Jill Shalvis - The Street Where She Lives

“Got some paper?”

She’d given him a few sheets, and an eraser, too. And by the end of that first hour he’d convinced her to share her notes, and help him study for the next test. She’d tried to explain she wasn’t the girl to get to know if he wanted to be popular, but he laughed.

“Popular?” He scratched his jaw and shrugged his bony shoulders. “Not my thing.” His eyes roamed her face, seeming to see more than anyone else ever saw. “But you…you, I’d like to get to know.”

And he’d done just that, gotten to know her, in a way no one else ever had.

Not then, and not since.

“MOM?” Em’s worried gaze ran over Rachel’s face. “Stick with me now, you’re freaking me out.”

Right. Stick to the present, much better than the past. They were talking about Ben. Ben, who took the most amazing photographs of the underprivileged and displayed them boldly in print for the more privileged population to squirm over. His thought-provoking articles that accompanied those pictures usually won him awards, and instigated a surge of charitable donations to better circumstances all over the world-and appease their guilty consciences. She knew this because she’d followed his career over the years for no reason other than morbid curiosity.

But he was just a man. A man who’d shown her more passion and emotion and life than anyone before or after. And though it had been thirteen long years, she still resented it with her entire being. Resented him.

“Look, forget it, okay? Forget Dad for now.” Emily chewed on her fingernail and strove for casual. “So…what was for lunch? Puke-colored Jell-O again?”

Rachel took a deep breath, heart aching. “Emily, honey…you are like him. Just like him. In so many ways.”

Emily blinked twice, slow as an owl, and Rachel couldn’t blame her. Rachel often hadn’t been willing to talk about Ben. Not a great parental decision, she could admit now. “Yes, you look just like him. You know that. And since he’s drop-dead beautiful, you are, too. So beautiful, Emily.”

Emily looked stunned at the turn of the conversation, which made Rachel doubly glad she’d had it. “So…” She cleared her throat. “You and Mel hired someone for us? You going to be okay with that?”

Emily’s glow faded and she stared at Rachel’s hand, which she gently clasped in her own smaller one, nails polished with chipped purple glitter and chewed to the quick. “I wish you wouldn’t worry about me so much.”

“It’s a mom thing. Am I going to like her?”

“Oh, man, would you look at the time?” Emily pulled her hand free and bounced up. “Gotta go. Homework.”

“Nice avoidance technique. Who is she, Em, Attila the Hun?”

“You’re funny, Mom. You should write a comic strip.”

“Emily Anne, what are you up to?”

Innocent eyes glanced back, solemn and full of intelligence. “What makes you think I’m up to something?”

“Intuition,” Rachel said dryly.

“Hey, I’m just getting you where you want to be, Mom. Home.”

DESPITE HIS desperate need to get to South Village immediately, it still took Ben nearly a week. Two days to get out of the jungle. Another two waiting for a seat on a small plane to get to an international airport. And then nearly two days more of connections and travel.

Finally, Ben landed in Los Angeles and nearly choked on the smog. It wasn’t even noon and the temperature had already hit ninety-five degrees, a sweltering, shimmering heat that made the air so thick that breathing was optional, and unadvised.

Granted, he’d suffered far worse, with much more humidity, for long months at a time. But somehow, spring in Southern California seemed more hell-like than anything he could remember.

Okay, so it was more than the weather. It was the fact he’d come back to his inauspicious beginnings after all these years, a place he tried not to think about, much less visit. He’d left here at seventeen, scrawny, too poor to even pay attention, and sporting a broken heart. He’d done his damnedest to stay far, far away.

For the most part, he’d managed, convincing Rachel’s sister Melanie to bring his daughter to wherever he happened to be. To further her education, he’d said in his defense of dragging a young girl to all four corners of the earth. Dirty corners at that.

Melanie had bought the excuse. So apparently had Rachel, and Emily had been delighted with her annual travels with her father.

As a bonus, he hadn’t had to face this place in a good long time. But he was here now, courtesy of his own terror over a madman who may or may not know about his daughter, about Rachel.

Ben had contacted the local authorities here in the States, and had been passed over to the Feds. They’d been polite, helpful and dishearteningly doubtful that Asada would be stupid enough to show his face here in Southern California. After all, just the week before, he’d been featured on the television show America’s Most Wanted. Unless Asada had a death wish, he was deep in hiding. Still, they’d promised to do drive-bys to surveil at Rachel and Emily’s place. And they’d promised to take a look into Rachel’s accident, to see if maybe it hadn’t been an accident at all.

A thought that made his blood run cold.

He had a meeting tonight with one of the FBI agents he’d spoken to, Agent Brewer, and hopefully would learn something more. Something like they’d caught Asada.

Riding the airport escalator to the ground floor, Ben took a long, critical look at his own reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls. A grim stranger stared back. He’d have thought he’d had enough grimness in his life, that he didn’t need to borrow more, but just being back “home” seemed to have uncovered some vast store of it deep within him.

He hadn’t told Emily about Asada. No way was he going to be the one to introduce her to the truth about the cold, cruel, dangerous world he lived in.

And Rachel…well, he’d wait and see on that one. For all she knew, he was coming to help her. Though why on earth she’d agreed to such a thing was beyond him. He figured desperation must have played a huge role, but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine the only woman who’d ever brought him to equal heights of ecstasy and depths of misery being that desperate.

Of course, he no longer knew her every thought and whim as he once had. Right now, she was injured, hurting…he wouldn’t put more stress on her shoulders by bringing up Asada.

No, Asada was his cross alone to bear.

He stepped outside, and the heat sapped his energy. Or maybe it was the reality of being here.

Your own fault.

With a sigh, Ben slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the rental cars, resigned to his fate.

TO RACHEL, South Village was home sweet home. Beyond being the busiest and most energetic pedestrian neighborhood in California, South Village was her life. The casual elegance of the charming town was no faux city walk like Universal City, but authentic, steeped with the blend of history and early California legend that came from being one of the original mining towns in the late 1800s. Since then, the place had been subjected to face-lifts, decline, then more face-lifts, and was now enjoying an upswing.

In a few square miles one could eat at a restaurant owned by a famous celebrity, check out the best and latest in live theater, grab a drink from a sidewalk café, buy a present from a funky bookstore or an original boutique, or simply wander the streets drinking fancy iced coffees, taking in the sights.

But that’s not why she loved it so much. Here she could surround herself with people. Here she could lose herself in the crowd. Here she could just be.