The Virgin

She had to do it, right? What other choice did she have except to go back? And that was no choice at all. Because if she went back she’d be admitting defeat. If she went back she would be walking straight into a different sort of prison.

Even now, her heart raced at the thought of Kingsley tracking her down and bringing her home. That wasn’t right. She should be able to leave if she wanted to leave. She should be able to go if she wanted to go without fearing someone was following her. That’s how it worked in the real world, right? Women got sick of the lives they were leading and they could do things like move out and move on and start over without an ex-assassin for the French government dragging her home by her hair.

Right?

Was it too late for her to be part of the normal world? If it wasn’t, did she really want to go there? She didn’t know the answer to either question. But she did know the longer she sat in the car, the sooner Kingsley would find her. It was nine o’clock now. The summer sun had finally set. By sunrise, Daniel would notice she—and his Benz—had disappeared. He’d call Kingsley, and Kingsley would start the search for her. She needed to be somewhere safe by morning, somewhere no one could follow.

That left only one option.

She was twenty-six years old.

She was the ex-lover of a Catholic priest.

She was recovering from an abortion.

Might as well go all in.

Goodbye, men. Goodbye, sex.

She headed west to her mother’s convent.

She didn’t look back.

5 (#ulink_9524ca1e-a902-5dc5-84a6-bcd09ac30507)

KINGSLEY STOOD IN front of locker 1312 but didn’t open it. He couldn’t open it. Not yet. The last thing he wanted to do was open it and have every one of his fears confirmed.

At four that morning, Søren had called him looking for Elle. She wasn’t answering her phone. When Kingsley had gone to her room and found her bed made and empty, he’d known exactly what happened. Kingsley had seen this day coming since the night he’d met her. She’d finally done it. She’d left Søren.

But why? Søren wouldn’t tell him anything, only that they’d fought and Elle had driven off in Kingsley’s BMW, which she drove whenever she went to Søren’s. They’d argued. She’d driven away. Nothing new there. They’d fought before. All couples did. But this time was different and the empty bed proved it. She hadn’t come home last night.

So where the fuck was she?

He took out his keys and opened the locker.

Kingsley stared at the hastily scrawled number five on the inside of the locker. He closed his eyes and took a breath. In between the intake of air and the outtake he whispered a word to himself.

“Fuck.”

Then he saw it. Far more damning than the number inside the locker was the six-inch length of carved bone he pulled out of it.

Kingsley held it in the palm of his hand, stared at it and knew how it had got here, knew why she’d left it.

“This is why I left him,” it told him. If she’d been here he would have replied, “Good.”

Kingsley shoved it into his back pocket and slammed the locker door shut.

“You son of a bitch.” Kingsley swore under his breath. If Søren had been here, he would have said it to his face. Kingsley was thirty-eight years old and had known Søren since he was sixteen. Søren had beaten him, brutalized him and used him. He’d married Kingsley’s sister, which had precipitated her death. And never in all those years since they’d met had Kingsley felt this level of rage, of abject fury at the man he considered his truest friend and the only man he’d ever loved. Swear at him? If Søren had been here right now, Kingsley might have killed him.

And yet, he knew most of that rage was anger at himself. This was his fault, his doing. Kingsley never should have let her face Søren alone. He shouldn’t have let her face any of it alone. If he needed any further proof he wasn’t ready to be a father, it was this—he’d made her a doctor’s appointment and then abandoned her. He’d left the city for two days, lain low in Boston and done more drinking than he’d done in years. And Elle? She’d thanked him for making the appointment. That was all. “Thanks, King, I’ll take it from here.” And there’d been a pause, as if she’d been waiting for him to say, “I’ll go with you” or “Let me help you” or even “How are you?” He hadn’t said it, hadn’t said anything, and she hadn’t asked him to come with her, to be with her during it all. Kingsley knew she thought she was doing him a favor by going alone, but in the end all that it had done was make him feel like shit.

He leaned back against the row of lockers. In scenarios one through four she’d been instructed to write the name of her destination inside the locker—Canada, Maine, Seattle, somewhere else if that’s what she wanted. But in scenario five, she’d only write the number and disappear. And so she had. If he had any doubts about her determination to run away, they’d dissolved when he’d got the phone call from Daniel.

She’s here, King. And she’s not in good shape.

Kingsley was already on his way to the door when Daniel cautioned him to wait a day or two to let Elle calm down and rest. It was a smart idea even though Kingsley rebelled at the idea of leaving her alone another minute. But she wasn’t alone. Daniel had loved her once and still cared for her. Anya adored her for bringing her and Daniel together. The house was beautiful, idyllic. She would calm down out there, recover, and when Kingsley showed up in a day or two, she’d be less likely to put up a fight about coming home.

But an hour later, the second call had come.

She’s gone, King. And she stole my fucking car.

Kingsley had hung up and stared at the phone in his hand. Then he laughed. A sad tired laugh with no joy in it at all, but still, he laughed. Because of course. Of course she’d stolen Daniel’s car and driven away in the night. He should have seen that coming.

Once upon a time, he and Søren had made an idle wish to someday have a girl who was wilder than him and Søren put together.

Be careful what you wish for.

In the back of his mind he wished Sam were here. He could use a sane and rational voice of comfort right now. She was always good at helping in a crisis. But Sam had left him six years ago shortly after that first night he and Søren had topped Elle together. Sam had met someone, fallen in love, but even that might not have broken up their partnership. Except Elle had quickly become the most important woman in Kingsley’s life. She brought Søren back to Kingsley’s bed, something Sam could never do. The first time Sam had seen Elle walking around the house in one of Kingsley’s shirts, that was it.

Sam wasn’t angry, wasn’t hurt. She just knew it was time for them both to move on. Sam told him she loved him and then gave her two weeks’ notice and started packing for LA.

His sister was dead because of his love for Søren.

His Sam was gone to California because of his love for Elle.

His Elle was gone because of his love for his stupid foolish dream to have children, a dream he put before her.

They were all gone. Maybe they were on to something.

Kingsley thought about going back home, but he couldn’t face Søren right now. Søren was nearly catatonic with shock when they’d last spoken. “You’ll find her,” was all Søren had said to him before the first phone call from Daniel had come. They’d been sitting in the music room, Søren at the piano but not playing.

Kingsley had nodded. “I’ll find her.”

He wanted to ask Søren “Why did she leave?” but he also didn’t want to ask it. Søren might tell him, and the last thing Kingsley needed was to hear what fate Kingsley had abandoned Elle to. Søren out of control was a sight as rare as a volcano erupting and nearly as terrifying.

It would be easy to find her. She’d stolen Daniel’s car. All he had to do was call a few contacts in the police department with a description of the vehicle. In a few hours they’d know which direction she’d gone. From there they could extrapolate her likeliest destination. If she used one of the credit cards, they could pinpoint her whereabouts precisely. A quick jaunt on an airplane to wherever she’d gone and by tomorrow night she’d be back in Manhattan whether she wanted to be or not.

He could find her. Easily. Søren had asked him to find her, and he couldn’t tell Søren no. He wasn’t strong enough to tell him no, and he would fail her again as he’d failed himself. Over and over in his head he cursed himself. He’d gotten her pregnant and then abandoned her to deal with it on her own. Then she’d faced Søren on her own. And Kingsley had the shard of carved bone in his back pocket to prove that conversation had not gone well. He’d never met a stronger woman in his life, a woman as free and as fearless as she. If she said Søren had crossed a line with her, Kingsley believed her.

Kingsley owed her. She’d fled somewhere—he didn’t know where but he assumed she’d picked a place she felt safe. What right did he have taking her away from there if that’s where she wanted to be? But he would do it, and he would do it for Søren, and he would do it because she’d become such a part of his life he couldn’t imagine waking another morning to find her gone.

If Kingsley went back to the town house right now he’d call all his contacts and find her. Søren would be sitting there, waiting, depending on Kingsley to find her.

But.

But if he didn’t go back to his town house...

Kingsley pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket and dialed a number.