Nora Roberts - The Hollow

But it was Layla who looked down at him. Layla’s tears spilling onto pale cheeks. It was Layla who said his name once, desperately. Layla who looked into his eyes and said, “Help me. Please help me.”

And Layla who dived off the ledge to die on the street below.

HE WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT WITH LAYLA SAYING his name over and over. The urgency in her voice, the solid grip of her hands on his shoulders pulled him out of the dream and back to the now.

But the terror came with him, riding on the raw and wrenching grief. He locked himself around her, the shape of her, the scent, the rapid beat of her heart. Alive. He hadn’t been too late, not for her. She was alive. She was here.

“Just hold on.” A shudder ripped through him, an echo of that stupefying fear. “Just hold on.”

“I am. I will. You had a nightmare.” While she murmured to him, her hands soothed at the knotted muscles of his back. “You’re awake now. It’s all right.”

Was it? he wondered. Would it ever be?

“You’re so cold. Fox, you’re so cold. Let me get the blanket. I’m right here, just let me get the blanket. You’re shaking.”

She pulled back, yanked up the blanket, then positioned herself so she could rub the warmth back into his arms. In the dim light, her eyes never left his face. “Better? Is that better? I’m going to get you some water.”

“Yeah, okay. Yeah, thanks.”

She scrambled out of bed, darted out of the room. And Fox put his head in his hands. He needed a minute to pull himself together, to push the rest away. The dream had him twisted up, mixing his memories, tying in his fears, his loss.

He’d been too late on that ugly summer night, too busy being the hero. He’d screwed it up, and Carly died. He should have kept her safe. He should’ve made sure of it, should have protected her, above all else. She’d been his, and he hadn’t helped her.

Layla hurried back, knelt on the bed as she pressed the water into his hand. “Are you warm enough now? Do you want another blanket?”

“No. No, I’m good. Sorry about that.”

“You were like ice, and you were calling out.” Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. “I couldn’t wake you up, not at first. What was it, Fox? What did you dream?”

“I don’t-” He started to tell her he didn’t remember, but the lie stuck bitterly in the back of his throat. He’d lied to Carly, and Carly was dead. “I can’t talk about it.” That wasn’t quite the truth either. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

He felt her hesitation, her need to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. “It’s all right now.” Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. “It’s all right. Sleep awhile longer.”

And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.

IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she’d felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn’t block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.

And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He’d called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He’d called out another’s.

Carly.

No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.

She’d let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she’d breach his kitchen and find something reasonably sane to fix him for breakfast.

She slipped on his discarded shirt and out of the room.

In the kitchen, she got a quick jolt. Not from piles of dirty dishes and scattered newspaper. The room was what she thought of as man-clean. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail on the table, counters hastily wiped around countertop appliances.

The jolt came from the addition of a shiny new countertop coffeemaker.

Everything in her went soft toward the point of gooey. He never drank coffee, but he’d gone out and bought a coffeemaker for her-one that had a fresh bean grinder. And when she opened the cupboard overhead, she found the bag of beans.

Could he be sweeter?

She was holding the brown bag, smiling at the appliance when Fox walked in. “You bought a coffeemaker.”

“Yeah. I figured you ought to be able to get your morning fix.”

When she turned, his head was already in the fridge. “Thank you. And just for that I’m going to cook you breakfast. You must have something in here I can morph into actual food.”

She came around the refrigerator door to poke her own head in. When he straightened, stepped back, she saw his face.

“Oh, Fox.” Instinctively she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You don’t look well. You should go back to bed. You’ve got a light schedule today anyway. I can cancel-”

“I’m fine. We don’t get sick, remember?”

Not in body, she thought, but heart and mind were different matters. “You get tired. You’re tired now, and you need a day off.”

“What I need is a shower. Look, I appreciate the breakfast offer, but I don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Go ahead and make your coffee, if you can figure that thing out.”

Whose voice was that? Layla asked herself as he walked away. That cool and distant voice? With careful movements, she put the beans away, quietly closed the cupboard door. Walking back to the bedroom, she began to dress while the sound of the water striking tile in the bathroom drummed in her ears.

A woman knew when a man wanted her gone, and a woman with any pride obliged him. She’d shower at home, dress for the workday at home, have her coffee at home. The man wanted space, she’d damn well give him space.

When the phone rang, she ignored it. Then, cursing, gave in. It could be important, she thought, an emergency. Then she winced when Fox’s mother gave her a cheery good morning and addressed her by name.

In the shower, Fox let the hot water pound over him while he gulped down his cold caffeine. The combination dulled some of the sharp edges, but there were plenty more where they came from. He felt hungover, headachy, queasy. It would pass. It always passed. But a nightmare could give him a rougher morning-after than any drunken spree.

He’d probably chased Layla off, snapping at her that way. Which, he admitted, had been the purpose. He didn’t want her hovering, stroking, and soothing, watching him with that worry in her eyes. He wanted to be alone so he could wallow and brood.

As was his damn right.

He turned off the shower, whipped a towel around his waist. When he walked into the bedroom, trailing drips, there she was.

“I was just leaving,” she began in the frosty tone that told him he’d done his job very well. “But your mother called.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll get back to her.”

“Actually, I’m to tell you that since Sage and Paula have to be in D.C. on Monday, and may have to head back to Seattle from there, she’s having everyone over for dinner tomorrow.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Probably no way out of that one. “Okay.”

“She expects me to come. Me-all of us. I’m supposed to help you spread the word. You probably know she’s impossible to say no to, but you can make excuses for me tomorrow.”

“Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t you go? Why should you get out of eating stuffed artichokes?” Since she didn’t smile, he shoved at his dripping hair. “Look, I’m feeling a little rugged this morning. Maybe you could cut me a very narrow break.”