The Street Where She Lives

Her eyes were huge on his. “And…?”

“And during his extradition to the States, where he would have stood trial for bilking a bunch of rich Americans out of their spending cash, he escaped.”

“And…?”

He smiled grimly. Emily hadn’t been just randomly blessed with brains, she’d gotten them from this woman sitting before him, her eyes sharp on his. “And now he’s vanished.”

“And wanting your head on a platter.”

“Not mine exactly…just those I care about.”

She went utterly still. “My God, Ben…” She stared at him for another breath, then pushed to her feet with her cane. When he tried to help her, she shoved his hands away, stared at him some more, then paced away from him the best she could. Thinking. Putting it all together.

When she whipped back, he thought he was ready.

“So you didn’t come here to South Village for me, for this…” She gestured to her casts and cane. “You came out of some misguided notion you had to protect Emily.”

“And you.”

“But why would Asada think you cared about me?”

“Because I do,” he said tightly.

Again she froze. Stared at him with numbed horror. “The accident.”

“Yeah. Only I don’t think it was much of an accident at all. God, Rach…” How to convey the guilt, the sorrow, the regret? The murderous rage swimming inside him without an outlet? He went to her, took her shoulders in his hands, felt her trembling. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I’m so sorry.” She let out a sort of choked sob that stabbed at him. “If it could have been me instead,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I’d do it in a heartbeat. Anything, anything, to have kept you safe.”

Her eyes filled and she covered her mouth. “It could have been Emily. Our baby-”

Unable to hold back in the face of that, he slid his arms around her, holding her close. For a moment, she clung to him, and he lost himself in the familiar feel of her, her scent and shape beneath his hands feeling so overwhelmingly like…home.

Then with shocking strength she once again shoved free. “I thought you were home because…that you…” She let out an embarrassed sound and covered her face. “I want you to go,” she said from behind her fingers.

“I can’t.”

“Won’t, you mean.”

“Damn right. I’m not budging until Asada is found.”

She dropped her hand from her face and stared at him with those big, expressive, hurting eyes, making him hate himself all over again as he watched emotion after emotion chase across her face. “I knew there had to be something tying you here,” she said quietly. “Something more than us.”

He hadn’t imagined he could hurt more than he did, but her words twisted the knife. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words pathetically inadequate.

She turned away. “So am I. Just promise me something.”

“Anything,” he said rashly.

“The minute it’s safe, you’re gone.”

He stared at her slim spine and all the courage and strength shimmering around her like a beacon, and closed his eyes. Then he gave her the words that would seal their fate, words he’d wanted to utter more than anything, so he had no idea why they stuck in his throat. “I promise. Soon as it’s safe, I’m gone.”

IN BRAZIL, night came suddenly, viciously, without warning. One moment the birds were singing, the bees humming, then the next-utter and complete black silence.

Manuel had always loved that, but now he dreaded the shifting of the clock, hated when the sun fell out of the sky, because it left him hiding out like a mole until morning’s light.

There was so little left for him here. Only a few people hustling around to do his bidding, securing the compound. Just a few minions who had nowhere else to go otherwise he was quite certain he’d be completely alone.

Reduced to this, hiding out, depending on others for everything, was slowly driving him mad. Night or day, he had nothing to do but think and torture himself with what-ifs.

What if he’d killed Ben Asher before his story had hit?

What if he hadn’t been caught unaware and jailed before he could stash away his assets? What if he hadn’t had to spend so much to bribe his way back through the jungle to his compound?

What if, what if…

The need for revenge was a burning hunger that drove him to live each day. He would rebuild. He’d once again have people eating out of the palm of his hand and paying for the privilege. And he would have his empire back. He’d be even bigger this time, and no one would get the best of him ever again.

No one.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BEN STOOD on the balcony watching the night go by. He’d figured that this would be preferable to being in bed where all he’d been able to do was stare at the ceiling.

But being out here turned out to be no different because watching the people winding their way through the streets, all he could really see was Rachel’s face as the truth had sunk in about why he’d come back.

He wondered if, when he’d been in the Brazilian jungle taking pictures of Asada’s compound, had he known what havoc his article would wreak, would he still have done it? Would he still have snapped those pictures and written down all the facts for the world to see?

Rachel’s silent and strong grief tonight had nearly brought him to his knees. Watching her piece together the puzzle, seeing her understand what danger he’d put her and Emily in had been nothing short of torture.

Grimacing, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, but nothing changed. He was still scum. He’d still brought an element of his world to his daughter and the woman who’d once brought him more joy than anyone else ever had.

Pulled by a sudden overpowering need to see them, touch them, assure himself they were safe, he moved inside. He died a thousand deaths when he opened Rachel’s bedroom door and found her bed empty. She wasn’t in the bathroom, wasn’t in her studio, though Mel was, fast asleep on the couch against the far wall.

Palms damp, heart cold, he ran to Emily’s room. At what he found in her bed made him sag against the wall in weak-kneed relief, though he didn’t deserve that relief.

Her daughter was there, sideways, covers tossed to the floor, arms and legs sprawled wide.

Safe.

Next to her, in the smallest corner of the bed, turned on her good side, facing Emily, was Rachel.

Also safe.

How was it possible just looking at them made him want to smile and cry and run like hell all at the same time?

It took a long moment for his heart to settle. He tugged the covers back over her and, unable to resist, bent close to press his lips to her temple. In her sleep, she snuffled, mumbled something inarticulate, then sighed back into a deep slumber.

God, she was sweet. And his. He moved to Rachel’s side, covering her as well, yet he didn’t dare touch her. She was sweet, too. So sweet. But not his. She never would be; his own actions had guaranteed that.

He didn’t leave the room for a long time, wanting to watch over these two pieces that made up his heart. Nothing, nothing, would hurt them. He’d willingly die seeing to it.

RACHEL HAD DEALT with a lot of blows in her life. In fact, dealing was a particular forte of hers. So with little fanfare, she handled the new nightmares since her little “date” with Ben two nights ago. She handled the shock and