She flushed in pleasure. "When are you going to come for a sleepover at my house again?"
"I don't know, sweetie. Maybe — "
"You're here with Hardy?" she interrupted, having glanced at my date. She went to hug him, chattering all the while. "Haven, did you know Hardy drove my mama to the hospital the night I was born? There was a storm, and it was flooding everywhere, and he got us there in an old blue pickup."
I glanced at Hardy, smiling, "He's pretty good at rescuing people."
His gaze turned wary as we were joined by two more people Gage and Liberty.
"Hardy," she said, reaching out for his hand, pressing it affectionately.
He flashed her a grin. "Hi, Liberty. How's the baby?"
"Fine. Matthew's at home with his grandfather. Churchill likes to look after him." Her green eyes twinkled. "He's the cheapest babysitter we've got."
"Liberty," Carrington said, tugging at her hand, "do you want to come see the piranhas? There's a whole big tank of them over there."
"Okay," she said, laughing. "Excuse me, y'all. We'll be right back."
As Liberty left, Gage contemplated Hardy for a moment. Tension strung through the air, until my brother reached out to shake Hardy's hand. "Thank you," Gage said. "I owe you for helping my sister out of that elevator. If there's anything I can do to repay you — "
"No," Hardy said at once. He seemed to be caught somewhat off guard by Gage's sincerity. It was the first time I had ever seen a trace of awkwardness in him. "You don't owe me a damn thing. I . . . after the stunt I pulled with your biofuel deal . . . "
"You more than made up for that two weeks ago," Gage said. "Haven's safety — and happiness — mean everything to me. As long as you're good to her, you've got no problem with me."
"I understand."
I didn't like being discussed as if I weren't there. "Hey, Gage," I asked, "have you seen Jack yet? He was supposed to he here tonight."
"He's here. He met an old girlfriend at the bar. Looks like they're getting reacquainted."
I rolled my eyes. "You could form a chain from here to El Paso with Jack's old girlfriends."
Just then I heard the ring of a cell phone, and Hardy reached inside his jacket pocket. Glancing at the number, he did a quick double blink. "Excuse me," he said to Gage and me. "I have to take this one. Would you mind if I — "
"Go right ahead," I said immediately.
"Thanks." Hardy flipped the phone open and moved through the crowd to a door that led to an outside wraparound balcony.
Left alone with Gage, I smiled up at him uncertainly, wondering if I was about to get a lecture.
"You look great," my brother said, running an appraising gaze over me. "You look happy."
It had been a long time since anyone had said that to me. "I am happy," I admitted, feeling a little sheepish. "Gage, I'm so sorry if it makes things difficult for you, me taking up with someone from Liberty's past . . . "
"It doesn't make things difficult for me," Gage said gently. He surprised me by adding, "You can't always choose who you're attracted to. When I first met Liberty, I thought she was one of Dad's side dishes — and I'm sorry to say I behaved like an as**ole." He smiled wryly. "But even then, there was something about her that got to me, every damn time I saw her." He slid his hands in his pockets and frowned slightly. "Haven, considering how Cates helped you at Buffalo Tower, I'm sure as hell inclined to give him a break. But if he hurts you . . . "
"If he hurts me, you have my permission to beat the tar out of him," I said, making him grin. I drew a little closer, mindful of the possibility of being overheard. "If it doesn't work out, though . . . I'll be okay, Gage. I'm stronger than I was a few months ago. He's helped me get over some of the problems I had after Nick. So no matter what he does in the future, I'll always be grateful to him for that."
Hardy returned, and I knew from looking at him that something was terribly wrong. There was no expression on his face, but he was chalk-white under his tan, and he had the distracted tension of a man whose mind was working on a multitude of levels.
"Haven." The voice, too, was different, as flat and scratchy as a sheet of sandpaper. "I just got a call from my mother. There's some family stuff I've got to deal with, and it can't wait."
"Oh, Hardy . . . " I wanted to pull him close, do something to ease him, comfort him. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah, she's fine."
"We'll leave right now — "
"No," Hardy said at once. Hearing the unnecessary force in his own voice, he made an effort to relax. "This isn't the kind of thing you need to be bothered with, honey. I need to handle it alone."
Gage broke in. "Is there anything I can do?"
Hardy nodded. "Please take care of Haven. Make sure she gets home safe." He looked at me, his eyes opaque. "I'm sorry. I hate to leave you like this."
"Will you call me later?" I asked.
"Of course. I — "He stopped, as if words had failed him, and he
glanced at Gage once more.
"I've got Haven," Gage said immediately. "Don't worry about her.
"Okay. Thanks."
And Hardy left us, his head bent, his strides eating ground as if he were preparing to plow through obstacles ahead.
"Maybe one of his brothers is sick, or was in an accident," I fretted.
Gage shook his head. "No telling. Except . . . "
"Except what?"
"If it was something like that, I think he would have said so."
I was swamped in worry for Hardy's sake. "He should have taken me with him," I muttered. "I hate being left out of things. And it's not like I'm going to have a good time here when I know he's out there dealing with some mystery problem. I should be with him."
I heard my brother sigh. "Come on, let's go find Liberty and Carrington. I'd rather be watching a tank of man-eating fish than wondering what trouble Hardy Cates might be getting into."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I had asked the concierge to call me when he saw Hardy arrive at 1800 Main. "No matter what time it is," I had told him. If he thought that was a little strange, or wondered why I wasn't expecting Hardy to call me himself, he didn't say a word.Checking the phone messages, I saw nothing but two hang-ups, both of them from a Dallas number. It had to be Nick. I had cut all ties to the other people I had known in Dallas, the people I'd worked with at the Darlington, and the people in Nick's circle who had known me as Marie. Nick was furious with me for rejecting him, for showing no interest in getting Gretchen's bracelet back. For going on with my life. I hoped that ignoring him would cause him to back off. If he persisted in trying to get in touch with me, I would be forced to do something about it. Maybe a restraining order?
Except I remembered Hardy's cynical comment . . . "A restraining order only works if you handcuff yourself to a cop."
I wondered what Hardy was doing at that moment, what kind of problem he was dealing with. I was sorely tempted to call him, but I figured the last thing he needed was his cell phone ringing while he was in the middle of some difficult situation. So I took a long bath and put on sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, and I tried to watch TV. I must have clicked through a hundred cable channels, but there was nothing good on.
I slept lightly, my ears pricked for any sound. And then it came, the phone giving one shrill ring before I grabbed it and pressed the talk button. "Yes?"
"Miss Travis. Mr. Cates just came through the lobby. He's in the elevator now."
"Great. Thank you." I glanced at the clock and saw that it was about one-thirty in the morning. "Um, did he seem okay? Did he say anything?"
"No, Miss Travis, he didn't say anything. I guess he seemed . . . tired."
"Okay. Thanks."
"No problem."
I hung up and sat with the phone in my lap, willing it to ring. But the damn thing was silent. I waited until I was certain Hardy had had enough time to reach his apartment, and then I called his main line. I got a voice message.
Flopping back on the sofa, I stared at the ceiling with bleary impatience. Unable to stand it any longer, I called Hardy's cell phone.
Another recording.
What was going on? Was he all right?
"Let him alone," I said aloud. "Go to bed. Let him sleep. He'll call tomorrow when he feels like talking."
But I wasn't listening to myself. I was too worried about Hardy.
I paced around my apartment for another fifteen minutes, and then I called again.
No answer.
"Crap," I muttered, scrubbing my eyes with half-closed fists. I was tense and tired and uneasy. No way was I going to get any sleep until I made sure Hardy was okay.
Just a quick knock at his door. Maybe a hug. Maybe a cuddle in bed. I wouldn't ask him to talk. No pressure. I just wanted him to know I was there if he needed me.
Sticking my feet into a pair of hard-soled slippers, I left my apartment and took the elevator to the eighteenth floor. It was cold in the elegantly sterile atmosphere of the hallway. Shivering, I went to the threshold and rang the bell.
Stillness. Silence. And then a scrape of movement inside the apartment. I waited, waited, and realized incredulously that Hardy wasn't going to answer. My face tightened in a scowl. Well, that was too damn bad. I would stand at his door and ring the bell all night if necessary.
I pushed the button again.
I had a sudden, terrible thought that maybe Hardy wasn't alone. What other reason could there be for his refusal to see me? But I couldn't make myself believe —
The door opened.
I was confronted with a version of Hardy I had never seen before. It was mostly dark in his apartment, a faint illumination coming from the living room where the skyline bled an artificial glow through the row of long windows. Hardy was dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. He looked big and shadowy and mean. And I got a strong, acid-sweet whiff of cheap tequila, the kind you went for when you wanted to get really hammered, really fast.
I had seen Hardy drink before, but never to excess. He had told me he didn't like to feel out of control. What he hadn't said, but I had understood, was that he couldn't tolerate the idea of being vulnerable, physically or emotionally.
My gaze traveled from his dark face to the empty shot glass in his hand. A crawly feeling went across my shoulders. "Hey," I managed to say, my voice coming out in a wheeze. "I wanted to see if you were okay."
"I'm okay." He looked at me as if we were strangers. "Can't talk now."
He began to close the door, but I stepped over the threshold. I was afraid to leave him by himself — I didn't like the blank, weird look in his eyes. "Let me fix you something to eat. Eggs and toast — "
"Haven." It seemed to take all his concentration to speak. "I don't need food. I don't need company."
"Can't you tell me something about what happened?" Without thinking, I reached out to stroke his arm, and he flinched backward. As if my touch were repulsive. I was stunned. It was quite a reversal for me, after all the times I had done that to other people, jerking away from them in a startle reflex. I had never considered how it might have made them feel.
"Hardy," I said softly. "I'll go. I promise. But first tell me what happened. Just a few words, so I'll understand."
I could feel the anger radiating off him. It was too dark for me to see the color of his eyes, but the shine of them was almost malevolent. Anxiously I wondered where the real Hardy had gone. He seemed to have been replaced by an evil twin. "I don't know how the f*ck you could understand," he said thickly, "when I don't."
"Hardy, let me in," I said.
He continued to block me. "You don't want to come in here."
"Oh?" I forced a skeptical half-smile. "What's in there that I should be afraid of?"
"Me."
His answer sent a ripple of uneasiness through me. But I didn't move. "What did you do tonight?" I asked. "What did your mother call you for?"
Hardy stood with his head lowered. His hair was rumpled as if he'd tugged at it repeatedly. I wanted to smooth those gleaming dark locks and settle my hand on the taut back of his neck. I longed to soothe him. But all I could do was wait, with a patience that had never been easy for me.
"She asked me to bail my father out of jail," I heard him say. "He was taken in tonight for a DUI. He knew better than to call her. I've given him money over the past two years. I pay him to stay the hell away from Mama and the boys."
"I thought he was in prison. But I guess . . . he's out now?"
Hardy nodded, still not looking at me. His free hand clenched the doorframe. I felt a little curl of repulsion in my stomach as I saw how brutally strong those fingers were.
"What did he do," I asked gently, "to get himself in prison?"
I wasn't sure Hardy would answer. But he did. Sometimes the closest-held secrets in the world can be pried out by the right question at the right time.
Hardy spoke in the flat, hopeless whisper of a criminal in a confessional. I knew I was hearing things he'd never said to any living being. "He did fifteen years for aggravated rape. He's a serial rap**t . . . godawful things to women . . . never gave him parole, they knew he hadn't changed. But the term was finally up, and they had to let him out. He'll do it again. I can't stop him. I cant watch over him every minute. I can barely keep him away from my family — "
"No," I said scratchily, "it's not your job to be his keeper."
" — my brothers are taking after him. Bad blood coming through. I had to bail Kevin out last month, had to pay off a girl's family, keep them from pressing charges — "
"That's not your fault," I said, but he was beyond hearing.
"Evil bastards, all of us. No-good white trash — "
"No."
Each breath scraped audibly in his throat. "Before I left Dad at a hotel tonight, he told me — " He stopped, shaking from head to toe. He swayed on his feet.
God, he was so drunk.
"Told you what?" I whispered. "What is it, Hardy?"