She came awake on the dark tide of a rising anxiety attack.
“Crap, not again,” she said aloud into the darkness. “Damn it to hell.”
It was time to run through the exercise routine. Except she couldn’t because of the stitches in her side.
That left the meds.
It dawned on her that she was alone in the bed. She didn’t need to glance at the clock but she did so anyway. It was one forty-five in the morning. Cabot had probably been gone for a few minutes.
With a sigh, she pushed back the covers and started to sit up on the side of the bed.
Pain lanced through her side. She sucked in her breath on a sharp gasp and froze.
“Okay,” she whispered. Gingerly she touched her side. “That’s not an anxiety attack. It’s actual pain.”
Obviously the pain meds had worn off. She was surprised to realize that the incipient anxiety attack was receding. Nothing like real, honest-to-goodness physical pain to distract the brain, apparently.
She let out the breath she had been holding and cautiously touched her bandaged side. When she thought she had things under control, she pushed herself to her feet.
She was struggling to get herself into her robe when she became aware of Cabot’s presence in the doorway. He moved closer to help her with the robe.
“Need some pain meds?” he asked.
“Yes, but I think the over-the-counter stuff will work. And maybe a medicinal dose of whiskey. How is your arm doing?”
“I’m good, but I will admit that whiskey sounds like an excellent idea.”
“Do private investigators get shot often, or was this case something of an aberration?”
“This case is definitely not the norm.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
They went down the hall to the living room. Cabot eased her carefully into the big reading chair.
“I’ll get the whiskeys,” he said.
He went into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. His laptop was open on the dining counter. The screen was illuminated. Virginia could see what looked like old newspaper clippings.
“Are you going through some of Tucker Fleming’s files?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Cabot carried the glasses into the living room and handed one of them to her. “Fleming had one major advantage when it came to digging into Zane’s background. Rose Gilbert.”
Virginia swallowed some of the whiskey and lowered the glass. “She would have had more background on Zane than the rest of us because of her relationship with Abigail Watkins.”
“Right. And Abigail Watkins knew Zane better than anyone we’ve ever come across because she fell under his spell early on. According to the journal, she was only sixteen when they met. Zane was in his early twenties. Her diary offers us a glimpse into the way the bastard’s mind works.”
“I know we’re in this conspiracy theory together and I’m on board, believe me. But we do have to keep in mind that Zane really might be dead.”
“He’s alive,” Cabot said. “I sent some of Fleming’s files to Max and Jack. They agree with me. Fleming was on the trail of his old man and now we are, too.”
Virginia nodded, accepting that without further argument. “What about Kate Delbridge?”
“I doubt that we’ll get much out of her.”
“Because she has no incentive to help us find Zane?”
“No, because she doesn’t appear to have been all that interested in finding her long-lost father. She was in it for the money, not because she wanted to be reunited with dear old Dad.”
“I wonder if Quinton Zane was aware of Tucker and Kate,” Virginia said.
“If he’s alive, then we have to assume that he knew of the existence of his offspring.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But he never made any attempt to contact them over the years.”
“Why would he? This is Quinton Zane we’re talking about. He wouldn’t have had any interest in his own flesh and blood unless he thought he could make use of them.”
Virginia eased herself back into the chair and concentrated on her whiskey. Both the pain in her side and the last remnants of the anxiety attack were fading. Cabot sat on the sofa, his knees apart, his forearms resting on his thighs. He cradled his glass in both hands.
“I meant what I said this afternoon,” he said after a while. “I love you.”
She knew a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the whiskey. “I meant what I said, too. I love you.”
“You thought you were dying.”
“Doesn’t change the facts. I meant it. I love you.”
“I think you should know that I have a lousy track record with relationships.”
“No kidding. So do I. We’ll figure it out together.”
“Yes,” he said. “We will. You know, under other circumstances, I would pick you up and sweep you off to the bedroom and we would engage in some hot and sweaty sex.”
“Under other circumstances, I would be thrilled to be carried off to the bedroom. However, given our current physical conditions, I guess we’ll just have to sit here in the dark and tell each other how much we love each other.”
“Works for me. But just so you know, as soon as we get the stitches out, I intend to go back to plan A.”
“That would be the plan in which you sweep me off to the bedroom and we engage in hot and sweaty sex?”
“Right.”
She smiled. “It’s good to have a plan.”
“The plan includes asking you to marry me after the hot and sweaty sex.”
She drew a breath and released it with a sense of certainty.
“Does your plan allow for some modifications?” she asked.
Cabot’s jaw tightened. “It’s too soon. I understand. But I think you should know that sooner or later I will ask because I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“The modification I was about to suggest is that we reverse the sequence of events. You could ask me to marry you now instead of waiting until after we get the stitches out.”
Cabot did not move, but it seemed to Virginia that there was a lot of energy in the atmosphere. It was the vital, intoxicating energy of joy.
“That first day, when I walked into the office and saw you sitting there with Anson, I felt as if I’d had the breath knocked out of me,” Cabot said. “For a couple of seconds all I could do was just stare at you.”
“I noticed. I thought it was because you thought I was suspicious.”
“No,” he said. He shook his head very slowly, utterly intense, fully in his zone. “No, it was because I knew I’d found something I’d been looking for all my life. I just hadn’t realized what it was I wanted until I saw you. Will you marry me, Virginia?”
“I guess you didn’t notice that I stopped breathing for a couple of beats that day when you walked into the office carrying those two cups of coffee and some pastries. It was as if I’d been walking through an endless gallery filled with boring abstract paintings and suddenly, there on the wall, was an old Renaissance masterpiece.”
“Old?”
She smiled. “I mean that in the nicest possible way. Yes, I will marry you, Cabot Sutter.”
He got to his feet, pulled her gently to her feet and kissed her. It was not a hot tango of a kiss; it was not a kiss that seduced and enthralled. It was a vastly more meaningful kiss – the kind that sealed a vow.