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Instead they brought a rush of memories so deep, it overwhelmed her, a part of her screaming for her not to do this, that she didn’t really want to do this.
She saw Andrew in all the years of her life. The first time she’d seen him at Chloe’s house. Dark, next to Daniel Lexington’s blondeness, Andrew kept staring and staring at her, making Whitney blush the color of her hair. She saw him when he’d smiled at her, an I see you smile that told her he very much liked what he saw. That same smile always stole her breath away.
She saw him listening to her with quiet rage as she told him her uncle had touched her, his eyes brimming with determination to make it better for her.
Then, then he was making love to her that first time, gently, lovingly, telling her she was so pretty . . .
Her body had been used before. But nobody, not even Whitney, had ever loved it like Andrew.
She watched the artist work while a part of her screamed that this was a mistake. That this was the man she loved, the man she would fight for. Oh, God. Did she really want to do this? “Wait!” She sat up and stared down in horror at the damage. “Wait, wait!”
Fralo lifted his head, his bearded face pinching in displeasure. “Y
ou still owe me, lady, whatever you decide. So just tell me. Are we doing this or not?”
She stirred uneasily in the chair, remembering Andrew’s fierce protectiveness, how he made love to her, how fiercely truthful his eyes shone every time he told her. She remembered his text. I want to talk to you. Tonight.
She looked hastily back at the man, and said, “I guess not.”
She wasn’t ready to give up on him, on them. Instead she clung to the hope that he planned to talk to her honestly this evening and arranged her shirt to cover her wrists, ignoring the little chip he’d taken off from the W. A souvenir.
“Crap,” she murmured when she noticed she was missing a button from her sleeve. It had probably popped off at Starbucks when she had eagerly showed Chloe what she would do.
Feeling crafty, she seized the little spider over her right breast and pinned it to the lapel of her shirt. She figured it would also give her easier access, too, if she needed to use it. Once she paid the man and stepped out, she squinted in the glare of the sun and started for the side alley where Jerry had said he’d be waiting for her.
She was going to talk to him tonight. He’d either come clean, or these came off tomorrow—
A body stepped right before her.
“Whitney, Whitney.”
She tipped her head back and froze in disbelief. A face from her past stared back at her. A face that contained stony-looking eyes that scrutinized her with puzzling intensity.
“Joe. Wow, what a coincidence,” she said, gathering her breath.
Her cousin looked much older than she remembered. And it seemed that he’d been eating every second of those five or more years since she’d seen him.
He grabbed her head from behind and rammed a cloth against her mouth and nose, and as she inhaled to scream, she felt herself fall into his arms as he whispered, “No, Whitney, it’s not a coincidence at all.”
***
“The only prints found correspond to you and Whitney. Some faint ones correspond to the family of Harry Donahue. Merely himself and his son. But this could be expected since probably the photograph originated there.”
“Damn.” Andrew rubbed his temple as he circled his office, talking to Graves on his cellular phone. “I’d really hoped for something more.”
“I know, man, I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
“Sir,” his assistant interrupted through the phone’s speaker. “There’s someone calling from Whitney’s phone. But it’s not . . . her.”
“Shit, Graves, hang on.” Andrew set down his cell phone and picked up, his heart already kicking like a mad dog. “Yeah?”
“Do you want her back?”
The hairs on the back of his head rose in alarm at the sound of the muffled voice, speaking possibly through a fabric. His system seized in fear, pain. “Yeah,” he said, his knuckles turning white as he held the phone in a hand that trembled in growing rage. “I want her back. And if you hurt a hair on her head . . .”
A laugh.
Mocking.
