She was safe.
Max’s family had gathered Ceecee into their collective bosom and smothered her with loving care. Yet as winter turned to a cold, wet spring, Max watched over her, gave her everything: food, drink, heat, love, laughter and sex, not necessarily in that order. It was, for Ceecee, a happy time…within reason. Someday soon, Max was going to want more from her. He would want to know where she came from, what her real name was, why she was hiding from her past.
She wasn’t ready to tell him. When she remembered her cousin, her soul shriveled with sorrow and guilt. Kellen Rae had had so much to live for, and she had died saving Cecilia. When Cecilia tried to look into the future, she couldn’t see herself ever telling Max the truth. When she did, Max would turn away and she would be alone and unloved. She did deserve that, but she couldn’t throw away what she had. Not yet.
But as she grew stronger, the old Cecilia, the person she had been before she met Gregory, the person who had gone off on her own to travel the United States, reasserted herself. She loved Max so much she couldn’t live without him, and that frightened her. She grew impatient with his care, then irritable. She started feeling tired, not really ill, but queasy and irritable. She looked for something to occupy her mind, and he was always working, so she offered to help him.
That was when Max made his fatal mistake.
He ran his hand through his dark hair and agreed. He said, “Sure. You’ve got a business degree. That would be great.”
He didn’t realize what he’d admitted.
At some point, he had looked at the documents Cecilia so vigilantly guarded. He believed she was Kellen Rae Adams. He thought she had a business degree. He probably knew the police wanted to talk to her in conjunction with the explosion at the Lykke house in Maine.
He had looked.
He had lied.
She was so sickened by the betrayal she threw up. Then while he was at work, she called his car service, took Kellen’s papers and ran away to Philadelphia. She didn’t have a plan, or money, or even good sense. What she had was a terrifying sense of panic. Max knew her secret, he’d never said a word about it to her—and the secret was a lie.
She had the car drop her off at Rittenhouse Square. She wandered the walks under budding trees and through cold sunshine. How could she explain to him her marriage, her cousin Kellen’s death, her own cowardice and deception?
Beneath Cecilia’s fear was a lurking anger.
Why had he looked at the papers she so carefully guarded? How dare he invade her privacy! Why had he broken his word? He had ruined everything.
A man, rough, unpolished, walked the path toward her. He had pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears and kept his hands plunged deep in his pockets. He had a desperate air about him, a reckless attitude she identified from her time on the streets.
She veered to avoid him.
He walked to intercept her, and she recognized him: Annabella’s father, Ettore Fontana, his face a death mask.
How had he found her so quickly?
Probably an informant on Max’s staff.
Across the wet, brown lawn, she saw a man running toward them. Running as fast as a linebacker could run. Max!
How had Max found her so quickly?
Probably through his credit card, the one that paid for the town car.
She tried to run.
Ettore grabbed her by one arm, pushed her up against a tree trunk and pulled a pistol out of his pocket. He touched it to her forehead.
She froze, afraid to move, afraid not to move. She felt the cool metal, saw the black barrel, smelled her own fear.
Max raced toward them, his mouth open as if he was yelling, but she heard no sound except the heavy beat of blood in her ears.
Then…then nothing.
Nothing, until the moment when she woke in the hospital from her coma.
She remembered so much. Almost everything. But nothing would ever bring back that year after the bullet had entered her brain.
That didn’t matter, did it?
What mattered was that in the years since, she’d lived and grown and become the woman the real Kellen Rae Adams would be proud to know.
And maybe what mattered was that Max Di Luca seemed to think they had unfinished business.
Perhaps they did.
44
The town car slid to a stop.
Kellen sat up, groggy, her chest aching, her breath a struggle, her little finger so hot and swollen it felt as if it was a fat sausage roasting on a fire. She half laughed. Her chest, her fingers were the least of her problems. She would get on a helicopter, fly to the hospital and be made well. That was easy. That was clear. It was the welter of emotions connected to Max and their past that was difficult.
The chauffeur opened the back door, grasped Kellen by the waist and forcefully helped her out.
Wait. The car had stopped at the airstrip, but the runway lights were on. A small corporate jet waited, stairs down, engine idling. That made no sense. They didn’t need an airplane to get her to the hospital.
“Where’s the helicopter?” she asked.
The chauffeur put her arm around Kellen’s shoulders, pulled her tight and said, “We’re taking the plane.”
“Max said there would be a helicopter.”
“Max does not command me.”
Kellen looked up at the woman who held her so tightly. In the reflected light of the runway, that face looked like a horror mask from around the campfire. But Kellen recognized the hazel eyes, the unkempt blond hair, the wide mouth, the high, aristocratic forehead. Erin Lykke.
Then Kellen looked again at the plane. A twelve-passenger Gulfstream with a corporate insignia painted on its tail.
Erin intended to kidnap her.
Kellen rammed her elbow into Erin’s ribs.
Erin grunted, let her go, then grabbed and, with one hand behind Kellen’s head, placed a cloth over Kellen’s nose. As the world spun in circles, Erin cooed, “Did you think you could run forever…Cecilia?”
*
Max was damned well going to get the resort under control so he could get to the hospital and sit with…Ceecee. Cecilia. Kellen. Whatever name she wanted him to call her, he would. She was the woman of his dreams. She was the love of his life.
He organized the resort’s staff, what few were left, as they came out of hiding, and visited Carson Lennex’s suite for the pure joy of viewing the damaged and now-conscious Mara Philippi, who sported two black eyes, a broken nose and a cool demeanor.
No, not cool. Cold. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. Frost rimmed her vigilant eyes.
Nils Brooks was sitting up against a wall, holding an ice bag on the back of his neck and a pistol in his other hand. He kept the gun pointed at Mara and he gave terse instructions to the visitors. “Stay back. She’s not to be trusted.” If the way he held that gun was any indication, he didn’t trust anyone in the room. And if he was to be believed, the US government would be removing Mara from their custody very soon.
Max didn’t care if the FBI took her away or Sheriff Kwinault handled the arrest. His only concern was that it happened sooner rather than later. Without a doubt, this was a dangerous woman.
Nils didn’t relax until Temo and Adrian appeared. Those two he apparently trusted, and as they took up their positions around Mara, she finally seemed to accept she could not escape.
As soon as the arrest was made, he would have to send Nils to the hospital.
He called Annie and Leo and gave them the update, and while he was on the phone with them, Carson Lennex rang in.
Max hurriedly finished briefing Annie and Leo and answered, “Carson, what’s your report?”
“It’s good, I guess. Birdie’s not good. Sheri Jean stabilized her condition. Somehow, we got her down the spiral staircase and waited for the car, but—” Carson sounded frankly peeved “—nothing.”
Max frowned. “The car didn’t show up?”