her like he was a fucking koala and she was his forever tree. "I got some shit at school—who didn't?—but it never bothered me. My mum gave me this name. She told me it's a good one. And her hair's a hell of a lot redder than mine, but I always thought she was the prettiest lady in the world, so I didn't care what people said about the color."
The crackling of the fire and the rustles of the forest reigned for a second; they even heard someone whooping in the distance. Then Chloe said with a smile in her voice, "Well, that's incredibly sweet. I mean, I already knew you were a mama's boy—"
"Whoa, now. I'm a what?"
"Red," she said patiently, "you have the word _MUM_ tattooed on your _hand_."
He grinned and ran that hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. You don't have any questionable tattoos? No, of course you don't."
"I don't like pain, remember?"
"And you don't make fucked-up decisions like me." When she twisted her head to frown up at him, he winked and kissed her cheek.
It didn't change the frown. "You don't make messed-up decisions," she told him sternly.
"Chlo, we just went over this." He waggled his tattooed fingers and raised his eyebrows. When she laughed, the sudden tightness in his chest faded. He was all light again. "Okay, now it's my turn. What do I want to ask?" he murmured thoughtfully, as if he wasn't fucking bursting with questions about this woman. As if he couldn't spend hours lost in a Chloe rabbit hole of wondering. "Since we're talking about awkward childhood moments . . . when was your first kiss?"
She laughed. "Who says I was a child? Maybe my first kiss was at twenty."
"Was it?"
"No." Her voice was bright and glittering now. He could hear her smile even if he couldn't see it, his gaze too busy alternating between marshmallow watch and the electric-soft texture of her hair. Then her head dropped back against his shoulder, and he got a front-seat view of her carefree smile and the sparkle in her eyes. Everything turned Button-pink like Cupid had just shot him in the arse. "I was sixteen, at a house party with one of my friends. We played truth or dare and someone was dared to kiss me. It went quite well, I suppose, because I spent the rest of the night with my tongue down his throat."
"See, this is where I'm going wrong. I've got you answering questions when I should've been offering dares."
She slapped his thigh. "You don't need to dare me to kiss you."
"Well, in that case," he murmured. He put his hand on her belly for no reason other than he liked its warmth and its curve and the fact that it was Chloe. He bent his head, brushed his lips over her cheek, and the feel of her was like the sweetest possible punch to the gut. This was all it took; one taste, and his hard-on was probably jabbing her lower back. But she didn't seem to mind, because she tangled her fingers in his hair, yanked him closer, and pressed her lips to his. For precious, perfect seconds, her tongue slid, tentative but demanding, into his mouth. Everything was as intense as her midnight eyes, delicious as her thighs, urgent as the way he needed her.
Then she pulled away, and said, "My turn."
Slightly dazed, he murmured, "Uh. Right. Yeah."
"Do you like your website?"
He blinked, then burst out laughing. "What do you mean, do I like it? Didn't you see my seventy fucking texts?"
She'd sent him a link to preview the current design just yesterday, during their day-long virtual conversation. And, even though there was apparently still technical shit for her to do, he thought everything looked perfect. Just . . . perfect. So much so that if he thought about it for too long, his chest got tight and all his hope and gratitude made a lump of not-so-impossible dreams in his throat.
"There weren't _seventy_ texts," she said. "More like five. But I know you'd hate to hurt my feelings, and texts are easy to lie over, so—"
"Hey." He held her tight, gathering her closer against his chest, nudging her chin until she met his gaze. "I don't lie to you. Okay? I just don't."
She rolled her lips inward, but that couldn't hide her smile. "Okay."
"I love it."
"Okay. Can I ask another question?"
He arched an eyebrow. "I thought we were taking turns?"
Her expression turned pensive. "Maybe this question isn't part of the game. I wanted to know . . ." She seemed to gather up her courage in a single breath. "I wanted to know what happened to you in London. What happened to your career."
Ah. He looked up at the canopy of trees and the night being born above them, stars glowing into view like a thousand bright-white candles.
"Marshmallow's burning," she said softly.
"Oh, shit." He came back down to earth, yanked the latest marshmallow out of the fire and stared at the smoldering blob. "Uh—"
"It's fine. I'll still eat it. Will you answer me? You don't have to."
But he would, because he loved her.
The thought froze him for a second before he sank into it like a feather bed. Before it became the comfort that helped him figure out how to speak. He loved Chloe. He loved Chloe like a blank canvas and a finished piece and all the exhilarating, painful, stop-and-start moments in between. He loved Chloe like tearing through the night on his Triumph, feeling alive in motion when he couldn't feel alive inside. He loved Chloe like every glare she shot him was a kiss and every kiss she gave him was a breadcrumb-sized piece of her heart in his hands.
He pushed the length of her braid aside and kissed the back of her neck, soft and vulnerable. The last time he'd put his mouth on her, all of five minutes ago, he hadn't known he was in love. He wondered if she'd feel the difference. Probably not. Because he had a feeling he'd been kissing her with love for a while, even if he hadn't noticed until now.
"Red," she murmured, regret chiming sharp, because she thought she'd hurt him.
"It's fine," he said. "It's fine." And it was. If he ripped off the bandage like a big boy, it would be done, and he'd be able to enjoy the fact that she'd asked, that she wanted to know about the hidden parts of him, the parts that didn't help anyone or make people smile. The parts that weren't fit for exhibition.
"I went to London because I thought I had to. I spent years there, trying to break into a world that wasn't exactly welcoming. I worked as a laborer to support myself and at night I'd run around crashing galleries and handing out my card, which was actually made of paper because—" He laughed, because this was funny, though at the time he'd been embarrassed. "Because I made them myself on the library computer, you know, using Word? And I'd print eight on a page, then cut them out." He shook his head. "I never could wrap my head around online networking, but it would've made life a lot easier."
"You _are_ a technophobe," she said triumphantly. "I knew it!"
"Maybe," he admitted. "Maybe just a little bit."
"Well, you're lucky you have me to keep your website updated," she said smugly. And he was struck by happiness like a bolt of lightning because he was pretty sure—pretty fucking sure—that she didn't just mean that in an _I look after all my clients long-term_ sort of way. His mind focused on three words, blew them up, and made them flash a thousand different colors: _you have me._
Did she know that she had him, too, no matter what? She was skittish about things like this. If he told her just how much feeling burned inside his chest, it might freak her out.
He'd have to show her first. Get her used to the idea. He wanted to squeeze her to him and tell her that she had him, and that she could drag him along on all her wild schemes forever and ever, amen. Instead, he kissed her temple and went on with the story.
"My old-fashioned ways did work, in the end—or at least I thought they did. One night, I met a woman on her way out of some glamorous party. Her name was Pippa. She wanted to look at my stuff. I asked where she worked, and she laughed and told me she _didn't_ work. But I let her look anyway because she was confident and I was desperate."
He felt Chloe tense as if she was worried about what came next. God, he wanted to kiss her again. But it was too easy to hide in the comfort she offered, so he squashed the urge and kept talking.
"Long story short, me and her got together. Turned out, her dad was an art dealer, and he liked my stuff. She took me places, and instead of sneering at me or throwing me out, people listened when I talked. I finally started making money, enough that I could quit laboring and focus on my work. Everything was great. Everything was perfect. Except Pippa. She was . . . well, she was abusive."
Chloe twisted round to look at him. "What?"
"She was abusive," he said simply. "Not that I realized at the time. I thought she was just bratty. I mean, she was so little; it's not like it hurt when she hit me. And when she treated me like shit or fucked with my head . . . somehow she always managed to convince me it was just a disagreement, and I was being sensitive. But after a while, that got old. I remember she tried to stop me going home to see Mum. I used to visit once a month, then once a fortnight when I got more money. I brought Pippa once, but, ah, Mum didn't like her."
_Understatement of the fucking century._
"She told me Pippa wasn't treating me right. Hearing it from someone else made it easier to hold on to. And then when Pippa tried to stop me visiting again, I started to realize what was going on. Maybe it would've taken me longer to leave her, only she got pissed and stabbed me with a fork."
"She did _what_?" Chloe thundered, and he realized he'd never seen her angry before. She was angry now. She scrambled onto her knees and looked down at him like an avenging god. Her voice came out like thick, choking smoke just before a volcanic eruption. "What the _fuck_?"
He held up his right hand and wondered if she'd see the four tiny scars under his knuckles. "Lucky I'm a lefty."
She grabbed the hand and studied it for a second before pressing a kiss to the marks. "Wow. _Wow._ So this is what murderous intent feels like."
He smiled despite himself. "It's fine. I'm over it. Healed fast."
"You might be over it, but it is _not_ fine." The words were sharp, but her voice cracked and her breath hitched.
"Hey, no, Chloe." Heart breaking, he cupped her face, met her shining eyes. "Don't cry, love. It's okay."
"It most certainly is not! It is not. _You're_ not. You can't even talk about London, and—"
"That's not why I don't talk about London," he said.
She blinked up at him. "What?"
"I mean, the whole relationship was a fucking nightmare, and I'm still . . ." He grimaced. "Well, you know. But I haven't finished."
She looked horrified. "What _else_ happened?"
"Sit down, and I'll tell you."
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned and sat again. Back where she belonged, in his arms. He kissed the top of her head and kept going. "So I broke up with Pippa, and kind of lost it. She told me . . . well, she told me I was nothing without her anyway and she'd been slumming it, and blah blah blah. She said that her dad had only promoted my work because I was with her. And that people only bought it because she'd made me someone. I think she said she created a, uh, _cultural moment_ around me. She was always saying shit like that."
Chloe's hand came to rest over his, and the soft, warm pressure jolted him out of the cold, hard place his words had dragged him into. He blinked at the realization that he'd been drifting away as he spoke, back into years of imposter syndrome and paranoia and constant, toxic whispers chipping away at him. Grateful for the touch, he squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
He cleared his throat and said, "I think the success coming all at once after so many years of trying so hard, it fucked with my head. I didn't think I deserved anything, so I believed her. I yanked my work from just about everywhere, shut down the website and social media I'd finally gotten set up. I cut off the friends I'd made in the art world—before and after her. Anyone. Everyone. Like Joanie, like Julian. I burned bridges and disappeared in a blaze of glory. 'Course, it didn't feel so glorious when I finally stepped back enough to realize what I'd done, but . . . It was too late. I _almost_ got somewhere, and then I took myself back to square one. And when I thought about trying to fix it, I just . . . froze. I spent over a year frozen." He shrugged. "Bad choices and fucked-up decisions. That's me."
She stiffened. "You were hurt, and you reacted. You were in an unhealthy situation in more ways than one, and you panicked and cleansed everything with fire. Don't dismiss your emotions and your self-protection as just a fucked-up decision. Don't reduce something so complex and real and important to nothing."
That sudden, unexpected stream of words was delivered with Chloe's typical crisp precision and calm certainty, as if she couldn't possibly be wrong. Maybe that was why the words didn't _feel_ wrong. They weren't what he'd believed for so long, and yet, somehow they sounded just right. Like he was only human and his mistakes could be excused. Like a few fuck-ups didn't make _him_ a fuck-up.
Like maybe he should forgive himself for everything. And maybe he should trust himself again. He'd really like to trust himself again.
"Have you ever had any therapy?" she asked.
He cleared his throat, tried to focus on the conversation instead of his tangled thoughts. "I just started, actually."
"Good. Gigi says therapy is the most important medical service there is."
"Really?" he asked dryly. "So it's just, _Fuck antibiotics,_ huh?"
"I didn't say she was right. Or wrong, for that matter." Chloe wriggled around until their eyes met, her hands rising to his shoulders. "I'm just emphasizing its importance. Now, here are some more things I'd like to emphasize." She leaned closer until their noses touched. "First of all: that fucker did not _make_ you. She spotted you before anyone else, which was smart, and she sank her fangs into all your loveliness like a leech, which was disgusting. Second: I know you regret leaving everything behind, but that doesn't mean it was wrong, and that doesn't mean it can't be fixed. _You_ can fix it. You will."
The way she said it, the sentiment came out as strong and natural as the forest around them. She stared at him so hard he was surprised she hadn't burned through her glasses. She seemed to think she could get the message into his skull through sheer force of will, and her will was pretty impressive.
He cleared his throat, tried to sound unaffected and missed the mark. "Anything else?"
Her expression became gentle, almost tender. "So much else. You always say such lovely things to me, Red. Do you say them to yourself?"
No. No, he didn't. It had never occurred to him that he should, not until recently.
"I'll say them," she murmured. "I'll tell you how incredibly clever you are, and how you're funny, and kind, and sweet, and a damned good artist. I don't understand how things work in creative circles, and I don't know how much _Pippa_ actually did." She screwed up her face and spat out the name like it tasted nasty, which he enjoyed way more than he should have. "But no matter what she did or did not do for your career, no one can change the fact that you're talented. You're skilled. You're _good_."
He hadn't been sure about that for a long, long time, but things had changed these last weeks. He'd known they were changing. And now, when she said that out loud and he believed her without question, he realized things really had changed. It was done. Something in him had been knocked loose, back then, but somehow it had clicked back into place without him looking.
He was good.
His grin started in his toes. It was a warmth that rushed through every inch of him, a warmth he wanted to share with her because it was pure and so was she. He couldn't think of anything to say, of a way to explain what he felt right now—how free he was all of a sudden. So he showed her.
He sank his fingers into her hair, pulled her closer, and kissed her. She came to him so easily, like she knew this was where she belonged and how they should be: the two of them kissing in the cold, their bodies creating more heat between them than the fire just a few feet away. Above them the sky had long since tumbled into star-spotted night, and below them the earth was fresh and real like the way Chloe made him feel. Her cool hands pressed against his flushed cheeks and her lush mouth joined with his, and he loved her so much his heart felt too big for his body.
So this was bone-deep contentment. He'd almost forgotten, for a while.
# Chapter Twenty
Around Red, Chloe tended to talk a lot. But there was something about this kiss, this hungry, hopeful, heart-filled kiss, that pushed her gently into silence, like sliding underwater and blocking out all sounds from the outside world. He surrounded her now. He held her tight. Even when their lips parted, when his hands left her so he could put out the fire, when he unzipped the tent flap and sat back on his knees so she could crawl in first, he was still holding her somehow, deep inside in a way that soothed her. So she didn't speak. She couldn't. She was drowning in long-coming lust, and soon she'd be under him.
Lord, she couldn't wait to be under him.
Red crawled in after her, zipped up the tent's flap, and they were plunged into an odd almost-darkness that seemed otherworldly. She could make out the vague shape of him, those broad shoulders and the fall of his hair unmistakable even as shadowy outlines. And she had the oddest, deliciously heavy feeling that he was looking right at her.
But the feeling faded as he turned away, fiddling with something she couldn't see. After a moment, she heard a _click_ —and then there was light. Chloe blinked as her eyes adjusted, then gawked as reality filtered in. Somehow, he'd wreathed strings of fairy lights all around the tent, glowing pinpricks that illuminated the small mountain of blankets and cushions.
She stared, awed. "Oh my goodness. This is what you were messing around with earlier?"
"When you were shouting at me to hurry up and feed you? Yeah." He winked. "Honestly, the things I put up with."
Her heart was a burning, brilliant thing lodged against her ribs. "Red, why did you do all this?"
"For you," he said, as though it was obvious. "It's always for you."
Camping had been on her list because it seemed gritty and normal and slightly scary and more than a bit of a challenge, but truthfully, she'd barely wanted to do it. Now, in this moment, she realized just how magical Red had made it. Not only by arranging everything, by making her laugh all day, by remembering her limitations so she didn't have to constantly point them out—but with things like this. Things like the marshmallows. The extra effort he put in to make this a wonderful experience instead of a checked box.
She looked up at him, his hair gleaming like silken flames, his beautiful face still flushed and his lower lip caught between his teeth, and she realized that his sharp eyes studied her with something like trepidation. As if he was nervous. As if he wanted to know that she liked it.
How could he doubt that she loved it? How could he doubt that she loved _him,_ that she wanted him and trusted him and hungered to do everything with him just for the joy of experiencing his reactions?
She was in love with Redford Morgan, and quite horribly, too. It smacked her over the head so hard she felt dizzy. She should be afraid, should want to hide it, but the knowledge lit her up until she felt just like the fairy lights, and hiding that would be something close to a sin.
But the feeling had come on too fast, surely, for him to feel the same, so she wouldn't blurt it out yet. Instead, she told him, "I adore you," and it was truer than her heartbeat.
He smiled, his worry easing in an instant as he crawled toward her, his proximity shrinking the already-cramped space. "Oh, do you?"
She couldn't believe she'd said something so emotional, so honest, but she also didn't want to take it back. She'd started all of this in order to be brave, and now, for the first time in a long time, she felt it. If she were to die tomorrow, she wouldn't have regrets anymore. "I do. I really, really do."
"You're not so bad yourself, Button." He pushed her back against the cushions and she laughed as she bounced a little on the blow-up mattress. But the laughter faded in her throat when Red lowered his body over hers, pressing her firmly into the blankets, grounding her and whipping her into a frenzy all at once. Her lips—and her legs—parted on a gasp. He kissed her jaw and whispered against her skin, "So. You gonna let me slide inside that pretty pussy tonight, Chlo?"
"Yes," she breathed, trying to arch up against him. But she couldn't because there was no space between them in the first place, the hard planes of his body forced intimately against hers, her legs wrapping around his waist as if they were puzzle pieces slotted perfectly together.
"Good." He kissed, then licked, then sucked the base of her throat. She shivered at the hot, wet love, at the lust it stirred between her thighs, and wondered if he could tell her pulse was racing. He must be able to hear the way her breaths sped up and grew ragged, must feel her hips trying their best to rock against his. Her clit was already swollen and needy and desperate for a little more pressure, for sweet friction. He didn't provide it. Instead, both of his hands found both of hers and he twined their fingers together. Through their clothes, she could feel his hard cock wedged tight against her cleft—and yet, all he did was hold her hands.
"Red," she whispered.
He kissed her cheek, her temple, her nose. "Chloe."
"Not to ruin this very romantic moment, but would you possibly consider fucking me now?"
His laughter rumbled through his chest. "I've already considered it. Frequently."
"In that case, would you hurry up and _do_ it?"
"Demanding, aren't you?" But without warning, he thrust his hips. The thick jut of his erection nudged her clit so beautifully that even with all the clothes separating them, pleasure ripped through her. She was gasping, her sight unfocused, her body already reaching a tipping point. That easily.
Oh, God.
"Baby," Red murmured with a smile in his voice. "You should've told me you were desperate."
She gritted her teeth. "Shut up."
"Are you sure that's what you want?" His lips brushed her ear, the glide of skin on skin hot and sensual. "You seem to come much faster when I remind you of how bad you want it."
"Red!"
"Chloe. Will you take your hair down for me?"
Even though it would wind up a mess in the morning? "Yes. Whatever. Just—"
"I know, I know. Just hurry up and fuck you. Come here." He rose up on his knees and she felt so suddenly cold and alone, she actually whined out loud. But then he pulled her up into a sitting position and said, "Hair."
Her hands rose obediently to undo her braid. But they froze when he yanked off his hoodie and T-shirt, her mind skittering to a stop at the sight of his bare torso. In the low, warm light, his fair skin was burnished pale gold. Shadows played over the lean lines of his body, the ridges of muscle. He flashed her that confident smile as he removed the rest of his clothes. "Now, Chloe. I know you're wearing twenty thousand layers of clothing and I'm pretty eager to get it all off, so if you could—"
"Okay," she blurted out, because when he spoke his hands stopped moving, which meant that the fabric covering his body stayed in place, which meant that she still couldn't see his cock. And she really, really wanted to see his cock, now, immediately, for what she abruptly realized would be the very first time. She unraveled her braid with suddenly rapid fingers, then started dragging her hoodie over her head. Next was her T-shirt, her undervest, her sports bra—God, that was a nightmare—
Holy shit, Red was naked.
She'd been yanking off her clothes, putting her glasses away, and cataloging everything she had to remove, and then she looked up, and there he was, just fucking naked. And glorious. Her mouth practically watered as her gaze dipped lower, taking in all of him, blurry as he was. His thighs were thick and muscular and dusted with fine golden hair, and as a definite leg girl she'd usually take her time enjoying them—except she could barely spare them a glance when his dick was right there, curving proudly up against his taut stomach. It was rigid, heavy, the swollen head flushed and glistening. She reached for it as if hypnotized, but he caught her wrist, holding her off with ease.
His voice more urgent than she'd ever heard it, he gritted out, "You. Clothes. Off." Then he grabbed the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms, the leggings underneath, and her underwear all in one go. How had he managed that? Was he a witch? The question flew out of her head when he pulled, easing the clinging layers of fabric off her. In the name of teamwork, she dealt with the vest she was still wearing, then started wrestling with her sports bra. Which, unfortunately, was not the most graceful thing she'd ever done.
But Red didn't seem to mind, possibly because it involved a lot of jiggling and bouncing around. In fact, by the time she yanked the bra off over her head, his labored breaths sounded more like growls and his eyes were glued to her like a tongue to treacle. He dragged the last of her clothes off of her ankles and then they were just two people sitting in a tiny, pillow-strewn, fairy-lit tent, staring at each others' naked bodies.
She liked what she saw.
He liked what he saw, too. She knew because she could see the frantic rise and fall of his chest, and because his high cheekbones were stained scarlet. His eyebrows were drawn in a fierce expression that sent a spiral of jittery desire through her nerve endings. He wrapped one big hand around the base of his dick and squeezed. "Chloe?"
"Yes?"
"I have this idea. I think—just hear me out, yeah?—I think that you should maybe consider being naked all the time. I mean, just, always. Think about it, okay?"
"I will," she said, and then, just to see what would happen, she ran her fingertips over her own chest, circling her nipples. "I'll definitely—"
She never managed to finish that sentence, because when she touched herself it was as if something in Red snapped. He lunged for her, but when he pushed her back onto the cushions he was gentle despite the wound-up tension she could feel vibrating through his body. And then his mouth was all over her, sucking at her breasts, licking at her throat, while his fingers went straight to her wet, aching pussy. He moaned when he felt how slick she was, the sound muffled against her breast. Then he shoved those wonderfully thick fingers inside her and she let out a moan of her own, a sharp, broken thing that was closer to a scream.
"Oh my God, Chloe." He said it again and again, rasping out her name as he rubbed her swollen, sensitive depths. "Oh my fucking God, you feel so good. Fuck, I can't wait to be inside you."
"Hurry up then," she gasped, her hips jerking as he stroked that secret spot in her, the one that scattered stars across her vision and made her feel more limp and languorous with pleasure than any drug. "Oh, please, just hurry up."
"I want you to come first."
"Oh, for—"
He kissed her again, softly, until she released her lower lip from the cage of her teeth. And then he kissed her harder, hotter, wetter, his tongue thrusting in a bold, steady way that made her breathless. When his fingers started moving inside her again, they matched the rhythm of his tongue, fucking her in that deep, consuming, almost obscene way that drove her so damn wild.
He broke the kiss even as his thumb nudged her clit. When she moaned and arched into him, her body demanding more, he smiled. "Relax. We have all night."
"O-okay," she gasped out, her voice shaking. Her whole body was shaking, in fact, vibrating as coils of energy lashed around her, holding her hostage, driving her toward what felt like an explosion. "Sounds good."
He laughed darkly. "Yeah, baby. Sounds good. Good like these little moans you're giving me." He kissed her again, quick and hard and so hot she felt seared down to her soul. The thumb that had brushed her clit so delicately touched her again, firmer now, _deliciously_ so. He circled the swollen bud and her whole body jerked as if electrocuted. So he did it again. And again. Even when she dug her nails into the curve of his arse. Even when her breathy sighs turned into something like sobs. Even when she sank her teeth into his shoulder because she was just so fucking beside herself, didn't know what to do with all this swirling, swelling, pent-up sensation.
He didn't stop. He didn't even falter. Instead he told her she was gorgeous, falling apart for him, and that her pussy was going to kill him, and that she was so wet he could feel it dripping into his palm, and that he could do this forever just to feel her shaking under him—
And then she came so hard she couldn't hear him anymore, couldn't see him anymore, for a moment couldn't even feel him anymore. But God, she still knew he was there.
* * *
By the time Chloe's eyes opened and refocused on him, Red was about ten seconds and one touch away from coming. How could he not be? Jesus, just the sounds she made were enough to push him over the edge. He'd regret bringing all these damn lights if they hadn't made her so happy, because seeing her laid out naked in front of him was doing absolutely zero for his stamina.
She was gorgeous. She was just fucking gorgeous. The midnight storm of her thick, wavy hair spread around her face like a halo. Her naked skin looked so vulnerable in the low light, completely bare to him for the first time, and so delicate. She was soft, soft all over, from the gentle weight of her full breasts to the lush roundness of her belly to the sheer decadence of her hips, her thighs, her—fuck. He dug his short nails into the palms of his hand and dragged his gaze away from the plump, pouting lips of her cunt, but it didn't help. Without permission, his fingers rose to his lips and he sucked off her honey, groaning at the taste. So fucking good. Even better than he remembered.
"Oh, gosh," she said suddenly. She sounded worried. Why the fuck did she sound worried? "I bit you!"
_Ah._ He smiled and bent to kiss her little frown, his shoulder still stinging from her teeth. "I liked it."
"Really? Well, that's okay then. But still. I should've asked."
"You were busy." He kissed her again. _Busy coming on my fingers._ "But now you know. I like it."
She gave him an impish smile. "Hmm. Well, Red, you made me come, so if you're a man of your word you will now fuck me into oblivion."
He almost choked on his own tongue. The pressure building at the base of his spine got even worse. "Into oblivion, huh?"
"That's what I said. Get on with it."
Well, that was him told. He found the strip of condoms he'd packed, ripped one open, managed to roll it on with gritted teeth. Maybe she would've done it for him, and maybe that would've been hot as hell, but since he wanted to actually get inside her before he went off like a gunshot, he needed to keep touching to a minimum.
Of course, as soon as he thought that, she grabbed his hair and dragged him down, pressing all her soft, lush curves against his body. Her skin was hot and damp from the exertion of her orgasm. Her pussy was wet and open, ready for him, begging for him as she spread her legs and reached down to grasp his erection. In his ear, she whispered, "Hard, please."
Oh, holy fucking fuck. "Chloe—"
"I mean it." She squeezed him, then positioned his shaft at her entrance. His eyes rolled back into his head. He felt as if he'd been burned in the best way, _branded_. Jesus. He grunted something that barely sounded human and thrust, the need uncontrollable, his body reduced to its most basic instincts. She was so slick, she took him all at once, releasing a low moan that sent shivers through his body.
When he was buried inside her, he held still for a moment, sucking down air because he felt almost dizzy with pleasure, running his hands over her thighs because he couldn't quite believe that he had her. He had Chloe Sophia Brown. And she was fucking glorious.
She rolled her hips beneath him, and he gasped out her name. She bit him again, at the base of his throat this time, and he almost came on the spot. Then she slid her fingers into his hair and dragged him down for a kiss that stripped him to the bone, that destroyed him from the inside out, her sweet little tongue tasting him with shameless greed, her lush mouth frantic. And she whispered, "Please."
He grasped her soft hips, buried his face against her shoulder, and fucked her. Each thrust was slow, hard, deliberate, wringing gasps and then whimpers and then long, rolling moans from her. He gritted his teeth as his orgasm came barreling at him like a freight train. It would be so fucking good, but he didn't want this to end. It couldn't end. Being inside her was undoing him, taking him apart and putting him back together differently, better, more himself than he'd ever been before. So he forced himself to hold off and gave her what she wanted, what she begged for: more of his dick, more of him.
But when she came again, shuddering beneath him, her hot pussy fluttering around him, he couldn't stop his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice—and then everything around him shattered until it was all just colors and light, colors and light.
Neither of them moved for a good, long while, but eventually he had to get up. Had to do something with the condom. Luckily, he'd planned for that, too. When he finished and was relatively cleaned up, he lay back down beside her and gathered her against him, pressing a kiss to her head.
"Would you do something for me?" he asked.
She said, her voice sleepy, "I would do anything for you."
The words struck him like an arrow to the chest. Like she'd just loved him out loud. Like she wanted him the way he wanted her: completely and impossibly and with ill-advised devotion. Happiness bloomed inside him like a garden. He held her tighter and continued, "If you can't sleep tonight, I want you to wake me up. Okay?"
She didn't reply. She was already asleep.
* * *
Red packed up the next day with a silly smile on his face—one he was happy to see reflected on Chloe's. Those smiles somehow remained throughout the day, despite Chloe's morning joint pain, and the argument they had over which road was the A46 on the way home. Her sense of direction—or lack of—was the ninth wonder of the world, after King Kong. He understood now why she rarely used her car.
"You really do need me around," he said with barely hidden satisfaction, his urge to be useful fulfilled. "For camping and map reading and all that shit."
"I don't need you around," she said pertly. "Not for directions, and not even for the list, as I've come to realize." But then her gaze flitted to his and her lips tilted a little. "I just really, really _want_ you around."
His grin was a mile wide.
They got home at lunchtime, and he knew he was supposed to go to his own flat and give her space and all that crap, but she was a bit wobbly and sleepy-eyed. He wanted to feed her and put her to bed, so he bullied his way into her flat. He cooked. He made her eat. He supervised her shower much more closely than usual, and found another use for the cute little plastic seat she had in there.
But eventually, _finally,_ the heady mix of love and lust that was powering his cock like the greatest battery on earth calmed down, and Chloe's energy levels dipped at around the same time. So they found themselves back in bed, still slightly damp, in a cocoon of warm, naked skin and pounding hearts and soft, searching mouths, and he thought he'd never felt so purely, completely _good_ in his whole damn life.
She trailed a finger over his chest, then pressed a kiss to his heart. "I rather like you, Redford."
He tried to turn his grin into a groan. "No one says my full name as much as you do, you know. You throw it around like rice at a wedding."
"Weddings on the mind, hm?" she asked in that familiar, mocking tone. "Clearly I am excellent in bed."
Usually, he'd snicker and shoot something back and they'd snipe at each other for a while. But the truth was, he did have weddings on the mind, if that meant that he absolutely planned to marry her arse at some point in the not-too-distant future. And the fact that he even knew that made him feel so weirdly vulnerable, all he could do was mutter something vaguely belligerent and curse his heating skin.
She pulled back, looking delighted and also ready to rib him until the day they died. "Red! You're _blushing_. Why are you blushing? Oh, _do_ tell me—"
"Shut up, woman." He sat up and kissed her pretty mouth quiet, and she leaned into him with a sweet little hum.
Then came a knock at the door that had them both jumping out of their skin. Their bare skin. Which was a problem because, a second later, they heard the rattle of a key in the lock.
"Ack," Chloe yelped, and leapt off the bed with an agility he had literally never, ever seen from her. She winced at the movement—he didn't care what she said or what fancy medicine patches she put on, she was definitely hurting after yesterday—then grabbed frantically for some clothes.
"Who is it?" he whispered, sitting up and looking around for—oh, hell. His dirty clothes were stuffed in Chloe's washing machine, which she seemed to use as a wash basket. His bags were in the living room, which he couldn't get to without running through the hall, balls swaying in the breeze for whoever just came in to see. Looked like he was stuck in here with his own bare backside and Chloe's several thousand notebooks. Maybe he could use those to cover his junk if anyone burst into the room.
_Or you could use the fucking sheets, genius._
Oh yeah. Chloe's panic was catching.
"I don't know who it is," she told him, hopping around as she stabbed her legs into a pair of pajama pants. "But the options are either my parents—"
_Crap_.
"Or my sisters."
Fingers crossed for that option. This wasn't quite how he wanted to meet Chloe's mum and dad. Ideally, he'd be, at a bare minimum, _clothed_ for that introduction.
"Chlo!" a cheery voice hollered from the hallway. "It's us! Hope you're not dead!"
Everything about Chloe relaxed as she shoved on a pajama top. "Eve," she said with obvious relief. "And—"
"I _know_ you're not dead," called another, eerily similar voice. He realized with a jolt that all three of the sisters sounded almost identical. He'd never noticed before. "I'd feel it if you died, darling. Which means you're ignoring us, you bitch."
"Annnnd Dani," Chloe finished, rolling her eyes. But then she looked a little shamefaced. "Gosh, I was so distracted preparing for our, um, trip, I haven't texted them in two days. Maybe three." She frowned, grabbed her glasses from the bedside table, and told him, "I won't be a moment." But then she hesitated, turned back to face him, bit her lip. Raising her voice, she called to her sisters, "I'm fine! Just . . . give me a minute!" And then, to Red, she whispered, "Would you like to come?"
He looked down at himself. "I'm naked."
"Oh, yes." She blinked.
"But thanks, love. Really." He knew what she was doing. The last time she'd tried to ignore his existence in front of a family member, he _may_ have been mildly offended. But this was different. He already knew Chloe would hate to even hint at the fact that she now had a sex life, no matter who it was with.
"All right," she said softly. "In that case, stay quiet!"
Before he could reply, she hurried out, pulling the door almost shut behind her. Because, he realized with a quiet laugh, his awkward, uptight Button was going to try and keep his presence a secret. Even though his shit was lying all over her flat for anyone to see.
She was adorable.
Shaking his head, he got out of bed and stretched his tired muscles. He was just wondering how to occupy himself in the bedroom of a woman who regularly used phrases like _sleep hygiene_ when a voice drifted in from the hall. Even though it was technically indistinguishable from Chloe's, he knew it didn't belong to her. If he had to guess, he'd say it was Dani. ". . . isn't a particularly believable explanation, sister mine. I do believe you're up to something." She managed to make the phrase as darkly ominous as Professor Snape.
"What could I possibly be up to?" Chloe asked, sounding almost bored, but not quite pulling it off. The fact that she was even trying made a laugh bubble up in his throat.
A third voice piped up. "I really couldn't say, but I will point out that it's catatonically impossible to believe—"
" _Categorically,_ darling."
"—that you went camping alone. Not even because of your fibro; we simply weren't made for the outdoors. And you don't look traumatized enough to have spent the night in a tent."
Chloe replied with a thread of fondness in her voice that wrapped around him like silk. "It was a very, _very_ nice tent. A wonderful tent. I will be leaving a five-star review online."
Oh, he bet she would.
"Hmmm," someone murmured—he couldn't tell who. And then, "Do the tent's wonderful qualities have anything to do with the massive pair of men's boots by your front door?"
"Oh, those are—ah—I'm sorry, I don't see—"
He cracked a grin as Chloe spluttered.
"I knew it!" someone cried. "You—"
"Be quiet! He'll hear you!"
"He's _here_?"
"Shut up!"
The conversation dissolved into a chorus of whisper-shrieks. He tried not to eavesdrop, but the walls were bloody thin, and Chloe's voice was impossible to ignore. Still, he tried. But then he heard a murmur, sharp with amusement, that shattered all his good intentions.
"Maybe I'll owe you fifty pounds after all, Evie-bean. Meaningless sex and camping were the two items I didn't think she'd manage to cross off."
Red frowned. Meaningless sex? That wasn't on the list.
Then, slow as the blood draining from his face, he remembered: the list he'd seen was incomplete. But, clearly, Chloe had shown her sisters the real thing.
A strange ringing sound filled his ears. His stomach tightened, as if a pound of lead suddenly lined his gut. Was he—did Chloe—?
No. No. He wasn't going to assume the worst based on an overheard, throwaway comment. How could he? Chloe wasn't like that. He loved her. And she might not love him yet, but she couldn't treat him the way she did—couldn't be so sweet—if she secretly saw him as . . .
_Nothing. No one. That's who you are._
Panic crept over Red's skin, slimy and cold. He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, searched for an anchor, and found one: the sticky note he'd left Chloe on Friday morning, now taped to her desk. _Taped,_ like she loved it, like it was there to stay. He focused on that sight as he grabbed his crawling, anxious memories by the throat. He wasn't nothing, not to Chloe or anyone else who mattered, and definitely not to himself.
And then, as if to back him up, he heard her voice. "Meaningless sex is off the list."
"You mean you changed it?"
"I did."
His exhale was a rush of dizzy relief. He sagged against the bed as his numb limbs tingled back to life.
"I think that should affect the terms of the bet. She's making it easier for herself."
Chloe snorted. "I am not!"
"Fewer items is easier."
"I replaced it," Chloe said hotly. "I put Red on there."
Something strange happened then. His organs just . . . just up and rearranged themselves. Shifted around like they were trying to make room at a full table. His heart was in his stomach. His stomach was lodged in his throat. His skin was tight, like it wanted to turn inside out. His eyes burned. His limbs went numb again. The ringing sound was back. His right hand ached. He couldn't breathe.
That was a bad fucking sign, wasn't it? He forced himself to inhale, gulping down air, but he barely felt it in his lungs and his head was light. The kaleidoscope of color that had surrounded him since last night leeched away until his world was gray. He was panicking and he needed to stop but he couldn't. Fucking. Breathe. He clutched the bedsheets to remind himself of where he was, but all he felt was naked and ridiculous and fooled a-fucking-gain—
"It can't be what it sounds like," he murmured to himself, because his brain was rebelling but his mouth was still his.
Then his mind showed him a memory, like a convenient flashback in a badly made film: that first ride on his bike, with Chloe. Back when she'd mentioned her plan to get a life, and he'd assumed it was some kind of bad-girl bucket list. That she was chasing a thrill and trying to slum it, the same way Pippa would.
Only, Chloe was nothing like Pippa. _Nothing_ like Pippa. There was no way she'd use him just to feel alive again. No way she'd see him as an item to cross off a list.
. . . Or a specimen to study through a window.
_Fuck._
# Chapter Twenty-One
After far too long, Chloe's sisters took pity on her and left her to her "obvious sex fest." Her cheeks were still burning when she finally returned to the bedroom. "Sorry about that," she said. "They—Red, are you okay?"
He didn't look okay.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed, his fingers white-knuckling the sheets, his chest heaving with each breath. His eyes were flat and lifeless. He stared at the plain, gray carpet with a focus so intense, she wondered if he could see things she didn't.
That focus didn't waver when he replied, his voice rough and uneven. "Yeah."
The single word wrenched at something deep in her chest. He sounded wrong, wrong, wrong. "Are you sure? You seem—"
He stood, sharper than a knife. "I need some clothes."
Anxiety churned in Chloe's gut. Her skin prickled hot and cold all over. Something was going on, and she needed to find out what, but she couldn't ask right now—not when he strode to the living room as if it was an effort not to run. He was upset, and he wanted to get dressed so they could discuss the problem like reasonable adults. That was all. _Obviously_ that was all. She told herself that to stave off the old, terrifying panic that rose as he dragged on his clothes. His movements were jerky and desperate and frantic.
As if he couldn't wait to leave.
No, she corrected herself. As if he couldn't wait to have a lovely, mature conversation with her.
But when he was dressed, he picked up his bags. Her heart lurched. Just like the night they'd bumped into Aunt Mary, he seemed to be surrounded by invisible spikes, warding off all tenderness with the set of his shoulders and the muscle ticking at his jaw. But she didn't care. She reached for him anyway. "Red—"
He jerked away from her outstretched hand as if she was toxic.
They stood in silence for a moment, wide-eyed and tense. Soaking in the aftermath of that near-automatic rejection. Then he blinked hard, seemed to pull himself together. Avoiding her gaze, he bit out, "Is it true? Am I on your list?"
Oh, God. He'd heard. That's what this was about. Mortification hit her like a bullet, ripping through flesh and blood and bone to decimate her composure. He knew how much the list meant to her. Maybe he thought she was pathetic, and clingy, and all the other things Henry had called her before he'd left. But that didn't sound right. That didn't sound like Red, so what could be the problem?
"Chloe," he said, tightly leashed anger singeing his words. "Answer me."
She might be confused, but she wasn't going to lie. "Yes." His face shut down like his power had been cut. Suddenly, he was a cold, distant stranger, and she didn't understand. "Why are you so upset?"
Just like that, he wasn't blank anymore. A sort of horrified rage filled him, clear in the flat blade of his mouth and his empty gaze. It even brimmed from his voice. "Are you seriously doing this?" he asked. "What, are you trying to say I'm overreacting?"
"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not." Her mind raced. Things were becoming clearer, but she didn't know how to fix this tangle sensitively, so she went with plain facts. Obviously, he thought his presence on the list meant something awful. She could explain otherwise. She just had to be patient. "Just calm down, okay? Being on the list isn't a bad thing."
Disbelief joined his fury, like kerosene to a flame. He spoke rapidly, his whole body shaking. " _Calm down_? _It's not a bad thing_? I'm not an idiot, Chloe. This whole time, I was—and you were just using me for your fucking—ticking boxes and laughing with your sisters about—"
"I would never do that and you know it!" she snapped, panic sharpening her breaths. "Red, listen to me. I put you on the list because you're important."
He dragged his hands through his hair so hard she knew it must have hurt. "Important like doing something bad?" he rasped, his tone harsh and mocking. "Didn't you use me for that, too? And I thought it was fucking _cute_."
She stiffened. "You don't understand—"
His shout was ragged, ripped from his chest, a mix of anger and pain that burned her like acid. "Don't tell me I don't fucking understand. You will _not_ make a fool out of me!"
A strained silence fell. He looked as shocked by his outburst as she felt. But the hollow emptiness between them birthed a desperate idea: she couldn't make him trust her, not when he was so obviously spiraling, but she could _show_ him the truth—if only he'd give her a chance. She'd find proof, find the list, and he'd come back to her and stop shaking, stop shouting, stop looking at her like she was someone else.
She'd never wanted to strangle anyone as much as she wanted to strangle a stranger named Pippa right now.
"Just wait," she said. "I'll show you." She bent over the coffee table, rifling through rubble and paper and countless notebooks, searching for _the_ notebook, the one that would fix everything.
He heaved out a breath. Made a sound like cracking glass that might have been a laugh—a broken, broken laugh. "Yeah, I bet. You'll search for some kind of evidence that'll prove you aren't a manipulative, lying user, only you won't be able to find it. But oh, shit, if only you could. Right?" He didn't sound angry anymore. He sounded tired. Bone-deep, dog tired. "Just stop, Chlo. You got me. It's done. So tick me off the list and I'll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance." He turned and strode out of the room.
No, no, no.
She stood for a moment, stricken, unable to speak, or think properly, or even take a decent breath. Those words whipped at her heart and carved deeper lacerations than they should. She tried to remind herself that it was all a misunderstanding, that this was what Dani would call him being _triggered_.
But her demons howled louder: _He's leaving you._
Once upon a time, Chloe had promised herself that she would never chase anyone who wanted to leave. She would never allow abandonment, desperation, _love_ to make a fool of her. But her feet moved without permission, slowly at first, then faster, until she was stumbling over stray boxes and leaning against the walls for balance, righting herself with vicious determination. By the time she caught him, he was standing in the open doorway, his back to her. On the threshold.
Wasn't this always how it ended?
But he didn't move. He didn't take the last step. His muscles were tense, as if frozen. He seemed to vibrate with something that might have been rage or regret or indecision.
Hope flared inside her, sharp and dangerous and impossible to resist. "Trust me. Just trust me."
He didn't turn around. "I don't think I can."
She clamped her molars together so hard, she swore she heard one crack. A lump of painful pride, acid and sawdust and heavy concrete, formed at the back of her throat. Chloe tried to swallow it and failed. She tried to believe he wouldn't do this—wouldn't walk out on her just like that, wouldn't refuse to hear her out for even a second—and failed.
When she spoke again, her voice was panicked and fearful and she hated herself for it. No. _No._ She hated _him_ for it, hated him for proving her every anxiety right. Surely he wouldn't prove them right. "Red. Don't."
Silence. Silence that burned.
"If you can leave this easily," she said, desperate, "don't fucking come back."
The slam of the door shook her bones.
She broke.
* * *
As soon as Red stepped out into the corridor, something forced his mind back into his body. For the last ten minutes he'd been distant, detached, floating above himself like a ghost. Watching himself lose it. Feeling the echo of his own pain as if it belonged to someone else. Now he felt it firsthand, as if God had just punched him in the gut.
The walls of Chloe's flat had been slowly closing in, her beautiful, heartbroken gaze had suffocated him, but now he was out and free and drained and weak. He leaned back against her door, unable to take another step, and sank slowly to the floor. His world was a haze of bright white melting into blood red, but when he pressed his palms flat against the cold linoleum, the shock of it helped him focus. His mouth was numb, as if it belonged to someone else. His tongue tasted coppery, like blood. His skin was sweat-soaked and clammy and he hadn't even noticed.
He was afraid. He realized it all at once, both surprised and resigned. He was afraid, and it made him angry, like a rabid fucking animal gnawing at its own trapped foot. But the thought was jarring, and he found himself frowning, correcting the negativity. _I am not an animal._ Then he said it aloud, because Dr. Maddox was always harping on about mindfulness and mantras. "I am not an animal," he whispered, his voice disappearing like smoke. "I am not an animal."
What came next? He told himself positive things, and he . . . he found something to focus on. That was it. Red chose the first thing his eyes fell on: the door to the flat opposite Chloe's, which had a scuff mark he'd need to paint over. Yeah. He stared at the black mark against the red wood and repeated his words like a prayer. That door better not fucking open, because he was in no shape to talk to tenants right now. Or to anyone. He sat with himself for a while.
"Okay," he finally murmured. "Okay, Red. What just happened?"
Chloe had manipulated him, that was what. She'd manipulated him just like Pippa had. Except the thought that had seemed so reasonable five minutes ago now felt absolutely ridiculous, because Chloe was nothing like Pippa. And he knew that belief was his own, because he'd thought it a thousand times before. This wasn't like his last relationship. No one was messing with his head.
The iron band around his chest eased a bit.
He cradled his right hand in his left and rubbed his aching scar. His head ached, too. Words settled in his mind like barbed wire, ripping into everything they touched. _I'll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance._
He'd said that. It already felt like a dream, or a nightmare, but no—it had been him. The words had felt wrong in his mouth and they felt wrong in his memory. Then they swirled, twisted, transformed. He heard Chloe as if for the first time: _I put you on the list because you're important_.
When she'd told him that, it had sounded like bullshit. Like the kind of nonsensical excuse Pippa always managed to dredge up, except Chloe wasn't Pippa Chloe wasn't Pippa Chloe wasn't Pippa—and she'd told him it was a misunderstanding. Not like, _You're too stupid to understand,_ even if he'd heard it that way at the time. No; she'd been begging him to give her a fucking chance. She'd told him to wait. She might have told him the truth. And he'd left. He'd treated her like shit and he'd left.
He let his head fall back to hit the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Chloe?" he called, his voice hoarse, his hands twisting nervously together.
There was a pause that lasted a lifetime. Then her voice came through the door, thick with tears. "What do you want?"
His heart broke. It just fucking broke. How could he ever have thought that she would—? But he remembered exactly how. Remembered the desperate grip of panic that had choked his logical thoughts and dredged up remembered, toxic emotions. Now he just had to explain it to her, had to fix his monumental fuck-up.
Because whatever he'd overheard, whatever he'd believed, he knew Chloe wasn't using him. He knew.
"Shit," he said. Then, because it made him feel slightly better, he said it again. "Shit. I'm sorry, Button. I—I lost it."
He heard some faint sniffing, but her voice came back stronger this time, threaded with iron. "I noticed."
"Oh my God, Chlo. I'm a dick. I'm such a dick."
"Yes, you fucking are."
The fact that she was even talking to him filled him with hope. Golden and glowing, it sloshed uneasily in his stomach, mixing with the bitter aftertaste of his fear. He felt nauseous. Ignored it. "Can I come in? Can we talk?"
Her answer was immediate. "No."
He wasn't surprised. He remembered, vividly, what she'd said to him, muffled beneath the ringing in his ears. _If you can leave this easily, don't fucking come back_. He could tell her the truth—that it hadn't been easy at all, that it had been his only option, that he'd wanted to turn around and touch her but he'd been so fucking afraid—only he didn't think that would fix things. Because as far as Chloe was concerned, he'd just left.
The full impact of that fact hit him hard enough to rattle his teeth. He'd left.
"Chloe," he said, the word shaking with all his desperation, all his regret. He closed his eyes and threaded his hands through his hair. "I don't know what happened. No, I do. I fucked up, and I'm sorry. I panicked and I couldn't think but—"
"I know," she said, interrupting him. For a second, his heart gave a tentative little hop. But then she continued. "I know, Red. I understand. I really do. But . . . but I don't think we should see each other anymore."
Just like that, he truly understood the word _devastation_. He was the earth after a monumental asteroid, knocked off his axis, burned and choked and twisted into a wasteland. "Chloe, no. Please. I'm trying—"
"It's not because of you," she said firmly. Which couldn't possibly be right, only . . . only, she sounded so sure. So calm. So in control, as if the tears he'd heard a moment ago had been imaginary. "It's me," she said. "I can't do this. Because we're only human, and I'll stumble, or you will, and it'll hurt just like this, and I can't. I _can't_. I should've known I wasn't ready for this. When you walked out . . ." She sucked in a breath so hard, he actually heard it. That breath painted a picture for him: Chloe, her lovely face streaked with tears he'd caused, her soft mouth rolled into a hard line to stop herself from sobbing. The thought caused him actual, physical pain. His hands ached, not because of his scar but because they needed to touch her.
But she didn't want his touch anymore.
"When you walked out," she said, composed now, "it felt like I was breaking."
Red officially knew the feeling. "Baby."
She kept going, the words marching out like well-trained soldiers. "No one should be able to make me feel like that. No one should have that power. It's not . . . safe."
A cold hand cradled the back of his skull, long, icy fingers flooding his nervous system until his whole body felt numb. She was shutting down again, because of him. He couldn't bear it. He refused to be the reason someone so brave went back into hibernation. "Chloe, listen to me. I've got issues coming out my arsehole but that has nothing to do with you. You did nothing wrong. Even if you don't—if you don't want me anymore, that doesn't mean you should give up on everyone. On feeling things for people. On risks."
Silence.
"Chloe, are you there?"
Nothing. Panic filled him like flames devouring a forest, an unstoppable destruction.
"Chloe, please. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. You can trust me. You can trust yourself. If you just give me time—I'm working on this. I can be better."
That, finally, garnered a response. Her voice was so gentle, but every word cut him deep. "You don't need to be better, Red, not for me. Never. _I_ should be better for you. For _this_. It's been . . . perfect," she said, so softly he almost missed the word. "But now it's over. All right?"
For the first time, he turned around, abandoning the scuff mark that had anchored him. He faced the door he'd been leaning on, the door that hid Chloe, and said, "No." Because it wasn't all right at all.
"I'm going, all right?"
"No." And then, finally, his desperate mind settled on a solution. A possibility. A hope. "I can show you," he said. "I can show you that this is worth it. That you don't need to be afraid because even when I fuck up I'll make it better."
"Red—"
"You are _perfect_ for me, Chloe," he said, determination stiffening his spine, strengthening his voice. Finally, his real self returned. He stepped into his confidence like a well-worn leather jacket. "I know you and I want you and I need you. We can do this. I'll prove it to you."
"You can't, Red." Her voice shook on his name. "This isn't . . . Relationships aren't supposed to hurt."
"Life hurts," he said fiercely. "It's unavoidable. But I know the difference between torture and growing pains."
She didn't reply. She'd probably walked away, fed up with him rambling like a fanatic, but that was okay. He was okay. He'd made his decision and he'd stick by it: she meant too much for him to let things end like this. Maybe they'd end anyway, no matter what he did, and he'd have to come to terms with that—but not before he'd tried to fix things. Not before he'd done everything he could to earn her trust. To prove that he was there to stay, to show her he was working on himself. For her. Whatever it took.
He stared at her door for a moment longer, pretending she was still on the other side. He told her absence a secret: "I love you."
Then he left. It was time to prove it.
# Chapter Twenty-Two
Chloe wanted to believe that Red's whispered _I love you_ had been simple desperation—another last-ditch attempt to change her mind, to fix everything that had just shattered between them. But the thing was, if she hadn't been pressed against the door, listening to him as her stung heart held her back, she wouldn't have heard it at all.
Had he meant it? Was it real? Maybe it didn't matter either way. Because no matter what he felt, no matter what _she_ felt, he'd still ripped her open and shattered her insides just by walking out the door.
No one should be able to do that to her. Not like that. Not anymore.
So Chloe didn't allow herself to cry when he was gone. Instead, she got to work.
Her body stiff and robotic, her physical pain at the very back of her mind, she sat down at her desktop computer, grim-faced, to finish his website. She would tie up every loose end there was between them, and then . . . then, she would wait until the end of her lease and move out. She'd be the one to disappear on him. For the first time, she'd be Chloe Badass Brown who walked away from all the dangerous emotional tangles that threatened her.
The thought brought a vicious smile to her face, but it wasn't the kind of smile that made things better. If anything, it made her feel worse.
It took hours to finish the site. By the time she was done, her stomach cramped violently with hunger, her knuckles screamed with the agony of overuse, and her rigid, aching back brought tears to her eyes. She was hurting herself and she knew it, but she didn't have room to regret it. As she fired off her last email to Red, the only thing she could feel was relief.
She'd be so much better after this was done. After she brought all these messy feelings, this imperfect, uncontrollable connection, to an end.
She kept the email short.
Red,
Your website is complete and ready to go live. I've attached all the information and instructions needed. Please remember to change your administrative passwords in order to remove my access.
Chloe
There. She waited for the pain to fade. Instead, it doubled, a thought hitting her hard: What if Red hurt like this, too? What if he was lost and struggling, still shaken by his earlier loss of control? What if he needed her and she'd turned away?
Chloe shut down her computer with a sharp _click_ of the mouse, and cut off each treacherous mental question just as firmly. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. This was for the best.
She hoped.
* * *
She saw the notice the next day, on the building's bulletin board. She almost dropped the post she'd come to pick up.
Superintendent Redford Morgan was leaving next month.
The words were like a fist to the gut. She'd been trying so hard not to remember his words through the door, promises she couldn't bring herself to believe. So much for that. But she was glad—definitely glad—that he'd decided to listen to her and move on. Good for him. Good for her. Good for them both.
Chloe was shaky and distracted all the way back to her flat. Her thoughts were so busy, she almost didn't notice the cardboard box waiting on her doorstep. She kicked it, in fact, the toe of her shoe bouncing off it as she went to put her key in the door. And somehow, the moment she saw it, she knew it was from Red.
After all, it couldn't be anything she'd ordered—in spite of her mild dependency on internet shopping—because it was sitting right outside her front door, rather than in the post room. It had no address, either: just a word scrawled on top in black. She told herself it was some kind of care package from her parents, because they'd been known to do things like this. She could imagine her dad chuckling to himself as he left it by the door. But then she bent to pick it up and read the word scrawled on the box: _Button_.
She felt like a sack of useless bones after yesterday's exertions, so she dragged the box into the hall rather than trying to pick it up. Then, once safely inside, she sat on the floor and stared at it and tried not to feel anything at all. It didn't work. There was a hole in her chest the size of a lovestruck heart. This must be some sort of good-bye.
Good. The quicker he left, the quicker she'd never have to feel this way again.
Inside the box she found a notebook, its cover a beautiful iridescent gold. She opened it to the first page, saw lines and lines of Red's distinctive scrawl, and slammed it shut as if she'd come across the devil's Bible.
She should open it. Should read his good-bye, which doubtless included many apologies and would only confirm the very reasonable conclusion she'd drawn: that relationships were just too risky, and they'd both been fools to try. That she needed to be alone, because it was safer. After all, if she'd been alone these past weeks, she wouldn't have spent last night sobbing until she lost her voice. Wouldn't have had a reason to.
Chloe put a hand to her raw throat and reminded herself that he'd left, and he'd do it again, and it wasn't worth the risk, and she never should've bothered with a man anyway, not after she'd been so comfortable without one for years.
And yet, she still couldn't open the book.
She set it aside with the same care one might use to move a poisonous snake. There were more things in the box, hidden by a layer of tissue paper. She ripped it away to find he'd sent her favorite chocolate. Green & Black's sea salt. Not in a fancy hamper like the ones she knew they offered online, either—just slab after slab of the stuff, as if he'd walked into a shop and bought out all their stock like a loon. The bright blue bars tugged at her heart for precisely 0.002 seconds before she steeled herself against them. This was a good-bye present. Nothing that should make her wistful or hopeful or regretful.
She put the chocolate on her coffee table so it was within reach while she worked. No use wasting it.
The next day, another box arrived, significantly smaller than the first. This time, she was thoroughly confused. It was from Red, there was no doubt of that, but what else could he possibly need to give her? It turned out to be a jar, one with tiny gold stars embedded in the glass. They twinkled when she held it up to the light, and for a second all she could think about was that night in the woods, stars in the sky, little spots of light inside their tent.
And him. Red.
The jar contained a trio of the hair ties she liked, the soft fabric ones that didn't snag. She huffed out a laugh as she realized what he was trying to do; she never knew where her hair ties were, unless they were on her head. So he wanted her to keep them in a jar. But, she reminded herself, pushing the smile off her face, jars weren't any use to her. Between her fibromyalgia and the amount she used her hands for work, the strength in her wrists and fingers was usually zero. It was a rare and blessed day when Chloe Brown could open a jar.
She was about to put it back in the box when she realized that it didn't actually have a lid. Or rather, not a lid that resembled anything she'd ever seen. There was an odd, transparent-looking bubble thing around the opening, and she prodded it tentatively. It gave under her touch. She pushed just a little bit harder. And then her hand was in the jar.
She stared in amazement, her eyes catching up with what her nerve endings were trying to tell her. There was a circular band of cushioning around the jar's rim that ballooned up to "close" it, but shrank back under pressure to let her hand in.
Maybe chocolate and a letter she refused to read could be taken as a good-bye, but this, she didn't know how to take. This was something you gave someone to show them . . .
To show them you cared. Or that you loved.
Maybe she should read the note. Maybe it wouldn't be a good-bye after all. Maybe it would be sheer magic on a sheet of paper, and it would say exactly the right thing—the thing she couldn't even define, the thing she didn't know existed. The thing that would erase all the hurt she'd felt and make her brave enough to do this again.
And maybe she'd run a marathon tomorrow. But she wouldn't bet her life on that, now, would she? So she steeled herself against her heart's fanciful interpretations, and she put the jar beside the chocolate, and she absolutely refused to open the book.
Days passed and more gifts came.
Boxes of her favorite fruit and herbal teas. A little stuffed cat that looked so like Smudge, she might possibly have cried just the tiniest bit when she saw it. And maybe, perhaps, sometimes, she slept with it beside her. But that didn't matter, because there were no witnesses.
Next was a guide to New York City, light enough for her to carry, that gave directions using major landmarks and street signs instead of maps. Then there was a tiny, plastic pink chair, studded with little diamantés, that she realized on a bark of laughter was supposed to be Madame Chair. It was followed by a bag of marshmallows, accompanied by a handwritten recipe describing how to roast them with an oven. She could tell he'd tried to be neat with his rounded block capitals, but there was a smudge of sunset-orange paint on the back of the thick, creamy paper that made her smile. He'd drawn goofy little cartoon pictures next to each instruction.
She missed him. She missed him so much that she was starting to hate him.
She found the gold notebook and held it in her hands and tried to make herself open it. She knew it wasn't a good-bye. It was almost certainly an apology, an explanation that he'd panicked.
The problem was, Chloe had panicked that day, too, and she hadn't stopped ever since. Dragging herself out of this confusing, teary fog of fear didn't feel impossible, but it did feel daunting. As if she might not manage it alone. As if she might get lost in the dark. She could only think of one person who could shine a light on her murky thoughts.
She put the notebook down and grabbed her coat.
* * *
Gigi's attic yoga studio was warm enough to make Chloe slightly drowsy, as was the low, gentle music and the smooth hum of the instructor's voice. "Breathe in for me . . . and out. In . . . and out . . ."
Chloe found herself following those instructions as she waited awkwardly on a beanbag for the class of one to finish. She hadn't realized what a jittery mess she was until she'd gotten in the car to drive over here. She'd ended up calling a taxi instead.
"One more time . . ." the soothing voice said. It came from Shivani, a depressingly happy, confident, and glowing woman in her midfifties who swanned about in sports bras and leggings and did inhuman things with her spine. Not ripping-it-out-and-beating-aliens-with-it type inhuman things, though. More like particularly impressive bow poses. She stood at the front of the room, opposite Gigi, who was also wearing a sports bra and leggings and had, beneath her fine, crepey skin, better abs than any of her granddaughters. _Sigh_.
The class wound down. Gigi and Shivani chuckled softly to each other as if their mutual flexibility, fitness, and, presumably, inner peace were some sort of hilarious inside joke. Then they hugged for several long, sweaty moments, murmuring things in each other's ears. If Chloe allowed herself to think about it for more than five seconds at a time, she would have to accept that Gigi was 100 percent banging her yoga instructor and had been for about the last seven years, which was why Chloe did not allow herself to think about it for more than five seconds at a time.
"I'll see you later, Chloe, love!" Shivani called out as she left. She wasn't leaving the _house,_ of course. No, she was just going downstairs to give Chloe and Gigi some privacy, and also to start Gigi's wheatgrass, chocolate, and Baileys smoothie, the perfect predinner tipple. Apparently.
" _So,_ darling," Gigi purred, producing an electric blue silk wrap from thin air and slipping gracefully into it. She came over to the beanbags where Chloe had been waiting patiently for the past half hour. Or, to be truthful, where she'd been waiting sullenly and with a slightly frantic air. "To _what_ do I owe the honor of this visit?"
"I just thought I'd pop by." Chloe attempted to say this airily, but the words hit the professionally distressed wood floor like six lumps of lead.
Gigi arched a brow. "You, a woman who has not driven voluntarily since 2003—"
"Slight exaggeration, Gigi."
"—were moved to get into your car, tootle out of your beloved, filthy, gray city—"
"I got a taxi for the safety of the public, actually."
"—and scurry through the house like a sneaky little mouse to avoid your parents and Eve—"
"I did _not,_ " Chloe lied hotly.
"—because you felt the urge to _pop by_?" Gigi pursed glossy lips. When had they become glossy? Had she just applied makeup by psychic command? "Darling, as the children say, don't bullshit me."
"Ah," Chloe muttered, "my loving grandmother."
"Your impatient grandmother who wants her smoothie and her Shivani. I know how you get, Chloe, my love. Save us both the trouble and spit it out."
Perhaps those words were a spell rather than a suggestion, because they worked. Words tumbled from Chloe's lips before she could overthink them, convince herself to keep them inside, or even arrange them into something deceptively dry and apparently unimportant. "When you love someone, Gigi—someone who doesn't _have_ to love you back—and they might hurt you, and you might hurt them, and anything could go wrong, and it already has, how do you know that it's, erm . . ."
"Real?" Gigi suggested. But, disturbingly, Chloe had no questions on that count. It hadn't even occurred to her to ask.
Her question was far more difficult. "How do you know that it's safe? How do you know that it's worth the risk?" _Please tell me it never is. Please tell me that I did the right thing. Please tell me I didn't abandon Red right back and that we're better off apart._
_No. Please don't._
Gigi regarded her for a long moment with those beautiful, maddening eyes, framed by smile lines that proved what Chloe already knew: despite her habit of telling her grandchildren not to frown, laugh, or otherwise emote for fear of wrinkles, Gigi had never let anything stop her from living life to the fullest.
Finally, the older woman said, "You've asked me two very different questions in one go, Chloe, and I hope you don't think they're at all the same. Love is certainly never safe, but it's absolutely worth it." She produced an unlit cigarette and twirled it between long, elegant fingers. Since Gigi wasn't wearing a head scarf this afternoon, her chic crop of white coils on display, Chloe had absolutely no idea where the Marlboro had been hidden. Her knickers? Up one nostril? In an alternate dimension she accessed at will? God only knew.
After a moment, Gigi spoke again. "I fell in love at sixteen with a scoundrel of a man who impregnated and abandoned me, which of course led to my parents kicking me out of the house because I'd set a poor example for my sisters. My caring for your—well, for your grandfather, I suppose—didn't do anything to fix the fact that he was a pathetic, nasty little man who wasn't worthy of the love I gave him. And his many flaws, unfortunately, didn't stop me from adoring him. After all, when it comes to love, it's not a person's flaws we're looking at, now is it?" She smiled wryly, but Chloe couldn't quite bring herself to smile back. "Love isn't safe, as that story proves. But is it worth it?" Gigi raised her arms in a typically grand gesture, and Chloe knew she wasn't indicating the mansion they currently sat in, so different from the tiny family home Gigi had been kicked out of, but the people who lived inside it. "I have your father. I have you girls. And, of course, I have my top-ten hit, 'Hey, Mr. Dick Junior,' which, if any lawyers or journalists happen to come sniffing around, has what, darling?"
"Absolutely nothing to do with one Richard F. Jameson, whom my poor, dear grandmother has never even heard of," Chloe recited obediently. "But, Gigi, I . . . Well, you might as well know that I'm talking about Red."
"Gasp," Gigi murmured.
Chloe glowered. "I suppose I've fallen in love with him," she said, which was the least embarrassing way she could phrase _I love Redford Morgan like a man-eating tiger loves soft and fleshy upper arms_. "And I think he might . . ." She cleared her throat and straightened her spine, accepting what she should've known from the start. From the moment he'd called her name through the door. "He loves me, too," Chloe said. Because she felt in her bones that it was true. "But we hurt each other, and now I feel trapped in this endless hesitation because, well—what if we keep doing it? What if we keep making messes? I've always felt like I'm the kind of person who . . ." She smiled, even though it wasn't funny. "I'm the kind of person who hurts. Too much."
"No," Gigi corrected calmly. "You are a woman who, in a life filled with pain, came here to ask about love."
Those words hit Chloe like a perfect, chiming chord, the kind that reverberated through her very soul. They were true in a way that spoke to her. True in a way that made her take another look at herself. "Yes," she murmured slowly. "I suppose I am."
Who else was she? Red always called her tough. He called her a badass. She agreed, because, physically, she was. But emotionally? She'd always been so afraid. And yet . . .
She was the woman who'd come here to ask about love.
She was the woman who'd decided to change her entire life with nothing but a list.
She was the woman who survived, every single day.
She was Chloe fucking Brown, and she was starting to wonder if she'd been brave from the beginning. If she'd just needed to love herself enough to realize it.
She supposed, as the knowledge dawned in her like a sunrise, that she must love herself right now. And it felt good.
* * *
She went home and opened the notebook.
It had been on her coffee table, shiny and golden, comforting and terrifying, for almost a week now. She grabbed her fake Smudge for moral support, then briefly wondered if she should call Annie for _real_ moral support. But no—Annie was horrible at answering her phone, and while she would call back eventually, Chloe needed to do this now.
She needed _him_. And he, she rather thought, needed her. Time to find out.
She opened the book. His handwriting was careful not-quite-chaos, so very Red that she ran fond fingers over the letters. Then she told herself sternly to stop mooning and read.
Dear Chloe,
You might have heard that I'm quitting my job. That probably seems like I'm leaving you, but I'm not. I gave notice the day before our camping trip because being with you and being your superintendent seemed like a bad idea. This job was safe for me, but I want you more than I want that safety. And anyway, partly because of you, I don't think I need that safety anymore.
You've done a lot for me, and the fact that all I've done in return is hurt you . . . well, it makes me feel like shit on a basic level, but then I feel _extra_ shit, because oh my God, Chloe, I love you so fucking bad. I've been wondering if I should say it like this, after what happened. But this might be the only chance I get, and I need you to know because it's the truest thing about me. Chloe Sophia Brown, I am so in love with you. And I want to prove it, because that's what you deserve. I want you to trust me again. I want to make you smile until you forget how it feels to cry. I want you to know I'm not going anywhere.
And, since you're the expert planner, I decided to take a leaf out of your book. I made a list.
Get Chloe Back
1. Lure her with food and presents.
2. Wait outside Annie's house; nick Smudge.
3. Learn how to use a PlayStation. ✓
4. Paint in front of windows, shirtless. Maybe naked. Might traumatize residents/get arrested, but I think she'd like it.
5. Take charge of all buttons so she can wear real cardigans if she wants to.
6. Use my bloody Instagram account. ✓
7. Continue therapy. ✓
8. Love her, always, no matter what. ✓
I already started on some. I'm hoping if I work through the list, eventually I'll get you back. If it's all wrong or you want something else or you have this burning desire to tell me what a dick I am, feel free. Call me. Come over. Open your curtains and give me the bird. Please. I miss you.
We can do this. If you don't trust me on that, trust yourself. Because you must know you can do anything you set your mind to.
Yours,
Red
Chloe read the letter three times. Only when one of her tears plopped onto the page, drowning the _d_ at the end of his name, did she rip herself away from the words. She looked up at her curtains, drawn tight as a shield, and her eyes narrowed. Bright, glittering power surged through her, and for the first time in a while, she felt alive. Impatient. Determined. _Demanding_. She stalked over, ripped them open, and winter darkness appeared before her.
Winter darkness and a stubborn square of light.
A familiar figure stood behind the window across the courtyard, his sunset hair hanging over his face, his chest bare to reveal corded muscle, bold ink, vulnerable skin, and vitality. He was bent over a canvas, as always, but a second after she opened the curtains, he stilled. Then slowly, slowly, turned.
She didn't hide.
The distance between them made it difficult to see that feline, springtime gaze, but she felt the moment their eyes met. An electrifying shiver rushed through her body. He faced the window fully, put his hand against the glass, and she had the oddest feeling that this was one of those moments in life that could amount to everything or nothing. Could be a transformation or a regret. This was the sort of moment that reckless, exciting women experienced—
No. No. This was the sort of moment _she_ experienced, lists, worries, razor-sharp shyness and all. Bravery wasn't an identity so much as a choice.
She chose him.
# Chapter Twenty-Three
Red used to think that fucking up was his specialty—but after fucking up with Chloe, he hadn't let himself think that anymore. Because if it was true, he'd lost her forever. And if he'd lost her forever . . .
No. Not an option.
So Red had decided that his new specialty was fixing things. After all, he'd known from the moment love hit him like a truck that he couldn't shove it at her and hope for the best. He'd known she'd need more, that he'd have to make her understand everything in his heart, that he'd have to give her a reason to trust him. And so, he formulated his plan and he wrote his list. Then, since he'd handed in his notice to Vik and time was flying, he'd pulled himself together and gotten down to business.
Not just with Chloe. With everything.
Every morning he woke up, checked his window, and found her curtains shut tight. He let himself sit with sick, acidic fear for a few moments, breathing deep, wanting her, missing her. And then he got his shit together. He planned for next month, when he'd be leaving this building behind and plunging headfirst into the unknown again. He studied his savings in spreadsheets that would give Chloe a hard-on, checking and double-checking that he could afford the risk. He researched his business, reached out to old friends, and figured out his new website by reading Chloe's instructions, even if hearing her voice through the words twisted his heart.
He was going to be okay. He knew that. But he'd be so much better with Chloe. Only, the days passed, and her curtains remained closed, and each morning he lost a little bit of hope.
Or maybe a lot of hope. So much that when she did open the curtains—when he caught that flutter of movement and spill of light from the corner of his eye—he thought for a moment he was imagining things.
But then he turned, and he saw her, and he knew that not even his desperate memories could recreate that heavy, midnight gaze.
Red stared and stared and stared. Drank her in. Started to worry about his Grand Prix–worthy pulse and his painfully pounding heart. He might be dying of fucking euphoria at the sight of her. That might just be okay.
Then she was gone in a flash of turquoise glasses and a swirl of her pink-and-white skirt. He felt like he'd been knocked over the head. Stood there, transfixed, with his paintbrush in his hand, blue acrylic threatening to drip onto the floor, and thought, _Chloe, Chloe, Chloe_ like a broken record . . . until a knock came at the door.
He'd heard that knock once in his entire life, but he knew exactly who it belonged to. He dropped the paintbrush. Ran through the flat. Yanked the door open and there she was.
Chloe Brown. Beautiful with her hard stare and her hair contained by the polka-dot hair tie he'd bought her, and yes, he was looking that hard, and no, he would not stop. She sailed past him into the flat, and he forced his hands behind his back because dragging her into his arms and kissing the living daylights out of her would be _bad,_ it would be very bloody _bad_ —
"Here," she said, holding something out to him. Her voice was husky fucking music. He wanted to eat it. He could put his mouth over hers and—wait, no, that was just kissing. No kissing. Not when she might be here to give him a chance.
He took the thing she held—a notebook—his palms sweating and hope swelling. "Chloe."
"Red," she said softly. "Read that for me."
Heart in his mouth, he obeyed. He already knew what he'd find: Chloe's list. The real one, full and uncensored. He took a breath and finally read the goals that had started all this.
The list was so neat and orderly and utterly her. Every goal was printed carefully in black ink, painstakingly perfect. Some of the entries he recognized, others he didn't. Some were ticked off, some crossed out and replaced, all with so much care. His heart twisted. Why had he ever assumed that a spot on this list meant the worst? He should've known—he _had_ known—that this was her path to the person she wanted to be.
Except he'd never really accepted that fact, because to him, she was already perfect.
He had the strongest fucking urge to throw this book across the room before he could find his own entry, except that would be a mistake, and he'd made enough of those already. He forced himself to look for his own name. Found it.
_Keep Red._
He put the book down and looked at her. He wanted to say something. The right thing. He'd never managed it before, so he doubted he would now—but he tried. "I was wrong. I know I was wrong. I—"
"I read your letter," she interrupted.
She'd only just read it? Was that good or bad? She seemed edgy, nervous, her soft lips pressed tight, those hypnotic eyes avoiding his. Suddenly the room seemed darker and the moment took on all the dread and finality of a grave. She didn't want him. He'd failed. He'd lost her, really lost her.
But then she said, in a tone he couldn't decipher, "I liked my presents."
He laughed brokenly and ran a hand through his hair. Tried to make his fear a joke, because she wouldn't appreciate him scattering the pieces of his broken heart over her like confetti. "Chloe. Baby. Just—put me out of my misery."
She looked at him, finally, and he sucked in a breath. Couldn't help it. God, she was so beautiful. God, she made his head spin. She frowned slightly, shook her head, rolled her eyes. Then she said, "All right."
And kissed him.
He stumbled back into the wall, and she followed. Her hands slid into his hair and her body pressed tight against his, but her lips were petal soft. Searching. Tentative. As if she wasn't sure how he'd react.
As it happened, he reacted like a starving animal.
He couldn't silence the groan her touch teased from him, couldn't stop himself from shaking, not when his blood surged with the knowledge that this was actually happening. His lips parted hers hungrily, and when she glided her tongue over his he gave a wounded, desperate growl that must've told her everything she could think to ask. _I need you. I'm desperate for you. I'm something without you, and I'll survive without you, but I don't fucking want to, so Jesus, please don't make me._
He dropped the notebook. His hands went to her waist, then her hips, then the row of buttons sewn down the front of her jumper. Her hair next, smoothed-out ripples under his fingers, then the gentle curve of her throat, and then her face. Everywhere, he was everywhere. Wasn't enough.
She pulled back and panted, "I'm sorry."
Carefully, he took off her glasses. Now she was young and vulnerable, giving him that soft focus. "For what, love?"
"For letting you go, and for how long it took me to come here. I should've been braver. Like you."
"No," he said firmly, fiercely. "You're exactly as brave as you need to be. You're the one who makes me better. You're the bravest person I know."
She grabbed the front of his T-shirt, dragged him close, kissed him again.
It was slower, this time, not as urgent. Talking touches. The sweet pressure of her mouth on his: _I want you._ The way she smoothed her hands over his chest: _I missed you_. And when he laced their fingers together? Puzzle pieces slotted into place. _I'm yours._ His world was marshmallow pink, electric white, chocolate and earth and tropical ocean. His world was good.
She pulled back again, and everything seemed slightly paler. "We should talk properly."
Oh, yeah. Like rational, adult human beings. "Or we could kiss until we run out of oxygen."
She smiled and his heart broke and fixed itself.
"I mean it," he said. "If I die, I die."
She laughed and the air tasted different. Clean.
"Come on," she said, marching toward his studio, but she didn't let go of his hand. Not until she sat down, leaning against a rare part of the wall that didn't have supplies stacked against it.
Red sat opposite her and tried not to melt over the prim way she crossed her legs and arranged her skirt over her knees. But then his smile faded. "Chloe, I'm sorry. I freaked out, I took my own shit out on you, and I just—I shouldn't have. But you read the list, and you know I'm working on it, and I hope . . . Well, I hope that's enough."
Softly, she told him, "It is. Red—"
"Oh, wait. I forgot something." He found her hand again, held on tight. "I love you."
The corners of those lush lips tilted ever so slightly before she got them under control. He wondered how he'd ever thought of her as reserved—or, you know, up her own arse—when he could see every single emotion she tried to hide under that mask if he just looked hard enough. And right now, he realized with a grin, happiness was shining right through her severe facade. She might as well have shoved the sun under a pillow. He could see every last golden ray burning through.
But what she said was "We'll address that in a minute."
Red told himself this was too serious a moment to risk laughing.
"Right now," she said, "I need to apologize to you, too. I'm so fucking sorry, Red. I know everything about that situation triggered you. I knew it at the time. But I didn't know the right way to react, and I should've."
"No, Chlo," he said softly. "That's not on you."
"No, it's not," she agreed. "But remember what you told me once? About filling in people's gaps? You do things for me when I can't do them for myself. I want to support you in the same way. Can we work on that? Together?"
She was so fucking lovely. So lovely, and she wanted him. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. His voice came out like gravel. "Yeah, love. We can do that."
"Good. Because you mean the world to me and I don't ever want you to struggle alone." Her words were a balm to everything in him that ached or stung or bled. Their fingers laced together so tightly he hoped they'd never come undone.
"You," he told her quietly, "are everything."
Dry as a bone, she murmured, "Flatterer."
He smiled and felt it down to his soul.
"That day," she said softly, and his smile faded. "That day, neither of us gave the other a chance. You reacted badly to an admittedly confusing situation, and then I reacted badly to you reacting badly. I wish I'd been more understanding. But I was trying to protect myself—trying to avoid taking a risk, because the truth is, you scare me. You're monumental. Avoiding everything between us seemed easier than facing pain. But I refuse to be afraid anymore, Red. You're more important than that."
Hope and relief and this impossible, incandescent happiness swirled in his chest, as if his emotions were mixing to create the perfect color for this moment. Something beautiful and brilliant and Chloe, like those cute blue glasses or warm brown eyes. "Maybe we should solemnly swear that in the future we'll both keep our heads out of our arses."
"Maybe we should," she said with a slow smile.
"All right. I swear."
"I swear."
She held out her little finger, and he grinned. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Give me yours," she said sternly. He did, and she hooked hers around his and said, "Now it's official. We pinkie-swore."
He snorted. Pulled her closer because he couldn't resist. Her breath hitched as she leaned forward, her cheek brushing his. Just that slight contact sent a shower of almost-unbearable pleasure through him. He whispered in her ear, "We okay?"
"We are," she said softly.
Something jagged and broken inside him smoothed out, slotting back into place so firmly that he felt like he should've heard the _click_. This was where and who and how he should be: with Chloe.
He stood, pulling her up with him. And then, because he was in that kind of mood, he picked her up. She gave a little squeak of surprise as he cradled her against his chest, squeezing her to him, breathing in flowers and vanilla. Everything wrong with his world righted itself. "Just so you know, you aren't ever getting rid of me. You're it, and I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked."
She laughed, running a hand through his hair. The action was unthinkingly possessive. He closed his eyes for a moment on a wave of satisfaction.
"That's good to know," she said. "Where are we going, by the way?"
"My room. Since we're officially okay, there's no reason why you can't sit somewhere comfortable instead of the floor."
"Fair enough. We'll just sit, though. That's all."
"Oh, yeah. That's all."
It was, too, at first. She asked him a thousand questions about his plans, and nodded approvingly at his answers. He showed her the social media accounts he'd set up, and she told him why all his captions sucked and how to find decent hashtags.
And that was absolutely all.
But then Chloe got tired, so they lay down. And then she kissed him, and his brain malfunctioned, and the next thing he knew he was on top of her, holding her hands and licking into her mouth while she moaned.
And then, in the middle of it all, she gasped, "Oh, I almost forgot! Our shelved topic."
"What?" he growled, dragging his lips down her throat.
"The fact that you love me."
He stilled.
"It's very sweet, of course," she said, in a voice so innocent he just _knew_.
"Chloe."
"And highly flattering, particularly coming from someone as wonderful as you—"
" _Chloe_."
"What? It's rude to interrupt, you know."
He grinned down at her. "Stop torturing me. Just say it."
"Say what?"
"Woman—"
"I love you, Red. I love you, I love you, I— _mmpf!_ " She broke off with a squeak when he kissed her, hard.
Those three little words sounded so fucking good, but they tasted even better on her lips.
# Epilogue
One Year Later
"Chloe, you awful cow, it's about time you—oh, hello there, Red." Eve, as always, was on her best behavior the moment she saw Red's face on her phone screen.
Chloe didn't bother to hide her eye roll. "Yes, hello, dearest sister. I thought I'd check in before we got on with our day."
"That's not true," Red said helpfully, raising his voice over the sounds of traffic and the clatter of hundreds of footsteps that were part and parcel of a busy New York street. "I made her do it."
Chloe trod on his foot. He gave her an unapologetic grin.
"Honestly, Red, thank God you're with her," Eve tutted. "I bet you've already called your mum today. Like a _good_ child." She glared pointedly at Chloe, then turned away from the camera and hollered, "EVERYONE! CHLOE'S ON THE PHONE!"
And, wouldn't you know it, the entire family happened to be at home. Just Chloe's luck. Dani appeared first—shouldn't she be in a library somewhere, starving in the name of academia?—followed by Dad, who was still wearing his coat as always, like he might fly off somewhere any minute. Then came Mum—oh, no, that was Aunt Mary without makeup. Mum was next, her smile uncharacteristically broad. She liked Red, thought he was a _lovely boy,_ which was code for "strong enough to protect my darling daughter if she insists on gallivanting about the world."
Chloe did indeed insist.
And then, finally, Gigi appeared, shoving everyone else out of the way until her face took up almost the entire screen. Gigi still hadn't quite grasped the finer points of a video call, so she liked to make absolutely certain that her brilliance could be seen. She beamed and held up a wriggling, protesting Smudge.
Yes, they had Smudge. When Chloe and Red moved into a flat that allowed pets, Annie had provided a most welcome housewarming gift.
"Darling," Gigi purred, "are you having the _absolute_ time of your life?"
"Perhaps," Chloe said with a private smile.
Down where her family couldn't see, Red's gloved hand squeezed hers.
"Smudge misses you awfully. Don't you, Smudge?"
Smudge looked, at best, apathetic.
"I miss him, too," Chloe said.
New York in winter was absolutely freezing. For that reason, despite missing her family a little bit, Chloe hurried through the call. She'd text them all later, she assured them, and yes, she was feeling fine, and New York was indeed exciting, but no, she wouldn't compare it to Kenya or Belgium or Cuba because they were all just so different and all equally amazing.
Which was a lie, of course. Cuba had been her favorite. But she and Red weren't done jet-setting.
Then, finally, the last of her relatives said good-bye, and she put the phone down and turned to Red. "Sorry. I should've known that would take forever."
"It's fine, Chlo."
"It's not. I was practically teasing you." She glanced at the glass entrance behind them to the Museum of Modern Art, then back at Red. He was almost bursting with excitement. The cold had turned the tip of his nose and his high cheekbones pale pink. His green eyes were bright, like a spark of midsummer in the middle of winter. He was so, so divine. She didn't know how he could be real. "I know you're dying to go in. Shall we?"
"Oh, yeah. But first . . ." He brought his hand to her cheek, and she didn't even mind that his glove was cold and a little wet from the softly falling snow. "Let me see if I can find anything to kiss under all these layers."
Maybe she'd gone slightly overboard with the scarves—two—and the hats—again, two—but it was _cold_.
"You want to kiss me now?" she squawked as he nudged aside the wool protecting her skin from the harsh wind. "At this very minute?"
"I want to kiss you every minute of the day," he murmured, his eyes suddenly serious. "And I want to kiss you in every city on earth." Then, as her heart overflowed with sickening amounts of love, his lips brushed hers. Quick, light, and still so wonderful that her knees felt the tiniest bit weak.
He pulled back and took his time nudging her scarves in place, even though they wouldn't be out here for much longer. Biting back a smile, she said, "Now, shall we go in?"
"Are you feeling okay? You're not tired from the walk, are you?"
"Not yet." Well, only a little bit.
He was practically vibrating with his eagerness to go inside, but still, he held off to check on her. "Buprenorphine still going strong?"
"I am high as a kite, my love." She tried not to use her opioid patches all the time, but a trip to New York definitely required them.
"Good," he said, clearly pleased to know his girlfriend was appropriately drugged. And then, after a long exhale, he grinned. "In we go, then."
"Full speed ahead. Try not to wet yourself with excitement, you big nerd."
He shot her a quelling look as they stepped into the museum. "Chloe. Please. This is a classy establishment."
"Sorry. I can't be tamed."
With a wry smile, he said seriously, "I know."
# Acknowledgments
There are so many people I have to thank for this book. I'm about to sound like an overenthusiastic starlet accepting her first Oscar, and I don't even care, because this was truly a team effort. Some of the people I want to thank probably don't realize they were on my team—but you were, guys. You shared your loveliness with the world, and I absorbed it like sunlight, which means you're part of the team. Surprise!
So, where to begin? At the beginning, I suppose. Thank you, Frances Annie Nixon. I wish you had lived long enough to see your name in my book. Sometimes I imagine you recommending this story to your uptight friends, then cackling when they complain about the sex. I miss you.
Mum: thank you for reading to me, even when people told you not to bother. As always, everyone was wrong and you were right. Now you have it in writing. Please don't abuse this power.
Truly, my tiny troublemaker: you're the only one who doesn't judge when I talk to imaginary people. I appreciate you.
Thank you to Sam for picking up whenever I called, answering whatever random, contextless question I asked, and not being offended when I hung up without saying good-bye.
To Dr. Griffiths, who looked me in the eye and said, "First things first: I believe you." I can't explain what you did for me that day. Thank you.
KJ Charles, without you and your never-ending well of kindness and support, I probably wouldn't be in this position—so thank you, thank you, thank you. Courtney Miller-Callihan, my wonderful agent, thank you for believing in me and for handling my constant social awkwardness. Thank you, Nicole Fischer, for turning my sorta-kinda story into an actual, honest-to-god, decent book. And thank you, Ainslie Paton, Therese Beharrie, Em Ali, Charlotte Stein, and all the other authors and friends who ever put my mind to rest.
Orla, Divya, Michal, Maz, and Laila: whenever I'm stressed, you guys appear like tiny sunshines, as if you have some kind of sixth sense. Thank you for making me smile. Thank you to Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Marriott, Mr. Marriott (no relation!), and Mr. Cleveley—and no, I can't use any of your first names. It's not allowed.
Thank you to Avon for being all, "Hey, yeah, you can write this book for us." I almost passed out, but still, much appreciated.
Finally, thank you to everyone who told me that I'd never succeed. You guys make me feel like a triumphant R & B songstress, and the closer I can get to Beyoncé, the better.
# Announcement
Look out for Talia Hibbert's next steamy romantic comedy . . . Chloe's potion-loving sister Dani will get her own story in summer 2020!
# About the Author
**Talia Hibbert** is a Black British author who lives in a bedroom full of books. Supposedly, there is a world beyond that room, but she has yet to drum up enough interest to investigate. She writes sexy, diverse romances because she believes that people of marginalized identities need honest and positive representation. Her interests include beauty, junk food, and unnecessary sarcasm.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
# Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
get a life, chloe brown. Copyright © 2019 by Talia Hibbert. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
_Cover design and illustration by Ashley Caswell_
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-294122-0
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-294120-6
# About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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www.harpercollins.ca
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www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
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www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
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www.harpercollins.com
|
Early complications of operatively treated proximal humeral fractures.
Minimal information exists regarding early complications after operatively treated proximal humeral fractures. Of the 82 shoulders that had osteosynthesis, 42 had a (nonmedical) complication, with 21 requiring further surgery. Of 42 shoulders with complications, 12 were related to incomplete reduction, 16 had loss of anatomic fracture fixation, 9 had delayed healing, 3 had an infection, 1 had rotator cuff failure, and 1 had loose bodies. Fixed-angle plates had lower rates of initial malpositioning and resultant malunion. Of the 22 shoulders requiring hemiarthroplasty, 14 had an early complication. Of these, 7 had complications relating to implant insertion or tuberosity malreduction at the index operation and 7 had problems with tuberosity healing. The rate of complications after operative treatment of proximal humeral fractures is high. All efforts at fracture fragment fixation with osteosynthesis and hemiarthroplasty should be directed at obtaining anatomic fracture fixation that resists displacement. |
import {assert} from 'chai';
import {isArray} from 'datalib/src/util';
export interface RuleSet<T> {
name: string;
rules: Rule<T>[];
}
export interface Rule<T> {
name: string;
items: (T|T[])[];
}
export function testRuleSet(ruleSet: RuleSet<any>, getScore: {(_: any): number}, stringify = JSON.stringify) {
ruleSet.rules.forEach((rule) => {
it('should preserve ranking order for ' + rule.name, () => {
const items = rule.items;
for (let i = 1; i < items.length; i++) {
const l = items[i-1];
const r = items[i];
(isArray(l) ? l : [l]).forEach((left) => {
(isArray(r) ? r : [r]).forEach((right) => {
const lScore = getScore(left) || 0;
const rScore = getScore(right) || 0;
assert.isTrue(
lScore > rScore,
'Score for ' + stringify(left) + ' (' + lScore.toFixed(3) + ') ' +
'should > ' + stringify(right) + ' (' + rScore.toFixed(3) + ')'
);
});
});
}
});
});
}
|
<?php
namespace Illuminate\Foundation\Auth;
use Illuminate\Auth\Authenticatable;
use Illuminate\Auth\MustVerifyEmail;
use Illuminate\Database\Eloquent\Model;
use Illuminate\Auth\Passwords\CanResetPassword;
use Illuminate\Foundation\Auth\Access\Authorizable;
use Illuminate\Contracts\Auth\Authenticatable as AuthenticatableContract;
use Illuminate\Contracts\Auth\Access\Authorizable as AuthorizableContract;
use Illuminate\Contracts\Auth\CanResetPassword as CanResetPasswordContract;
class User extends Model implements
AuthenticatableContract,
AuthorizableContract,
CanResetPasswordContract
{
use Authenticatable, Authorizable, CanResetPassword, MustVerifyEmail;
}
|
Somitogenesis is a dynamic process that integrates global and local signaling with cell morphogenesis to produce an ordered array of metameric units, or somites, along the axis of vertebrate embryos. The goal of this project is to understanding how the read out of Notch, Fgf, Wnt and Retinoic acid pathways is combined to influence cell behavior mediated by protocadherins during somite boundary formation. A Xenopus explant system will be developed to visualize the behavior of cells within anterior or posterior somite compartments under normal and experimental conditions. The role of a novel protocadherin, paraxial protocadherin 2 (PAPC2), in establishing changes in cell-cell interactions at somite boundaries will be examined using this explant system. Finally, the enhancer regions controlling PAPC2 expression at forming somite boundaries will be isolated to further understand how input of signaling in the presomitic mesoderm positions expression of genes that act at boundary formation. Changes in protocadherin expression as well as misregulation of Wnt, Fgf, Notch, and Retinoic acid signaling pathways are seen during cancerous tumor growth and metastasis. Understanding the way these pathways are integrated during development to change cell behavior will provide strong experimental evidence for creating informed models that will help to elucidate the role of these signaling pathways in the progression of disease. Many ofthe genes that cause growth and establishment of tumors are also involved in the early development of embryos. Basic research into the ways cells use genes and the proteins they produce during development provides necessary tools for predicting how cancerous cells are using the same genes to establish tumors within specific tissues and to metastasize, releasing cells into the body that will invade new tissues. Ultimately, we hope to determine how genes are regulating cells' that are undergoing changes in adhesion during development and apply these findings to understanding the advanced stages of invasive forms of cancer. In solid tumors, certain proteins may cause cells to stick to one another, while in cases of metastasis, these same proteins may be lost from cells, allowing cells to migrate away from the site ofthe initial tumor. When cancerous cells invade new tissues, these adhesion proteins may be produced again and determine what type of tissues cancer cells can adhere to and form tumors in. By understanding how major gene pathways control adhesion in a developmental context, we will more fully understand how these genes control cell behavior during cancer establishment and progression. [unreadable] [unreadable] [unreadable] |
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Last year, when I was still in France, I started a course in international trade. The title of that course may sound interesting, but after a few weeks I found it really boring, that was just not for me. However, it has not been a total waste of time, since I have learnt quite a bit about French law. I thought that I could re-use it for the journalism course. I didn't realise at that time how wrong I was. It is unbelievable how England wants to be different from other countries, and especially from France!
Good for me, because it makes life much easier. Yes, French people enjoy having complicated administration, and, being a French citizen, I had never realised that everything could actually be simpler. Some of you may not completely understand what I really mean, so let's take an example: in England, there are four different kinds of court (Magistrates courts, Crown court, County Courts and High Court) whereas in France, there are eight courts, all specialised in different areas (crime, offences, administration, work issues, family issues, commerce, money matters etc.) Needless to say I have simplified the scheme to make it shorter. Now you can imagine how pleased I was when I found out that the English system was actually not that complex! Let's hope that the rest is going to be as simple as that. Honestly, I doubt it.
4
comments:
Yeah - the difference at the base of it is that the French justice system is investigatory or inquisitorial - the judge actually tries to find out what has happened; whereas the anglo-saxon system is adversarial, meaning that two sides argue in an attempt to discern the truth, and the judge is less active (although their decisions form case law which must be obeyed). There are other differences, for example France has statutory privacy protection laws; whereas the UK and US does not. There are cultural differences, eg there is nothing really like the UK tabloids in France and journalism in France I think is taken more seriously (there is in my opinion a greater regard for literary culture in France). TV news is very underdeveloped in France compared with the UK and - especially - the USA. It is a different culture but of course united in a common set of modern European cultural attitude about human rights, freedom of expression, etc.
Still the French contribution to journalism has been vast - just this week Year Two students have reached the point of looking at Emile Zola's journalism - we see him as the founder of photojournalism and of modern investigative journalism.
Strictly speaking Tribunals are not courts. They don't have strict rules on evidence. But they are established by statute (Act of Parliament) and their decisions can be challenged in higher courts. Tribunals (eg Industrial Tribunals which settle disputes between employers and employees who have been sacked) are a very good source of news stories, but they are not strictly speaking courts. My lecture was a but garbled today as I am frazzled by the administrative aspects of the start of the academic session. |
1. Introduction {#sec1}
===============
Randomized controlled trials (RCT) are considered to be the "gold standard" of medical interventional research, including research focused on rehabilitation interventions \[[@bib1]\]. The number of RCTs published in PubMed has been growing steadily over the past 50 years \[[@bib2]\]. There are many challenges to implementing RCTs, and many are undocumented. Some are specific to a particular patient population, institutional situation or intervention. Rehabilitation interventions that are enmeshed within a multi-disciplinary care setting can be particularly problematic to research, since participants are undergoing many aspects of rehabilitation and care. One area that has seen somewhat greater discussion is the challenge of recruitment \[[@bib3],[@bib4]\]. Tyson et al. (2015) \[[@bib4]\] reported variable recruitment success at different sites during a stroke rehabilitation study, and found that "enthusiastic, regular and structured engagement with the entire stroke multidisciplinary team" was one key to successful recruiting.
It is helpful to share some of these challenges, and possible solutions, so that others can learn. While each research and clinical situation has its own unique challenges, we hope that by sharing our experiences others might avoid some of our pitfalls and thoughtfully consider how others might impact their research, timeline and budget. Therefore, the objective of this manuscript is to present challenges and solutions of study implementation that arose during a mid-sized single-site RCT of a rehabilitation intervention performed in an inpatient stroke rehabilitation setting.
These lessons were learned from the execution of a trial entitled "Does the addition of virtual reality training to a standard program of inpatient rehabilitation improve sitting balance ability and function after stroke?" \[[@bib5],[@bib6]\]. Approximately 25 500 Ontario residents have a stroke each year, and of those 50% are moderately or severely impaired \[[@bib7]\]. For these people, sitting balance ability is a predictor of their level of functional mobility at discharge from inpatient rehabilitation \[[@bib8]\]. Virtual reality (VR), the use of computer technology to allow someone to interact with a game or activity in a virtual environment, is a promising modality for stroke \[[@bib9],[@bib10]\]. VR has been assessed for the rehabilitation of upper extremity function and standing balance and function (i.e. gait) post-stroke; however there has been no research on its use for the treatment of sitting balance. Therefore, the main objective of our RCT was to "determine if supplemental sitting balance exercises, administered via VR training, improve the control of sitting balance ability in stroke rehabilitation inpatients."
2. Methods {#sec2}
==========
The protocol for the RCT has been published previously \[[@bib5]\] and the study received research ethics board approval. Seventy-six participants who could not stand independently for more than 1 min were recruited from a dedicated inpatient stroke rehabilitation unit. All participants provided informed consent. Participants were randomly allocated into one of two groups, experimental and control. Both groups performed 10 to 12 sessions of VR training (30--45 min each), in addition to their regularly scheduled therapies. Participants in the experimental group played five games that involved reaching and leaning movements, designed to challenge sitting balance ([Fig. 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"}). Participants in the control group played five games that required only minimal upper extremity movement. Assessments of sitting balance and upper extremity function were performed by a research associate blinded to group allocation before and immediately after training and one month later. Of the 76 participants who began the study (38 in each group), 33 in the experimental group and 36 in the control group completed the VR training and post-assessments. Twenty seven in the experimental group and 26 in the control group completed the one-month post assessments.Fig. 1Participant playing a Ball Maze VR game. The Movavi screen capture, upper left, shows the VR game as presented on the screen. The webcam, upper right, shows the participant\'s movements. The CONFORMat image, lower right, shows the displacement of the centre of pressure (grey line) as the participant performs the game.Fig. 1
During the RCT, the research associate and VR trainer (LS) documented barriers to the research process. These barriers were addressed at monthly team meetings (which included the principal investigator, co-investigators, trainees/volunteers and research associate) and a plan was made to address each challenge. At subsequent monthly meetings the barriers and plans were reviewed and further actions were taken as required. Minutes of the monthly meetings were reviewed separately by the research associate and VR trainer in order to compile a list of themes, presented here with the challenges and solutions.
3. Results {#sec3}
==========
Five themes into which the challenges could be placed were described: recruitment, patient-specific issues, scheduling, staffing, and technology. Challenges and solutions are presented under each theme in [Table 1](#tbl1){ref-type="table"}.Table 1Challenges and solutions discovered during the implementation of a randomized controlled trial in an inpatient rehabilitation setting. Challenges and solutions are presented within five categories: patient-specific, scheduling, staffing, technology and processes related to RCTs.Table 1IssueChallengesSolutionsRecruitmentRecruitment- Research ethics obligations required that potential participants had to be asked by a member of the patient\'s "circle of care" if they were willing to have our research associate talk to them about our project. This process was a potential barrier to timely and complete recruitment.- A preferred solution, opt-in or opt-out, would be for patients to indicate at admission whether they were interested in hearing about research studies. We were not able to do this, due to ethical and management/logistical issues. Discussions regarding this issue are ongoing.Patient-Specific IssuesFatigue (9 out of 130 potential participants declined because of fatigue)- Many participants needed planned breaks between treatments or an afternoon nap.\
- VR might fatigue a participant so that they would not participate fully in their therapy sessions.\
- A treatment session requiring 30 min of VR time could take up to 1 h, including breaks.- Participant\'s schedules were carefully managed to ensure appropriate rest times.\
- VR sessions were often held later in the day, so that fatigue did not influence regular therapies, although this had to be balanced by the potential that a participant would be too tired to participate fully during the VR session.\
- Occasionally, participation in the study was delayed until fatigue had diminished.\
- VR sessions became longer as endurance increased.Pain (2 out of 76 participants declined to continue because of pain)- Pain of many types is a common sequela of stroke \[[@bib11]\].\
- Some participants had pre-existing pain from conditions such as chronic rotator cuff tears or arthritis \[[@bib12]\].\
- Some pain treatments (for example, certain medications, pain clinic interventions) were no longer available in the inpatient setting.- VR sessions were shortened as required.\
- VR parameters were modified as required (while staying within the study goals).\
- Subluxed shoulders were supported at all times, especially during transfers.\
- VR sessions were scheduled appropriately with respect to pain medication schedules.\
- Research staff consulted with members of the participant\'s circle of care regarding ways to minimize a participant\'s discomfort.Vision- For many participants, their stroke had altered their vision.\
- Some individuals also had pre-existing conditions such as colour-blindness, cataracts or age-related macular degeneration.\
- Some elderly participants had a decreased ability to see objects that were green (green was a prominent colour on the VR screen).\
- Hemianopsia was frequently encountered \[[@bib13]\].- There was no need for participants to read, only look at a virtual object or avatar on a 40-inch television screen; therefore even individuals with poor vision could participate.\
- The TV screen was changed to black and white for those who could not see green. The VR manufacture also addressed this by changing some of the object avatars from green to yellow and black and increasing the contrast.\
- After these accommodations were incorporated, there were no further complaints of vision and poor vision did not appear to affect participation in VR.\
- We encouraged the participants to work on compensatory strategies for hemianopsia with the VR games, as appropriate \[[@bib13]\]. Frequent cuing to look to the affected side was used as needed.Engagement (2 out of 76 participants declined to continue because of disinterest)- Some participants were initially nervous with the technology.\
- Some participants became less enthusiastic about attending VR sessions over time. This was more common in the control group, especially for participants with a very dense hemiparesis and minimal recovery of their upper extremity.- The VR platform was user-friendly and easy to learn. Success could be achieved early and game parameters could be adjusted to increase the physical demands of the game or the potential for gaming success depending on the participant\'s motivations and the intervention goals for their group.\
- To increase engagement with the control group participants, when necessary, the VR trainer engaged the participant in conversation. Occasionally the participant\'s choice of music was played during the VR session. It was important to ensure that the music did not encourage motions like foot-tapping and dancing that might affect the intervention goals.SchedulingAppointment Scheduling- It was sometimes challenging to complete 10--12 VR sessions and reassess before discharge. Patients attended inpatient rehabilitation for four to six weeks. There was often a delay of a week or more before consent could be obtained because potential participants needed time to carefully consider their participation and have their therapy assessments completed and schedules confirmed before signing. Then the pre-assessment had to be completed.\
- Completing 5 VR sessions a week was challenging. Participation in research was a lower priority than regular therapy and medical appointments. Participants received one to 5 h of therapy a day with family meetings, medical tests and appointments, and off-site appointments and visits scheduled as needed. Some participants needed scheduled rest periods. Some went home for regular extended weekends.\
- Communication regarding participant scheduling with the rehabilitation unit staff was difficult, complicated by the recent introduction of electronic patient records (EPR). All therapy and appointment scheduling was performed on the EPR but research staff were not allowed access.- Most of the scheduling challenges were met by having a full-time VR trainer, which offered the flexibility to work around the participants\' schedules.\
- Weekend appointments or two VR sessions a day were occasionally done, if time became short before discharge.\
- Communication boards hanging in each patient\'s room provided the best opportunity for the research staff to coordinate their participant\'s therapy schedule with VR appointments. The ward clerk, who had a master copy of the daily schedule, was another resource. However, there was still room for error as the unit staff tended to prefer the EPR.\
- A more permanent solution would be to have the VR trainer provided with access to the EPR.\
- Final result: experimental group participants performed 325 min of VR while control group participants performed 302 min of VR, which met the target of 30 min a day for 10--12 days.VR Laboratory Scheduling- Several research studies were held in the same VR laboratory.- We procured room for a small second laboratory on the inpatient stroke unit. Because the VR equipment was portable, VR training could be done in this room if needed.\
- Researchers used a Google Calendar to schedule the laboratories.Pre- and Post-assessment Scheduling- Participants had to undergo pre- and post-assessments in a timely manner. The research associate who performed the outcome measures was available only three days a week.\
- A priori sample size calculations estimated that 31 participants per group would be required, and considering a 20% dropout rate, 38 per group should be recruited.- The research associate\'s schedule, as well as holidays and the participant\'s schedule were considered carefully when booking assessment times to minimize the amount of delay between training and outcome measures.\
- Two casual research associates were hired and trained.\
- There was a range of VR sessions required for the study (10--12).One-month Follow-up Scheduling- The one-month post reassessment was challenging to schedule. Participants were generally discharged by then, to a variety of living situations. Four out of 69 were difficult to locate because their living situation changed after they were discharged. Four out of 69 lived or moved away from town and declined to return for the reassessment. Five out of 69 experienced health issues (subsequent stroke, seizures, other illnesses). Three out of 69 simply refused to be reassessed. These reasons lead to decreased rates of attendance for the one-month follow-up (53 total attended), resulting in an incomplete dataset.- To mitigate these losses, we tried to accommodate participants\' schedules, for example, scheduling the follow-up just after an outpatient therapy or physician follow-up appointment.\
- If a participant was only available for a few minutes, the laboratory-based outcome measures were performed at the hospital and the research associate performed the rest at the participant\'s home.\
- To avoid expenses for the participants, the research study paid for transportation or parking.\
- The longer the follow-up, the greater the attrition; therefore sample size should reflect this. A drop-out rate of 40% should be considered for a 1-month follow-up in this population.Infectious Disease Outbreaks- The physical layout on inpatient rehabilitation unit, which included shared rooms and bathrooms, along with staff treating multiple patients, led to a gastrointestinal illness outbreak during the study period which lasted three weeks. Patients who became ill were not able to attend their VR training for several days. Since a break in training could compromise the study objectives; these participants were removed from the study. Further, recruitment of new participants was paused because of the possibility that they might become ill.- When planning the RCT, an extra 20% was added to the participant number calculations to allow for attrition due to all reasons, including infectious outbreaks.StaffingPersonnel- To maintain blinding, the VR trainer and outcomes assessor must be different people.\
- Beyond the paid personnel, the study required cooperation from all staff on the inpatient rehabilitation unit. Members of potential participants\' "circle of care" must help to identify them and ask for their permission to be approached by the research staff. Therefore, the support and cooperation of all of the staff on the inpatient rehabilitation unit was essential.- There were two primary paid staff members on the VR team. A full-time postdoctoral fellow (physiotherapist, PhD Rehabilitation Science) oversaw the study and did all of the VR training. A part-time research associate (physiotherapist, MSc Rehabilitation Science) performed the recruitment and outcome measures. Casual staff were available to cover VR training and outcome measures as needed.\
- The relationship between researchers and clinical staff was facilitated through open communication on an individual basis and at staff meetings. The main VR laboratory was located in a prominent room centrally-located on the unit and had a "doors-open" policy (except for training sessions), which enhanced visibility. Two open-houses, with VR demonstrations and food were held to increase the staff\'s awareness of VR and the research study. Colourful posters presenting VR research were prominently displayed throughout the unit.Volunteers and Students- At times additional help was required with the outcome measures, VR training, operating computers, inputting data, etc. This additional assistance was provided by volunteer students.- Volunteer students were recruited from the local University and scheduled to attend 3 h once a week.\
- The volunteers were very helpful and in turn obtained valuable experience in research methods and participant/patient interaction. Some students took on complementary research projects such as reliability studies, in order to fulfill University requirements for research courses. Two full-time summer students also assisted for one summer; they were paid through separate, individual grants.Vacations and Other Absences- Staff were entitled to three weeks of vacation a year. Considering that each participant took at least 3 weeks to complete the entire study protocol, vacation and other time off presented a challenge.- There were two strategies to deal with the VR trainer\'s vacation. For one summer, VR training coverage was provided by an experienced casual trainer, to create a seamless training protocol for the participants. For the other summer vacation period, the project was suspended. Recruitment ceased three weeks before the vacation started, to allow for the entire protocol to be completed with enrolled participants, and resumed a few days before the vacation ended. The VR trainer took all of her yearly vacation at once so only one suspension was required.\
- Shorter absences (due to conferences, illness) were covered by the casual VR trainer.\
- Two casual research associates (physiotherapists) were available to perform the outcome assessments during their lunch hour and after work, ensuring that pre- and post-testing were performed in a timely fashion.\
- Recruitment was put on hold during the research associate\'s vacation; however this did not generally impact the study.TechnologyVirtual Reality Equipment- Game protocols for the study had to be designed to support the specific study objectives of the intervention and control groups and also allow for individualized progression of training.\
- Throughout the trial, it was important that concerns were addressed quickly, since an error or bug in the VR system could cause down time.\
- It was equally important that the VR platform did not change substantially over the course of the study, so that the intervention protocols remained consistent- VR training was provided with Jintronix (Jintronix, Montreal, QC) software. Jintronix was very responsive to our needs and concerns.\
- Jintronix distributed regular software updates, which were intended to improve and expand their VR offerings and make the system more user-friendly. These updates did not always suit the research objectives; however Jintronix was very responsive to make changes according to our feedback.Internet Connectivity- The Jintronix VR system required constant high-speed internet connectivity to work. Because the computer running the Jintronix software was not a hospital-purchased system, it was not able to be connected to the general hospital internet service. Instead, a "guest" internet service was used. This service had limited bandwidth, which caused delays and loss of internet service. This was a significant and ongoing issue which at times threatened to shut down the study.- Frequent discussions with the hospital information technology service did not provide significant relief until very late in the study.\
- The solution was to purchase a mobile internet key, accompanied by a data plan.Monitoring Participants\' Movements While Performing Virtual Reality- We wished to ensure that the participants in the experimental group were challenging their sitting balance and the participants in the control group were not.- A CONFORMat pressure mat (Tekscan, South Boston, MA) was used to monitor the displacement of the centre of pressure under the buttocks and thighs of the participants as they performed VR. The CONFORMat was ideal as it was comfortable to sit on during an entire VR session. An optional webcam fed into the software to take simultaneous video recordings.Visual Record of Virtual Reality- We wished to analyse quantitatively and qualitatively how the participant moved as they did VR training. Movements were to be compared over time and between intervention groups.- Screen capture software (Movavi Video Suite 14, St. Louis, MI) was used to take videos of the television screen while doing VR. The same video suite software was used to make a four-part video of a participant performing VR, which included the CONFORMat image, the webcam video, the screen capture video and a title ([Fig. 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"}). This was useful for qualitatively analysing participants\' movements and for presentations.
4. Discussion {#sec4}
=============
There were several challenges to the implementation of this RCT in the inpatient stroke rehabilitation unit, in part due to ethical and privacy obligations, the need for scientific rigor, and the fact that we were working with participants who had just experienced a life-changing event. Each participant had their own experience dealing with the effects of stroke, which impacted such things as fatigue and motivation. In the end, we were able to overcome almost all obstacles in order to maintain the integrity of the research study and treat each participant with respect while completing the RCT on time.
The greatest strength of our VR study was the people. The ideal situation is when clinicians and researchers work together and "side-by-side" with patients \[[@bib14]\]. This is a long-term goal that takes time and effort to accomplish. Involvement in research benefits patients and clinicians by providing access to state-of-the-art equipment and treatments. Involvement of clinicians in research also benefits researchers since it provides a stream of potential participants, and collaborative discussions to determine research priorities. Our research team has been working with the clinicians on the stroke rehabilitation unit for almost 10 years. Over that time our relationship with the clinicians has evolved so that clinicians and researchers have become more of a team. Our early VR studies used a lab that was remote from the inpatient rehabilitation unit \[[@bib15]\]. By moving the laboratory to a central location on the unit, and maintaining an open-doors policy, visibility was improved considerably, along with the opportunity to engage with clinicians, administrators, patients and families.
The greatest technical barrier to the implementation of this RCT was the availability of reliable internet service. While we expected reliable internet to be available in an urban, institutional setting, two issues prevented this. The first was the need for our VR computer to be on the "guest" internet system, since it did not have the firewalls and level of antivirus protection required to be on the institutional network. The second was that the "guest" system had relatively low bandwidth and the organization was not able to increase it or allow us to have greater access. Therefore the internet was frequently very slow and prone to interruptions. Purchasing a mobile internet key and data plan provided an economical and reliable way to mitigate this issue and offered flexibility to use the VR equipment in a variety of locals without reliable internet (i.e. for demonstrations and training). Fortunately, late in the project\'s recruitment the bandwidth issues were resolved, but this remains an important consideration for research or clinical practice using technology. Internet and information technology issues need to be considered in the planning and proposal stages of any clinical research project. The use of a data plan may need to be considered whenever uninterrupted internet is required.
We learned important lessons from our earlier VR research, which experienced significant barriers with the VR system. Levac et al. (2016) \[[@bib15]\] trained outpatient therapists to use VR with their stroke patients and documented barriers to the implementation of VR in the clinic. Identified barriers included system usability as well as location. There were many hardware and software malfunctions, and obtaining solutions to these created many delays. Therapists found that it was time-consuming to leave the unit to accompany a patient to the VR laboratory and they were unable to use VR with only one patient at a time if other patients remained in the unit. These issues were addressed in the planning phases of the current RCT. Our VR laboratory was located centrally on the inpatient rehabilitation unit. While this central location was not essential for the research study, it would be for subsequent implementation by therapists. The Jintronix VR system was much more user-friendly than the system used by Levac et al. (2016) \[[@bib15]\].
While scheduling participants\' time for VR was at times difficult, there is considerable evidence that many patients in inpatient rehabilitation spend much of their time inactive and alone \[[@bib16],[@bib17]\]. Canadian stroke best practice recommendations state that rehabilitation inpatients should have 3 h of direct, task-specific therapy five days a week \[[@bib18]\]. In addition to being used by physiotherapists and occupational therapists as part of their one-on-one therapy, VR training might be able to complement traditional therapies and increase patients' rehabilitation intensity. This could be accomplished by using VR as an adjunctive treatment, performed either during times when a patient is not otherwise scheduled for therapy, or in the evenings or on the weekends, when formal therapy is typically not available. A VR program could be developed for each individual patient by a therapist, but carried out under the supervision of an assistant or volunteer or even independently, as long as safety measures are in place (for example, doing only upper extremity exercises in sitting if balance is poor). The Jintronix VR system provides a simple-to-use user interface designed for a patient to access their personal exercise program.
The one-month follow-up assessment was completed by only 71% of the participants, for a variety of reasons (illness, moved, refused). The one-month follow-up is important to assess the sustained impact of a research intervention over a longer term. Because participants may have difficulty fulfilling their obligation for the final assessment, sample size determinations should take into account the expected numbers of participants at follow-up. Furthermore, only 74% of the one-month follow-ups occurred within one week of the one-month date, primarily due to scheduling issues between the research associate and the participant. The assessor(s) for RCTs must be very flexible and accommodating with respect to scheduling, in order to ensure that participants are assessed at the correct time. Providing in-home assessments might be preferable to requiring the participant to travel back to the hospital.
At the trial site, a member of a patient\'s "circle of care" must obtain permission from the patient for the research associate to provide information about the study. While it is understandable that staff with a primary interest in the health of their patients would be appropriate to pre-screen potential participants, this process appeared to be burdensome and surprisingly time-consuming for the clinicians. While this did not impede the overall study time-line, it was a source of frustration for the research associate. The trial site is currently exploring opt-in and opt-out options for study recruitment similar to the processes used in numerous other research hospitals. An alternative option would be to hire a member of the circle of care to perform the entire recruitment process.
Timely completion of research studies is important for researchers, funders, administrators and trainees. Funding typically extends for a defined period of time and continuation of a project past its deadline incurs unbudgeted costs and delays dissemination of the study findings. The academic progress of students involved in the study may also be delayed. We hope that our "lessons learned" helps other researchers implement clinical trials in very complex inpatient rehabilitation settings.
5. Grant support {#sec5}
================
The work was supported by a grant-in-aid from the 10.13039/100004411Heart and Stroke Foundation of Canada (G-14-0005830), and by a generous personal donation from Tony & Elizabeth Graham. The funders accepted the proposed study design but did not have any role in the collection, analysis and interpretation of data nor in the writing of the report and decision to submit the manuscript for publication.
|
Q:
Django EmailField and full email address with first and last name
I would like to use the EmailField in a form. However, instead of only storing
[email protected]
I want to store
"ACME Support" <[email protected]>
The reason is, that when I send email, I would like a "friendly name" to appear.
Can this be done?
A:
We use Django's email field, and then use a property to render the friendly name in the email.
from django.utils.html import escape
from django.utils.safestring import mark_safe
class MyModel(models.Model):
email_address = models.EmailField()
full_name = models.CharField(max_length=30)
...
@property
def friendly_email(self):
return mark_safe(u"%s <%s>") % (escape(self.fullname), escape(self.email_address))
|
DESIGN & MANUFACTURE
While Membrane Systems Australia have a range of quality Australian made standard products and water treatment solutions we also have a team of specialists that share a combined 85years of experience that are more than capable of designing and manufacturing customized solutions for specific, singular water treatment requirements, if you have a water quality requirement we can provide you a solution.
We can sample your water source and advise you on your best option of water treatment to achieve the required water quality. We can go on to provide a basic summary quote to contribute to your project budget plan.
We can provide systems of various sizes and water treatment processes depending on your demand and use for treated water, this enables us to offer our clientele with economic results. We also offer a range of purchase options including rent to buy, build-own-operate, build-own-operate-transfer and lease.
All of our water treatment plants are fully assembled and are containerized or skid mounted offering flexibility in portability. Before leaving our warehouse all systems are factory tested and comply with Australia standards. |
Graduates Give Standing Ovation to One of their Own
When history graduate Jerry Griffo walked across the commencement stage during the College of Humanities, Arts, Behavioral and Social Sciences ceremony on Saturday, May 19, he was astounded as his fellow graduates rose from their seats to give him a standing ovation. At the age of 65, Griffo is one of the oldest graduates in CSUSM’s Class of 2012.“I was totally unprepared for the response from the crowd,” Griffo recalls. “I’m extremely flattered and also convinced that their applause and support wasn’t as much about me, as it was for what I represent… someone following their dreams. It strikes a chord with people and reminds us that anything is possible.”Although he is more than four decades older than the average college graduate, Griffo fit right in with his classmates during commencement, wearing flip flops with his academic regalia and donned with floral leis. His journey to college, however, was far from that of his peers. After graduating high school in 1965, Griffo attended several different community colleges without success, never able to find studies relevant to a career path he was passionate about. In 1980, he began working for Amtrak and moved his way up to train supervisor, managing the route from Los Angeles to Seattle. Shortly before retiring after 30 years, Griffo decided he wanted to return to college and finally obtain his degree. He enrolled at Palomar Community College and later transferred to CSUSM in 2010 to study history.“History appealed to me. I’ve always been interested in history and politics, and wanted to give context to what I’ve seen, heard and learned from my life experiences and travels,” he explained.And his education did just that, he said.On May 19, Griffo graduated cum laude alongside 91 of his history classmates, 1,200 of his fellow college graduates and 9,000 guests. During the recessional as he walked down the center aisle lined by ceremony guests, Griffo was again surprised at the response he received. Scores of people were there to shake his hand, take photographs with him and tell him what an inspiration he was to them.“Several people, some of whom where there celebrating their son or daughter as their family’s first college graduate, told me that I had inspired them to think about returning to school,” he said.Like some of his fellow graduates, Griffo hasn’t decided exactly how he’ll utilize his degree, although he is certain that he’ll put it to good use. His love for learning will not end with his baccalaureate degree; the native Californian is currently contemplating graduate school.“We tend to think of college being for those in their early twenties… but, I am a testimony that it is never too late to get an education and that CSUSM is poised to facilitate no matter what your age.” |
Last fall, when President Obama debuted the Buffett Rule -- the simple idea that millionaires and billionaires should pay at least the same tax rate as middle class workers -- we climbed into the wayback machine and found a video of President Ronald Reagan decrying "crazy" tax loopholes that allowed a millionaire to pay a lower tax rate than a bus driver. |
Transformation to neuroendocrine carcinoma as a resistance mechanism to lorlatinib.
Small cell transformation is a well-recognized mechanism of resistance to EGFR-TKI therapy in EGFR-mutant NSCLC, yet it remains a poorly-described phenomenon in ALK-rearranged NSCLC. Chart and literature review. We report a case of a patient with ALK-rearranged lung cancer progressing on three-lines of ALK-targeted therapies, with development of acquired resistance to lorlatinib, with both transformation to a neuroendocrine carcinoma, and acquisition of ALK 1196 M. Given the inevitable development of resistance in ALK + NSCLC, if feasible, re-biopsy on progression should be standard over liquid biopsy. Neuroendocrine carcinoma transformation remains an important mechanism of acquired resistance to lorlatinib. |
Pages
Thursday, April 11, 2013
A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words
Voskopoja
Monastery at Apollonia
I love pictures. Whether taking them myself and sharing them with others or viewing photographs taken by friends, for me a picture truly does say a thousand words. My photography skills aren't great but they are improving. Regardless of the quality of pictures I take I make a point to document our adventures through photographs where ever we go. More often than not I have a camera ready whenever we are in the car. After all, some of the best shots are those that appear when you least expect it. Posted on Facebook they provide friends and family with glimpses of our Albanian life. Words often cannot describe our experiences but pictures can. I've lost track of the number of times someone tells me I can't really be describing some place or some event but once I show them the picture they can see for themselves exactly what I am talking about.
My pictures fall into two categories; those with people and those with only scenery. We've made a point of taking a family picture on each and every one of our trips. From Dubrovnik to Istanbul, Copenhagen to Prague, all of our travels are documented with an iconic city skyline as a back drop. While I post these pictures on Facebook we've gone one step further and printed and framed a single picture from each trip. These pictures line our stairwell and as a result inspire conversations when friends visit. The waterfall
A river runs through Thethi
backdrop? That was taken during a family trip to Thethi last June. The one where we are wind blown, squinting through snow squalls, and wrapped up in so many layers? The top of the Zugspitze this past winter. Looking at the pictures brings back fond memories of our travels and serves as a daily reminder of the amazing opportunities we have had while living overseas. (They also remind me of how much Sidney has grown. Whereas he was a little baby when we arrived, as is evidenced by our most recent picture, he is now a toddler). And much to my delight, these pictures also provide hours of story telling for Sidney. He loves to point out the pictures and talk about what he remembers from each trip. Whether or not he actually remembers the location doesn't matter. He knows that Mamma, Daddy and Sidney were there together. I do suspect he does remember snippets of certain trips. Our Rome picture inspires talk of water fountains while the picture from Budapest has him talking about all of the trains we road with my friend Miss Pam. If I ever had any doubt as to why I do it, this is why I take so many pictures.
Cape Rodon
The second category of photographs are scenic shots capturing the places we have visited. Whenever possible I omit people from these pictures and focus on the natural, or perhaps man made, beauty of the world around us. I first did this during a trip to Italy with my mom. Three of those scenes are now framed and on display in our public reception area. The majority of my current scenic pictures were taken in Albania. From Rozafa Castle in the northern Albanian city of Shkoder and the UNESCO designated city of Berat in the south, to a monastery in Apollonia, the churches of Voskopoja, and the iconic aerial view of Cape Rodon, I have captured aspects of all of our visits. I've taken the best of these pictures, enlarged them and had them printed on canvas. These pictures are now on display in our reception space along side my Italian prints. Whereas the Italian pictures cover a small portion of one wall,
UNESCO houses in Berat
an entire other wall is filled with our Albanian adventures. These pictures are quite impressive if I must say so myself. More importantly, they show our guests, especially our Albanian ones, that we are getting out, visiting, and appreciating their country. It doesn't matter what the event is, there is always one guest who happens to be from the village, city, or area we visited and they love to talk about their birthplace and find out what we liked the best about our visit. Sure these pictures could serve as conversation starters during slow moving dinners but more importantly, they capture a part of this country that we have visited and enjoyed. By displaying a picture we are letting people know that we value that little piece of Albania and that simple picture says more than all of the words in the world ever could. |
Valve has posed another set of restrictions to Steam gifts activation and trading. The new rules limit the number of countries gifts could be activated in.
Steam users in countries located in Eastern Europe and South America, among other regions, are discovering that once a gift has been bought from certain countries, it can only be redeemed in the same countries. Furthermore, if a gift were to be added to a user’s library, it would only be playable within the same countries.
Multiple reports from users residing in countries like Singapore, Russia, Brazil, Mexico, and others are cropping up on Reddit. The reports reference a new warning screen that shows up whenever a game bought as a gift from specific countries is traded.
The result of the new change means that Steam users in any of the countries listed above who added games through Steam gifts to their libraries, can only play said games within those countries. For instance, if game X is bought from Russia and sent as a gift, it can only be redeemed in Russia and can only be played in Russia, meaning that if the user were to travel to another country, they would lose access to the game until their return.
Other users are saying that this has already taken effect and is being applied retroactively to all steam gifts purchased since Valve’s most recent trade restrictions.
This also seems to apply to region-restricted cd keys, according to some users. Until this new change, region-restricted keys sold by third-party websites would only require activation in the same region, but would allow players to play them anywhere after that. This lead to many users simply using a VPN to activate those keys – which are much cheaper than the ones sold in their region – then switch back to their region of residence and play the game normally.
Valve, as usual, has not officially announced any of those changes prior. |
A hearing at the McDonough County courthouse revolving around the recent controversy regarding the February election for the Macomb City Council's 2nd Ward is set for 9 a.m. Thursday.
The lawsuit, brought by the Liberty Justice Center on behalf of Western Illinois University student Steven Wailand, seeks "proper and just enforcement of state and local election laws and to vindicate the constitutional rights of Macomb citizens to exercise their fundamental right to vote and have their vote count."
It lists the city of Macomb, Mayor Mike Inman, City Clerk Melanie Falk and McDonough County Clerk Gretchen DeJaynes as defendants in the case.
Diane Cohen, who along with Jacob Huebert is representing Wailand, said the lawsuit seeks a temporary injunction from the court "to inhibit what we believe is improperly holding a supplementary election for Ward 2."
Wailand faced incumbent Kay Hill in the February city election and won marginally in a 17-16 vote. The city's 50-percent-plus-one rule was applied, pushing another election in the 2nd Ward race for April 9.
But the rule itself is apparently not in any city statute.
The lawsuit also requests a Writ of Mandamus, which Cohen said is an order from the court to a government official requiring them to fulfill their legal obligations.
In this case, Cohen said, the order would be to "appropriately enforce the laws of the city, county and state" and to declare Wailand the winner of the February election. She added that the lawsuit also asks the court to declare that the definition of a majority is more than half.
Inman declined to comment Tuesday on the specifics of the case, but acknowledged that the city was made aware of the lawsuit. The city will have the necessary representatives in attendance during the hearing, and the city will follow any ruling made by the judge, Inman said, adding that the city hopes the matter will be resolved on Thursday. |
Pentobarbital inhibition of progesterone-induced behavioral estrus in ovariectomized guinea pigs.
Administration of pentobarbital inhibits the facilitatory effects of progesterone on the release of gonadotropins. In this experiment facilitatory effects of progesterone on lordosis behavior in guinea pigs were examined with pentobarbital anesthesia. Two major animal groups were subjects: one was short-term ovariectomized (2 weeks) and the other was long-term ovariectomized (several months). All animals received estradiol benzoate (6.6 mug s.c.) followed by progesterone (0.4 mg s.c.) 40 h later. Lordosis behavior was induced by the manual stimulation method of Young et al.29 Sodium pentobarbital (30 mg/kg) was injected 8,4 or 2 h before, simultaneously or 1, 2, 6, or 7 h after progesterone. Animals which received pentobarbital slept for 4.5-5 h with subsequent drowsiness for an additional 0.5-1 h. Pentobarbital injections given 8 h before progesterone had no effect on latency to the first lordosis or on other parameters of estrous behavior. However, pentobarbital delayed the onset of heat in estrogen treated ovariectomized guinea pigs when given 4 h before, 2 h before, or simultaneously with progesterone. The delay was directly related to the length of time the animals remained asleep after the progesterone injection, since estrous behavior was invariably displayed with the latency of controls after the animal awoke. Moreover, in animals which were awake for 1-2 h immediately after the progesterone injection before receiving pentobarbital, the latency of recovery from anesthesia to the first display of lordosis was about 1-1.5 h shorter than in the other pentobarbital groups. In contrast to the latency effects of pentobarbital, the duration of heat was unaffected by the anesthetic for all groups mentioned. In animals which received pentobarbital after they were already in heat, pentobarbital injection terminated heat and abolished it completely, since lordosis behavior was not displayed in the hours after recovery from anesthesia. Gross hypothalamic uptake of progesterone was not influenced by pentobarbital administration. Thus, it is tentatively concluded that an incubation period is necessary for progesterone to mediate the display of estrous behavior in the guinea pig in addition to the time necessary for neural uptake. The way in which pentobarbital interferes with the period of progesterone incubation is not currently known. |
Suppose q = 7*a - 1793. Is a a prime number?
True
Let t = 109804 - -391405. Is t prime?
True
Let f(p) = 97*p + 487. Let g be f(-5). Suppose 5*a - k - 26 = 0, 5*k + 9 + 21 = 5*a. Suppose 848 = 4*o - g*r, 1045 = a*o + 7*r - 2*r. Is o prime?
True
Let b(t) = 86*t**2 - 23*t - 36. Let h be b(-18). Suppose 0 = 3*w + 3*z + h - 85929, -4*z = -w + 19239. Is w prime?
True
Suppose -26 = -7*h + 65. Suppose -254219 = -h*i - 10*i. Is i a prime number?
False
Let l(y) = -7*y**3 + 4*y**2 + 50*y + 8. Let d be ((-52)/(-78))/((-4)/54). Is l(d) a composite number?
True
Let v be 6/2 + 4/(-11 - -7). Is v*(5/10 + 9306 + 2) a composite number?
False
Let j(r) = r**3 - 24*r**2 + 47*r + 31. Suppose -64 = -3*k - 2*t, -k = -3*k + 2*t + 46. Is j(k) prime?
True
Is (-97)/19 + (-44)/(-418) - (-629968 + 0) a prime number?
True
Suppose 401 + 1435 = -9*y. Let q = y + -2227. Let g = q - -3470. Is g composite?
False
Let c be (-2)/6*(-57)/(-38)*-58. Suppose c*r - 247241 + 30292 = 0. Is r a prime number?
True
Let m be 1 + 12/(-10) + (-33716)/20. Let p = m + 4453. Is p composite?
False
Suppose 0 = -6*p + 8*p - 130. Let o = p + -63. Suppose 3*i + x = 8445, -o*i - i + 8445 = 4*x. Is i a prime number?
False
Let u = 5 - 5. Suppose -179 + 11 = -12*g. Suppose g*t - 49 - 4053 = u. Is t composite?
False
Let b = -13 + 54. Suppose b*i - 45*i + 29608 = 0. Is i a prime number?
False
Let l = -56 - -19. Let z = l + 41. Suppose -463 = -z*o + 429. Is o composite?
False
Let g(r) = r**3 + r**2 + r + 1. Let v(n) = -4*n**3 - 9*n**2 - n + 7. Let u(q) = 3*g(q) + v(q). Let b = 571 + -580. Is u(b) composite?
True
Suppose 5*r - 640 = -5*j, -9*j + 5 = -8*j. Let y = r + -121. Suppose -y*p = 11*p - 62179. Is p prime?
True
Let u = 15186 + -31069. Let l = u - -23504. Is l a composite number?
False
Let g = 2691 + 2435. Is (-1 + 3/2)/1*g composite?
True
Suppose -5*z + 148 = -372. Suppose -18 = z*i - 107*i. Is (-10855)/(-7) + i/21 - -2 a prime number?
True
Suppose 3*l + 3*m = 99, -5*l + m = -2*l - 107. Suppose l*j = 39*j + 16. Is (1318/j*4)/(-2) prime?
True
Suppose -481 + 121 = 5*i. Let a = -68 - i. Is 2/(-8) - (-4277)/a prime?
True
Let d = 4984 + -5335. Suppose 3*s - 3*i - 2196 = 0, 4148 = 5*s + 2*i + 502. Let y = d + s. Is y composite?
False
Let v(b) = -4781*b - 487. Is v(-18) prime?
True
Let i(p) = 20*p**2 - 19*p + 31. Let a be i(15). Suppose -q + m + 2098 = 0, 3*q + 5*m = a + 2056. Is q composite?
False
Suppose 3*m + 4*l = 270939, 3*l + 361252 = -26*m + 30*m. Is m a prime number?
True
Let r(g) = 40*g + 3*g + 7 + 65*g. Suppose 0*s - 10 = -2*j - 4*s, -4*s = -3*j + 25. Is r(j) prime?
False
Suppose 0 = -13*p + 5*p + 208. Suppose -9 = 29*n - p*n. Is ((-19495)/10)/(n/(-6)*-1) a prime number?
False
Let b(h) = 5*h**2 + 40*h + 4. Let v be b(-8). Suppose -2*o + 4123 = 5*z, -5*z + 3485 = -v*o + 11656. Is o a composite number?
True
Let l(j) be the third derivative of j**5/60 + 7*j**4/24 - 2*j**3/3 - 11*j**2. Let t be l(-8). Is 749/3*12/t prime?
False
Suppose 105*k = 47*k + 54*k + 247052. Is k a composite number?
True
Let s(a) = 3*a**3 - 14*a**2 - 5*a - 12. Let n be s(5). Is (-120753)/n - 4/(-16) prime?
False
Suppose 1003*o - 1516034 = 977*o. Is o prime?
True
Let v = 119 + 90. Let a = 414 - v. Is a a prime number?
False
Let v(a) = a**2 - 20*a - 152. Let h be v(-6). Suppose 4*j + 1513 = 5*j + 4*i, -j = -h*i - 1521. Is j a prime number?
False
Let b(k) = 704*k**3 - 8*k**2 - 2*k + 7. Is b(3) a prime number?
False
Let b be 3/9 - (-8)/(-12)*-1. Is b + (-35526)/(-4) - 45/90 prime?
False
Suppose y + 15 = i, 22*y = 26*y. Is 2/4 + (-1515)/(-2)*i a prime number?
False
Let l(c) be the third derivative of -187*c**4/24 + 40*c**3/3 - 5*c**2 + 5*c. Is l(-17) a composite number?
False
Let p = -95 - -101. Let k(d) = 30*d**3 + 8*d**2 - d - 8. Let s be k(p). Suppose -12*z = -23*z + s. Is z composite?
True
Let x(h) = -171*h + 785. Is x(-34) a composite number?
False
Let k(s) = -11 - 3 - 13 + 58*s. Suppose 4*w = -16 + 44. Is k(w) a prime number?
True
Is -7 - ((6 - (-6)/(-1)) + -277938) prime?
False
Let c(f) be the first derivative of -f**4 + f**3 + 7*f**2/2 - 27*f - 200. Is c(-8) prime?
False
Let a = -87 - -66. Let z(i) = 232*i**2 - 2*i - 2. Let f be z(-1). Let k = f + a. Is k composite?
False
Let w = 1745114 - 907863. Is w composite?
True
Let g = 80836 - 6897. Is g a prime number?
True
Suppose -3*u + 10 = 2*u + 5*r, -3*u + 5 = 4*r. Suppose 0 = o - 434 - 1316. Suppose -4*s - o = -2*w, -u*s - 1558 = -2*w + 193. Is w a prime number?
True
Let n = 428853 + 253388. Is n prime?
False
Let r be 6/(-8) + (-2 - (-214)/8). Let n be 0 + 14/6 - 8/r. Suppose -n*o + 543 = k, -o + 1621 = 3*k - 3*o. Is k composite?
False
Let w(m) = 259*m - 19. Let a be w(3). Let i be 2 - (0 + 2) - -63. Let g = i + a. Is g a prime number?
True
Suppose -122*p + 269*p - 21895760 = 131*p. Is p a prime number?
False
Let z be (-1 + 13408/(-6))/((-10)/30). Let b = z + 5766. Is b prime?
True
Let x(u) be the first derivative of 3*u**4/4 - 5*u**3/3 + 3*u**2 + u - 158. Is x(20) a prime number?
False
Let f = 247 - 245. Is 11464/16 + 3/f prime?
False
Suppose 0 = 2*p - 5*a - 4, -59 + 19 = 3*p + 4*a. Let f(b) = b**3 + 29*b**2 + 9*b - 13. Is f(p) prime?
True
Let p be (1348/6 - -2)*(-24)/16. Is ((-5469)/5)/(204/p) prime?
True
Suppose 79*l - 4997114 = 10946192. Is l a composite number?
True
Suppose 28 = -4*a + 11*a. Let q(s) = 13*s**3 + 7*s**2 - 5*s. Let w be q(a). Let v = w + -7. Is v composite?
True
Suppose -4*i = 4*o - 412, -4*i + 0*o = o - 427. Suppose -9*z + 4*z = -5, 0 = 4*q + 2*z + 134. Let k = q + i. Is k a prime number?
False
Suppose 4*h - 2388 = 4*t, 4*h = -4*t - 213 + 2593. Suppose -2*j = -174 - h. Suppose 8*m - j = 3*m. Is m prime?
False
Let z(t) = 2934*t**3 + 3*t**2 - 4*t + 6. Let x(o) = 14671*o**3 + 16*o**2 - 20*o + 31. Let i(s) = -2*x(s) + 11*z(s). Is i(1) a prime number?
False
Let h be (-6)/(-8) - 147/(-28). Suppose 2*x + j = -2 + h, x = j - 1. Is (-7 - -1104)*(x - 0) a composite number?
False
Let w = -333 + 198. Let c = -64 - w. Suppose -c - 35 = -2*i. Is i a prime number?
True
Suppose -3*g - 2933 + 293 = 0. Let r be -4 - (-3126)/((10*16/20)/4). Let k = r + g. Is k a prime number?
False
Let i(u) = -44*u**2 + 9*u - 7. Let v be i(1). Let f(r) = -2*r + 151. Is f(v) prime?
False
Let p(m) = 0*m**3 - 57*m + 1272*m**2 - m**3 - 83 - 1224*m**2 - 38. Is p(43) a composite number?
False
Let c = -21 + 23. Suppose -2*f - 88 = 5*j, -f = -5*j - 60 - 31. Is (-447)/j*c*(4 - 1) a composite number?
False
Let a = 59 - -23. Let l = 172 - a. Suppose 3*w - 460 = -c, c + 4*w = 551 - l. Is c a composite number?
False
Let f = 59325 - 23566. Is f a prime number?
True
Let b be 1 - (-20)/(-4) - (0 - 904). Let r = -233 + b. Is r prime?
False
Let x(i) = -94*i + 1457. Is x(-59) a prime number?
False
Is 1364030/2 + -17 + 1 + -2 prime?
True
Let b(s) = -825*s**3 - 5*s**2 - 11*s - 12. Is b(-3) composite?
True
Suppose -53 = 4*u + 4*j - 9, 5*u - 5*j + 25 = 0. Let x(w) = 7*w**2 + 17*w - 19. Is x(u) composite?
False
Let a(q) = 1830*q - 1. Let w be a(1). Suppose 3*u = -4*t + 3613, u + 2*u = 2*t - w. Is t composite?
False
Let r(m) = 6*m**2 + 14*m + 108. Let n be r(54). Let h = 37257 - n. Is h composite?
True
Let d = -23801 - -42438. Is d prime?
True
Let t(d) = -98*d - 7. Suppose 109 = 4*x - 111. Let y = 48 - x. Is t(y) prime?
False
Suppose 2*z - 7 = -2*r + 3*r, -4*r = -2*z + 10. Suppose 2*s - 5*k = 7982, z*k - 8014 = 11*s - 13*s. Is s prime?
True
Suppose -4*n = -4*p + 1004376, 3*p - 702069 = 2*n + 51212. Is p prime?
False
Let x = -5166 - -2843. Let a = -1637 - -521. Let l = a - x. Is l composite?
True
Suppose 0*s - 177 = 5*s + 2*j, -5*s - 172 = -3*j. Let y be 189/s - 6/(-15). Is 1146/4 - y/10 prime?
False
Is (-8 + 4 - -3) + -8*(16 - 725) a prime number?
False
Is (-6)/(0 + 0 + 1) - -5*58643 a composite number?
True
Let r = 383415 - 233569. Is r a prime number?
False
Suppose -812214 = -4*n + z, 5*z - 275193 = -2*n + 130903. Is n a composite number?
True
Let a = 1749131 + -1027792. Is a a composite number?
True
Let m be (-1 + -8014)*(84/(-30) - -2). Let p = m - 789. Is p prime?
True
Is (-4)/(-230)*5 - 28086389/(-437) prime?
True
Let o = 41581 + 31845. Is o composite?
True
Suppose 375764 - 2050817 = -27*y. Is y composite?
False
Let c = -190322 + 269893. Is c composite?
True
Let h(c) = -590*c**2 - 5*c - 5. Let q be h(3). Le |
SOI to bear medical expenses of two year old rape victim
Web Admin
5 Dariya News (Ajay Pehwa)
Ludhiana , 15 Mar 2016
In a noble gesture Student Organisation of India, wing of Shiromani Akali Dal today visited two year old who was raped by a minor boy. The student wing assured every kind of help to the family of victim and also bears the medical expenses for the treatment of victim.Inspector Beant Juneja And Dr Baldeep Singh (Deep Hospital) will also contribute for treatment of victim.Director Youth Development Board and SOI zonal president Meetpal Singh Dugri accompanied by Sahibjot Singh Chawla and Raja kang also met the doctors treating the victim and asked the doctors for better treatment of the victim.
Talking to media outside Deep hospital, Meetpal Singh Dugri said that the family of two year old rape victim was unable to bear the medical expenses of private hospital. After the meeting with doctors, they decided to pay the hospital bill and also provide assistance to the victim’s family.Meetpal Singh Dugri said that the condition of victim is critical and she was admitted at ICU. We are satisfied by the treatment provided by the doctors and action taken by police in the case. |
Q:
Using '.' (dot or period) in an XPath expression
Can someone tell me the difference between the following XPath expressions?
/IntuitResponse/QueryResponse/Bill/./Id
/IntuitResponse/QueryResponse/Bill/Id
I've tried using both to parse an XML document from the document root and I'm getting the same response.
A:
Those two XPaths are equivalent.
The abbreviation for self::node() (.) is more useful within a predicate. For example,
/IntuitResponse/QueryResponse/Bill/Id[. = 'abc']
would select only those Id elements whose string value is 'abc'.
Also, . is useful to introduce a relative path. For example,
./Id
would select only those Id elements that are a child of the current context node.
|
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention relates to a display connector for an electronic device having a display member and, more particularly, to a display connector of an electronic device configured such that a display member is detachable from a body.
2. Description of the Related Art
In general, a portable electronic device having a display member, such as a notebook computer, a web video phone, a digital video camera or the like, has the display member integrally formed with a body. FIG. 1 is a perspective view of a notebook computer as an exemplary electronic device having a display member.
Referring to FIG. 1, the notebook computer includes a body 1 having a computer system and a display member 3 for displaying an image according to a picture signal from the body 1.
The body 1 includes an input device for inputting manipulation commands, such as a keyboard or a mouse, a hard disk drive, a CD-ROM, a modem, peripheral devices such as a LAN card, or an acoustic devices for providing an audio signal. The display member 3 is an output device for outputting information supplied from the body 1 in the form of an image. The display member 3 is hinged at a side of the body 1 so as to be capable of being opened or closed. Also, the display member 3 is electrically connected to the body 1 by a cable 5.
In the notebook computer having the aforementioned configuration, since the body 1 and the display member 3 are directly hinged and connected to each other by the cable 5, they are not separable. During use of the notebook computer, the body or display member thereof may become defective. Also, when the service life of the body or display member is spent, or when the display member is intended to be replaced with a new one having a large screen, the replacement of display members cannot be done directly by a user. Also, the cable is exposed outside, resulting in a bad outer appearance.
To solve the above problems, it is an objective of the present invention to provide a display connector for an electronic device configured such that a display member is detachable from a body.
Accordingly, to achieve the above objective, there is provided a display connector including a body having a receiving portion with a predetermined depth at its one end and having input keys on its top surface, a display member for receiving a picture signal from the body and displaying an image, a rotation bracket rotatably and slidably installed inside the receiving portion, and rotating between a first position at which the rotation bracket protrudes to the top surface of the body during rotation and a second position at which the rotation bracket is accommodated inside the receiving portion, a hinge pin which is rotatably coupled to the rotation bracket and to which the display member is detachably connected when the rotation bracket is positioned at the first position, a position fixing mechanism which fixes the position of the rotation bracket, a light emitting module supported by the rotation bracket to be rotated with the hinge pin, and having a laser diode array for independently irradiating light according to a driving signal, and a light receiving module installed in the display member to be locked to face the light emitting module when the display member is mounted on the body, and having a photodiode array for independently performing a photoelectric conversion on incident light, wherein the display member is detachably installed with respect to the hinge pin so as to open or close the top surface of the body when the rotation bracket is positioned at the first position, and the rotation bracket is rotated to reach the second position when the display member is disconnected from the body. |
Uncertainty and control in the context of a category-five tornado.
The purpose of this qualitative descriptive study was to illuminate the experience and management of uncertainty during a natural disaster. Interviews were conducted with 26 survivors of a category-five tornado that entirely demolished the small, rural town of Greensburg, Kansas. Three primary themes were found in the survivors' accounts. First, the survivors experienced rapidly shifting levels and kinds of uncertainty as they proceeded through the stages of the disaster. Second, the fluidity of much-needed information added to uncertainty. Third, the feeling of lack of control over outcomes of the disaster and its aftermath was pervasive and was often managed through reliance on communal coping. Recommendations for disaster-related intervention programs are suggested. |
Q:
How to resize image to fit DIV jQuery
I have square DIV and large portrait and landscape images.
I need to fit the image in a DIV with the extra part going overflow:hidden
For eg. If portrait set width=width of div height:auto
Opposite for Lanscape.
I tried this script but it didn;t work
$('.magic').each(function(){
if($(this).css('width')>$(this).css('height')){
$(this).css('height', '300px');
$(this).css('width', 'auto');
}
else{
$(this).css('width', '300px');
$(this).css('height', 'auto');
}
});
PS Images can't stretch and must scale
A:
Use some CSS like this
.magic.portrait {
height: 300px;
width: auto;
}
.magic.landscape {
width: 300px;
height: auto;
}
and just add a class with your JS
$('.magic').each(function(){
if($(this).width() > $(this).height()){
$(this).addClass('landscape');
}else{
$(this).addClass('portrait');
}
});
This also helps keep your application logic and styles nicely separated. Even better, add these classes server side, and avoid the JavaScript altogether.
|
Q:
Render a partial view from another controller
I know a similar question has been asked many times, and the answer is to use an absolute path to the view in question. However, that still uses the current controller, not the controller that the partial view belongs to, to render.
My goal here is to treat a drop-down list for a particular model as a
self-contained component, so it can be re-used by other models that have a foreign key to this model. For example, say I have two models: Device, and DeviceType. Device contains a DeviceTypeId field, which in the edit template would be shown as a drop down list, with the names of all available DeviceTypes.
Normally, you would have to wrap the model and the list of device types in a separate DeviceViewModel class, and have the controller populate both before it renders the page. Then you would template it with something like the following:
<div class="editor-field">
@Html.DropDownListFor(model => model.Device.DeviceTypeId, Model.AllDeviceTypes)
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.Device.DeviceTypeId)
</div>
I don't like this solution - for every model, I have to create a matching view model which includes the lookup tables for the drop-down lists. This also means that the DevicesController has to know how to grab the list of DeviceTypes, which seems like a job the DeviceTypesController should be doing. Ideally, I'd like to define a partial view on the DeviceTypesController, which populates and renders a dropdown list, and then all the other views could just include that view:
<div class="editor-field">
<!-- Somehow make the DeviceTypesController render the partial here -->
@Html.ValidationMessageFor(model => model.DeviceTypeId)
</div>
Is this possible?
A:
You can use RenderAction:
@{Html.RenderAction("TemplateMethod","DeviceTypes");}
From the following article: http://www.dotnettricks.com/learn/mvc/renderpartial-vs-renderaction-vs-partial-vs-action-in-mvc-razor
This method result will be directly written to the HTTP response stream means it used the same TextWriter object as used in the current webpage/template.
For this method, we need to create a child action for the rendering the partial view.
RenderAction method is useful when the displaying data in the partial view is independent from corresponding view model.For example : In a blog to show category list on each and every page, we would like to use RenderAction method since the list of category is populated by the different model.
@{Html.RenderAction("Category","Home");}
This method is the best choice when you want to cache a partial view.
This method is faster than Action method since its result is directly written to the HTTP response stream which makes it fast.
|
236 U.S. 210 (1915)
EVENS AND HOWARD FIRE BRICK COMPANY
v.
UNITED STATES.
No. 567.
Supreme Court of United States.
Argued October 20, 1914.
Decided February 23, 1915.
APPEAL FROM THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE UNITED STATES FOR THE EASTERN DISTRICT OF MISSOURI.
Mr. George M. Block, with whom Mr. John F. Lee was on the brief, for appellants.
*211 Mr. Edward C. Crow, with whom The Solicitor General was on the brief, for the United States.
MR. CHIEF JUSTICE WHITE delivered the opinion of the court.
This appeal was taken from the order of the court refusing to allow an intervention on the ground that there was no jurisdiction to do so because as the result of a previous final decree and an appeal taken therefrom by the United States, the authority of the court over the subject-matter was ended. In effect the relief which was sought to be accomplished by the intervention below has been obtained as the result of an original petition for intervention here and our action this day taken thereon. As those applying to intervene were not parties to the record, we are of opinion that the court below had no power to allow them to intervene under the circumstances which existed and its judgment refusing their application was therefore right and is
Affirmed.
|
Hubbard, for his part, has suggested that Bernanke might remain in the job. Other analysts have suggested that what Romney says as a candidate could change if he's in office, especially if economic conditions change.
But Barclays noted in a recent report: "Any new Fed chairman after January 2014 in a Romney presidency is likely to be more hawkish than under an Obama presidency. Still, changes would likely be gradual, as a new chair will still need the support of the Federal Open Market Committee."
In the event of a Romney victory, Barclays expects the market at some point to begin to pull forward higher short-term rates in the lead up to what it believes could be an announcement of Bernanke's replacement no earlier than the summer. (Read More: Casting Dual Roles, at Treasury and the Fed)
Barclays predicts little effect on the long end of the market
There's also a question about whether Romney would begin to push for tighter policy even before the chairman's term is up.
Economist Stephen Stanley wrote: "If President Romney tries to force an early departure from Bernanke, the Fed Chairman could resist, triggering a potentially ugly stand-off.... Clearly Bernanke would be holding the low card, and it seems doubtful that he would risk the ire of (Congress and the Administration) that can alter the fed's institutional structure at any time."
(Read More:'I'm Quite Concerned About Fiscal Cliff'- Greenspan)
The president cannot force the fed chairman to resign. But —assuming no voluntary resignations from the Federal Reserve Board of Governors — the next president will have the ability to appoint the next fed chairman, vice chairman and at least one board member through 2014. Another board member's term is up in 2016.
-By CNBC's Steve Liesman
@steveliesman |
International Defence and Aid Fund
The International Defence and Aid Fund or IDAF (also the Defence Aid Fund for Southern Africa) was a fund created by John Collins during the 1956 Treason Trial in South Africa. After learning of those accused of treason for protesting against apartheid, including Nelson Mandela, Collins created the fund in order to pay all legal expenses and look after the families of those on trial. The group was non-partisan.
This was one of the first examples of foreign intervention against apartheid in South Africa and proved very successful with over £75,000 being raised towards defending those accused. Ultimately all were acquitted
In 1981, the Defence Aid Fund for Southern Africa founded Canon Collins Trust, now known as Canon Collins Educational & Legal Assistance Trust.
History
The IDAF had its start with Collins, who first wired funds to help the 156 South Africans facing charges of High Treason. Collins wired "all available Christian Action funds" in order to create a defence fund for the defendants. Collins ensured that the defendants had the "best and most progressive lawyers." In 1957, the campaigner Mary Benson joined the Defence Fund as its secretary.
Ambrose Reeves, the Bishop of Johannesburg, felt that there would be other treason trials in the future and so he asked Collins to set a "more permanent structure to defend political prisoners." Collins set up the British Defence and Aid Fund (BDAF) in response. At first BDAF was part of Christian Action, but it eventually separated from Christian Action in order to work more independently.
In addition to having independent action the fund needed to become international. In 1964, the organization opened branches in Sweden, Norway, Australia and Switzerland. Collins invited delegates from the countries that had branches to come to the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury and together they officially founded the newly named International Defence and Aid Fund (IDAF) on June 20, 1964. In November of that year, the United Nations gave the group a "stamp of approval." In addition, Amnesty International and the Joint Committee for High Commission Territories became involved.
The South African branch of IDAF was banned in South Africa on March 18, 1966 under the Suppression of Communism Act and the government made it illegal for anyone to receive funds from IDAF. Because of this the organization in London created three different programs which had different names in order to send money to South Africa. Under Programme 1 which focused on political trials and defence was the Freedom From Fear International Charitable Foundation, under Programme 2 which focused on the families of political prisoners was the Freedom From Hunger International Charitable Foundation and Programme 3 focused on research and publications and used the Freedom From Hardship International Trust. Activist, Phyllis Altman, who worked with the South African Congress of Trade Unions (SACTU), became the general secretary of projects under Programme 1. Altman helped set up a "scam" which masked any connection between IDAF and the lawyers they paid. Altman and Collins were the only two who knew how the money was being transferred. During this time, Collins' house became a "safe venue" for IDAF. Lawyers in South Africa who were funded by the IDAF, such as Griffiths Mxenge and Victoria Mxenge were assassinated.
In the 1970s, a spy, named Craig Williamson, infiltrated an organization called the International University Exchange Fund (IUEF), which gave money to students leaving repressive regimes. Altman did not trust him and would not discuss IDAF's "inner mechanisms" with Williamson. Williamson was able to cause enough trouble so that the Danish Government became suspicious of IDAF and the Labour government minister Judith Hart turned down a request for funds from IDAF. Williamson and IUEF were exposed by Arthur McGiven in a story published in the Observer.
Collins died in 1982 and Trevor Huddleston became the new director. Altman stayed on long enough to help the transition, but retired once she felt the new people in the organization were settled. Horst Kleinschmidt took over from Altman. During the 1980s, IDAF received more and more requests for defence and for the families of the imprisoned. When apartheid was ended in 1989, IDAF "found itself having to undergo a fundamental review of its reason for existing. Eventually each programme of IDAF was taken over by other agencies.
References
Citations
Sources
Category:Anti-Apartheid organisations
Category:Organisations based in the London Borough of Lambeth |
Q:
Move page title using local xml
Is it possible to move the page title on cms pages to the left column of a 2 column left layout?
But, purely using local.xml and not editing the templates?
A:
Yes of course, bu not page title, you can move content heading. In that case local.xml cannot affect to cms page, because of it is loaded before cms.xml. You should edit cms.xml as following:
<cms_page translate="label">
<label>CMS Pages (All)</label>
<reference name="left">
<block type="core/template" name="page_content_heading" template="cms/content_heading.phtml" before="tags_popular"/>
<remove name="catalog.compare.sidebar"/>
</reference>
<reference name="content">
<block type="page/html_wrapper" name="cms.wrapper" translate="label">
<label>CMS Content Wrapper</label>
<action method="setElementClass">
<value>std</value>
</action>
<block type="cms/page" name="cms_page"/>
</block>
</reference>
</cms_page>
You should change layout of cms page via admin.
|
Flyers: Brian Boucher hopes to see action during Leighton's injury
Flyers backup and career hard-luck goaltender Michael Leighton, expected to make his second start of the season Tuesday in Winnipeg, will instead spend it at home rehabilitating an injury.
General manager Paul Holmgren announced Leighton will miss 7 to 10 days with what Holmgren described in NHLspeak as an "upper body injury."
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Since Leighton spent Saturday's game against Carolina using mostly his gluteus muscles on the bench, it would figure that the injury likely occurred during an optional practice Friday. The team did not confirm that or offer any other details.
Phantoms goalie Brian Boucher - who split time with Leighton through a wild 2009-10 season in which both were injured along with alleged starter Ray Emery - was recalled and traveled to Toronto with the team Sunday. Boucher might be in line for a start Tuesday against the Jets.
"It's all kind of happening fast; getting traded back to the organization (from Carolina), going down (to the Phantoms) and playing and now getting recalled," said Boucher, who is in his fourth separate stint with the Flyers organization. "Obviously, I'm excited. I've been able to go down there and play some games, and I feel good about my game right now. We'll see what happens.
"The expectations are to be ready at all times, be a good teammate and if I get tapped on the shoulder to play, go and give the team a chance to win. That's what I'm going to do."
Leighton, 31, allowed all five goals on 26 shots in a 5-1 loss in Tampa Jan. 27. Boucher is 2-4 with a bad Phantoms team, with a 2.71 goals-against average and .908 saves percentage.
Flyers starter Ilya Bryzgalov is expected to play against the Maple Leafs Monday. He has played in 11 of the 12 Flyers games this season. Trenton Titans goalie Cal Heeter was sent back to Adirondack to fill in for Boucher there.
He's hoping he's not back just to oversee some practices.
"For a guy that hasn't played in eight months, and coming off shoulder surgery, you don't know what to expect," Boucher said. "But I've felt much, much better in the last three games I played. Getting going again ... I feel like I'm dialed in.
"If I get called upon, I feel good about my game and hopefully I can go out there and give the team a chance to win." |
Students across the nation are graduating with an average debt of $25,250.
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Rising loan debt means graduates will be paying it off over a longer period of time.
Students graduating college across the nation are leaving with a record level of student loan debt.
That's according to a new report from The Project on Student Debt at the Institute for College Access and Success (TICAS).
Celebrity Brainiacs
In 2010, students who took out loans to fund their college education owed an average of $25,250 upon graduation. A 5-percent increase from what the class of 2009 owed.
"Student debt continues to rise, but debt levels vary tremendously from school to school and state to state," said report author Mathew Reed. He went on to say that some thought debt levels would be even higher because of the economic downturn, but was helped by increased grant aid.
The NCAA's Most Horrifying Mascots
In the Bay Area, UC Berkeley students graduated with an average debt of $16,056, while Stanford grads had a slightly lower average of $14,058.
Despite having lower tuition, California State University students weren't much better off, possibly due to the cost of living in the Bay Area. While San Jose State students graduated with an average debt of $9,438, San Francisco State graduates owed an average of $17,706.
Geeks Gone Wild
Students with the highest debt in the state graduated from the California institute of the Arts, owing an average of $50,017.
In addition to a record level of debt, the class of 2010 also faced the highest unemployment rate for young college graduates in recent history at 9.1pecent, according to the report.
Cheerleaders & Mascots of the NCAA Tourney
"How you borrow, not just how much you borrow, really matter. If you have federal student loans, Income-Based Repayment, unemployment deferment, and other options can help you manage your debt even in these though time," said TICAS President Lauren Asher. |
Mishawaka police find meth lab
November 12, 2008
MISHAWAKA -- Neighbors watched with curiosity Tuesday as police officers and technicians, some dressed in biohazard suits, searched through the site of an in-home meth lab. Police say a tip led officers to the home, at the corner of West 5th and Smith streets, about 2 a.m. Tuesday, and the meth lab was uncovered. Neighbors said there were at least two people living inside the home, but police released no information about possible arrests. According to officers at the scene, police arrived at the home and found evidence of the lab, prompting a call to the Indiana State Police and their meth lab technicians. Last week, an in-home meth lab was found on South Bend's south side. Marie and Michelle Stancoti, 35-year-old twin sisters and teachers for Elkhart Community Schools, have been arrested and charged in connection with the case. Police on Tuesday said it's not known if there is a connection between the Mishawaka and South Bend meth labs, but said it was unlikely. By midafternoon, police had used crime scene tape and squad cars to secure the entire block of 5th Street, but also said that the in-home meth lab didn't appear to put any nearby residents in danger. Both Mishawaka police and the Indiana State Police are continuing to investigate the lab. Staff writer Dave Stephens: [email protected] (574) 235-6209 |
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After staying in Dresden for a few days, we decided to skip travelling to the UK with our van. Instead, we headed south to sunny Croatia! We changed our plans for several reasons. Croatia has better weather and more sunshine. We both loved living in Scotland. Kuba lived there for almost ten years and I…
Tonight is my last night in Ljubljana. I’ve been here for a week, so what have I been up to? I visited the Central Market every day for lunch (besides Sunday since it was closed). This is the largest produce market I’ve visited so far, and that includes all the massive ones I’ve seen in…
I hope you had a restful weekend! I sure did. Left to my own devices for the entire weekend, I spent most of Saturday walking about taking photos and all of Sunday taking it easy with photo editing, writing, and future goal planning. I’m always thinking two steps ahead—details forthcoming later this week! Since arriving…
Today is Day 3 in Mallorca and I’ve walked so much since I arrived in Palma. I walked close to 10 miles the first day, over 12 miles yesterday, and 9 miles today. I enjoy walking and like the exercise because I need to burn off this fruit energy somehow, but walking limits my exploration…
My usual Tuesday rituals since arriving in Berlin include the Turkish Market and feasting on cherries, but for some reason today I couldn’t be bothered with it. I feel like I’m tapped out on Berlin activities. I still have a few things on my ‘must see’ list, including parks and other markets, but lately I…
The weather has been perfect the past couple of days! This is far from the sweltering heat I endured when I first arrived in Berlin. You will never hear me complain about the sunshine, though. I’ll take all the Vitamin D I can get. Today I met up with a new friend from Couchsurfing for… |
Throughout the history of pressurized aircraft, the accumulation of fog on cockpit windows has presented a challenge to the flight of aviators. Given that windshield or side window fog can obstruct clear flight path visibility, the real-time detection of environmental humidity conditions conducive to windshield and/or side window fog is an important cockpit input needed to ensure normal flight operations, especially during the flight phases of approach and landing.
In the aerospace industry certification regulations mandate that any aircraft window heat system must provide anti-fog capability to ensure the at least a portion of the interior surfaces of the cockpit windshield and side windows remain clear of fog to the extent that both pilots have clear visibility of a typical flight path. In order to achieve this directive, any anti-fog system that is installed must be capable of maintaining a window clear of fog at any cockpit ambient dew point temperature.
Historically, the majority of aircraft have not had an automatic real-time window fog detection/prediction system installed, but rather depended on the physical identification of windshield or side window fog by the flight crew and subsequent manual activation of fog protection systems. Alternatively, some aircraft have been equipped with electric or pneumatic anti-fog systems to prevent the formation of fog on windshield surfaces from ever occurring in the course of a given flight. But these anti-fog systems are typically operated for the entire flight and therefore impose excessive energy and fuel burn requirements since the systems are often operating when fog accumulation conditions are not present.
Therefore, it may be desirable to have a system and method that takes into account at least some of the issues discussed above, as well as possibly other issues. |
Typically the most common method by which combinatorial and sequential logic simulations occur are by traversal of logic networks as represented in a logic schematic. Such logic schematics include electrical circuit diagrams. The actual implementation of logic being simulated dictates how the simulator will traverse and schedule events during stabilization of signals in the logic network. This prior art method typically involves evaluation and conformation of sensitive and non-sensitive signals associated with logic in a given logic network. Sensitive signals are those that are dependent upon or affected by another signal. In many instances, the entire logic network or logic circuit must be evaluated even though some non-sensitive signals do not contribute to the signals of interest. The prior art method allows optimization to occur only in actual circuit implementation or internal algorithmic methods of the simulator's stabilizing mechanism. Neither of these options takes full advantage of the simulation environment.
The external information presented to a prior art logic simulator includes a definition of a circuit and the events causing propagation of signals through the defined circuit. This information may be provided as shown in the following example:
Signals: PA1 Relationships: PA1 Signals: PA1 Relationships:
Q, QBAR, S, R PA2 Q:=(S'* QBAR')', PA2 QBAR:=(R'* Q)' PA2 Q, S, QBAR, CLOCK PA2 Q:=((S * CLOCK)'* QBAR)'
In the above example, a functional sequential circuit is specified. As specified, the example logic circuit is sensitive to four signals: Q, QBAR, S, and R. Input signals `S` and `QBAR" will produce the product `Q`. Input signals `R` and `Q` will produce the product `QBAR`. Q and QBAR are generated by the prior art simulator whenever any of the sensitive factors or logic signals change state.
Given an instance where input signal `S` is the only signal changing state (for example toggling from a logic 0 state to logic 1 state), only the product `Q` needs to be computed by the simulator. Prior art systems, however group all four signals (Q, QBAR, S, and R) together. Thus, the prior art grouping of the sequential circuit contains unnecessary overhead.
To illustrate consider the following truth table:
______________________________________ R S Q QBAR Q(t) QBAR(t) ______________________________________ 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 ______________________________________
The truth table indicates signal dependencies and the relationships that may be optimized. In the prior art, the actual sequential logic under simulation is traced out and evaluated. All signal dependencies are propagated to reach the final resulting signal values. Thus, the traditional method is not efficient in optimizing for signal relationships.
Additionally, another problem exists in prior art logic simulators when modeling zero delay logic circuits or other circuits where the timing of signal state changes is critical. This problem is illustrated in the following examples.
Given a clocked sequential circuit, SR flipflop, as described below:
In the above example, if the input signals `S` and `CLOCK` are active at the same instant in time, the product `Q` will change state. This could possibly be valid in a real implementation as the input signal `CLOCK` may require a zero or negative setup and hold condition on input signal `S`. In that case, this level of precedence is still functionally valid without any constraints of a timing model imposed. However, if input signal `CLOCK` requires `S` to arrive before `CLOCK` is active, an incorrect behavior will be simulated in the above example, without any timing models or other solution imposed. Thus, prior art simulators are unable to properly and conveniently model time critical signal dependencies.
Thus, it is an object of the present invention to provide a logic simulation system including optimal configurability of combinatorial and sequential logic circuits in a behavioral form. It is a further object of the present invention to provide a logic simulation system allowing external definability of possible events which trigger combinatorial and sequential logic propagation. It is a further object of the present invention to provide a logic simulation system that eliminates unnecessary evaluations. It is a further object of the present invention to provide a logic simulation system that efficiently models time critical signal dependencies. |
June 2016 Update: Times change fast! Already, the migrate_source_json module mentioned in the post has been (mostly) merged directly into the migrate_plus module, so if you're building a new migration now, you should use the migrate_plus JSON plugin if at all possible. See Mike Ryan's blog post Drupal 8 plugins for XML and JSON migrations for more info.
Recently I needed to migrate a small set of content into a Drupal 8 site from a JSON feed, and since documentation for this particular scenario is slightly thin, I decided I'd post the entire process here.
I was given a JSON feed available over the public URL http://www.example.com/api/products.json which looked something like:
{
"upcs" : [ "11111", "22222" ],
"products" : [ {
"upc" : "11111",
"name" : "Widget",
"description" : "Helpful for many things.",
"price" : "14.99"
}, {
"upc" : "22222",
"name" : "Sprocket",
"description" : "Helpful for things needing sprockets.",
"price" : "8.99"
} ]
}
I first created a new 'Product' content type inside Drupal, with the Title field label changed to 'Name', and with additional fields for UPC, Description, and Price. Then I needed to migrate all the data in the JSON feed into Drupal, in the product content type.
Note: at the time of this writing, Drupal 8.1.0 had just been released, and many of the migrate ecosystem of modules (still labeled experimental in Drupal core) require specific or dev versions to work correctly with Drupal 8.1.x's version of the Migrate module.
Required modules
Drupal core includes the base 'Migrate' module, but you'll need to download and enable all the following modules to create JSON migrations:
After enabling those modules, you should be able to use the standard Drush commands provided by Migrate Tools to view information about migrations ( migrate-status ), run a migration ( migrate-import [migration] ), rollback a migration ( migrate-rollback [migration] ), etc.
The next step is creating your own custom migration by adding custom migration configuration via a module:
Create a Custom Migration Module
In Drupal 8, instead of creating a special migration class for each migration, registering the migrations in an info hook, etc., you can just create a migration configuration YAML file inside config/install (or, technically, config/optional if you're including the migration config inside a module that does a bunch of other things and may or may not be used with the Migration module enabled), then when your module is installed, the migration configuration is read into the active configuration store.
The first step in creating a custom migration module in Drupal 8 is to create an folder (in this case, migrate_custom_product ), and then create an info file with the module information, named migrate_custom_product.info.yml , with the following contents:
type: module
name: Migrate Custom Product
description: 'Custom product migration.'
package: Migration
core: 8.x
dependencies:
- migrate_plus
- migrate_source_json
Next, we need to create a migration configuration file, so inside migrate_custom_product/config/install , add a file titled migrate_plus.migration.product.yml (I'm going to call the migration product to keep things simple). Inside this file, define the entire JSON migration (don't worry, I'll go through each part of this configuration in detail later!):
# Migration configuration for products.
id: product
label: Product
migration_group: Products
migration_dependencies: {}
source:
plugin: json_source
path: http://www.example.com/api/products.json
headers:
Accept: 'application/json'
identifier: upc
identifierDepth: 0
fields:
- upc
- name
- description
- price
destination:
plugin: entity:node
process:
type:
plugin: default_value
default_value: product
title: name
field_upc: upc
field_description: description
field_price: price
sticky:
plugin: default_value
default_value: 0
uid:
plugin: default_value
default_value: 0
The first section defines the migration machine name ( id ), human-readable label , group, and dependencies. You don't need to separately define the group outside of the migration_group defined here, though you might want to if you have many related migrations that need the same general configuration (see the migrate_example module included in Migrate Plus for more).
source:
plugin: json_source
path: http://www.example.com/api/products.json
headers:
Accept: 'application/json'
identifier: upc
identifierDepth: 1
fields:
- upc
- title
- description
- price
The source section defines the migration source and provides extra data to help the source plugin know what information to retrieve, how it's formatted, etc. In this case, it's a very simple feed, and we don't need to do any special transformation to the data, so we can just give a list of fields to bring across into the Drupal Product content type.
The most important parts here are the path (which tells the JSON source plugin where to go to get the data), the identifier (the unique ID that should be used to match content in Drupal to content in the feed), and the identifierDepth (the level in the feed's hierarchy where the identifier is located).
destination:
plugin: entity:node
Next we tell Migrate the data should be saved to a node entity (you could also define a destination of entity:taxonomy , entity:user , etc.).
process:
type:
plugin: default_value
default_value: product
title: name
field_upc: upc
field_description: description
field_price: price
sticky:
plugin: default_value
default_value: 0
uid:
plugin: default_value
default_value: 0
Inside the process configuration, we'll tell Migrate which specific node type to migrate content into (in this case, product ), then we'll give a simple field mapping between the Drupal field name (e.g. title ) and the name of the field in the JSON feed's individual record ( name ). For certain properties, like a node's sticky status, or the uid , you can provide a default using the default_value plugin.
Enabling the module, running a migration
Once the module is ready, go to the module page or use Drush to enable it, then use migrate-status to make sure the Product migration configuration was picked up by Migrate:
$ drush migrate-status
Group: Products Status Total Imported Unprocessed Last imported
product Idle 2 0 2
Use migrate-import to kick off the product migration:
$ drush migrate-import product
Processed 2 items (2 created, 0 updated, 0 failed, 0 ignored) - done with 'product' [status]
You can then check under the content administration page to see if the products were migrated successfully:
If the products appear here, you're done! But you'll probably need to do some extra data transformation using a custom JSONReader to transform the data from the JSON feed into your custom content type. That's another topic for another day! You can also update all the migrated products with migrate-import --update product , or rollback the migration with migrate-rollback product .
Note: Currently, the Migrate UI at /admin/structure/migrate is broken in Drupal 8.1.x, so using Drush is the only way to inspect and interact with migrations; even with a working UI, it's generally best to use Drush to inspect, run, roll back, and otherwise interact with migrations.
Reinstalling the configuration for testing
Since the configuration you define inside your module's config/install directory is only read into the active configuration store at the time when you enable the module, you will need to re-import this configuration frequently while developing the migration. There are two ways you can do this. You could use some code like the following in your custom product migration's migrate_custom_product.install file:
<?php
/**
* Implements hook_uninstall().
*/
function migrate_custom_product_uninstall () {
db_query ( "DELETE FROM {config} WHERE name LIKE 'migrate.migration.custom_product%'" );
drupal_flush_all_caches ();
}
?>
...or you can use the Configuration Development module to easily re-import the configuration continuously or on-demand. The latter option is recommended, and is also the most efficient when dealing with more than just a single migration's configuration. I have a feeling config_devel will be a common module in a Drupal 8 developer's tool belt.
Diving Deeper
Some of the inspiration for this post was found in this more fully-featured example JSON migration module, which was referenced in the issue Include JSON example in the module on Drupal.org. You should also make sure to read through the Migrate API in Drupal 8 documentation.
Download the source code of the custom product migration module example used in this blog post. |
By now, in these last remaining days before the election of 2012, we have learned enough about the beliefs of the Republican presidential candidate to see them as a worldview all its own – a kind of creed that explains Mitt Romney. Those who say he has no principles are selling him short.
Despite its contradictions and ellipses, Romneyism has an internal coherence. It is different from conservatism, because it does not intend to conserve or protect any particular institutions or values. It is also distinct from Republicanism, in that it is not rooted in traditional small-town American values, nationalism, or states’ rights.
The ten guiding principles of Romneyism are:
1. Corporations are the basic units of society. Corporations are people, and the overriding purpose of an economy is to maximize corporate profits. When profits are maximized, the economy grows fastest. This growth benefits everyone in the form greater output, better products and services, and higher share prices.
2. Workers are a means to the goal of maximizing corporate profits. If workers do not contribute to that goal, they should be fired. If they cannot then find other work that helps maximize profits in another company, their wages must be too high, and they must therefore accept steadily lower wages until they find a job.
3. All factors of production – capital, physical plant and equipment, workers – are fungible and should be treated the same. Any that fail to deliver high competitive returns should be replaced or discarded. This keeps an economy efficient. Fairness is and should be irrelevant.
4. Pollution, unsafe products, unsafe working conditions, financial fraud, and other negative side effects of the pursuit of profits are the price society pays for profit-driven growth. They should not be used as excuses to constrain the pursuit of profits through regulation.
5. Individual worth depends on net worth — how much money one has made, and the value of the assets that money has been invested in. Any person with enough intelligence and ambition can make a fortune. Failure to do so is sign of moral and intellectual inferiority.
6. People who fail in the economy should not be coddled. They should not receive food stamps, Medicaid, or any other form of social subsidy. Coddling leads to a weaker society and a weaker economy.
7. Taxes are inherently bad because they constrain profit-making. It is the right and responsibility of individuals and corporations to exploit every tax loophole they (and their tax attorneys) can find in order to pay the lowest taxes possible.
8. Politics is a game whose only purpose is to win. Any means used to win the game is legitimate even if it involves lying and cheating, as long as it gains more supporters than it loses.
9. Democracy is dangerous because it is forever vulnerable to the votes of a majority intent on capturing the wealth of the successful minority, on whom the economy depends. The rich must therefore do whatever is necessary to prevent the majority from exercising its will, including spending large sums of money on lobbyists and political campaigns. The most virtuous among the rich will go a step further and run for president.
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10. The three most important aspects of life are family, religion, and money. Patriotism is a matter of guarding our economy from unfair traders and undocumented immigrants, rather than joining together for the common good. We owe nothing to one another as citizens of the same society.
On Tuesday we’ll decide whether these should be the guiding principles of America. |
Q:
jsTree not working
I am new to jQuery and jsTree and I am not sure why I can't get it working?
Using this tutorial:
http://tkgospodinov.com/jstree-part-1-introduction/
And this html / javascript:
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="utf-8">
<meta http-equiv="x-ua-compatible" content="ie=edge">
<meta name="description" content="">
<title>
BLA BLA
</title>
<base href="/">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<!--
<link rel="stylesheet" href="css/styles.css">
-->
<script type="text/javascript" src="http://ajax.googleapis.com/ajax/libs/jquery/1.7.2/jquery.min.js"> </script>
<script type="text/javascript" src="jquery.jstree.js"></script>
<script type="text/javascript">
$(document).ready(function() {
$("#selector").jstree();
});
</script>
</head>
<body>
<div id="selector">
<ul>
<li><a>Team A's Projects</a>
<ul>
<li><a>Iteration 1</a>
<ul>
<li><a>Story A</a></li>
<li><a>Story B</a></li>
<li><a>Story C</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><a>Iteration 2</a>
<ul>
<li><a>Story D</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
</ul>
</div>
</body>
</html>
Nothing seems to work.
I get the following error:
$("#selector").jstree is not a function
A:
Working demo of your example: JSFiddle1 and JSFiddle2
Please check the reference and how you are calling it. This tree should be exactly the same as what you are looking for.
Rest the source of all the documentation can be found here: http://www.jstree.com/
<script type="text/javascript" src="http://static.jstree.com/v.1.0pre/jquery.jstree.js"></script>
Include the files mentioned below. See demo here.
<script type='text/javascript' src='https://ajax.googleapis.com/ajax/libs/jquery/1.7.2/jquery.min.js'></script>
<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/css/normalize.css">
<link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="/css/result-light.css">
<script type='text/javascript' src="http://static.jstree.com/v.1.0pre/jquery.jstree.js"></script>
|
# Name: xbin-store-cloud-service-sso
# Time: 2017-05-07
FROM java:8-jre-alpine
MAINTAINER Binux <[email protected]>
RUN mkdir /app
WORKDIR /app
COPY xbin-store-cloud-service-sso-1.0.0.jar /app
ADD http://on2bs9q7q.bkt.clouddn.com/wait-for-it.sh /
RUN chmod +x /wait-for-it.sh
ENTRYPOINT ["./wait-for-it.sh", "config1:8502","--", "java", "-Djava.security.egd=file:/dev/./urandom", "-jar", "/app/xbin-store-cloud-service-sso-1.0.0.jar"]
EXPOSE 8515 |
Q:
Is the language $a^i b^j c^k$ with $i+j > k$ context-free?
I am learning about Context Free Grammars and currently stuck on the following question.
Is the following language context-free? If not, then how can we prove it using Pumping Lemma?
$\qquad L = \{a^i b^j c^k \mid i,j,k \geq 0 \land i+j > k\}$.
After spending some time I have been able to generate the production rules for the following language, but unable to understand and conclude the above.
Important Condition ($i+j = k$)
$\qquad M = \{a^i b^j c^k \mid i,j,k \geq 0 \land i+j = k\}$.
$\qquad\begin{align*}
S &\to aSc \mid X \\
X &\to bXc \mid ε
\end{align*}$
Any assistance in solving the condition ($i+j > k$) would be a great help.
A:
There is a simple way to obtain a grammar for the language $L_{\geq} = \{a^ib^jc^k : i+j \geq k\}$ given a grammar for the language $L_= = \{a^ib^jc^k : i+j = k\}$. Starting with a grammar for $L_=$, change all rules mentioning $c$ to rules mentioning a new non-terminal $C$, and add the two productions $C\to c \mid \epsilon$.
Concretely, if we start with the following grammar for $L_=$:
$$
\begin{align*}
&S\to aSc \mid T \\
&T\to bTc \mid \epsilon
\end{align*}
$$
then the corresponding grammar for $L_{\geq}$ is
$$
\begin{align*}
&S\to aSC \mid T \\
&T\to bTC \mid \epsilon \\
&C\to c \mid \epsilon
\end{align*}
$$
Of course, this is not quite the restriction we were after. It is possible to modify the grammar for $L_{\geq}$ to a grammar for $L_{>} = \{a^ib^jc^k : i+j > k\}$ by "signalling" within the grammar that at least one $c$ was actually dropped. This requires duplicating some of the non-terminals and rules. Details left to you.
Another modification which will produce $L_{\geq}$ from $L_=$ replaces each $a$ by a non-terminal that generates $a^+$, and each $b$ by a non-terminal that generates $b^+$:
$$
\begin{align*}
&S\to ASc \mid T \\
&T\to BTc \mid \epsilon \\
&A \to Aa \mid a \\
&B \to Bb \mid b
\end{align*}
$$
Again we can use signalling to get $L_>$ rather than $L_{\geq}$. Details left to you.
|
Q:
poet.books throw fatal error: NSArray element failed to match
please help, this error broke my app.
I have two classes:
First Class-Poets
class Poets
{
var poetName:String = ""
var poetYearsOfLife:String = ""
var poetImage:String = ""
var poetBiography:String = ""
var books=[Works]()
}
Second class Work
class Works
{
var nameWork:String = ""
var workPoet:String = ""
}
TableViewController
var poetsPath = NSBundle.mainBundle().pathForResource("Poets1", ofType: "plist")
var poetsArray = NSArray(contentsOfFile: poetsPath!)!
var booksPath = NSBundle.mainBundle().pathForResource("Works1", ofType: "plist")
var booksDict = NSDictionary(contentsOfFile: booksPath!)
for poetArray in poetsArray
{
let poet=Poets()
poet.poetName = poetArray["name"] as! String
poet.poetImage = poetArray["image"] as! String
poet.poetYearsOfLife=poetArray["yearsOfLife"] as! String
poet.poetBiography=poetArray["biography"] as! String
poets.append(poet)
poet.books = booksDict![poet.poetName as String] as! [(Works)]//<---error
for bookArray in poet.books {
var book=Works()
book.nameWork = "nameWork"
}
}
How I can fix this bug?
fatal error: NSArray element failed to match the Swift Array Element type
I have Work1.plist. I try to make a segue and to pass values from plist associated with a particular poetName from Poets1.plist in a table.Sorry for my bad English.
<plist version="1.0">
<dict>
<key>poet_name1</key>
<array>
<dict>
<key>nameWork</key>
<string>Благовест</string>
<key>work</key>
<string>Среди дубравы</string>
</dict>
</array>
<key>poet_name2</key>
<array>
<dict>
<key>nameWork</key>
<string>Бессонные ночи</string>
<key>work</key>
<string>Какой кошмар!</string>
</dict>
</array>
</dict>
</plist>
A:
My suggestion is to add an initializer to your Works class:
class Works {
var nameWork = ""
var workPoet = ""
init(nameWork: String, workPoet: String) {
self.nameWork = nameWork
self.workPoet = workPoet
}
}
Then you can use it like this:
let worksArray = booksDict[poet.poetName as String] as! NSArray
for work in worksArray {
let dictionaryFromArray = work as! NSDictionary
let workObject = Works(nameWork: dictionaryFromArray["nameWork"] as! String, workPoet: dictionaryFromArray["work"] as! String)
poet.books.append(workObject)
}
|
1. Field of the Invention
The present invention generally relates to the field of liquid crystal devices, and more specifically to a high speed liquid crystal display and fabrication method in which electrodes and microelectronic electrode driver devices are integrally formed in a transparent monocrystalline silicon semiconductor layer.
2. Description of the Related Art
A liquid crystal display includes a sealed space which is filled with a liquid crystal material. Front and back electrodes are disposed on opposite sides of the space and are selectively energized to apply electric fields to the liquid crystal material to cause it to locally change its orientation resulting in a spatially variant perturbation of the light passing through. The electrodes also provide charge storage for the cell.
Different liquid crystal materials affect light passing through by different mechanisms, such as variable birefringence, scattering, etc. The display may provide only discrete black and white levels, or a continuous gray scale.
Liquid crystal displays can have either transmissive or reflective configurations. The front electrodes can be arranged in segments to provide an alphanumeric display for a calculator or clock, or in a rectangular matrix to provide a continuous graphic image for television, computer and other applications.
U.S. Pat. No. 4,239,346, entitled "COMPACT LIQUID CRYSTAL DISPLAY SYSTEM" issued Dec. 16, 1980 to R. Lloyd discloses a reflective Active-Matrix Liquid-Crystal Display (AMLCD) including a transparent front electrode and electrode back plates formed of single crystal silicon which define a sealed space therebetween which is filled with liquid crystal material. A common front electrode is formed on the inner surface of the front plate, whereas a semiconductor layer includes the inner surface of the back plate.
Back electrodes of reflective metal are formed in a rectangular matrix pattern on the top surface of the semiconductor layer in contact with the liquid crystal. MOSFET electrode driver transistors, interconnected by polycrystalline silicon bus lines, are also formed in the semiconductor layer, and are operatively connected to the electrodes. Electrical potentials are selectively applied between the individual back electrodes and the front electrode via the bus lines and driver transistors to locally polarize the liquid crystal material and form an image complete with gray scale.
The preferred material for the front and back plates is glass, due to its negligible reactivity with liquid crystal materials, low cost and transparency, allowing either reflective or transmissive liquid crystal effects to be used. Although epitaxial deposition of monocrystalline (single crystalline or bulk) silicon is possible on various materials such as sapphire, the temperature required for deposition is on the order of 1,000.degree. C. which is far in excess of the melting point of glass. In addition, the atomic structure of glass is highly irregular, and nonconducive to the growth of an epitaxial silicon layer.
For these reasons, the silicon layer on the front plate of Lloyd's display is formed by a standard silicon wafer. Alternative displays have used silicon layers formed by chemical vapor deposition (CVD) of amorphous or polycrystalline silicon. CVD of these materials can be performed at low temperatures and is not adversely affected by the irregular crystalline structure of the glass material of the plate.
However, the carrier mobility of polycrystalline silicon is one-eighth that of monocrystalline silicon, and the mobility of amorphous silicon is one-hundredth that of monocrystalline silicon. The operating speed of a microelectronic device is linearly proportional to the mobility. The low mobility of polycrystalline and amorphous silicon limits the operating speed of the electrode driver transistors and thereby the displays in which they are incorporated. These devices generally operate at less than 60 Hz, which is a common video display speed. In order to accommodate the leakage current and refresh time of transistors fabricated in polysilicon for 60 Hz operation, two transistors are connected in series to obtain sufficiently high impedance and low current. |
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way.
WraptorSkinzTM self-adhering vinyl skins will look amazing on your electronic gear, printed at the highest resolution possible for unbeatable color and razor sharp clarity. Unlike bulky silicon, plastic or metal cases and faceplates, WraptorSkinz are designed to be thin and very tough. WraptorSkinz are a composite of layered commercial grade vinyl. The bottom layer is a soft, flexible vinyl with a special removable adhesive that is easily positioned, applied without air bubbles, and effortlessly removed without leaving a sticky residue. WraptorSkinz are printed with the latest in UV protected inks that resist fading for up to 3 years even in direct sunlight. Finally we bond a professional grade laminate over the entire skin adding a professional glossy protective finish. This item is not affiliated with or endorsed by the Beats brand in any way. |
At its heart is the nutrient-rich Miracle Broth™ created by Dr. Huber that has become renowned for its healing abilities. True to Huber's coveted formula, Crème de la Mer's exclusive Lime Tea is also utilized in its original concentration. Created through the time-intensive process of extraction, Lime Tea is an exceptionally powerful anti-oxidant. Helping protect against a wide range of external insults, it gives skin the ability to focus energy on repair.
Created with La Mer's proprietary sea kelp, a natural humectant, The Moisturizing Gel Cream deeply moisturizes while maintaining an airlight feel on the skin, encouraging it to look and feel renewed, hydrated and conditioned.
DESCRIPTION_IPAD
At its heart is the nutrient-rich Miracle Broth™ created by Dr. Huber that has become renowned for its healing abilities. True to Huber's coveted formula, Crème de la Mer's exclusive Lime Tea is also utilized in its original concentration. Created through the time-intensive process of extraction, Lime Tea is an exceptionally powerful anti-oxidant. Helping protect against a wide range of external insults, it gives skin the ability to focus energy on repair.Created with La Mer's proprietary sea kelp, a natural humectant, The Moisturizing Gel Cream deeply moisturizes while maintaining an airlight feel on the skin, encouraging it to look and feel renewed, hydrated and conditioned.
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To activate the broth and release its key ingredients, pat a small amount between fingertips and press into your face, neck, even under the fragile eye area. Apply day and night for a lifetime.
PRODUCT_USAGE_IPAD
To activate the broth and release its key ingredients, pat a small amount between fingertips and press into your face, neck, even under the fragile eye area. Apply day and night for a lifetime. |
Meta-analysis of bioabsorbable versus durable polymer drug-eluting stents in 20,005 patients with coronary artery disease: an update.
To perform an updated meta-analysis comparing biodegradable polymer drug eluting stents (BP-DES) and durable polymer drug eluting stents (DP-DES). BP-DES have been suggested to reduce late stent thrombosis (LST) rates as compared to first generation DP-DES. Recently, second generation DP-DES have replaced older DES, but comparison of these stents with BP-DES has not yielded consistent results. Medline/Web databases were searched for studies comparing BP-DES and DP-DES, and reporting rates of overall/cardiac mortality, myocardial infarction (MI), LST, target lesion revascularization (TLR) and target vessel revascularization (TVR) and late lumen loss (LLL), with a follow-up ≥6 months. Twenty studies (20,005 patients) were included in the meta-analysis. Median follow-up time was 1 year. Compared with DP-DES, BP-DES showed lower LLL (in stent: weighted mean difference WMD -0.45 mm, 95% CI -0.66 to -0.24 mm, P = 0.00001; in segment: WMD -0.15 mm, 95% CI = -0.24 to -0.06 mm, P = 0.001) and lower rates of LST (OR 0.51, 95% CI = 0.30 to 0.86, P = 0.01), although they did not improve mortality, MI, TLR, and TVR rates. BP-DES coated with sirolimus or novolimus, in comparison with biolimus or paclitaxel, were associated with reduced LLL (P < 0.0001 for subgroups). In comparison with DP-DES, BP-DES significantly reduce LLL and LST rates, without clear benefits on harder endpoints. The efficacy of BP-DES in preserving lumen patency seems larger for sirolimus and novolimus DES. |
The effects of ascorbic acid on the induction of urothelial lesions in mice by 2-acetylaminofluorene.
288 BALB/c male mice were allocated to: Group 1-control; Group 2-500 ppm of 2-acetylaminofluorene (2-AAF) in the food, with control water; Group 4-500 ppm of 2-AAF in the food and 250 mg/100 ml of vitamin C in the water; and Group 3-control food and 250 mg% of vitamin C in the water. Major histopathologic changes at the end of 28 days included both inflammation of the lamina propria and hyperplasia of the transitional epithelium of the urinary bladder in mice receiving 2-AAF. The most severe lesions were seen in the mice administered the combination of 2-AAF and vitamin C. It was postulated that either decreased water consumption and concentration of the urine and/or reduction in urinary pH may have contributed to the severity of the lesions. |
To figure that out, we need to look back at the state of Motorola some 19 months ago and apply some mathematical magic.
The thought experiment
When the Nexus One was introduced, Motorola sported a market cap of about $10.6 billion. That's for the entire Motorola beast, including the infrastructure and enterprise operations that later became Motorola Solutions. At the time, mobile devices represented 31 percent of Motorola's sales and did not generate profits. The only fair division available is to split the company along revenue lines.
Thirty-one percent of $10.6 billion is $3.3 billion, and Google is paying 3.8 times that amount. If the deal falls apart for some reason, like failing regulatory approval or due to Motorola's shareholder vote, Google will pay a $2.5 billion breakup fee that nearly equals our hypothetical early-2010 market cap.
In slightly more realistic terms, Google would probably have needed a similar-sized buyout premium back then. This would put the theoretical buyout price at $6.2 billion, or about half of the final price tag.
When Motorola separated last December, the final value of Mobility was one-ninth of the total company—Motorola shareholders received one Mobility share per eight regular shares. Using that ratio instead, you'd get a fair price of $1.9 billion including the buyout boost.
The road not taken
Any way you slice it, Google could have saved a truckload of cash by getting into the hardware game much earlier. Its bold plan to revolutionize the way cell phones are sold fizzled early on, and the Nexus One became nothing but a developer phone in less than six months' time. We don't know what that failed experiment ended up costing Google, but most of the pain was probably passed to Nexus-maker HTC.
Since then, Android's reference models have jumped from one manufacturer to another, including the Samsung-designed Nexus S and Motorola's Xoom tablet. With this acquisition safely under its vest from an early date, Google could have kept that zig-zagging firmly under control and in-house, while also clamping down on the much-maligned Android fragmentation issues.
On the other hand, Google would also have lost a chance to build the diverse support system that Android now enjoys. Some call it fragmentation and others call it choice or diversity; from that perspective, Mountain View would be probably better off leaving Motorola alone altogether, though it did manage to round up quotes from handset manufacturers saying they support the buyout.
What's new?
Ironically, buying Motorola Mobility makes Google a truer copy of the Apple business model. No longer a hands-off software provider with no financial interest in handset sales, Google now needs to worry about hardware implementation and direct profits. This two-headed beast will deliver the purest Android experience on the market, and will be held up as a role model or pariah when things go right or very wrong for the platform.
And let's not forget that Motorola Mobility might not go home with Google after all. Perhaps the biggest reason to pick up Motorola rather than just buying another basket of protective patents is that regulators might block a pure patent deal but could let this agreement pass because Google is buying hardware operations where it holds no monopoly whatsoever. That doesn't make it a slam-dunk, however.
All told, leaving Motorola on the table for a year and a half added at least $6 billion to the dollar cost but also brought about a slew of less obvious costs—and benefits.
For better or worse, Android just changed in a big way. And if Google had made this move a year ago, the market would look very different today in that unpredictable way that makes hurricanes out of fluttering butterfly wings.
80 Reader Comments
I think you should address the issue of the number of patents Moto had back then, compared to the number they have now, when Google announced they wanted to buy them. Would it still have been worth while back then?
If Google really wants to change the mobile phone business (in the US at least) they don't need to buy a handset maker; they need to buy a bunch of Congresspeople and get carrier-locked phones outlawed.
Hopefully *crosses fingers* this will help them make more phones that are unlocked off the shelf with a more pure Android Exp. I know a lot of people have some hate for Moto, but damn if I don't love my Droid2 Global. I love me some slideout keyboards.
Why is there no mention of Motorola's Set-Top Boxes and Cable Modems in any of the Google buying Motorola Mobility? Motorola Mobility includes both of those along with the mobile handset portion of Motorola.
If Google really wants to change the mobile phone business (in the US at least) they don't need to buy a handset maker; they need to buy a bunch of Congresspeople and get carrier-locked phones outlawed.
They could theoretically buy T-Mobile once that merger is disapproved, but I don't think Google would want in on it anyways, although it could be a better deal than "buying" a few congresscritters
If Google really wants to change the mobile phone business (in the US at least) they don't need to buy a handset maker; they need to buy a bunch of Congresspeople and get carrier-locked phones outlawed.
They could theoretically buy T-Mobile once that merger is disapproved, but I don't think Google would want in on it anyways, although it could be a better deal than "buying" a few congresscritters
I think you should address the issue of the number of patents Moto had back then, compared to the number they have now, when Google announced they wanted to buy them. Would it still have been worth while back then?
I don't think it would've been a major factor, especially if Google kept to the same hands off management promises they're making now. In that case the patent generation rate would be mostly unchanged.
I love my original Droid, but I was not going to buy another Motorola product because I didn't want to buy a phone that would brick itself if it thought I was unlocking it (even though I have no plans to actually unlock it, all it takes is one malicious virus to blow them up). This makes me happy, since I hope that Google will get rid of those brick circuits, and I can buy a Droid4 or Droid X5 or whatever it is in a year or so.
If Google really wants to change the mobile phone business (in the US at least) they don't need to buy a handset maker; they need to buy a bunch of Congresspeople and get carrier-locked phones outlawed.
Locked phones (and the subsidies that come with them) is the only thing keeping Android afloat.
Eh, hindsight is 20/20. It might have been a good deal then but it also would have been a good deal to buy Apple shares before the ipod/iphone hit. Not that it's not fun to speculate, but I think the more exciting conversation is what does this mean for the industry going forward. Personally I don’t think we’ll see a significant change. Google just wanted the patents so I don’t see them folding Motorola into the Google fold. They probably won’t rebrand or do anything else drastic. They’ll just keep Motorola running as a separate business. Of course, if they start to lose money on it we could see them trying something drastic just because they can.
Why is there no mention of Motorola's Set-Top Boxes and Cable Modems in any of the Google buying Motorola Mobility? Motorola Mobility includes both of those along with the mobile handset portion of Motorola.
There've been a few mentions; but Google TV has largely been a no-show and the cable modem business is completely separate from any of Google's logical reasons for buying the company. If Google changes plans and ends up integrating moto more thoroughly I suspect the cable box business will end up being sold or spun off.
Why is there no mention of Motorola's Set-Top Boxes and Cable Modems in any of the Google buying Motorola Mobility? Motorola Mobility includes both of those along with the mobile handset portion of Motorola.
These types of devices aren't made to Moto's specifications, they're made to the cable provider's specs. They're not remotely keen on Google TV so I can't see how this acquisition would do anything other than kill that part of Moto's business.
Having been on the other side of the fence (Enterprise Mobility), I have mixed feelings about it. Our side wanted to get rid of Mobile Devices for a while because they were taking all the resources, and we mused about the possibility of Google buying it. I have some trepidation about the merge, as if they're not interested in hardware a lot of good hardware engineers will be out of a job. Mot's never been known for their software, but I've always been impressed by the hardware design.
Why is there no mention of Motorola's Set-Top Boxes and Cable Modems in any of the Google buying Motorola Mobility? Motorola Mobility includes both of those along with the mobile handset portion of Motorola.
These types of devices aren't made to Moto's specifications, they're made to the cable provider's specs. They're not remotely keen on Google TV so I can't see how this acquisition would do anything other than kill that part of Moto's business.
That's how it works now, but Google is entirely different than Moto. They have a ton of cash, even by cable company standards, AND the ability to revolutionize tv advertising, which has become borderline fraudulent (we sell you tv, with ads, for a fee you can skip the ads, we sell ads to companies, who think you're watching ads that you pay extra to avoid). I'm sure cable companies will resist change, they have become very adept at that, however, when Google shows up at your doorstep with a briefcase of cash and a new advertising model, there isn't a cable exec in the world that wouldn't listen.
Eventually the players will be turned, they need a new ad model. They see the writing on the wall, anyway: live tv is dying and horrible set top boxes are killing their business.
If Google had a acquired Motorola in 2010, Samsung, HTC and others might have been less keen on pushing Android, knowing they are using the OS of a direct competitor in the hardware space.
Google had to make a relatively weak showing in the hardware space (Nexus One) to bluff and show they are only in it for the software, not the hardware.
Even now, they have to make relatively weak moves in the hardware space to bluff and suggest that the buyout is all about the patents and not so much the hardware. To make this convincing, they would have needed to try to buy patents in 2009/2010 and fail.
So, the timing is just about right. They first needed to see that Android would be successful, that the other hardware players would make a good push for Android, then try to acquire a bunch of patents and fail, then purchase one of the successful hardware manufacturers for their patents, then get your new competition to praise the move, then slowly become the dominant hardware player.
This was the next logical step of verticalization that's taking place in mobile computing business.
To be a meaningful player, one has to actively drive development of hardware, components, software, media content, and data services, as well as to have a clout with carriers and attention from apps developers. A couple of entities with all these competences are emerging to duke it out: Apple and Google + handset makers.
It's unclear how much room and/or opportunity there is left for other weaker entities: Microsoft + Nokia, RIM, Samsung (with Bada), HP (webOS), or Intel (Meego).
At least Google has come to a realization of what it takes to be a player and a decision to be one. This cannot be said of other contenders; they all seem to want to continue doing what they know (or unable to do otherwise), and somehow success will come if they just tried harder.
There've been a few mentions; but Google TV has largely been a no-show and the cable modem business is completely separate from any of Google's logical reasons for buying the company. If Google changes plans and ends up integrating moto more thoroughly I suspect the cable box business will end up being sold or spun off.
OTOH, a cable box running some version of Android would beat the pants off of any of the shitty options out there now. Cable boxes have terrible interface and software design, almost as bad as phones were before Apple/Google/MS. Still, cable box choice is a very "back room deal" kind of thing, so having the only decent one wouldn't necessarily mean anything.
A lot of hand-wringing, retrospective cloudy crystal ball gazing and generally just a really bad piece of "journalism"... I think it's time Ars introduces a dedicated opinion section, because reporting this ain't.
To be a meaningful player, one has to actively drive development of hardware, components, software, media content, and data services, as well as to have a clout with carriers and attention from apps developers. A couple of entities with all these competences are emerging to duke it out: Apple and Google + handset makers.
It's amazing that Apple realised this and were actually able to execute such a long time ago and yet the rest of the industry (HP, RIM, Microsoft and now Google) is only just catching on.
The phone portion of this is definitely only part of the equation. MotoMobile has agreements with cable companies for their set top boxes. Google now has their foot in the door to the cable market and can start pushing their GoogleTV / DVR combo (remember Google bought SageTV just last year). This is way more than phones. Oh and they will likely "license" out the GoogleTV OS for free and Moto will make money on the hardware. Chances are it will come with a touch screenish remote control so you can actually navigate without having a coronary.
This was the next logical step of verticalization that's taking place in mobile computing business.
To be a meaningful player, one has to actively drive development of hardware, components, software, media content, and data services, as well as to have a clout with carriers and attention from apps developers. A couple of entities with all these competences are emerging to duke it out: Apple and Google + handset makers.
It's unclear how much room and/or opportunity there is left for other weaker entities: Microsoft + Nokia, RIM, Samsung (with Bada), HP (webOS), or Intel (Meego).
Medium term at least I think this is going to give WP7 a boost. While Samsung, HTC, etc are probably still leery about what the MS+Nokia partnership will mean in the long term they can hope to suck thier way into sweetheart deals of their own, and in any case it's less tight integration than Google+Motorola. And at $23bn Nokia's market cap is still probably too big for MS to buy; and if WP7.5 is successful it will probably go up again because Symbian's perceived lack of future has been a large part of what's hammered it down by ~6x over the last few years. If WP7.5 fails to gain an appreciable amount of market share Nokia will probably fall to something MS could buy; but in that case there'd be little reason for them to do so.
A lot of hand-wringing, retrospective cloudy crystal ball gazing and generally just a really bad piece of "journalism"... I think it's time Ars introduces a dedicated opinion section, because reporting this ain't.
thought the author added a few nice bits that conceded that this was guesswork with some humility. much better than the dan lyons piece that is being trashed left and right for good reason.
For better or worse, Android just changed in a big way. And if Google had made this move a year ago, the market would look very different today in that unpredictable way that makes hurricanes out of fluttering butterfly wings.
The same will be true a year or two from now. Google is making a big bet changing the Android ecosystem and I think it's an uncertain one. These large technology mergers seldom work, especially when you have two completely different corporate cultures. A year from now it will probably be more interesting to ask what Google lost and gained by buying Motorola at all.
The sort of reasoning we see in this article is almost never useful, as it seems to assume that this possibility actually made sense to Google in that time frame. By buying a hardware vendor then Google could easily have alienated the other big Android OEM's, before they were so deeply into Android to make it difficult to extricate themselves. I'm sure they're now considering how Google's direct competition leads to increased business risk for them. Had this happened 19 months ago, Meego, a future WP7, or another alternative might have seemed significantly more attractive and that would have been bad for Google.
People use the same sort of reasoning with Apple: If only Apple didn't have such a long iPhone exclusive with sucky old AT&T, they could have blunted Android's advance. Again, that is completely fallacious because it assumes that that path was open to Apple--it was not. If Apple wanted to retain the sort of control over the user experience and platform that they like, they had to give up something--they went exclusive with AT&T to get that control. Otherwise, they would have been in the same boat as every other vendor--forced to relent to unique carrier-branded iPhone variations that users despise, except that Apple was new to the cell phone market and they weren't in as strong a position vis-a-vis their competitors. If Apple had gone carrier agnostic in that timeframe the iPhone would not look like it does today--the experience would be greatly degraded.
I think in hindsight both Google and Apple made the right decisions in the right timeframes, even if it did cost Google a lot more cash and gave Android an opening vis-a-vis iPhone.
This article doesn't address the over $2 Billion tax credit or over $3 Billion in cash Google is acquiring in this deal. The true price will turn out to be around $7 to $8 Billion when all is said and done.
In 2010, Apple wasn't trying to sue Android off the market using bullshit patents. Acquiring a patent defense was Google's primary reason for acquiring Motorola. I don't foresee the two companies integrated for a long time, if ever. The corporate cultures are significantly different; Google's flat, pseduo-independent management structure won't mesh well with Motorola's more traditional corporate structure.
In regards to the set-top boxes. If you haven't seen the writing on the wall as of yet, set-top cable boxes will be a thing of the past in the near future.
Granted I'm probably a little ahead of the majority here, but I don't have a cable connection in my house. I've been using consoles to stream media for the last 3 years. This year I bought a Samsung TV that speaks DLNA. It doesn't communicate perfectly but its a sign. The LAN connection on your TV will supersede the necessity for a set top box in the near future.
I think Googorola could certainly play a part in revolutionizing the television experience, but given the fact that we can put an i5/i7 in a laptop less than an inch thick. I think its more of a certainty that TV makers could very well place CPU's inside your TV that will allow for any number of interactions sans cable/set-top box. They don't need Google to do any of that either (but they could, certainly do so - that would be grand!).
As for the buyout I do believe that the Motorola Mobility CEO Sanjay Jha played Google like a fiddle. It was quite amazing to read the maneuvering of last week and see how it played out for them on Monday. Kudos to that man, brilliant play.
I see this playing out several ways, I don't see many of them helping Android save face in light of recent litigation, given that Motorola is already a defendant in several cases and Microsoft and Apple may already license a fair number of patents from Motorola via various channels or through exhaustion with chip makers. Google still hasn't come to the aid of HTC or Samsung and still has an uphill battle with Oracle.
As others have pointed out. Android is fast becoming a large expense for Google. The Motorola purchase costs them 1/3 of their capital and may quicken the departure of other vendors towards WP7, it doesn't weigh well on any current litigation and they paid a huge premium for a company that is falling down.
Yes, this has only to do with patents. Google tried to get hold of Nortel's patents and Apple and Microsoft paid way to much to keep Google from getting them. So Google did a surprise move and bought even more applicable patents with the Motorola purchase.
As for the fact that Motorola makes phones and set top boxes, that is irrelevant.
The worse thing that could happen is if Google's well known arrogance rears its head and they think they can run the phone and set top business. Google should spin those units off, and let them, as well as Samsung and HTC, and other Android vendors, have a free license to the patents. |
Q:
how to use bar code reader in c# windows application?
I want to create windows application in c# that can work with bar code reader.
I want following feature to be add in my windows application:
-> Details of Product should be fill up automatically in form when bar code reader scanned correct bar code of product.
A:
There are (at least) two types of bar code readers:
working as keyboard input
working on Serial Port
So the first one is really easy. Just plug in your reader to your computer, put the cursor on your TextBox and read barcode. As it works as keyboard input, the code will automatically fill your TextBox. There may be line break at the end of read (it depends on reader and/or its settings).
This works out of the box. The problem is that your textBox MUST HAVE focus.
Other type is ComPort. This is great if you want more functionality (or don't want to have focus on control). But needs more work. But C# has a class to do that: https://msdn.microsoft.com/pl-pl/library/system.io.ports.serialport(v=vs.110).aspx
You will need to set some things like baudrate, parity bits, port name (COM1, COM2, etc). It's more complicated but the question is about how to do it - not about COM ports. So I am not writing about COM ports.
|
Back in March, DARPA announced that it had awarded company called Aurora Flight Sciences a contract to start test its far-out design for a VTOL craft propelled by two dozen ducted fans. Now the project is getting substantially more real and passed its first test with flying colors. This thing can really fly, a small version of it anyway.
The craft—officially named the LightningStrike—won the contract for phase two of DARPA's VTOL X-Plane program which aims to develop a vertical takeoff plane that can hit high speeds of up to 460 mph. Whipping up a wacky animation is one thing, but actually flying a model is another. This little sucker weighs 325 pounds and is a 20 percent of the scale of the final prototype to be built during the next two years, but its successful little trip seems to validate DARPA's choice.
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Viewers who watch all the way through (bless you) will notice something is missing. This test flight shows takeoff and landing, but not the part where the LightningStrike would transform mid-air for better cruising performance. V-22 Ospreys can do it, and so can a ten-prop NASA design so it is far from impossible, but it's still a tricky bit of design work the LightningStrike still has to overcome.
Like its little brother here, Aurora Flight Science's final larger prototype will also be unmanned, and while the X-Plane project does not demand that its champion be human-piloted, DARPA has said that it wouldn't wind seeing that flavor as well. For now, the mini version will have to do.
This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io |
Q:
Ruby OO design : how to handle inconsistent state in a mutable class?
Abstract
I'd like to have advice on how to :
implement methods that rely on a state,
when the instance is mutable and may be in an inconsistent state,
in such a way that the methods either silently fail or return nil,
without having to nil guard / coerce state to meaningful values everywhere.
Anyway, if my design is wrong itself, let me know.
Context
I have an ActiveRecord class. It is pretty simple, but has lots and lots of methods that require the whole instance to be valid? to work correctly.
The class in question handles a complex tax calculation, but for the sake of clarity, let's boil it down to this :
class Foo < ActiveRecord::Base
validates :a, :b, :c, :d, :e,
numericality: {inclusion: 0..100}
validates :f, :g, :h,
numericality: {greater_than: 0}
def some_method
a * b / c
end
def other_method
d + e * (g / f)
end
def yet_another_method
some_method - other_method * f
end
def this_is_getting_really_complex
yet_another_method * other_method - some_method
end
# and so on, with piles of methods calling each other
end
Moreover, i have subclasses for this class that override these methods (different tax calculation rules, etc.)
The thing is, as long as an instance is in a consistent state (all a, b, c... fields are present and valid), all the methods work fine. But ActiveRecord instances must be able to be in an inconsistent state, because...well, we want to be able to validate them. So raising ArgumentError during initialize when the params are meaningless is out of the question.
In this case, let's say a, b, c are filled with junk strings or nil instead of meaningful values : all of our methods will raise various errors, or even worse - thanks to duck typing it will work in a crazy, unintended way ( "junk" * 300_000, anyone? ).
Trying to solve this problem
first try : nil guards
this is getting ugly pretty quick :
def some_method
return nil unless [a, b, c].all? &:present?
a * b / c
end
... ugh, nil guarding isn't enough, what if i have strings instead of numbers ? I admit for a while i was tempted with heresy :
def some_method
a * b / c
rescue TypeError, NoMethodError
nil
end
This is too bad. Wait, what if i simply check for validity ?
def some_method
return nil unless valid?
a * b / c
end
A bit better, but now the whole validation process kicks in every time i call a method. This is silly. OO to the rescue ?
second try : OO refactoring
My first thought was : well, we have a behavior that varies according to state - this is textbook example for a state machine. But how would i hook this on AR's validation cycle ? Did not figured it out.
Then I proceeded to try and extract those methods into a variety of immutable decorator classes, with a factory method that accepted one instance from my Foo class :
class FooDecorator
def self.factory( foo )
# NullDecorator has methods that always return nil
return NullDecorator.new( foo ) if foo.invalid?
case foo
when Foo:Bar then BarDecorator.new( foo )
when Foo:Baz then BazDecorator.new( foo )
else raise ArgumentError
end
end
def initialize( foo )
@foo = foo.dup.freeze.readonly!
end
def some_method
@foo.a * @foo.b / @foo.c
end
def yet_another_method
some_method - other_method * @foo.f
end
end
I promptly stopped because it felt ridiculously overengineered, and smelled like feature envy over the top.
I also considered using the Maybe monad, or create a monad of my own like "MaybeAValidNumber" to coerce everything to meaningful values. That felt not much better than nil guards and again, overengineered.
third try : don't care
Thinking about this, i wondered if i should nil guard at all : after all, these methods are only relevant if the instance is in a consistent state. As far as i understand it, design by contract goes this way : if you do not ensure state prerequistes are met before calling the methods, you break the contract, so you are at fault.
Problem is, as you can easily guess, these methods are likely to be called in the views to display the results of calculations. I don't find having to throw a bunch of conditionals in my views entirely satisfying...
Thoughts ?
A:
Looks like your class has two separate responsibilities:
validating a set of fields (fields can be in an inconsistent state)
performing calculations on these fields (fields must be valid)
Therefore I would split it up into two classes:
The ActiveRecord could still take care of the validation and other ActiveRecord stuff.
All the tax calculations though would happen in say TaxCalculator, which initializes all its fields from a validated ActiveRecord that's passed in from a constructor, so all the methods of it can blindly assume that the fields are OK.
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Q:
How to change AnimationTimer speed?
I use AnimationTimer for several tasks like animation with changing pictures and ProgressIndicator animation. To achieve needed speed I put thread to sleep, but when several animations are running simultaneously they affect each others speed. Is there any other way to change speed of AnimationTimer? Code sample:
private void initialize() {
programButtonAnimation=new AnimationTimer(){
@Override
public void handle(long now) {
showClockAnimation();
}
};
programButtonAnimation.start();
}
private void showClockAnimation(){
String imageName = "%s_"+"%05d"+".%s";
String picturePath="t093760/diploma/view/styles/images/pink_frames/"+String.format( imageName,"pink" ,frameCount,"png");
programButton.setStyle("-fx-background-image:url('"+picturePath+"')");
frameCount++;
try {
Thread.sleep(28);
} catch (InterruptedException e) {
// TODO Auto-generated catch block
e.printStackTrace();
}
if(frameCount>=120){
programButtonAnimation.stop();
frameCount=0;
}
}
A:
The AnimationTimer's handle method is invoked once for each frame that is rendered, on the FX Application Thread. You should never block that thread, so do not call Thread.sleep(...) here.
The parameter passed to the handle(...) method is a timestamp, in nanoseconds. So if you want to throttle updates so they don't happen more than once every, say 28 milliseconds, you can use this to do so:
private void initialize() {
programButtonAnimation=new AnimationTimer(){
private long lastUpdate = 0 ;
@Override
public void handle(long now) {
if (now - lastUpdate >= 28_000_000) {
showClockAnimation();
lastUpdate = now ;
}
}
};
programButtonAnimation.start();
}
private void showClockAnimation(){
String imageName = "%s_"+"%05d"+".%s";
String picturePath="t093760/diploma/view/styles/images/pink_frames/"+String.format( imageName,"pink" ,frameCount,"png");
programButton.setStyle("-fx-background-image:url('"+picturePath+"')");
frameCount++;
if(frameCount>=120){
programButtonAnimation.stop();
frameCount=0;
}
}
A:
Since I already wrote the code and James_D was faster with informing you about you blocking the UI, I still like to add that if you have multiple AnimationTimers of different timings you should create a dedicated class for that. If each of them runs at a different speed, you could implement it like that:
import javafx.animation.AnimationTimer;
public abstract class AnimationTimerExt extends AnimationTimer {
private long sleepNs = 0;
long prevTime = 0;
public AnimationTimerExt( long sleepMs) {
this.sleepNs = sleepMs * 1_000_000;
}
@Override
public void handle(long now) {
// some delay
if ((now - prevTime) < sleepNs) {
return;
}
prevTime = now;
handle();
}
public abstract void handle();
}
Which means that the handle() method is invoked at least after sleepMs milliseconds have passed.
Or you change the parameter and specify the fps, whatever you need.
You can use the above code like this:
AnimationTimerExt timer = new AnimationTimerExt(100) {
@Override
public void handle() {
System.out.println( System.currentTimeMillis());
}
};
timer.start();
Also, loading the picture over and over again is not the best choice. If you'd like to do animations, I suggest you take a look at Mike's Blog about Creating a Sprite Animation with JavaFX.
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Community-based care: an alternative to institutionalization.
By focusing on the deinstitutionalization of the physically, mentally, and developmentally impaired, the public's attention is too frequently diverted away from the greater need for the development of community-based services. |
Hey, I just spent hours typing an essay for school to find out my floppy drive is acting silly. I can't think of another way to get it to school, other than burn it to a CD. I would prefer NOT to waste an entire CD on 12kb of text lol! If you have any suggestions, please feel free to toss em at me.
It could be the "floppy" disk. If sector 0 gets damaged the "floppy" will stop working.. Never keep "floppies" near cordless phones, microwaves, TVs, or your monitor. They don't last too long when they obtain interference. |
Q:
Make liferay portlet non instanceable
How can I make my portlet non instanceable accross the liferay instance. I have read about it in the forum but there was no mention of how to do it.
A:
You can specify a portlet as non instanceable by putting
<liferay-portlet-app>
...
<portlet>
...
<instanceable>false</instanceable>
...
</portlet>
...
</liferay-portlet-app>
in the file
liferay-portlet.xml
Beware of the right order of tags, according to the dtd (linked the dtd version 5.2, shouldn't have changed much though)
Also have a look here
Liferay docu
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Pulse consumption in Canadian adults influences nutrient intakes.
Pulses (dry beans, peas, lentils) are nutrient-dense foods that are recommended as good choices in either the vegetable or meat and alternative food groups in Canada's Food Guide. To examine the prevalence and the effect of pulse consumption on nutrient intake in Canadian adults ( ≥ 19 years), we analysed cross-sectional data (n 20,156) from the 2004 Canadian Community Health Survey, Cycle 2·2. Participants were divided into non-consumers and quartiles of pulse intake. Sample weights were applied and logistic regression analysis was used to explore the association of nutrient intakes and pulse consumption, with cultural background, sex, age and economic status included as covariates. On any given day, 13 % of Canadians consume pulses, with the highest consumption in the Asian population. The pulse intake of consumers in the highest quartile was 294 (se 40) g/d and, compared with non-consumers, these individuals had higher intakes of carbohydrate, fibre and protein. As well, the micronutrient intake of pulse consumers was enhanced, resulting in fewer individuals who were below the estimated average requirement for thiamin, vitamin B6, folate, Fe, Mg, P and Zn, compared with non-consumers. Although pulses are generally low in Na, its intake also was higher in pulse consumers. Among the higher quartiles of pulse consumers, fruit and vegetable intake was one serving higher. These data indicate that pulse consumption supports dietary advice that pulses be included in healthful diets. Further studies elucidating the sources of increased Na in pulse consumers will be necessary so that dietary advice to increase consumption of pulses will maximise their nutritional benefits. |
Comparison of sevoflurane volatile induction/maintenance anaesthesia and propofol-remifentanil total intravenous anaesthesia for rigid bronchoscopy under spontaneous breathing for tracheal/bronchial foreign body removal in children.
Foreign body aspiration is a life-threatening condition, with children under 3 years of age most at risk. This study was designed to compare the clinical characteristics of sevoflurane volatile induction/maintenance anaesthesia (VIMA) and propofol-remifentanil total intravenous anaesthesia (TIVA) for children undergoing rigid bronchoscopy under spontaneous breathing for tracheal/bronchial foreign body removal. Sixty-four children undergoing rigid bronchoscopy were allocated randomly to receive sevoflurane (Group VIMA; n = 32) or propofol-remifentanil (Group TIVA, n = 32) between 2007 and 2009. Respiratory rate, heart rate and mean blood pressure were compared at the time points including baseline level (T 0); laryngoscopy (T lary); insertion of rigid bronchoscope (T bron); 5, 10 and 20 min during procedure (T 5 min, T 10 min, T 20 min); the end of procedure (Tend) and discharge (T dis). Induction time, emergence time, intubating condition scores and the incidence of adverse events were compared. Time for loss of consciousness (Group VIMA 95.6 ± 15.2 s vs. Group TIVA 146.2 ± 26.9 s, P < 0.05), time of Bispectral Index value decreased to 40 (Group VIMA 115.3 ± 16.5 s vs. Group TIVA 160.4 ± 25.8 s, P < 0.05) and emergence time (Group VIMA 10.5 ± 2.6 min vs. Group TIVA 16.9 ± 3.1 min, P < 0.05) in Group VIMA were significantly shorter than those in Group TIVA. Intubating condition scores between the two groups were comparable (8.1 ± 0.9 in Group VIMA vs. 8.1 ± 1.0 in Group TIVA). The incidence rates of breath holding (Group VIMA 6.25% vs. Group TIVA 31.25%, P < 0.05) and desaturation (Group VIMA 15.63% vs. Group TIVA 37.50%, P < 0.05) in Group VIMA were significantly lower than those in Group TIVA. Heart rate, mean blood pressure and respiratory rate were significantly higher in Group VIMA than in Group TIVA. Compared with propofol-remifentanil TIVA, sevoflurane VIMA provides more stable haemodynamics and respiration, faster induction and recovery and higher incidence of excitement in paediatric patients undergoing tracheal/bronchial foreign body removal under spontaneous breathing. |