Kept (40 page)

Dillan took a step forward. “That’s ’cause I’m actually human.”

Miska held up a hand. “Mark, really. We’re just friends.”

“Right. Which is why you two were out here yesterday too.”

Dillan stilled.

Mark snorted. “Got no reply, do you? Because you know I caught you being all friendly. What happened when you went inside? After that hug? Tell me that.”

Miska smiled. “We looked at books.”

He laughed. “Come
on
, Miska. Be a little creative here. You looked at books? How dumb do you think—”

“Hey.” He’d gladly get into a fight with this guy, if just to shut his mouth. “She’s telling the truth. We’re not a couple.”

“I see. Friends with benefits. So I was the sucker who had to pay for it—”

Dillan got in his face. “Leave, Scheider.”

The guy stepped forward, his chest bumping Dillan’s. “That a threat? Assault’s a crime, bro.”

Miska tugged Dillan back. “What do you want, Mark?”

“You.” He shrugged. “That’s all. I haven’t seen you in weeks. I’m going crazy. Send this loser packing and give me ten minutes.”

“You just called me a prostitute. Why would I—”

“Technically you were.” He held up his hands. “I’m not saying that’s how I viewed you, but if the details were to get out, that’s how the law would see it.”

This scum. “Blackmail’s a crime too.”

Scheider grinned. “Then we’ve all got stuff to hide, don’t we? Listen, Miska, you and me—we struggled because Darcie was between us. Don’t let Sir Trips-A-Lot get between us too.”

How he’d love to lay this guy out. He bit his tongue and waited for Miska’s response.

Instead she kept quiet, eyeing Mark. She wasn’t… considering him, was she?

Scheider reached for her hand.

Miska jerked away.

He jammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about you. But this guy—” He jerked his head at Dillan. “I can’t stand seeing you with him. It’s wrong.”

“No.” Her voice was concrete. “You and I were wrong. We never should have—” Her face twisted, and she covered her mouth, eyes shut, forehead crumpling.

Dillan released his breath as she struggled.

The old Miska would never have turned Mark down, even if he had called her a prostitute. How clearly he remembered her crying over him, even after Mark had left her for Kendall to abuse.

She wasn’t that woman anymore. Not even close.

And suddenly he couldn’t quite breathe for the beauty of the moment. It was like she was being… remade right in front of him. And it was far more magnificent a thing than he’d ever realized. Far, far more amazing.

He touched her elbow. “You want to go?”

She pulled herself up and shook her head. “In a minute.”

Mark smirked.

“How did she die, Mark?”

The words destroyed his smile. He blinked at her. “How? Just—an accident. Something she ate that had peanut stuff in it.”

Peanut stuff?

“What about her EpiPen?”

“It was damaged. Had gotten hot, I guess.”

She nodded. “So she called 911?”

His jaw clenched. “What are you getting at?”

“Some people think it’s odd she wasn’t able to get help.”

“Yeah, well, she had asthma.”

“Which means?”

“It makes the reaction much more severe, much faster.” Mark ducked his head. “She didn’t have time to get help.”

Miska crossed her arms again, shoulders hunched. What was she thinking? And what was Mark thinking, now that she’d asked him if he’d killed his wife? What would he say if he knew they all suspected?

Mark glanced his way. “You find this funny, Foster?”

His name on Scheider’s tongue—the guy remembered his name?

Scheider took a step closer. “You think you’ve won? Think you’ve got her wrapped up? Let me tell you something.” He jabbed his finger into Dillan’s chest.

Dillan smacked it away. Stood his ground.

“This isn’t over. You think you can sweet-talk Miska into your bed, but you can’t. Got it?”

Another finger jab.

Dillan knocked it away again. “Shut up, Scheider.”

“She and me—there’s too much history—”

The finger came again. Dillan stepped into it, grabbed Scheider’s wrist, and yanked it down.

Scheider’s other fist flew at him.

“No!” Miska jumped between them.

Mark’s fist grazed her scalp.

“Miska!”

She staggered into Dillan.

He cradled her against him, sending Mark a look of hate. “You idiot.”

Mark hovered over her. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that for you.”

She pushed herself up.

Dillan held her arm, watched her closely.

But she looked strong and steady. “I want you to leave.”

Scheider took a step closer. “I know that was stupid—”

“Mark, we’re over. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but you need to leave.”

His features twisted. “We’re not over. We can’t—”

She grabbed his hand, silencing him. “I’m sorry.”

He swallowed, staring at her hand over his. “I love you. I know you loved me.”

Her mouth curved, but there was no pleasure there. “It wasn’t love, Mark. Love doesn’t do what we did. I get that now.” She stepped back. “Good-bye. I wish you the best.”

Scheider blinked at her.

Miska turned to Dillan, her eyes clear, her voice quiet but strong. “Let’s go.”

Gladly.

They turned away.

“What if you had something to do with it?”

Miska stopped and looked back. “With what?”

“Darcie’s death. The police are looking for someone to pin it on. Maybe you wanted her gone. What about that?”

What was this moron doing? Dillan stepped toward him. “You’re saying she was murdered?”

Mark glared.

Miska grabbed Dillan’s arm. “I’m sorry your wife is gone, Mark.”

Dillan let her turn him around and fell into step beside her. But he needed to know and looked over his shoulder.

The space beneath the trees was empty. Scheider was gone, as if he’d never been there.

Dillan glanced at Miska. If only he never
had
been there.

What if you had something to do with it?

“Miska? Miska.” Dillan pulled her to a stop.

They were on the southern end of their block. How had they gotten there?

“Is your head okay?”

Her head?

“Where Mark hit you.” His eyes betrayed his concern. “You haven’t said a word since we left him.”

“My head’s fine.” Cars and buses flew by. “I’m sorry for what he said.”

“What’d he say?”

“You know. About us.”

“Oh. Well. I’m not broken up about it, so don’t you be either.” He nudged her. “Okay?”

Nice of him to make light of it, but his words didn’t touch the guilt burning inside. All those months she’d spent hassling Mark to make a decision—she’d never meant for him to kill Darcie. Or his child.

She would never have thought it of him. Never.

“Come on, Miska. We know the truth.”

The truth?

“We haven’t done what he said.”

“Oh. Right.” Their building’s entrance called her. “We did kiss. Once.”

Dillan didn’t respond.

They reached the revolving doors, Dillan gesturing, as usual, for her to go first, his eyes avoiding hers.

The doorman nodded hello as they entered the elevator bank.

Miska stepped inside a waiting elevator and pressed the eighteen.

Dillan followed. He still didn’t look at her, even though he had to know she was watching him.

The elevator rose.

She moved before him, and he finally met her gaze. “Well?” she asked.

He kneaded the back of his neck. “I apologized for that.”

“I didn’t want an apology, Dillan. I didn’t want you to think it was a mistake.”

“Even though it was?”

“It was not.” She laughed out her hurt. “Don’t you ever think about it?”

He shook his head. “No. Never.”

Never?

He looked away.

Liar. The way he’d kissed her again and again, the way he’d held her close—how could he not think about it? She was getting warm, just remembering. “Are you telling the truth?”

He heaved a sigh and shot his gaze to the ceiling. “Can we forget about it?”

The elevator stopped. “If it meant that little to you.” Behind her came the sound of the doors opening. “But I’d love to see how you kiss a woman when you mean it.”

Dillan’s gaze flew past her, his skin flushing.

Miska turned. Adrienne stood in front of the open doors, eyebrows arched.

“Adrienne.” Miska forced a smile. “What are you doing here?”

Dillan brushed by.

“I came to see you.” Adrienne pointed after him. “But if I’m interrupting…”

Dillan halted. “You’re not,” he snapped, his eyes dark. “She’s all yours.” He vanished down the hallway.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” Miska closed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Nothing? You were talking about kissing. You got something going on with him?”

Miska ground her teeth together, fighting the urge to stomp her foot. “For the last time, no. I have absolutely nothing going on with him.”

“Yikes, girl. Sor-ree.”

“Adrienne, what do you need?”

“To talk to you. Privately.”

Miska sighed. “Come on then.”

They turned down the hallway. Dillan wasn’t there.

“How’s the editing going?”

“It’s going.”

“Have you replaced Relentless?”

“No.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Why?”

“Because I have an offer for you.”

Miska set her keys on the island and eased onto a stool. “I’m listening.”

Adrienne pulled a manila envelope from her bag. She opened it and slid out a sheaf of paper with rows of black text. It looked an awful lot like…

The pages met her hands, the words springing to life—Adrienne’s publishing house named as the publisher, Miska Tomlinson named as the author. “A contract?”

“For two books.” Adrienne’s heels clinked against the rungs of the barstool as she seated herself. “We want the entire blog with additional content. As a book. Details about you and the men filled in. We think it will sell well.”

Miska flipped to the third page of the contract and scanned the dates and financial figures. The advance showed their high expectations. For both books. “I don’t understand. Why my blog?”

“Because of the attention it’s received since SportsCenter featured it.”

She flipped through the rest of the pages.

“Paul, our acquisitions editor, saw it on SportsCenter and read it. He’s the one who showed me the clip. He raved about it—thought it had great potential—but the others didn’t. So he’s spent time accumulating data on how many people are reading the thing.”

People still read it?

“You don’t know? It was trending on Twitter for a week. I told you to put some analytics on it. We could have had this to you sooner.”

She flipped back to the first page, rereading the words that weren’t quite connecting. “So you want the blog turned into a book?”

“Paul wants every blog entry included and expanded on, plus life in between.”

But she’d written about Dillan. Had made fun of him. “I don’t know, Aid—”

Adrienne held up her hands. “You’re in shock. It’s a lot to take in. But don’t say no. It’s a good deal.”

Miska flipped back to the terms. Why so good? Were that many people still talking about what she’d written?

“We’d like you to come in and meet with Paul and Kelly, our publisher. We’ll go over what we’re looking for.”

She set the contract down. “What have you told them?”

“Not much. Just expanded on what you wrote in the blog. You know.” Adrienne flicked Miska’s knee. “That blog entry on Dillan—Paul loved it. He has it up on his corkboard, right there in the center. It was one of the first things he showed everyone. He wants more of that.”

She closed her eyes. “Adrienne.”

“You know it’s funny. Dillan won’t care.”

She pressed her fingers against her lips. He did care. “What’s this about a second book?”

“We want the full story on you and… and Mark.”

Her hand fell to her lap. “You told them about Mark?”

“The deal wouldn’t have been this good otherwise—”

“You told them about
Mark?
And Kendall?” She slid off the stool and stormed away, fingers clenching her hair. “Did you tell them Dillan’s name too?”

“Of course not. Dillan doesn’t matter—”

“Yes, he does!”

“I mean to them, Misky. He’s not famous. Mark is. It’s his name that matters.”

How could Adrienne? “You had no right to tell them. They’re strangers. They have no right to know my business—”

“Miska.” Adrienne stepped toward her, palms out. “Miska. Listen. Please. I did this for you.”

She snorted. “Really.”

“It’s coming out. It is. This story with Mark—it’s about to explode. Whether you like it or not, your name’s going to be out there.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

Adrienne blew out a breath. “We have a contact in Milwaukee’s police department. They believe he killed his wife.”

No.

“Right now they’re getting their ducks lined up, but it’s a matter of time. And too many people know about you and Mark—”

“How did he kill her? He wasn’t even there.”

Adrienne sighed. “Misky.”

“
Tell
me.”

Adrienne ran her thumb over her nails. “There was peanut oil in her salad dressing.”

“I thought peanut oil didn’t cause the same reaction as peanuts.”

“This was cold-pressed oil. Which would cause an allergic reaction.”

“So the oil got in there during packaging—”

“The bottle was half empty.”

Miska’s eyes squeezed closed. “So someone added it after…” Her throat tightened.

Mark had killed his wife. For her—because of her. She’d caused a woman and child to die—

She sank to the floor, her head in her hands. No. No no no.

Adrienne grabbed her shoulders. “Miska.”

The tears wouldn’t stop. She shook her head. “It’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not. Not unless you told him to kill her.”

“I told him he had to choose! Me or her, Adrienne. That’s what I told him. Me or her. And he killed her.”