The Other Man(78)

It was time for the trial of the century.

It was excruciating for Iris, as it would be for any new mother, to leave her baby for so long, but she knew I’d care for Dair Jr. like he was my own, and so it eased some of that great burden for her.

We watched the trial on TV.  It was intense, watching a determined Iris take down one of the most powerful politicians in the country.

Her grandmother wasn’t the VP anymore by that time, but it was a technicality.  The woman still had pull in Washington.

I knew this because I was glued to the television twenty-four/seven, and all anyone did was talk about her.

Iris didn’t get to come back to see us for the duration of the trial, not even for a visit.  It was just too dangerous for her, and for us.

Even Heath only came back once, right as the proceedings were coming to a close.

It was a bittersweet reunion, because he’d been gone for months and could only stay for one night.

That goodbye was one of the worst of them all.

He cupped my head in both hands, making me look at him, straight into his eyes.  “Listen,” he urged in his soft, gravelly way.

I couldn’t hold back tears.  Something horrible was going to happen on this trip.  I just knew it.  Something that would break me.  I could see it in every line of his tense face.

“Listen,” he repeated.  “We’re going to be separated for a bit.  We just are.  I can’t say for how long.”  He swallowed, and I watched his throat move, his big Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that reminded me just how young he was.  “But listen, and I mean this, do not turn on the TV.  You are not to watch the news, you understand me?”

I nodded that I did and promised that I wouldn’t.

That lasted about three days.

It was on every channel.  Francis Baker, as Iris was known to the public, had been assassinated in broad daylight, mere days after the trial was over.

The story went that at a stoplight, a van pulled up beside the car she was transported in, and six men in ski masks jumped out of said van.

She was dragged from the car, and her driver and one of her bodyguards, who were both wounded in the attack, witnessed her being shot at point blank in the temple.  One of her bodyguards was also reportedly killed, a big blond man, they said, though no name was divulged.

Heath knew this was coming, I told myself.  It has to be fake.  It has to be.  How else would he have been so sure it was coming?  Why else would he have asked me not to turn on the TV?

I wanted to believe it was all a lie, but it hurt like it was the truth.

I held our babies close and prayed that they would come back to me.

TWO MONTHS LATER

We’d moved again.  The second place in as many months.

Raf and Gus took it well, considering that we kept uprooting their lives.  I was eternally grateful to them for handling this all with grace, for going so far out of their way to keep from adding to my already vast burden of guilt.

We were somewhere in Arizona, in the middle of freaking nowhere, of course, in a large house, on a huge property with high gates and lots of land.

Our guards had been doubled since the incident with the van.  We had men on the perimeter as well as in the house.

I had the babies both in high chairs, feeding them tiny spoonfuls of green mush when I heard the front door open.

This wasn’t unusual.  With all of the agents roaming around, people were coming in and out at all hours.

Still, I called out, “Hello!” and wondered why no one answered back.  The agents assigned to us were usually very good about announcing themselves.

I didn’t have to wonder long.

Heath and Iris, looking tired but healthy and whole, came striding into the room.

I started to shake, every bit of me, top to bottom, from the marrow of my bones to the very outer layer of my skin, shaking.  Trembling like I had a fever.

But it wasn’t a fever, it was a rush of relief so profound and pure that it knocked the breath out of me.

I’d wondered over the last two torturous months what I’d do if I saw him again.  If I’d scream and rail at him for putting me through this, or if I’d embrace him and weep, be so relieved to see him that it’d trump all of my anger at the pain and uncertainty he’d put me through.

But after one devastating look at him, it wasn’t even a question.

I launched myself at him, running across the room, flinging my arms around his shoulders as I jumped up against him, legs snaking around his hard thighs and gripping.

He grabbed my ass with one hand, my shoulder with the other, pulling me even tighter to him.

I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in.  He kissed my temple.

I wanted to say so many things, but none of them seemed as important as this, just touching him, taking him in.

One of his big hands snaked into my hair and angling my face to him, he crushed his mouth against mine.

I pulled back enough to look at him.  We stayed like that, panting, breathing each other’s air as I stared into his eyes.

They were still cold.  They would never be warm.  I knew that by now, just as I’d known that they’d never be the windows to his soul.

But it hit me then what was.

His soul was in his touch.  His reverent lips, his mastering hands, his seeking body—those were the things that showed his hand and betrayed his true feelings.