Exposed (Madame X, #2)(60)

“A limo will be waiting for you at your hotel, with your companion for the evening already in attendance.” You pause. “I must remind you of the rules regarding my employees. They are companionship for the evening only. And, of course, your complete discretion regarding the procedure you just performed is expected.”

“Don’t have to remind me on either score, Mr. Indigo. I know the rules. I signed an NDA years ago, and besides, I didn’t get where I am by having loose lips.”

“Of course not,” you say.

A glance at me. “Take it easy on those stitches. There aren’t many, and they’ll come out on their own in time. But try not to get them wet for forty-eight hours at least.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Pleasure. Next time, try to give me more than a couple hours’ notice, will you?”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” you say.

Dr. Frankel laughs. “Ah yes, the plight of the doctor. Happy to see us show up, happier yet to see us leave. And happiest of all to never have to see us in the first place.” With that last quip, Dr. Frankel is out the door.

When the good doctor is gone, you glance at your watch, and then at me. “A rather expensive seven minutes, I’d say.”

“If you hadn’t put it there in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to spend three million dollars to have it removed.” I frown. “Why did you have him put a tracking chip in me, Caleb?”

A breath that isn’t quite a sigh. “A last-minute quirk, you could say. A means of ensuring I could protect—”

“Your investment?”

“Are you so determined to believe the worst?”

“Yes.” I step into my underwear and allow my dress to fall back into place as I stand up. I wobble, as my hip is still numb. “With reason.”

“You misunderstand me, and the situation.”

“Because you do not tell me the truth. Thus, I have no way of truly understanding the situation.” I prop myself on the bed in an attempt to find my balance. “Or of understanding you. You, most of all.”

You merely stare at me. At a loss for words, perhaps? I wait, but you say nothing.

I shake my head and walk away, or try to. I have to cling to one surface or another, have to surf from bed to door post, door post to wall, wall to elevator. I have to lean against the elevator wall and focus on breathing. The local anesthetic is beginning to wear off, and my body is now reminding me that I just had my skin sliced open and sewn shut. It isn’t a pleasant sensation. At no point do I stop to wonder if you’ll follow me, because you won’t. This isn’t new.

I had a cell phone, at one point. But I am unaccustomed to carrying any possessions with me, and I’ve misplaced it. At Logan’s home, perhaps? I don’t know. I wish I had it now. I would call him. Beg him to come get me.

I make it outside, where the world is bright and loud and chaotic. I feel panic creeping at the edges of my mind, lurking at the bottom of my lungs, stealing my breath. I focus on walking, clinging to the wall of the building. It is a laborious process, made all the harder when I run out of building and must totter to the intersection and pretend I am not about to collapse. The light turns, the crowd around me surges forward, and I am swept off balance. I nearly fall several times but rebound off those around me and manage to stay upright. Reaching the far side of the intersection feels like a miraculous accomplishment. I still cannot breathe, and the edge of my vision darkens, narrows, but each step requires such focus and determination that I cannot allow myself to falter, or I will fall.

And then I feel peace wash over me. I look around, and there he is. Tall, golden-haired, golden-skinned, eyes gleaming indigo. Striding toward me, arms swinging freely, the smile on his face a tender one, calm joy at merely seeing me. He’s wearing the same tight dark blue jeans as the first time I saw him, this time with a red T-shirt, on which is written in large black letters: VOTE “NO” ON DALEKS, STOP EXTERMINATION TODAY, with a picture of some kind of robot covered in black knobs and armed with a gun. I do not understand many of his T-shirts. References to pop culture, I believe, things I’ve not seen either pre-or postamnesia.

He wraps me up in his arms, pulls me to his chest. He is warm and solid and comforting, his scent now familiar, cinnamon gum and cigarette smoke. I rest my ear over his heart and listen to his heartbeat, and I merely breathe for long moments. He doesn’t speak, as if understanding without needing to be told that I am fragile right now.

His palm skates down my waist and comes to rest over my hip, over the stitches. I gasp in pain, and his hand flies away.

“Shit, are you hurt?” He holds me by the shoulder and examines me for signs of injury.

I shake my head. “No. Well, yes. I just had the microchip removed from my hip. No more tracking me. Not that way, at least.”

“When did this happen?”

I shrug. “Ten minutes ago, perhaps?”

“Damn it, Isabel,” he sighs. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.” He suits action to words, scooping me up in his arms and cradling me against his chest.

“Put me down, Logan,” I murmur, hiding my face in his neck. “I’m fine. And besides, you can’t carry me down the streets of Manhattan.”

“The hell I will, the hell you are, and the hell I can’t.” He moves through the crowd with me in his arms as if I weigh nothing, and he is careful to make sure my head doesn’t bump into anyone. “If a man carrying a woman down the street is the strangest thing these people see today, then they’re not paying attention.”