Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(83)

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.