Part 7 (1/2)

He drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. ”I don't know, Liv. If it were just the two of us living in the apartment, then I'd be a lot more inclined to want it.”

”Regardless of what we have here?”

”Liv, for almost ten years, I've never done a d.a.m.n thing regardless of what we have.” A note of irritation edges his voice. ”I've done everything with you-with us-in mind. Everything. So you're asking a pointless question because it's not just you and me anymore, and we don't live in the apartment, and we do have a child to think about.”

”I'm trying to get at whether or not you'd even want the job,” I tell him.

”And I told you it doesn't matter.”

I hold up my hands in a placating gesture. ”Okay. I just don't want you to make a decision you'll later regret.”

”I'm beginning to regret having told you about this,” he mutters.

I blink. ”Wow.”

Dean sighs, turning to cross the room to me. He brings his hands up to the sides of my neck.

”Liv, I just don't see the point of this conversation,” he says. ”Why are you even asking these questions? I need to do some political maneuvering, but do you want me to seriously consider pursuing the job?”

I stare at the warm, vulnerable hollow of his throat that is one of my favorite places to kiss. Of course I don't want him to consider the job. I want him to stay happy right where he is. I don't want him to notice another door on the other side of the room, away from us, and wonder what would happen if he walked through it.

”No,” I finally say. ”I don't want you to take a new job, Dean. Certainly not one in Europe. But I also don't want to be the reason you turn down an amazing opportunity.”

”Liv, you're the reason I do things, not the reason I don't.” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip. ”Why are you so upset?”

”I'm not upset. I'm proud of you.” The instant I say the words, I realize just how true they are. I put my hand against his jaw. ”The United Nations, for heaven's sake. I mean, I knew you were good, but I didn't know you were that good.”

”Yes, you did.”

I smile. ”Yes, I did.”

He pulls me against him, his strong arms encircling me in a warm, protective embrace. A rush of selfishness fills me so fast my throat aches. I can't stand the thought of sharing my husband with anyone.

Since the day we met, this man has never looked beyond me, beyond us, beyond the fortress of our marriage that we've fought so hard to build and defend.

But what would happen if he did? What if my white knight decides to lower the drawbridge and let the rest of the world in?

CHAPTER FOUR.

OLIVIA.

I didn't have a key. I was eleven. I couldn't get into the apartment. I had no idea where my mother was.

I can't remember where we were, what city it was. Indianapolis, maybe, or Milwaukee. It was a cold, glittery night. We'd been there for two days, having driven from Florida where my mother earned some cash selling woven bracelets on the beach. She'd used the money to put down a deposit on a first-floor, downtown apartment that smelled like mold.

She'd sent me out to get milk and bread from a store a few blocks away. When I got back, the apartment door was locked. I didn't have a key. I rang the bell. No answer. Knocked. No answer. Tried to peek in the window. Dark inside.

Dark inside.

My heart thumped low and heavy against my ribs. I clutched the plastic bag. My hands were sweaty. I waited for a long time, huddled up against the door. Every now and then, I'd ring the bell or knock, as if she'd suddenly open the door and tell me she'd been in the shower all this time.

The night air grew colder. When my fingers started getting numb, I pushed to my feet and walked back to the grocery store. Even if I had no one to call, at least it would be warm there. Lights shone from the windows, neon beer signs flas.h.i.+ng.

I walked with my shoulders hunched. I didn't notice the group of men loitering outside the store until I straightened. They were big, maybe five of them, dressed in ratty jeans and jackets. Cigarette smoke, bottles of hard liquor, raspy laughter.

”Hey, honey, why you all alone?” one of them called.

I stopped. I'd been forced to deflect plenty of leering, wrong looks from men. I'd been looked at, touched, and spoken to in ways no young girl should be. My mother had never protected me, so I'd had to learn how to protect myself. Even if it was by being invisible.

A guy with a beard stood between me and the entrance to the store. He narrowed his gaze on me.

”You know how to answer a question, girl?” he asked.

My stomach knotted. Their stares burned into me. I'd have to pa.s.s them all, walk through the gauntlet they'd created, to get inside the store.

”You're a pretty little thing,” another guy remarked, tilting his head back to drink out of a bottle. ”You shouldn't be out alone this time of night.”

”You got a boyfriend?” the bearded guy asked with a leer.

The others laughed, the sound cracking through the air like a whip.

I dropped the bag and ran. Better than trying to be invisible was not being there at all.

Their laughter followed me as I ran, my tennis shoes pounding on the cracked sidewalk. Instinctively, I ran back toward the apartment, but fear propelled me faster and faster. By the time I stopped, gasping for breath, I realized I didn't know where I was.

I stopped on a street corner, looking around. An empty lot, car repair shop, boarded-up house. Yellowish pools of light cast by streetlamps. Panic flickered in my gut. I didn't know what to do except keep walking. There was no one else around, not that I'd have trusted anyone enough to ask for help.

I walked through the maze of streets until my feet ached, pa.s.sing closed stores and noisy dive bars I was too scared to enter. Everything scared me-pa.s.sing cars, shadowed alleys, underpa.s.ses thick with weeds. I didn't even dare try and find a police officer for fear they'd involve Child Protective Services after taking me in.

When I was too exhausted to keep walking, I found a sheltered stoop where I could hide in the shadows. I nodded off into an uneasy sleep, waking when the sky began to lighten.

I pushed to my feet, hugging my arms around myself as I started walking again. A grocer was just unlocking the door of his shop as I approached. Desperate and longing to be back at ”home,” I hurried up to him.

”Sir, can you help me?” My voice was hoa.r.s.e, cracking. ”I'm lost.”

He eyed me warily, trying to figure out if I was a runaway kid, beggar, or both.

”P-please,” I begged. ”I know the street where I live, but I can't find it. Could you just l-look it up for me? Tell me how to get there. I'll walk home.”

He finally relented and gestured for me to enter the store. He told me how to get to Sycamore Street, and it turned out I'd walked ten miles away from the apartment. Then he gave me an apple and told his wife to drive me back.

A light was on in the apartment. I knocked. I didn't know whether to be enraged or relieved when my mother answered the door. She looked like an angel, the light glowing on her honey-blond hair, her features as fine as those of a princess. She looked at me with her thick-lashed blue eyes and blinked.

”Where were you?” she asked.