Dark Hope (34 page)

She paused one last time, weighing whether or not she should say what she was thinking. She decided it was time, high time, she spoke her mind as far as Don Carmichael was concerned.

“You better not be hiding her,” she added, her voice rough from fear and anger and exhaustion. “You better not be hiding her, because I will bring the book down on you. I will make sure they know every crazy idea running around inside that head of yours. And I will make sure you never, ever see your daughter again.”

She hung up the phone, bowing her head and leaning up against the wall. How had it come to this? After all these years, all the pain and effort she had gone to, how had it come to this?

One solitary tear trickled down her cheek. She dashed it away and shook her head.

“Get it together, Carmichael,” she whispered to herself. She looked about her, wondering how she had made her way down the dark cul-de-sac and come to be standing in the middle of her kitchen. Then, squaring her shoulders, she picked up the phone and swiftly dialed a number she knew by heart.

She cleared her voice as she waited through the ringing on the other end of the line. “Clayton, I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but are you in town today?”

She nodded as her managing partner responded.

“Good, I need to see you. In the office. I think Don has kidnapped Hope.”

fourteen

F
or a full ten minutes after Michael left, I simply sat and stared at the hotel phone that rested on the shiny, mirrored bedside table. I could call my mom. I could call my mom and tell her everything, and she could come and rescue me.

At first, I told myself I was waiting to be sure that Michael was really gone. Then, I realized I was waiting because I knew, deep down, that there really was no point. I knew that there was no way out. Even if I reached my mom, we might be gone by the time she—or anyone else she could muster—could get here. And even if she did find me, I still wouldn’t be safe. Until the Key was destroyed, I was still the Bearer. Still the one who would open up the Gates of Heaven to the Fallen Ones.

Still a threat. It was stamped there, the Mark on my neck declaring it for anyone who cared to see.

No, there was no way out, other than the path I was on. A snippet of a Robert Frost poem crept into my mind, a remnant from a
barely remembered English class that seemed oddly appropriate.
The best way out is always through
.

“Right, Henri?” I said out loud, waiting for him to reassure me. But Henri didn’t answer, leaving me to make the decision myself.

I heaved my body off the floor and dragged myself to the closet. A new outfit was hanging right in front of me. Jeans. A T-shirt. And a sweatshirt. I didn’t know if this is what Michael had meant by “getting dressed,” but I was going to beg forgiveness, not ask permission. I snatched the clothes from the closet and went, resigned, into the bathroom to get ready.

A soft knocking at the door woke me up. I fumbled in the cold bathwater as I jolted awake.

“I don’t think even Bathsheba took as long to get ready as you have,” Michael’s voice said, ringing clearly through the door. My sleepy mind fumbled as I tried to come up with a snappy retort, my cheeks hot, only to be cut off by his chuckle. “There’s no rush, but you can come out whenever you’re ready, Hope.”

I looked at the clock. I’d been in the bathroom for an hour and a half. The water had felt luxurious, stripping away the grit and grime of our desert hike. As I’d relaxed into its warmth, I’d let down my guard and slipped into the first deep rest I’d had since the night Lucas had tricked me with his phone call.

“I’ll be right out,” I said ruefully. I didn’t really want to leave my sanctuary; I was afraid of which Michael I’d find when I crossed the threshold, my friend or my kidnapper. But I didn’t have a choice. I sloshed my way out of the tub, wrapping myself in the big fluffy towel and quickly patting myself dry.

I threw on the T-shirt and jeans I’d brought in with me and
ran a comb through my hair. I looked at my reflection and made a face. The sunburn on my nose and cheeks contrasted against the bruises on my neck, which were turning a nasty shade of purple. I had white rings around my eyes from my sunglasses, and with my sopping wet hair, I bore a distinct resemblance to a waterlogged Chihuahua. Nice.

Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it now, anyway. I squared my shoulders, preparing myself for whatever Michael could throw at me, and opened the bathroom door.

“Happy birthday, Hope,” Michael said softly from across the room.

I walked through the door and caught my breath. Michael had opened the drapes, baring the night sky to us. We were far from the neon of the Strip, but a carpet of twinkling lights spread below us and up to the mountains. Michael had dimmed the room lights so that nothing would overshadow the view. In the middle of the room, an intimate table for two had been set with candles, china, and crystal.

Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a look of amusement on his face as he watched my reaction. “Do you like it?” he asked intently. My heart gave a little thump.

“Like it? I love it,” I breathed, still taking it all in.

His body seemed to uncoil with relief, and he walked toward me, breaking into a grin as he came to my side.

“I thought you deserved a special dinner after all you’ve been through. Especially for your sixteenth birthday.” He casually placed his arm around my shoulders and leaned in to peck me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Hope.”

I felt my knees weaken as the warmth of his breath tickled at my ear, intensely aware of his light grip on my arm.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” I answered, leaning into him.

He tensed and pushed me away before removing his hands. “The phone call from your mother certainly helped.”

I stepped aside so I could pretend I was the one who’d pushed away. “I don’t know how you had the time to plan this,” I said, speaking quickly to cover up my embarrassment at his rejection.

“The magic of concierge service,” he said drily. “They do a good job here. Of course, the fact that every time you were asleep I went and dropped a hundred grand playing craps didn’t hurt.”

I felt my eyes bugging out as he mentioned the staggering sum of money. “Just how much money have you lost since we’ve been here?”

He shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly as he tried to avoid the question. “Enough to make me very popular with the management of several hotels, plus a few Chinese foreign nationals.”

I punched him playfully in the arm. “You aren’t getting away with it that easily. Seriously, tell me how much.”

He cocked an eyebrow as he decided whether or not to tell me. “A couple million,” he coolly admitted. “And I’m sure there will be more.”

My head was spinning. “So, you’re buying your way into the syndicate?”

“And into a few niceties here at our hotel, yes.”

“And you’re doing this how, again?”

He bowed neatly. “Angel financing, at your service.”

I shook my head, still unable to believe it. “It just shows up when you need it. Like that paperwork?” He nodded, so I continued. “What happens to it all when you leave again? Does it just disappear from their till, as if you’d never existed?”

He laughed out loud. “Leave it to you to ask something like that. In truth, I do not know—I’ve never stuck around to find out. Come on, let’s eat.”

He took my hand and led me to my chair, pulling it out for me and helping me to settle in. I turned to thank him again and caught my breath. The contrast in his appearance after all the time he’d posed as my father only made it harder. My body trembled as I scanned the long, lean lines of his muscular torso and legs. He was dressed in an old, broken-in pair of jeans and a soft white sweater that clung to every angle as he moved. His blond hair had somehow grown a little longer and was almost shaggy now, one stray lock hanging over his crystalline eyes.

I touched the back of the chair, steadying myself as I smiled up at him. With a flourish, he placed a napkin across my lap.

“Bon appétit,” he murmured as he pulled away. I flushed, unable to speak.

I watched as he uncovered the dishes set before us. I looked with dismay as I stared at the beady eyes and claws of a huge red lobster.

“I can’t eat that,” I stuttered, panicking. “I don’t know how to eat lobster.”

I looked up from the beady eyes to see Michael silently laughing at me.

I flushed red. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s not funny,” I pouted, pretending to be more hurt than I was, discomfited as Michael’s keen eyes dissected my every reaction. “I’m not as, as experienced and worldly as you. Besides, it’s disgusting.”

“Oh, Hope,” he teased. “There’s a first time for everything. It’s easy, I promise. I’ll even show you how.”

I crossed my arms and looked at him skeptically.

He raised one wicked brow at me and grinned again, his dimple puckering. “Based on my observation of your eating habits in the school cafeteria, I thought this might be the case. Plan B is in the warmer next to your knees.”

I reached under the tablecloth and unlatched the little door I found there. I pulled out the plate that had been hidden away and breathed in the aroma of a cheeseburger and fries.

“Now this is more like it,” I said, grinning from ear to ear as I made room on the table for my dinner. “I feel like I could eat a dozen of these.” I twirled a fry in ketchup and popped it in my mouth.

“Such a waste,” Michael said, feigning horror.

“Hey, it’s my birthday, right?”

“Indeed, it is. And, as they say, to each his own. But if you don’t mind, I’ll stick to the lobster. Manna gets so boring after a while. Everyone should get a chance to have lobster every now and then.”

He plopped one of the red beasts onto his plate and started in on the base of the claw, wrapping his big fingers around it and breaking it free with a gentle twist. I watched his sure movements, entranced.

“Some people think the claws have the most delicious meat,” he said, “but you have to work for it. The most succulent meat is tucked away in these tiny crevices.” He dug a tiny morsel out and dipped it in the drawn butter. “Here,” he offered, holding it up to me in his fingertips. “Taste.”

Obediently, I dipped my chin and nibbled the proffered taste. I closed my eyes, letting the blend of sweet and salty play across my tongue. An involuntary moan of pleasure escaped from my lips.

Michael chuckled and my eyes flew open. “I knew you’d like it,” he said.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be so sweet,” I answered. “It smells so stinky.”

He roared with laughter at me and I blushed, thinking I’d shown how unsophisticated I really was. But he was looking at me appreciatively over the candlelight.

“That’s what I love about you, Hope. You aren’t afraid to say what you really think. There’s no pretense, no attempt to be someone you really aren’t. That’s rare. Especially in these times.”

I looked down at my napkin, fumbling with it while I waited for some witty answer to pop into my head, but nothing came.

Why was he being so kind to me? Why now, after everything that had happened?

He’s lulling you back into trusting him
, Henri interrupted.
And it appears to be working, I might add
.

I closed my mind to Henri’s obvious answer. My heart didn’t want to hear it. Tonight, I just wanted it to be me and Michael, friends, like we had been before Lucas and my Mark complicated things.

Friends, I sternly reminded myself, when I caught him smiling across the table at me and my heart went
thump
.

“You missed me opening up the tail,” he admonished, his dimpled smile making my heart race once more. “What were you thinking about?”

I blushed. “I was thinking how nice this is. To be back to normal. If I can call it that. Thank you for changing back to yourself. It’s been weird being with you when you’re pretending to be my dad.”

He grimaced. “Trust me, I don’t particularly relish going around as an overweight, middle-aged guy who still thinks Members Only is the height of chic.”

“Be nice,” I warned, playfully throwing my napkin at him. We laughed out loud, and I was surprised at how good it felt to laugh with him.