CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

The day had been long and emotional. After Marilee stormed out of their bedroom and Neal headed to his office, Brooke finally stripped and stepped into the shower.

Leaning against the wet tiles, she closed her eyes and let needles of hot water drive into her back, soaking muscles that were starting to ache from her struggle with Gideon. What had she been thinking? Why had she even gone to meet him? How had she let this go so far?

She'd been a fool to get involved with him. Idiot, she chided herself.

She remembered the first time she saw him that day early last June, before summer had really taken hold, at Pike Place Market. It was innocent, totally not intended, and she'd literally bumped into him near the stall for a vendor of handmade jewelry. Well, if she was honest, she'd admit that she'd been distracted and angry. She'd recently lost her job and Neal had just moved out. Their last fight, when she'd accused him of seeing another woman, was still ringing in her ears. It seemed as if their rapidly fraying marriage had finally snapped apart.

In the crowded market she'd been fingering a braided bracelet with a few glass beads that reminded her of garnets, Marilee's birthstone. Brooke had been thinking her daughter might like the bracelet, as Marilee too was despondent about the breakup. Would the bracelet cheer her up?

Brooke had stepped back and held up the piece of jewelry so that the beads would catch the light. At that moment someone had tried to get around her. Instead, he'd bumped into her, and the coffee he'd been carrying splashed, dousing both of them. She'd dropped the bracelet.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Brooke had cried, horrified, as she spied the stain blooming on his Mariners T-shirt.

He'd held up both hands, one still surrounding the now nearly empty cup. "No worries."

"But your shirt—"

" But your shirt," he'd said.

That was when she realized coffee had sloshed and dripped over her blouse, even splattering onto the lapel of her jacket. "No worries," she repeated and he smiled, a crooked grin in two-days' growth of beard that showed off slightly uneven white teeth.

"Tell ya what, you buy me another coffee and we'll call it square." He leaned down, picked up the bracelet, and handed it to her.

She arched a brow. "So you do think it was my fault?"

"Totally." He nodded, sandy hair shifting over his eyes.

"Okay. Fair enough." She returned the bracelet to its stand, then they walked through the booths and around the customers and tourists who clustered around everything from displays of fresh fruits and vegetables and local wines to flowers and exotic fish. Near a counter filled with baked goods, a woman pushing a stroller nearly cut her off, and this man—whose name she didn't yet know—caught her fingers in his to help her through the throng, then dropped her hand as they reached the coffee shop.

They found a booth near large, curved windows that looked over the street. "I'll have a coffee. Large. Black," he said. His gray eyes seemed to touch hers. "I'm Gideon. Gideon Ross."

"Brooke Harmon."

He smiled again, and she felt her pulse jump stupidly. What was wrong with her?

She said, "Time to pay my debt. One black coffee coming right up." She left him at the table to order and as she picked up his coffee and her latte, she noticed that the barista had decorated her drink with a foam heart.

Oh sure.

Back at the table, she handed him his cup, then sat down and quickly took a sip before he could see the artwork in her cup. Too late, his eyes had followed her movements. She felt herself blush and quickly looked away, returning her change to her wallet before dropping it into her purse.

When he looked up his gaze lingered on hers for a second too long. Breaking it off, he leaned back in the booth. "So, what're you doing down here at the market?"

"Shopping," she said evasively. She wasn't about to confide in him that she'd just been let go from her job, that the start-up tech company she'd given her all to for the past two years had failed. That she, as of this very afternoon, was unemployed. A male coworker's last words still rang in her ears: "Don't let the door hit your pretty ass on the way out." Max Wyckoff was such a sanctimonious jerk.

Worse yet, the nest egg she'd invested in the company was gone.

She had yet to tell her husband and didn't look forward to Neal's reaction.

"You're married," Gideon said, pointing at her wedding ring.

"Yeah."

"Kids?"

"A daughter. Teenager. You?"

"Married? Nah." He shook his head. "Got close a couple of times but never quite made it to tying the knot or . . . pulling the trigger, depending on what you think about ‘holy matrimony.'" He made air quotes, even using the fingers of his hand surrounding the cup. "As for kids?" Again the crooked grin. "None that I know of."

She pulled a face.

"Sorry, bad joke. But no. No kids." His eyebrows raised. "That I regret." He leaned back in the booth. "So, this is the middle of the day. And you're here. No job?"

"No. Yes, I mean, no, I don't have a job anymore." Another sip. "I did until today. A good job. Selling software to hospitals, but . . ." She shrugged. "Competition, I guess. The company's struggling and they had to cut back. So—" She set down her cup. "Anyway, I just found out today."

"Oh. Sorry." He stared at her over the rim of his cup. "You sad about it?"

"Sad?" She thought about it. She was worried. Angry. Upset. But sad? "No. Not really. But it's a problem."

"So, losing the job could be a release."

"What?"

"You know. Maybe now you're free." Gray eyes studied her. "Come on. The truth. Did you love it? Look forward to going to hospitals and trying to convince some budget-conscious administrator or manager how great the latest version of your software was, how they absolutely needed it?"

She lifted a shoulder. "It was a job."

"There are other jobs. Maybe there's something out there more exciting? Something you'll really be passionate about."

"I, uh—I invested," she admitted, then wished she could take the words back.

"And you got burned."

She was nodding, thinking she was divulging far too much to this perfect stranger.

He shrugged. "Happens all the time."

"Easy to say, but when it happens to you it's different."

"I suppose." He finished his coffee. "You know what you need?"

"No, what?" She eyed him skeptically.

"A ride on a sailboat."

"Oh right!" With all of her problems, the last thing she needed to do was throw caution to the wind and go sailing. Shaking her head, she got to her feet. "That is definitely not what I need." He was still seated, long, jean-clad legs stretched out. "You don't know me."

"You're right," he agreed. "I don't. But if you change your mind, I've got a boat down at the marina. The Medusa."

"You named your boat after Medusa? From mythology? The gorgon, or goddess, or whatever she was, with the head filled with snakes?"

He stood then and said, "You know, Brooke, things aren't always what they seem."

"Then what are they?"

He laughed and checked his watch. "Uh-oh. Gotta run." He smiled, his gaze finding hers again. "Thanks for the coffee."

Before she could say another word, he walked out of the coffee shop.

Two days later she received a package in the mail with no return address. Inside was the very bracelet she'd been fingering at the market just before she'd run into Gideon Ross.

As she'd plucked it from the tiny tissue-lined box, she'd seen the bloodred beads glitter in the sunlight from the lowering sun. And there was more. A tiny charm attached to it, a sailboat engraved with a date, the very date she and Gideon had literally run into each other at Pike Place Market.

That was the start of something that should never have begun.

Now, shoving the memory aside, she turned off the water, toweled off, and swiped away the condensation that had collected on the mirror's surface. Standing naked, she saw one bruise forming on her arm and another over her ribs, and then there was her face. The scrape on her cheek would heal, but the cut on her chin might scar.

Physical reminders of her fight with Gideon.

Great.

Her ankle was a little sore, but she'd survive.

She eyed her breasts and remembered how he'd loved touching them, but she wasn't about to go there, so she slipped on her robe and cinched it around her waist. She had to stop thinking about him.

Walking into the bedroom, she tried to concentrate on other things in her life. Her husband and the way they'd grown apart. Her daughter trying to grow up too fast and pull away from her. And two missing girls. Then there was her nonexistent job, her wrecked Explorer, and now her sister coming to visit.

"Perfect," she said, wincing a bit as she sat on the bed and turned on the TV. This time, after the local baseball and football scores, there was a report on Allison Carelli, a picture of the girl coming onto the screen along with the number for the police on a banner running across the bottom. The reporter, a thin man wearing a jacket with the logo of the station and a grim expression, stood in front of Allsworth High School. He recounted what Brooke already knew and asked anyone with information to call the police at the number in the chyron.

She clicked off the set and moved a little too quickly, the pain in her leg reminding her again of the fight. She'd never been in a physical fight, unless you counted the few times she and Leah got into spats as kids.

She made her way to the bureau, found her nightshirt and tossed it on, then opened her underwear drawer and stopped short.

She stared at the rows of panties inside.

Something was wrong.

She kept her panties rolled up neatly, which they were, but they weren't stuffed in as tightly as usual. The drawer wasn't nearly as full. Odd, she thought, touching the bits of lace and silk. Hadn't she done the laundry two days earlier? Shouldn't there be more pairs?

A feeling of apprehension, like the whisper of spider legs crawling up her spine, swept through her.

Slowly, she took stock. Several pairs were missing: the lavender lace and the pink silk and the pale yellow pair with lacy inserts . . . Oh. God.

Her stomach turned over as she opened her bra drawer and discovered that the matching pieces were missing, all lingerie she'd worn when she was with Gideon. Her sports bras were untouched, the plain panties neatly rolled where she'd placed them. Only the sexy items were missing, the scraps of lace and silk she'd worn with him.

No, no, no! She grabbed the edge of the bureau for support.

Telling herself that she was mistaken, she searched again, riffling through the other drawers. She slipped on a pair of cotton panties and hobbled down the stairs and through the kitchen to the laundry room.

She tore through the laundry basket, frantically tossing aside Marilee's leotards and shorts, Neal's T-shirts, and her own sweatshirts and jeans.

Her stomach dropped like a stone.

She threw open the lid to the washer, thinking maybe she'd forgotten that she'd put them in the tub.

Nope.

Of course not!

The old Maytag was empty.

She crouched to look through the glass door of the dryer, where she saw a tangle of towels, wrinkled from being left unattended.

"Shit!" Rocking back on her heels, she held her head in her hands and felt totally violated.

Somehow, some way, he'd stolen her lingerie.

She knew it in the darkest part of her soul.

Leaning against the washer, she remembered his teeth on the clasp of her lavender bra, a push-up with a clasp in the front. He'd glanced up at her, his hot tongue on her skin, his eyes searching upward as he opened the flimsy piece with his mouth.

Now the scenario repulsed her. "Son of a—"

"Mom?" Marilee's voice startled Brooke and she looked up sharply. "What're you doing?"

Her daughter was standing in the doorway half a floor above, backlit by the hall light, the dog at her side.

"I, um, just realized I left a load of towels in the dryer by mistake," she lied, straightening quickly. "Still damp." She turned the knob and pushed a button. The ancient dryer, on its last legs, clicked on and began noisily tumbling, towels of various colors flipping past the clear door.

Marilee eyed her. "You—you looked like something was wrong."

"Well, there is," she admitted, knowing she couldn't say differently. "I'm out of work, rear-ended an ass in a Porsche, tripped while running, and I'm worried sick about girls that I know who are missing." Then she added, "Oh, and on top of all that, my daughter thinks I'm totally out of it, an ogre of a mother."

"Not an ogre," Marilee argued. "Just super overprotective. You don't trust me."

Brooke disagreed. "I trust you, but . . ." She waggled her head back and forth before admitting, "I'm not too sure about Nick."

"You don't even know him!" Crossing her arms around her slim chest, Marilee angled her chin up defensively.

"You're right. I don't." She was making a mess of this.

"But you're judging him anyway."

"Okay, okay, so that wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

Mollified slightly, Marilee arched an eyebrow and asked, "So I can go?"

"To the dance? Where you can meet him? Yes, of course, as I said, but it wouldn't hurt if your dad and I met him. Didn't Dad talk to you about this already?"

"Yeah, but I thought maybe . . . ooh, never mind!" She was shaking her head, her face turning red with fury as she spun on her heel and stormed off.

Shep was left standing at the top of the stairs, his tail wagging slowly.

"I know. Teenagers, eh?" Then Brooke managed a smile. "I guess it's just you and me," she said as the dryer bleated and she realized she'd engaged the timer for five minutes instead of fifteen. Another stupid mistake. "Story of my life," she told the dog and gave the knob another angry twist.