Нора Робертс - Hideaway

She shrugged that off. “He apologized, profusely, as I was walking out the door. He’d had a terrible day, he lost his temper, he loved me, it would never happen again.”

She brought the pasta with its fresh basil and Parmesan to the table. “No, it wouldn’t, because he’d never get the chance. I went home, took a selfie of my face in case. Which was handy, as he kept texting or calling, even coming by my apartment or showing up when I was out.”

“He stalked you.”

She knew tenors, pitches, pacing when it came to voices, and recognized a different kind of anger than before. This was iced fury, and definitely more dangerous than the quick, hot blast.

“Close enough. I went to the two detectives who’d investigated Noah’s attack. I showed them the selfie, explained things, asked if they could, at least initially, just have a discussion with him, warn him off. If it didn’t work, I’d file charges. It worked.”

She rolled pasta onto a fork. “Try it.”

He did. “I see why it’s your signature dish. It’s terrific. He didn’t bother you again?”

“No. But about two years later, the female cop—she’d made lieutenant by then—she came by to see me, and to tell me he’d been arrested for battering his fiancée. She wanted me to know I’d made the right decision, and to ask whether, if it became necessary, I’d testify. I said I would, but God, I’m glad it wasn’t necessary.”

She ate some more, decided it really was terrific. “Which brings us to the third and last if you want to hear it.”

“I do.”

“Justin Harlowe.”

“Yeah, I read about that, too. A lot of bullshit about that.”

“Bullshit’s what it was. We did click, and for a good stretch of time. He’s talented, can be funny, is definitely charming. We had a lot in common, and he was riding high at the time, as his series was a hit. He didn’t mind the publicity. Why would he, and half of it revolved around him anyway. He didn’t much care for the Catjus shipping name, but he’d joke about it. We enjoyed each other. I didn’t love him, but it was close. I felt good with him, and for a while it felt good to be able to talk to someone about the business. Someone who understood the demands, someone who actually appreciated voice work because he did some himself. Then…”

She shrugged. “The ratings dipped, and the feature he’d done over the season break wasn’t getting good buzz. I didn’t blame him for being moody—it’s a bitch. Then I found out he was sleeping with his costar from that feature, and had been for months.”

After winding more pasta, she wagged her fork. “Which, when confronted, he blamed on me. I hadn’t been there for him, I wasn’t supportive enough. I didn’t like sex enough, name it. Toss in, it’s only sex, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“If it doesn’t mean anything, you’re not doing it right. You dumped him.”

“I did, but made the mistake of agreeing to keep it private while he was dealing with the series. It just didn’t matter to me, but it did to him. It mattered enough that my mother got wind, talked him into taking some whacks in the press. Getting ahead of things by claiming he dumped me because I was jealous, demanding, crazy, and so on.”

She picked up her wine. “So, three strikes.”

“Not from where I’m sitting. The first guy—Noah, right? It wasn’t your fault or his. You didn’t cause what happened to him; he couldn’t handle what happened to him. I’m giving him a pass on that, since he was young and it seems like it was all too much at the time. The second son of a bitch? A lot of women get fooled by men who’ll hit women. A lot of men manage to hide that long enough to cement a bond. And you walked away, you took action. You did it all right. Not on you. The last guy? A lot of people end up with people who turn out to be cheaters and liars. And again, you walked.”

“It’s a crappy track record, Dillon.”

“Two out of three turned out to be fucking bastards, and you walked away. You said you ran into the first one and resolved things. Is he a fucking bastard?”

“No, the opposite.”

“Is there more of this?”

“Yes.”

“I can get it,” he said when she started to get up.

“Presentation.” She rose, went to plate him a second helping.

“Do you want my track record?”

She looked over at him as she arranged the pasta. He sat so relaxed—and confident, she realized—at her pretty table.

“It’s not required, but of course I do.”

“Not going into details because there’ve been more than three women I’ve slept with.”

She tried a Lily Morrow arch of eyebrows. “How many more?”

“What are numbers anyway? I’ve dumped, been dumped. There was one I came close with, but I never tripped over the line into really loving her. They mattered, every one of them. Maybe I screwed up, maybe she screwed up. Mostly, it just didn’t stick, and we parted ways. I never cheated, because that’s weak. If you want somebody else, you say so, you don’t cheat. I’ve never hit a woman, and I hope to Christ I’ve never mistreated one, because there are other ways to hurt somebody than with your fist.”

“Yes, there are.”

“I’ll make mistakes with you. Bound to. You’ll make mistakes with me.”

“Bound to,” she agreed, and brought over his second helping.

“But I don’t hurt people, not deliberately. Not true,” he said as he rolled another forkful. “I’ve punched a few guys along the way, and that was deliberate. But things happen.”

She remembered the way he’d rushed through her door when he’d heard her scream. Yes, she imagined he’d punched a few guys along the way.

“I suppose they do.”

“Anyway, I’ll make you that promise because you need it. Whatever happens between us, you’re part of our family. That’s not going to change. And if you ever manage to shake me off, especially now that I’ve eaten this, I’m still coming to hang with Hugh and flirt with Consuela and Lily.”

“You smooth me out, Dillon.”

“That’s fine. At the dinner table.”

Laughing, she sat back with her wine. “I’ll give you a chance to stir me back up, but I think two helpings of pasta equals a walk on the beach.”

“It’s damn good pasta. When we get married I’m going to expect it once a week.”

“So noted. It’s cooled off a bit. I’m going to get a sweater for that walk.” She rose. “After the walk we can have dessert in bed.”

“That schedule works fine for me.”

“Be right back.”

When she went upstairs, he rose to clear as his ladies would have expected.

And he thought of Cate and the three men who’d had the chance to love and treasure her. The three men who’d blown that chance.

He wouldn’t blow that chance. He’d give her a little time to understand he wouldn’t.

If someone out there killed to cause her grief and pain and trouble, if someone threatened her, well, he’d find a way to take care of that. To take care of her.

He knew no other way to be.

The first thing Michaela noticed when they brought Sparks into the interrogation room was he’d kept his looks.

An older version, yes, but Sparks retained that movie star aura, the middle-aged leading man type. Character lines fanned from his eyes, gray threaded through his hair, but he’d found a way to maintain both his face and his gym-rat build.

No shackles, she noted, as he wasn’t considered dangerous.

The hell he wasn’t, she thought. The cop in her smelled dangerous the instant he came into the room.

He sat down across from her, acknowledged Red with a nod, then looked straight into her eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see either of you again.”