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She didn’t wake when he joined her on the sagging bed. She moved into his arms, curling into his warmth, breathing a sigh of comfort and pleasure as she huddled against him.
They slept for hours, as the sun tried to fight its way through the clouds to shine on another damp, rainy day. She wasn’t sure what woke her, ravenous hunger or something just as elemental. When she awoke fitful daylight filtered through the shuttered windows, Tom’s hands were on her breasts, and her mouth was pressed against his chest.
He’d dispensed with his sweater, and his rough cotton shirt was unbuttoned and pulled from his jeans. She didn’t know whether she’d unfastened it or he had, and she didn’t care. His flesh was hot and smooth beneath her mouth, tasting, smelling of safety and delight. She wanted him, with a desperation and suddenness that shocked her. She wanted him inside her, replacing Marc, filling her and overwhelming her and ridding her of the repulsion that had threatened to crush her. He was awake, a willing partner to her mouth’s exploration, and she slid her hands down to the waistband of his jeans, her fingers trembling with fear and determination. Hurry, hurry, she thought, wishing he’d take over, wishing he’d take care of it all, leaving her a passive partner in delight, when she heard the noise.
A creak. A rustle of bedclothes from the room beside theirs. And a piercing shriek of complete, agonized terror split the thick dampness of the morning air, tearing Claire from the bed and her short-lived, erotic daze.
CHAPTER 20
Nicole was alone in the stark room, sitting upright in the middle of the narrow bed, her eyes wide and dilated with terror, her mouth still open in an unending scream. The windows were shuttered, the house still seemingly deserted.
Without hesitation Claire climbed onto the bed and pulled the terrified child into her arms, muffling the screams in the folds of her cotton sweater as Tom ran to the front room. He was back moments later, just as Nicole’s panic was subsiding into shivering gasps for air, and Claire met his gaze above the child’s head.
“No one’s here.”
“You’re certain?” Claire stroked the lank hair that clung to Nicole’s fragile skull.
“Positive. The door was still locked and barred from the inside. It must have been a nightmare.”
“And who could blame her?” Claire murmured. “It’s all right, sweetheart. There’s no one here to hurt you.”
The child stirred, pulling herself out of Claire’s arms and looking up into her eyes with a touching combination of wariness and trust. “Where’s Marc?”
“He can’t find us. We’ve gone so far away that Marc will never be able to catch us,” Claire promised rashly.
Nicole sighed, a shuddery little sound that pulled at Claire’s heart. “I hope not.” She looked up at Tom without curiosity. “Who’s that?”
“A friend. His name is Tom Parkhurst, and he’s going to make certain that Marc can’t get anywhere near us.”
Nicole surveyed him for a long, silent moment, from the top of Tom’s tousled head to his bare feet, taking note of the small handgun he held somewhat gingerly, and Claire followed that enigmatic gaze. As a knight errant he looked somewhat less than formidable, but Claire wasn’t fooled. She would trust him with her life, and with Nicole’s. In fact, she’d done just that.
“Okay,” Nicole said finally, accepting him.
Tom moved into the room, tucking the gun self-consciously into the waistband of his jeans. “Tell Claire what happened yesterday, Nicole,” he said gently. “What did Marc do to you?”
“There’s no need.” Claire’s voice was sharp, protective. “I don’t have any more illusions.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nicole said, her voice absurdly adult. “I’ve always known Marc is a bad man. I just knew no one would believe me.”
“You didn’t come home early from your grandmother’s, did you?” Tom prodded gently.
Claire ope
ned her mouth to protest once more, then shut it as Tom glared at her.
“No,” said Nicole in a very small voice.
“Did you see him kill your grandmother?”
A shudder passed through Nicole’s body. “I didn’t watch. I heard him come in and I hid in the kitchen. At first he didn’t know I was there, but when he came in to wash off the knife I must have made a noise.”
Claire shut her eyes in horror. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Nicole said simply. “My mother didn’t believe me when I told her things about him. She said I was lying to get attention.”
“What things?” Claire didn’t want to ask, couldn’t keep herself from asking.
“The way he used to touch me. The way he used to watch me in the bathtub, the way he used to hurt me when he thought Maman wasn’t looking. And then, when Maman finally did believe me, it was too late. She was dead.” As always, Nicole was practical, prosaic. “Grand-mère insisted I go away to school, and Marc went on tour to America, so things were all right for a while. And then you came, and you believed everything he told you.” Nicole’s contempt was more than plain. “I knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell you, but at least he was too busy with you to bother me.”
