I pulled away from him, walking away while I could still find the strength to.
“And tomorrow?” he called. “What should I plan for us?”
Looking over my shoulder, I smiled. He stood there, arms open, inviting me back. He was addictive, relentless ... impossible to resist. So right for me, and oh-so impossibly wrong.
“Surprise me.”
19
Connected
Tuesday morning started with a surprise flower delivery. An exquisite single white rose in a luxurious box, tied with white ribbon in a complicated satin bow. The card was handwritten on parchment stock embossed with his initials.
In a world of many, you are the one. Let’s share a moment over lunch today at your favorite spot by the fountains.
W.
My heart swelled as I read it. I buried my nose in the white petals, inhaling the precious fragrance. Then I put it in water in a narrow, cylindrical vase best suited for the long-stemmed beauty. On a whim, I took the white ribbon from the box and tied it around the vase, deciding I’d wear white on our lunch date.
My mind wandered to the trip into the desert we’d taken yesterday, remembering how we’d stood on the edge of Antelope Canyon looking far into the distance, where a dark storm shelf had been rumbling withthunder. The sky above us had remained blue, the sun still shining, but we hadn’t had much time left before the storm would be close enough to cause trouble.
Yet I hadn’t been able to bring myself to walk away.
We’d walked through slot canyons for a couple of hours, playing hide-and-seek with the few tourists that invaded our space, acting like teenagers on their first date, stealing kisses when no one was looking.
Then we’d hiked the trail up to the rim, where a helicopter waited to take us back. For a few minutes, wishing the storm would stop in its tracks, I’d stood by Winston’s side, both of us silent, the world opening at our feet.
I loved the desert, and shared that love of the vast, dry expanse with him. My connection with the desert felt real and immediate, as if I’d just discovered who I was and where I belonged.
The flight back home had taken about an hour and a half. We’d worn headphones hooked up to a private communications circuit, but I hadn’t felt like speaking. I’d rested my head on his shoulder, and he’d wrapped his arm around me, his fingers playing with strands of my hair. At times, I’d felt the sting of tears, but blamed it on the intensity of my emotions in his presence.
I was desperately in love with him.
When we’d landed, we’d parted ways reluctantly, and I’d walked over to my car. Among the people hustling around the heliport, I’d recognized Jack.
He was always there, in the background, like death and taxes and the desert heat.
Remembering Jack yanked me back into the present. I placed the vase on the kitchen counter and picked up the phone to call Brad Pendergraft, the private investigator I’d hired a couple of days ago.
He answered on the first ring.
“Ms. Taylor,” he said, his voice echoing loudly on speaker. “I was just about to call you.”
“Really?” I didn’t believe a word of that. “Did you find out who this man is?”
“No ... I wanted to ask if you could give me any other details. Anything would make a difference. The picture you sent was taken through sheers or something, and those pixels confuse the image-recognition software. Can you tell me anything else, if you don’t have a better picture?”
My eyes rolled in frustration, staring at the ceiling for a silent, tense moment. “He rides a black Harley.”
“Did you happen to see the tags?”
“No, sorry. It’s not likeIwas trailinghim. He was behind me when I saw him riding that bike.”
“I see.” He sighed, seemingly frustrated. “What kind of Harley?”
I’d searched all over the internet for motorcycles that looked like what I’d seen. “It’s older, I believe, and simple—not too many bells and whistles. It’s got straight handlebars and not the elevated ones like in those biker-gang movies.”
“This is great. Keep going.” He was taking notes. I could hear a pen scratching in the background, and paper being shuffled.
