Secrets and Sins:Raphael(34)

"Please, Ethan. Sit." Maybe he heard the desperation in her voice. Maybe  he, too, noticed the captive audience they were engaging. Or maybe he  retained enough of his upbringing to realize he couldn't deck a woman-an  older woman at that. Either way, he lowered into his chair, encasing  Greer's hand in a firm grip. Greer returned her attention to her  ex-fiancé's mother. "Karen, once again, I'm sorry about Gavin. You'll  never know how much."

"Save it," she hissed. "If you were really sorry, you'd confess to  killing him and give his father and me at least a little peace. But  instead you're out here, free, getting away with the murder of my son."  She edged closer, nudging Aubrey aside. "God, I'm so glad he found a few  moments of happiness before he died. But not with you. With Aubrey. You  took him away from all of us, because he'd finally found joy in his  life, didn't you, you selfish bitch?" she spat.

"Karen, please," Aubrey pleaded.

"Oh, and your mother told Gregory and me about your pregnancy." She  emitted a hard, brittle crack of laughter. "As if we would ever accept  whatever it is you're breeding. This"-she wound an arm around Aubrey's  waist, tugging her forward and into her side-"is the mother of our  grandchild. I have no clue what that is." She stabbed a finger in the  direction of Greer's stomach. "Or who fathered it. But it wasn't our  Gavin."

"You're right," Greer said quietly, interrupting her vitriolic diatribe.  "Gavin is not the father of my baby. And I'm happy for you that even  though he's gone you will still have a piece of him with Aubrey's  child."                       
       
           



       

Karen's eyes narrowed, her fingers curled until the pale-pink fingertips resembled claws. "You're nothing but a whore-"

"Aubrey, get her out of here now," Ethan snapped. Ice unlike anything  she'd ever heard infiltrated his tone, and for a moment, she feared for  Karen's safety. "Now, damn it."

Aubrey nodded, hooked an arm around the older woman's back, and guided  her from the restaurant with hushed whispers. Silence followed them out,  the noise level in the room having dropped until the tinkle of a fork  scraping over a plate could be heard. For several awkward moments, Greer  focused her gaze on the unappetizing bowl of soup in front of her. Soft  whispers and uncomfortable coughs filled the deafening quiet.  Gradually, the area filled with conversation again, and she breathed a  sigh of relief.

But the relief was short-lived. Shame, humiliation, and helpless fury bombarded her, and she almost broke under the deluge.

"Greer, honey," Ethan rasped. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have had to  endure that shit." He scrubbed a palm down his face. "Damn you, Mom. I  can't believe she told Karen about the baby. How could she even have  anything to do with them? Unbelievable-"

She shot from her chair and clutched the edge of the table, granting her  trembling legs a moment of reprieve to settle. But only a moment. She  had to get out of there. Just … get away. "Don't worry about it, Ethan. If  you will excuse me."

She tried to ignore the furtive glances and outright stares as she  wended a path through the tables toward the rear of the restaurant. Each  pair of eyes pricked her skin like visual pinches. Only once she  entered the woman's restroom and closed the bathroom stall door behind  her did she allow her composure to wilt. Her shoulders slumped as she  flipped the toilet lid down and sank to the top of it. She covered her  face with her hands, and finally, finally, surrendered to the emotional  typhoon wrecking her apart inside.

Hoarse sobs ripped free. Minutes later when the restroom door squeaked  open and the hinges on a stall farther down the row squealed in protest,  she muffled the seemingly endless sobs by pressing the heel of her hand  to her mouth. With every breath she drew, every cry she loosed, her  throat, her ribs, her heart-her spirit-ached. No bruises darkened her  skin and limbs, but her insides throbbed with the blows from Karen's  attack.

Shit, the need to smash something vibrated beneath her skin. To kick,  scream, have the mother of tantrums at the injustice of it all. To plead  her innocence to Karen. But what would it have served except to throw  gas on the almost fanatical fire burning in Karen's gaze? And she  wouldn't have believed Greer anyway. Nothing Greer could've said-or  could say-would change her mind about her role in the death of her son.

So instead she remained in the bathroom stall scrambling to scrape  together the scattered shreds of her pride after Karen's attack.  Eventually she would have to emerge. And when she did so, it would be  with her head held high, cloaked in a composure that was one fat lie.

Sighing, she stood and exited the relative haven of the stall. As much  as she longed to curl into a ball and tend to her wounds, she  couldn't-she wouldn't. These past months had educated her in the art of  survival. She'd encountered and faced belligerent cops, voracious press,  a faceless stalker, and an unexpected pregnancy. And she was still  here, still moving forward-sometimes plodding, but still moving. One  confrontation with an angry Karen Wells wouldn't wreck her.

And besides, the bathroom floor didn't look all that comfortable or clean to collapse on.

She washed her hands, and as she turned the water off, a stall door  opened behind her. Great. The person who'd overheard her momentary  emotional breakdown. Awk-ward.

She glanced up.

The automatic polite smile froze on her lips.

A face in a black ski mask stared back at her from the mirror's reflection.





Chapter Seventeen

Shock slammed into Greer, rendered her motionless.

Her muscles locked, but her heart raced in her rib cage like a bucking horse.

She whimpered-it was all she could manage. The sound seemed to galvanize  the figure behind her. Suddenly, the muzzle of an ugly black handgun  pressed to her temple. He snaked an arm around her neck, wrenching her  backward and off-balance until she grabbed on to his forearm, her  tiptoes tap-dancing against the white tiled floor to remain upright. She  dug her fingernails into the black jacket covering his skin, scrabbling  for purchase.

"Cut it out, damn it," he ordered, tightening the imprisoning band  around her neck. The rough gravel of his voice scraped her eardrums,  jacked her pulse past scared-shitless to coronary. The pressure of the  gun muzzle bruised her skin.                       
       
           



       

The face of the red-and-black joker on the back of his hand leered at  her, seeming to grow in size the longer she stared. That tattoo is  nothing like Raphael's.

She stilled, the random thought grounding her like a reality slap across  the cheek. What would Raphael do? WWRD? He'd survive. He'd fight. Stop  fighting. Cheat or trick. Anything to live.

Me, too.

Their loud, harsh breathing bounced off the white walls of the bathroom.  Again the din of her heart crowded her ears. With a will born of primal  fear, she shoved the noise back, forced her brain to function past  animal instinct.

Make it to the door. Just make it to the door.

When she entered the restroom, the distance from the entrance to the sink had been negligible. Now it seemed cavernous.

"That's better," he whispered, grazing the gun over her cheekbone before  returning it to her temple. His grip across her neck loosened a  fraction, permitting the soles of her feet to touch the floor. "Much  better- Bitch!"

His snarl blasted her ear as she slammed her heel on the instep of his foot and ground down. Hard.

She burst forward, breaking free and hurtling across the room. A sob  ripped past her throat, and a desperate hope churned in her roiling gut  as her fingernails scrabbled against the door above the handle. She  grabbed it. Shoved it down …

A heavy weight crashed against her back. Her cheek smashed into the  wood. Pain radiated from her face, throbbing like a homing beacon as the  coppery flavor of blood stained her tongue.

"Stupid whore." He seized her wrist, jerked it up and behind her back  until her shoulder screamed in red-hot pain. He jammed the gun into her  spine so hard she arched under the punch of it. "Try something like that  again, and you won't make it out of this bathroom. You get me?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Won't make it out of this bathroom." What did that  mean? Did he plan on taking her out of here? The restaurant? Acid razed a  path up her esophagus to the back of her throat. Black and gold dots  swarmed in her peripheral vision, closing in. Jesus, I can't faint. I'm  dead if I black out. Me and my baby. Please, God …

She dragged in a deep, ragged breath, and the spots receded a fraction of an inch. Then another.