What Dreams May Come (10 page)

Mitch looked at her very intently,
then
said, "Why does it matter, Kelly?"

She realized she'd overreacted, that she shouldn't be so upset about this. Why would he have done it? What would be the point? But someone
had
sent her the newspaper clipping about Mitch. And someone had obviously told Mitch's investigator where she could be found. Something cold touched her spine.

"Kelly?"

Abruptly, she pulled her hand away from his, unable to bear the contact.
A connection, the closing of a loop.
What was the loop, she wondered.
Time?
A sequence of events she was caught up in and condemned to repeat endlessly? And, if so, what would take him away from her this time?

"Kelly, what the hell's wrong?" He reached out to grasp her shoulders. "Have you been hiding all these years? Running from something?"

With a wrenching effort she managed to drag all the scurrying fears back into their dark room and slam the door on them. Nerves, that's all, she told herself. That's all it was. The approaching storm was making her imagine things, making her tense and jumpy. And even if she wasn't, this time she couldn't run. That had already been decided.

She looked up at
Mitch,
her face composed again, eyes steady. Ignoring the last few questions, she said, "I just think it's odd, that's all. Just like I think
it's
odd your father left the house to me."

Mitch stared down at her for a moment, his mouth a grim slash. "Boyd told me he thought you were running, but I didn't want to believe him."

"Boyd?"

"My investigator."

In control again, she merely nodded. "Oh." She stepped back, shrugging off his hands,
then
glanced up at the leaden sky. "We'd better get back. The storm's almost here. And the
tide's
turned." The last observation, she thought, was strangely apt.

She began heading back toward the house. Without a word, but with no change in his dark expression, Mitch followed.

Evan Boyd let the binoculars fall to hang around his neck. He frowned as he stood in the concealing shadows of trees just outside the boundaries of the old Mitchell property. He'd been at this game too long to allow himself even a pang of guilt at observing others without their knowledge, but he had felt a bit uncomfortable watching the two on the beach. The emotional intensity between them was almost visible, so much so that
he felt he'd intruded on a moment of extreme privacy.

He wasn't, officially, still working for John Mitchell. The morning his former employer had arrived in Portland and had heard the information about Kelly Russell, Boyd had received his final pay, a staggering bonus, and, despite Mitchell's obvious need to go to his lady immediately, sincere thanks.

It was what had kept Boyd in the area of Portland; having watched Mitchell put himself back together over the months, he had gotten rather more personally involved in this case than was usual for him, and he'd wanted to find out how it ended. And despite the fact that the job he'd been hired to do was done, he was still nagged by the feeling that something was wrong.

Now, having seen what had looked like the beginning of a confrontation on the beach that the lady had cut short, Boyd was sure of it. She was scared—and not of John Mitchell. She had the kind of command over herself that was born only from the deepest animal instincts of self-preservation.

He looked through the trees at the house just barely visible from his position. A big place; he'd nosed around and found out that a pretty good electronic security system protected the building itself, but the grounds were wide open and vulnerable. And he knew only too well that if somebody wanted to get inside the house, they could do it.

Assuming, of course, that the possibility of some kind of physical attack was what the lady was afraid of. And that was most likely; she didn't look the type to be shaken easily, so if someone was threatening her, she'd have to feel pretty damn sure the threats weren't empty ones.

The question was, who? Boyd had worked enough domestic cases to figure it was the ex-husband, but he was having trouble coming up with a motive. Kelly Russell had gotten an uncontested divorce and went back to using her maiden name. She hadn't accepted one dime in settlement or alimony, and there had been no children. Her ex was a wealthy man; Mitchell hadn't wanted to know, but Boyd had managed to find out a few facts about Bradford West and the man had no need to hound Kelly, not financially, anyway.

Still, Boyd's gut said it was
West
. And West, who owned a lucrative string of travel agencies, periodically turned managerial duties over to his second in command and disappeared for a few days or a week. Boyd didn't consider it a coincidence that on at least three past occasions the brief vacations closely matched the times when Kelly Russell had picked up and moved. It
had
to be
West
who was after her.

But why?

The private investigator brought the binoculars up to his eyes again and located Mitchell and his lady as they moved along one of the garden pathways to the house. Mitchell looked both strained and grim, and Kelly had the white, still face of a mask. Boyd whistled softly under his breath. Clamp a lid over too many emotions, and sooner or later there was going to be a hell of a bang. The two now going so quietly into the house had more than their fair share, and if they didn't let some of the pressure out soon, one or both of them would shatter into a million pieces.

He didn't want to watch that happen, but there was nothing he could do about it. The only thing he might possibly be able to do for them was to
find out if West was around somewhere and bent on causing trouble. And if that was the case, Boyd had a few contacts in Portland as well as in other places. He just might be able to get something done.

A sudden gust of wind made him shiver and glance up at the heavy gray clouds that seemed to be leaning down on him. Pacific storms could be monsters, and this one rolling in looked as if it had at least a few fangs and claws.

He hated storms.

Kelly didn't mind storms. She hated to feel them approaching, but once they arrived she was fine.
So when the wind began whistling and whining outside just minutes after they came into the house, she could feel some of her tension ease.
But not all of it, because Mitch was too silent, too watchful; there was something in the stony set of his face that told her his breaking point was only a whisper away.

She could have retreated to her office, but didn't. She was trying to nerve herself to tell him the truth; if there was the slightest possibility he was in danger because he was near her, he had to know at least enough to be on his guard. And she had to admit the possibility.

When they came into the house, she went into the kitchen automatically. "This time I'll cook," she said without looking at him. "Is soup okay with you?"

"Fine."
His voice was unnaturally soft.

Kelly kept her eyes on what she was doing as she reached into one of the cabinets for a pot, but said softly, "Take it easy, Mitch. I'm going to tell
you. I just need a few minutes, all right?" She thought he needed the time more than she did, even though she still hadn't decided how much to tell him.

"All right," he said finally. "I'll go build up a fire in the den. We can talk better in there."

She listened as the wind wailed suddenly outside, and agreed.
"Perfect weather for a fire."
She didn't hear him go, but felt his absence.
We're both too wound up,
she acknowledged. Of course, it was barely twenty-four hours since he had reappeared in her life, and the entire situation was leaden with strangeness and too many emotions. It would have been impossible to resolve everything quickly even if they'd been able to try.

Kelly prepared the soup, half listening as the storm intensified outside and rain began pelting the windows. When the light meal was ready, she piled everything on a big tray, and Mitch appeared silently to carry it into the den. He had closed the drapes to shut out visible evidence of the storm's fury, and the room was softly lighted by lamps and the crackling fire.

She started to move toward one of the big chairs, then hesitated and chose instead to curl up at one corner of the couch, her shoes off, warming her cold hands on the soup mug. Mitch joined her there, a careful foot of space between them, and she wondered if he was as conscious of that distance as she was.

The question came a few minutes later, after they'd finished eating. "What are you running from, Kelly?"

"My ex-husband."

Mitch half nodded, as if he'd expected that response despite the way he'd phrased his question. "Why?"

Kelly looked down at the cup of coffee in her hand and thought that it all sounded so melodramatic. The police had made their opinion plain.
"Because he wants to kill me."

Slowly, Mitch leaned forward to set his coffee cup on the table between them and the fireplace. Then he leaned back and half turned to look at her, waiting until she met his gaze. "He threatened to do that?"

She nodded, answering the next question before it could be asked. "And I believe him. He isn't one to make idle threats."

Mitch was frowning, looking more dangerous than she'd ever seen him, the firelight flickering over the black eye patch, his other eye narrowed. "Did you go to the police?"

Kelly laughed hollowly.
"In three separate cities.
But they can't arrest someone for threats, and I can't prove he would do anything more. My word against his, and he's very good at swaying people to believe him." She was still weighing in her mind how much to say, shying violently from the worst of it because she didn't think she could even say it aloud.

"Why does he want to hurt you?" Mitch didn't doubt what she was telling him, he was just finding it difficult to believe that anyone could look at Kelly's beautiful, delicate face, and think of violence.

"That's a more complicated answer." She looked away from him, turning her gaze to the fire.
"Because I left him.
It was a blow to his ego.
Because I made him give me a divorce.
He hates giving in to anyone, being forced to do something he doesn't want to do. But, most of all, because I know something about him that he doesn't want anyone else to know. He likes power, and I took some of his power away by holding a threat over his head."

"What threat?"

"I'd rather not talk about that, Mitch," she said carefully. "It isn't important. What's important is that the threat worked against him enough to get me my freedom, but nothing else. If I went public, it wouldn't stop him. He'd buy off somebody or find some other way out of the mess. Then he'd come after me."

"So you've been running." He watched her intently, saw how she almost flinched. Whatever she'd been at eighteen, Kelly was a strong woman now and she hated running; that, more than anything, told him how real the threat against her was.

"It seemed the only answer. At first I thought he'd get tired of the chase and quit, but not now. I settle into a new city, a new state, and sometimes months go by before I see him standing on a street corner watching me. Or pick up the phone and hear his voice. The first few times I called the police, and when they checked he was blamelessly in Marshall—his hometown in eastern Texas—and had witnesses to say he'd never left. Before I could pack up and move again, my apartment would be trashed, or my car vandalized."

"That didn't impress the police?"

Kelly leaned forward to set her cup on the coffee table,
then
shrugged as she sat back. "No. I was always living in large
cities,
and things like that happen. That's what they told me. I knew Brad had hired people to do his dirty work, but I couldn't prove it. After a while I stopped bothering with the police."

Brad.
The name echoed in his mind, jabbing like a poisoned thorn. What kind of man was this Brad that he could terrorize a woman who had
trusted him enough to marry him? And there was more, Mitch knew that. A knot of pain, a sickening rage grew inside him. Despite her even voice and expressionless face, he knew Kelly was deeply, coldly afraid of her ex-husband, and if she believed in the man's threats, it was simply because he had threatened before, and had acted on his threats.

"Kelly, what did he do to you?" Mitch heard his own harsh voice, and even though he wasn't sure he could bear hearing her answer, he knew that he had to hear it. He saw her flinch, saw her face go taut and her eyes widen as she stared blindly into the fire. Though she didn't move a muscle, he had the vivid impression that she had withdrawn into herself, as if some protective barrier had shattered at his blunt question and now she was trying frantically to hide herself away.

"Leave it alone, Mitch," she whispered.

"I can't." He leaned toward her, taking both her cold hands in his and feeling the tremor that wasn't visible. "And neither can you." He knew his voice was too harsh, but he couldn't do anything about it.

"I don't want to talk about it." Her voice was thready.

"Kelly, you have to." And he had to push this time, had to make her tell him. He didn't want to hear, God, no; just the thought of what must have been done to her made raw and murderous emotions knot inside him until he could hardly breathe. But it was all trapped inside her, memories he could only guess at, and until she let them out there could never be any healing.

"Please, I—"

"He beat you, didn't he?"

She flinched again, at his harsh voice or the bleakness of a small, hard word that meant pain and terror. Then, slowly, her wide eyes reflecting the leaping fires of a private hell, she nodded.

Mitch wanted to hold her, to wrap his arms around her tense, quivering body and take away her pain. But some new instinct told him that she wouldn't be able to tell him about this if he was too close, that if he touched more than her hands she'd break into thousands of pieces.