Return to Me (6 page)

“So, what kind of information do I share?”

“Basic stuff. You’re sixteen, attend Pelham High School. He’ll be from one of the larger schools in town, so you’ll know his name and face, but not him. Then, based upon what questions he asks, we’ll go from there.”

“I still don’t understand how you’ll know it’s him.”

Another shrug. “Gut instinct. I’ll know him when I see him. That’s about the best answer I can give you. Now, before we get started, do you have a photograph of yourself, something you could send out to lure him in?”

“Yeah, I think so.” A cold chill ran through her bloodstream. Before, when they’d talked about chatting with him, that seemed safe and distant. Sharing her picture with the predator made her uncomfortable.

“You won’t get hurt, I promise.”

She should have known he’d guess her thoughts. “I know. It just seems creepy, sending out your picture to people you don’t know, like you’re advertising yourself.”

“Yep, that’s pretty much the gist of it. Lots of people do it all the time, with no consequences. Unfortunately, you never know when it’s safe and when it’s not.”

Standing, Samara began to tidy up the kitchen. After a Zinger and a doughnut, the sugar zooming through her system required movement. While she finished in the kitchen, Noah went back to the living room to set up his computer.

When she went to check on Noah, she was surprised to see he’d pulled the small desk from the guest room and was already online.

“What do I do?”

Noah went around her and retrieved one of the kitchen chairs. “Come on over here and let’s see what we can find.”

Samara settled beside him and for the next couple of hours sat in amazement. She’d never been one to sit in front of a computer for very long, so visiting chat rooms wasn’t the norm for her. Though aware she kept shaking her head, she couldn’t seem to stop. People said some of the most incredible things to one another. Suggestive, raunchy, silly, and some downright mean. And didn’t these people have spell-check? Her English-teacher father would have a stroke if he saw some of their garbled garbage.

When she gasped at one particularly disgusting comment, Noah glanced over at her. “You going to be able to do this?”

“I know I act shocked. … I am shocked. But this is nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m a social worker, I’ve heard it all. … It’s just …” She shook her head, unable to articulate her dismay. “Don’t these people have anything better to do?”

Noah shrugged. “Probably not. And a lot of these people are legit. Just looking for some conversation, a connection.” He clicked onto another chat room. “Here’s one that three of the girls frequented the most. It draws a lot of younger teens. I tried sending out a few messages a week or so ago and got nothing … but I know he’s still out there.”

The doorbell rang; the groceries had arrived. Noah carried the boxes to the kitchen and Samara unpacked them, noting he’d been true to his word. Fresh veggies, lean meats, and whole-grain bread. Her mother would most definitely approve.

She threw together a salad and turkey sandwiches, making two sandwiches for Noah. When she’d finished, she called out, “Lunch.”

He appeared at the door, looking surprised and uncomfortable. “You don’t have to make meals for me. I can do that myself.”

She grinned and bit into a carrot stick. “You can make dinner.”

“Deal. Hope you like sloppy joes.”

“What?”

“Hey, if I’m cooking, I’m making what I want.”

Already her stomach rebelled at the thought, but she nodded. A deal was a deal.

They ate lunch quickly, each seeming lost in thought. Samara put the dishes in the dishwasher while Noah put away the food in the refrigerator. It was a surprisingly comfortable ease … until he spoke again.

“Samara, we need to talk about what happened in Paris.”

Whirling around to him, Samara could only stare. He was bringing this up now? Why? It would serve no purpose other than to embarrass her.

She forced a cool smile. “I rather like the notion of, what happens in Paris, stays in Paris.”

“But it didn’t stay in Paris, did it?”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re attracted to me.”

There was arrogance and then there was
arrogance
. Forget
sexy
or
mysterious
, this man had mastered arrogance. Did he think she was going to just nod and simper like some kind of idiot? If so, he knew nothing about Samara Lyons. Perhaps it was time he learned.

Her brows raised, she shot him her most challenging look. “You’re attracted to me, too.”

“That’s something I can overcome.”

“Oh, and I can’t?”

“Not what I’m saying at all. You just need to know that what ever attraction there is can’t lead to anything.”

“Thanks for the warning, but you might want to get your facts straight. I was drunk when I came on to you in Paris. You, however, weren’t. And I remember enough about that night to know you were very turned on.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she raised her hand to stop him. “No, you wait. You started this conversation, so let’s finish it. You’ve given me several looks today and let me tell you, not one time did I want to throw myself against you and have my way with you.” Okay, so the last part was a lie, but not any longer. If there was one thing that could make her lose attraction for a man, it was this kind of attitude.

He blew out an exasperated sigh. “You’re taking this the wrong way. I was only—”

“Yeah, you were only trying to warn me off. There’s no need to do that, Noah. You’re an arrogant ass and I find that the least attractive kind of man. You’re off the hook.”

Grabbing her purse and keys, Samara stalked toward the door. “I’ll be back in a little while. The air in here suddenly smells like a cloud of noxious gas.” She slammed the door behind her.

Samara figured she was the second-stupidest person on earth. Noah McCall being the first. After stomping out of her own apartment like a teenage nitwit, she threw herself in her car and enjoyed a five-minute tear-fest. Good cry, but pointless in the end.

Allowing herself one last sniffle, she blew her nose, dried her eyes, and cranked up the car. In her state of mind, having no idea where she was headed was no reason not to drive. Getting away from Noah right now had to be her first priority. When she got to where she was going, then she’d know where she was headed.

She had to give him credit. He’d not only manipulated her into admitting she was attracted to him, but also ensured that she would do everything possible to avoid showing that attraction in the future. Damn, he was good. She had brothers. She knew all the male tricks, and she’d let this one almost get past her. If she weren’t so pissed at him, she’d be applauding. Noah might be one of the best manipulators she’d ever seen.

Slamming on her brakes as the line of cars in front of her braked, Samara hissed a curse. Maybe driving around Birmingham on a Friday afternoon wasn’t the best way to overcome anger. Now stuck on Highway 280, she had only herself to blame.

Taking her life in her hands, she turned on her blinker and swooped behind a pickup truck, ignoring the blast of a horn from behind her. Keeping her signal on, she turned into the Summit shopping center.

Finding a parking spot in the middle of the giant lot, Samara started to walk. Spending the next few hours window-shopping was a good way to work off the explosive emotions careening inside her. Samara wasn’t one to buy frivolously. Not only did she not have a job, but spending money on anything other than absolute necessities went against her budget-minded conscience. So it was with complete dismay and not a little anger that she found herself the proud owner of a new rug for her kitchen, three scented candles, two refrigerator magnets, and a rolling pin. None of these things was a necessity, though if Noah continued to be such a jerk, the rolling pin might come in handy.

She threw her bags in the trunk of her car and got in. Her stomach took a nosedive when she thought about what waited for her at home. Sloppy joes for dinner? She had a good idea that greasy delicacy would be coming right back up if she attempted one. Whipping into a parking spot at one of her favorite restaurants, Samara grabbed her purse. She was on no certain time schedule. After a nice, relaxing dinner, she’d head home. She had plenty of time before they started looking for the creep in the chat rooms. She anticipated needing as much good nutrition and strength as she could possibly get. Not only to do this job, but also to handle Noah.

After allowing his manipulation earlier, what was she going to do about it? The man thought he could control what was happening between them but he’d yet to face Samara Lyons doing what she did best. Fighting with her own kind of manipulation … the God’s honest truth.

As she headed to a table for one, soft, muted music floated above her, easing her tension. A smile sneaked up on her that she couldn’t repress. Noah McCall might well have met his match.

Noah paced through the small apartment, waiting for Samara to return. He’d known his words would make her angry—that’s why he’d said them. She was right, he was the one who’d been sending out signals, but she’d responded in kind. That couldn’t happen again. They had a job to do and once it was over, he’d be gone. The last thing he needed was to have her pining after him.

He ignored the small bite of conscience for hurting her feelings. Better now than later. He also chose to ignore the voice inside him that whispered that it might not just be her who would get hurt. Those kinds of feelings had been beaten out of him in a hell no one left alive even knew about.

Had he gone too far with her? She’d looked, in equal parts, angry and hurt, when she’d stomped out the door. He was so used to hardened, thick-skinned LCR operatives, he’d forgotten that Samara wasn’t used to the gruff, sometimes cruel ways of his world. Had he hurt her tender feelings irreparably and jeopardized this op to boot?

As he prowled through the apartment, he learned even more about Samara Lyons. He’d known she was close to her family, but he was surprised by the number of photographs, scattered on her walls and every available surface, of people she wasn’t related to … or at least he didn’t think they were related. She obviously had a lot of friends. The stark differences between him and Samara couldn’t have been more apparent.

Her apartment was filled with memories of people she loved. His apartment had no personal pictures or mementos. He had expensive art on his walls, an extensive library filled with rare books and hundreds of DVDs and CDs. And if he never went back, he wouldn’t miss a thing.

Samara’s apartment felt like a home. Soft, colorful chenille pillows decorated her sofa and chairs. The furniture was comfortable and had a broken-in feeling to it, as if she might have bought it secondhand.

Celeste, his decorator and occasional lover, had done his apartment. He’d given her carte blanche to do what she wanted. Since it was just a place he slept, he barely paid attention to his surroundings.

Looking at what Samara had done to her apartment in the short amount of time she’d lived here, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Social workers didn’t make a lot of money. Her parents weren’t wealthy and her background wasn’t one of privilege. Samara had worked for everything she had. That, to Noah, spoke volumes about the kind of person she was. Strong, self-reliant, and determined. Admirable in every way.

A stomach growl reminded him it was time for dinner. With little enthusiasm for what he’d originally looked forward to, Noah browned the ground beef and prepared his sloppy joes. Piling three meat-filled buns onto his plate, he grabbed the potato chips from the cabinet and a soda from the fridge. Sitting at the kitchen table, he wolfed his meal down in grim silence.

His mother had made him sloppy joes every Friday night. She had known they were his favorite and Friday was the only night she could safely do something for him without inviting his father’s wrath.

His father, Farrell Stoddard, had a weekend routine no one dared screw around with. On Friday, after a long day of fishing or hunting, he went carousing, bedded as many women as he could get it up for, and drank himself into a stupor. He’d come home after daybreak on Saturday and sleep all day. Saturday night he’d do what he called his “God-given right” and rape and beat his wife repeatedly. Come early Sunday morning, he’d stand in the pulpit in front of all of God’s sinners and preach a fiery, mind-numbing sermon, demonizing everyone from the government, to other races, to women. Sunday nights, after church, he’d discipline his children in “the way the Lord advised him.” Which, to Farrell, meant beating the shit out of them until they could no longer stand.

His mother left when he was ten and Noah had been glad. Not because he didn’t love her, but because he knew she would finally be safe. He’d tried numerous times to protect her, but always ended up getting beaten instead and he greatly feared the beatings she received were much worse because of his interference.

One day, without a hint of warning, she hugged him and his brother, tears streaming down what used to be a pretty face, and whispered she would come back for them. He’d stood in their barren dirt yard and watched her walk down the black-tarred road. Thin, stooped, and old beyond her years. He had known he’d never see her again. Noah had never felt such loneliness as he had at that moment. Of course, she never returned. And by the time he’d found her, years later, it had been too late.

When Farrell discovered his wife had left him and he couldn’t find her, he returned home and beat both boys until they bled. Then he’d left for three days. He and his brother, Mitchell, lay in separate beds, alternately crying and cursing. Mitchell did what he always had done. He blamed his mother for everything and defended his father.

Noah could barely move. His father always made sure he got the worst of the beatings. Mitchell was his favorite. He might beat the hell out of his brother, but he always made sure Noah got the brunt. Though he and Mitch were identical twins, nothing besides their looks was similar, including their father’s feelings for them.