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“Yeah,” Alec said dryly. “That’s what I said when I first heard about it. Made me sick to my stomach. Literally. Then I wanted to cry. For her.” He didn’t say anything for a minute, letting that sink in. Then he added, “I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s her story. You would have heard all about it in court tomorrow—if Vishenko hadn’t tried to kill her. But for now, you’ll have to get the rest from her. If she wants you to know...she’ll tell you. But let me say this. You really don’t want to know. I wish I didn’t. Because knowing what I know, well...it makes me think vigilante justice might not be such a bad thing after all.”
Guilt slammed into Liam as he realized he’d made assumptions about Cate based only on what little he thought he knew about her...most of it false. He tried to figure out why he’d been so quick to judge her, then shook his head when it dawned on him he’d wanted to think the worst of Cate...to counteract his totally unexpected strong attraction to her. It hadn’t worked. And now he could add guilt to the equation.
Chapter 4
A voice from the bottom of the stairs called Liam and Cate to dinner, and Liam started down the staircase. But when no sound came from Cate’s bedroom he turned around and tapped on her door, thinking maybe she hadn’t heard the call. When she didn’t respond he rapped harder, but still no answer.
He tried the doorknob and it wasn’t locked, so he twisted the knob and opened the door a few inches. “Cate? Dinner.”
The room was shrouded in darkness, and there was no movement, nothing to suggest she was even in there. Suddenly concerned—she wouldn’t just take off, would she?—he pushed the door open all the way. That’s when he saw her huddled in the center of the bed, the bedspread pulled around her slender body. Fast asleep.
He trod quietly over to the bed, hesitated for a second, then touched her arm lightly. “Cate.” She jumped as if he’d shot her, jerking upward so quickly Liam was startled back. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Just wanted to tell you dinner’s ready.”
She pushed her hair away from her face and blinked at him. Then she rubbed her eyes—tired eyes, he saw now. Sad eyes. Ancient eyes that were the window into a soul in torment. How had he missed it before? “It’s okay,” she said finally. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just resting my eyes, and...” She stared at Liam through the shadows in the room. “Thanks for waking me. I wouldn’t want to miss dinner.” She smiled, a slight movement of her lips that came and went so quickly it almost couldn’t even be called a smile. “I’ve been smelling that roasted chicken for hours, it seems.”
Any other woman Liam would have offered a hand to help her off the bed. But Cate wasn’t any other woman. And now that he knew—well, he didn’t know exactly what he knew, but his imagination was working overtime, supplying details he didn’t want to think about. Not about Cate, or any woman. So no way was he going to touch her. It made sense now why she hadn’t wanted him to touch her before. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t Liam Jones she was rejecting—she didn’t want any man touching her. And he didn’t blame her. Not one bit.
* * *
Dinner wasn’t the silent affair Liam had expected. The agents, who went by the last name of Morgan, carried on a conversation between the four of them by sheer will. They refused to let Cate withdraw within herself, and asked a series of innocuous questions designed to put her at her ease. She answered haltingly at first—as if she wasn’t in the habit of carrying on dinner conversation—then with increased confidence. And Liam was convinced that whatever else she was, whatever else she’d been, she was well-read. Self-educated? he wondered. Cate let something slip that made him suspect libraries were her only recreational outlet...in large part because they were free.
Liam answered when questions were addressed to him, but in between he watched Cate. Surreptitiously. He remembered watching her that morning—was it only that morning?—arguing with the prosecutors. Her hand gestures graceful and fluid. Now he watched her hands close up, fascinated by everything she said and did. And that’s when he saw it. It wasn’t obvious—just a slight darkening of the skin. But it shouldn’t have been there. Not twin bands circling both wrists in almost exactly the same location. And suddenly he knew what they were. And how she’d gotten them.
Scars. Scars left by something bound tightly around her wrists, bindings she must have fought against until her skin was raw and bleeding. Repeatedly. Then he heard Alec’s voice saying, “...Made me sick to my stomach. Literally. Then I wanted to cry. For her...”
