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“The flowers.”
Sean halted mid-step. He stared at the roses, as if the answer of who sent them was printed on their petals. He said flatly, “I didn’t send you flowers.”
“But—” Lucy’s voice caught when she saw the truth in his expression.
Sean looked at the table and saw the card. Fury and fear raced through his bloodstream as he read the brief message.
I had a terrific time at the ice rink yesterday. I’ll see you soon.
“I didn’t write that. Who knew we went skating yesterday?”
The panic that crossed Lucy’s face was tangible.
“No one,” Lucy whispered. “No one.”
TWENTY-TWO
Lucy was wrapped up in her own thoughts as Sean drove to WCF. She hated feeling like a victim again and vowed she wouldn’t. She wasn’t a victim. She’d fought back six years ago, and while she lost a couple of rounds, she’d won the battle. She’d survived. She’d prospered. She had a life and a future and family.
Someone watched you yesterday at the ice rink. Some sicko saw you with Sean. Saw you kiss him. Dirtied what was pure and fun.
Her stomach heaved and she closed her eyes, prayed that Sean couldn’t see her inner turmoil. But when her eyes were closed, memories of what Roger Morton had done to her flooded her mind: flashes like a camera, others watching as she was raped and beaten.
She couldn’t bear the thought that her affection toward Sean had been tainted by a voyeur. A stalker. Pain seared her, physical angst, until she could hardly breathe.
The flowers and card told her he was a stalker. Her mind knew it and rebelled against it, angry and ready for action. But the intangible spectator, watching her as if she were a show, fueled the ember of pain that she still harbored deep inside.
Intellectually, Lucy could tell herself that she wasn’t a victim, that she was a survivor and everyone involved in her attack was dead. She could repeat the mantra endlessly, but it didn’t change how her stomach felt, or the prickle across her skin when people looked at her, or the way her throat tightened when she let her guard down and the memories flooded in unexpectedly.
It had all been better, until now. Kate’s lies, Morton’s death, the stalker. Everything felt real again.
The car stopped before she realized they were already at WCF headquarters.
Sean said, “I wouldn’t have sent you red roses.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. He reached out and put his hand on her cheek, then ran his fingers through her hair.
“I would have sent multicolored daisies, dozens of them in yellow and white and blue and purple and pink and every color I could find.”
“Why daisies?” she whispered.
“Because they would make you smile, then laugh, and you would smile again every time you looked at them. Every time you saw a daisy, you would think of me. Because no one else would give you such a whimsical bouquet of flowers.”
He pulled her the short distance toward him, meeting her halfway, and kissed her. It started soft, as if he intended to give her a quick, supportive kiss. But it didn’t end. His mouth pressed against hers, confident, calm, but insistent. His hand held her neck, his fingers moving in small circles like five dancing fairies, easing her tight muscles. Her lips parted as she relaxed, her nerves calmed, and she leaned into Sean, her right hand finding his face, the rough stubble beginning to push through his skin. She rubbed lightly, the sandpaper texture alluring, then her hand moved to his soft, thick hair, savoring the contrast.
Sean kissed her repeatedly, as if to assure himself that she was here, and she returned the urgency, her internal pain and fear retreating deep inside, behind locked doors, where she prayed it would stay.
He reached down and unbuckled her seat belt, then pulled her as close as possible with the console separating their seats. Lucy put her head on Sean’s chest and closed her eyes, feeling peace and safety and hope.
Somehow, they would find the answers. And whatever those answers were—whoever was responsible—Lucy would survive. She’d survived worse.
Before she had her family. Now…she thought she might have something else. Someone else.
“Lucy,” Sean said quietly in her ear, “are you okay with this?”
“Giving you a tour so you can bug WCF offices? I don’t know. But—I understand why you have to do it. But as soon as I get the files I need, we go to Kate, right?”
He smiled. “Right, but I wasn’t talking about WCF. I was talking about us. About me. You. This.” He kissed her.
