No Control

Stacie was a petite, consistently wel-dressed woman who was quick to smile even though life’s tragedies had tried to strip away her sense of humor. She was old enough to need reading glasses but young enough to resent them, so more often than not, they hung on a beaded chain around her neck, ignored.



She squinted at the message pad, holding it out at arm’s length. “His exact words were, ‘Tel Lana-darling that I simply must go to Milan. My muse has left me, the bitch, and I wil surely find her there, whoring herself out to other men.’”



“Great,” said Lana. “So now that His Artistic Majesty, Armand, has abandoned us, the rest of the artists are going to see our fundraiser as more of an obligation than an honor.”



“That’s what I was worried about,” said Stacie.



“I should have forced him to sign a contract like the rest of the artists.”



“You tried and he refused, remember?”



Lana sighed, trying to release some of her frustration. She was putting on this fundraiser for a good cause, so couldn’t fate just cut her a freaking break for once? “How many artists have committed to donating their work so far?”



“Twelve. Sutter canceled this morning before signing his contract.”



“So, the word that Armand has canceled is already out.” Lana stifled a curse before it spiled from her lips. If she let it out, Stacie would give her one of those motherly frowns of disappointment, and Lana didn’t need any more of those in her life than she already had.



Getting her foundation, First Light, off the ground had been both more difficult and more rewarding than she’d ever imagined. Of course, it wasn’t technicaly off the ground yet, but it was close—almost hovering. The art auction would breathe enough monetary life into the foundation to help her hire another permanent staff member, which would free up Lana’s time to work on expanding First Light’s reach.



The focus of First Light was simple: to give kids a safe place to go after school and during the summer months so they wouldn’t be as tempted to occupy themselves with drugs and violence. She gave them art and music and games to keep them busy in the hopes that there would be no time for the other stuff. They also offered help with homework, organized sports, and worked one-on-one with some of the more troubled or at-risk kids. Dozens of local volunteers gave their time and talents to help her make this happen, and she was proud of the work she’d done, even though it wasn’t nearly enough.



Her family thought she was wasting her life on a lost cause. She had no business doing something so stressful and financialy risky in her “fragile” state—as if she hadn’t been strong and healthy for months now. Her mother didn’t understand why Lana felt the need to get involved when it would only put her in contact with troubled kids. Why did she want that burden?



Then again, Madeline Hancock had never met Eddie—one of the men who was on a similar physical therapy schedule with Lana. He’d been a narcotics officer before a ten-year-old boy’s bulet had shattered his femur, basicaly ending his career. Not only had Eddie forgiven the boy, he’d adopted the orphan, and now Eddie spent his time going from school to school talking to kids about everything from drugs to sex to gangs.



Lana had been so inspired by Eddie’s passion for helping kids, and so desperate for a reason to get up in the morning, that she decided to join the cause. She didn’t care if her parents approved. She was doing what she thought was right, and even if she helped only a handful of kids, it was enough for her.



She’d done good. Maybe not much, but some. If this art auction went wel, she’d be able to do even more. Maybe she’d be able to move her work into St. Louis or other, smaler cities. Maybe she’d even get to travel enough that no one could be able to predict her movements. She’d be free from always looking over her shoulder, wondering if whoever she’d seen on that hilside in Armenia was stil watching her.



She would give almost anything for that kind of freedom.



Certainly, if that person wanted her dead, she’d already be six feet under. She was sily to keep worrying about nothing. Life was finaly getting better. Why couldn’t she just accept that gift and move on?



An almost paranoid sort of anxiety puled at her, but she forced it away with a cheerful smile that probably looked as fake as it felt. “What’s the status with finding an auctioneer?”



Stacie’s shoulders slumped, wrinkling her perfectly pressed blouse. “I’ve caled six, and none of them are wiling to donate their time.”



That tension headache grew a little tenser and achier. She hadn’t been sleeping wel, not that it was anything new.



“I’l see what I can do with the rest of the auctioneers on our list,” Lana said. “I can make some money available if I put off the electric bil a few days. That might be enough to tempt someone, especialy if I give them a prime advertising spot in the auction book.”



Stacie nodded and peered down at her paper again, squinting. “I’l make the adjustments to the auction listings courtesy of Armand. The layout for the auction book is nearly done. We should be able to send it to the printers as soon as we hire an auctioneer. They said it would take three days to print, so there’s stil time.”



“That’s something, at least,” said Lana, pushing her slippery hair behind her ears so she could rub her temples to ease the throbbing. Two more weeks until the auction and then she could relax. “I’l get onto our website tonight and post the updated artist list. I’l deal with finding an auctioneer today, or I’l sign myself up for a class and do the damn thing myself.”



“And when wil you find time to take a class—even a one-day class? You’re already working seventy-hour weeks. Maybe more. What about going to the youth center?



The whole reason you started this foundation was to help the kids, and you haven’t seen them in days. They miss you.”



“I’l find a way to fit that in, too.”



“You can’t do it al.” Stacie gave Lana her best maternal frown.



“I’m not trying to do it al. I just want to get through this auction without emptying out the foundation’s bank account. Every hour I put in is one I don’t have to pay someone else to do.”



“If it helps, you don’t need to pay me this month.”



Lana snorted. “You work for next to nothing. If I can’t afford to pay you, then we’re in big trouble.”



“I checked the books. You’ve been without a paycheck for three months.”



Lana winced. She didn’t hide the financial records from Stacie, but there wasn’t usualy a need. Stacie hated anything to do with numbers. She’d been a pampered executive’s wife most of her adult life and had never had to so much as lift a calculator. Until her husband and son were kiled in a car accident. That had ended Stacie’s days of pampering.



“I won’t take another paycheck until you do,” insisted Stacie.



“I’m fine.”



Stacie arched a brow. “Liar.”



Lana felt a smile play at her lips, and she gave in to it. “You’re not supposed to cal your boss a liar.”



“For what I make, I’ve got to find my fringe benefits where I can,” teased Stacie. “I mean it, Lana. You can’t run yourself into debt to keep this place going.”



“I’m not in debt.” Yet. But man, was it close. She had enough to pay her bils this month and buy some groceries, but that was it. After that, she had no idea what she would do.



“Uh-huh. When’s the last time you bought yourself a new pair of shoes, or even a new shirt? I swear I see you in the same clothes every week. And that backpack you use as a purse is ghastly.”



“I’m clean. I’m decent. That’s enough. Besides, I set the dress code around here, so lay off.”



Stacie shook her head, making her bun slide around on the back of her head. Lana had no idea how she kept the thing in place, but it had never falen. “Just don’t stretch yourself too thin. I know you want to make this work, but without you, it won’t. If you go pushing yourself too hard, you’l end up broke and sick, and our health insurance plan sucks.”



“What health insurance plan?”



“Exactly my point.”



Lana held up her hands in an effort to ward off any more mothering. She got enough of that on the weekends as it was. “Okay. I’l be good.”



“Good,” said Stacie as she rose to her feet and straightened a stack of papers into a file folder. “Then you’l be leaving with me tonight. No more staying late.”



Lana was saved from having to lie to Stacie by the jingling of the bel on the office door.



She squinted against the sun as the tinted-glass door swung open. The transition from dim to bright light stil brought back a rioting swirl of emotions, the same way that some scents brought back vivid memories. It had been a long time since she’d been carried out of that cave into the sunlight, but she had never forgotten the way it felt to know she’d been rescued from her nightmare. Even though her body had been bleeding, broken, and knotted with pain, her heart had soared with the knowledge of her freedom.



Every time she saw the sun, she was reminded of that joy al over again. She welcomed the light, reveled in the fact that she was alive and free enough to enjoy it.



That brief feeling of freedom was short-lived, however, because as soon as she saw who’d walked in, she knew she was in trouble.



Caleb Stone.



Lana would have known him anywhere, whether he went by Caleb or, as she’d first come to know him, as Miles Gentry, amoral mercenary and demolitions expert for hire.



He was a huge man—not just tal, but big everywhere—and nearly overpowering just standing there a few feet away. He was wel over six feet and a whole heaping pile of muscles over two hundred pounds. His thick legs were braced apart, and his hands were fisted at his sides as if he were expecting a physical blow.



Shock stiled her mouth, and her pen fel from her hand onto the floor. Her heart squeezed hard, and dread flooded her system. He couldn’t be here. This had to be some Shock stiled her mouth, and her pen fel from her hand onto the floor. Her heart squeezed hard, and dread flooded her system. He couldn’t be here. This had to be some kind of sick joke—a trick of her mind. Another nightmare.



“Ma’am,” he greeted her in that deep, soothing voice of his.



This was no nightmare, or rather it was, but she wasn’t asleep. This was real. He was here, torturing her al over again, bringing back those first few days when her world had been only pain and the sound of his voice. He’d been beside her, demanding that she live, compeling her not to give up. She was too weak to do anything but listen, too confused to do anything but obey his commands, and because of that—because of him—she’d lived.



Sometimes she stil hated him for that.



Lana struggled to remain calm. He was watching her expectantly, waiting for a response to his greeting. What could she say? She wanted to scream at him to leave, to drive her fists into that solid body of his until he’d never dare show his face again.