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“It’s too dangerous,” she whispered. “He’s too good at this.”
“He’s a man, Page, whatever exaggerated delusions you’ve concocted over the past couple of years. He can be stopped.”
Shaking her head, she stood and backed away from the table, her hands raised in a gesture of pleading. “I...we can’t. He’ll kill you, Gabe. Or if not you, another innocent bystander. He has no conscience, no mercy. He doesn’t care what he has to do, as long as it makes me suffer.”
Gabe almost asked her why she would suffer if he were killed. Because she couldn’t stand the guilt of another death on her behalf? Because she’d once cared for him enough to marry him?
He knew now that her reason for leaving him had been noble, at least in her own mind. Maybe she really had convinced herself she’d had no other choice, that the sacrifices she’d made had been necessary. Selfless. Maybe some people would consider her a martyr to love, a heroine of epic proportions.
Gabe was still hurting too much to see her in that light. As much as he had loved her—as much as he suspected he still loved her—it still hurt him that she hadn’t come to him the moment her problems had begun. That she’d run without a word of explanation to him.
She hadn’t given him a chance to help her. To help them both. She hadn’t trusted him to take care of himself, or her. And that lack of faith slashed at some deep, primitive male part of him that had expected his wife to turn to him for protection. To see him as her champion, strong and fearless and invulnerable.
Instead, she’d seen him as a helpless target. A victim. And she’d taken it upon herself to leave him alone, groping cluelessly for answers, blaming himself for her desertion.
She hadn’t believed in him then. He would damned well make her trust him now...even if he died trying.
“I’m calling Blake,” he announced in sudden decision. “He seems to have a great deal of experience that could prove helpful to us now.”
“You’ll just be endangering him, too.” There was desperation on her face now, mingled with resignation. She’d finally accepted that he wasn’t going anywhere until this mess was resolved—one way or another.
“I’ll tell him everything. Give him the chance to decide for himself whether he wants to stay involved. That’s more than you gave me,” he added with a bitterness he didn’t try to conceal.
She flinched as if he’d struck her. “I thought I had no other choice,” she whispered.
He stood and turned his back to her. Now wasn’t the time to get into “should haves” or “would haves.” First, they’d see about tracking the demented killer Page claimed was after them. Then they would decide what to do about their marriage.
PAGE STOOD for a long time in the middle of the kitchen, hardly able to breathe.
Gabe hated her. Even after hearing the whole story, after she’d told him she’d acted out of love for him, he was still bitter and angry that she’d left without an explanation.
She thought of all she’d done for him, all she’d sacrificed to keep him safe. Her home. A job she’d loved. Companionship. Security. She’d tossed it all away. For him. Because she loved him. She always had. Always would.
And he hated her for it
For the first time since he’d brought her here, he’d left her alone in a room with a door to the outside. She heard the low murmur of his voice in the other room, knew he was occupied on the telephone, telling her story to Blake. She looked longingly at the kitchen door.
She could run. And this time, she might even get away. For a little while.
But Gabe would follow. She understood that fully now. He wasn’t going to let her walk away again. He would keep following her until he found her...or until the stalker killed him for daring to get close to her. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do to stop him.
Suddenly overcome with exhaustion and despair, she sank into her chair and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t run any more. At least now, with Blake on his side, Gabe had a fighting chance. He’d finally been given his choice, and he’d decided to stay with her until it was over. She didn’t try to tell herself he stayed out of love.
No, this time Gabe intended to be the one to walk away... when he was good and ready, and not before.
She only prayed that he would live long enough to have the satisfaction of leaving her.
THE WOOD-HANDLED kitchen knife, a four-pronged fork and a dented spoon danced through the air as if they had a life of their own. Up and over, around and across. Dancing, spinning, falling. Page found herself half mesmerized by their movements, her mind numbed by fear, weariness, heartache and despair.
Blake seemed to pay little attention to the sharp instruments he juggled so casually. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he’d started juggling them almost absently as he listened to Gabe repeat the story Page had told him. He wore pearl-gray slacks with a soft, pale-blue shirt and he looked more like a handsome lounge performer than the clever detective Page knew him to be.
Blake glanced at Page. Seeing her staring at his busy hands, he stopped his juggling and nodded toward the barely touched burger she held loosely in front of her on the table. “Eat,” he prodded gently. “You must be hungry.”
She wasn’t, actually, but she forced herself to take a small bite of the rapidly cooling burger. Blake had brought fast food when he’d arrived, and Gabe had managed to consume his dinner while he’d talked. It was all Page could do to choke a few morsels past the lump of fear in her throat.
Blake looked at the penknife lying on the table, close to Gabe. The knife Gabe had taken from her outside.
“If you’re going to carry a knife, Page,” Blake commented, “you need one a bit more effective than that puny little thing.” He grinned and lifted one leg of his loose-fitting slacks, exposing a leather knife case strapped to his ankle. His knife was anything but a “puny little thing.”
