Page 76 of Saving Grace

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Matt

By the time they had returned to the loft, Matt had calmed down some. He’d been doing so well with controlling his foolish temper in the past month, his recent outburst caught him unaware. It was like a downhill slide with no brakes that only accelerated until he hit bottom.

And he reached bottom when he’d yelled at Grace like a lunatic. He felt guilty afterward, but his woman gave no quarter, and he was thankful she called him on it. Matt realized this was how she’d gotten under his skin. She had the body of a siren and the mesmerizing eyes of a gypsy. But in the end, it was who he was with her. He could be volatile Matt, and she’d stand up to him, but she’d never tried to change him. And yet, he wanted to become a better man for her and their baby. Being with Grace wreaked havoc on the walls of his heart. He was handling these unfamiliar emotions by trying to control the situation. She was right when she said he was keeping her in a cage, because he was selfishly putting her where he knew he’d find her while he sorted out the upheaval she had caused in his jaded existence. The truth was he didn’t want her to have a life outside of him, and he knew that wasn’t going to work. He’d been battling with the need to own her—body, heart, and mind. This thing with Kyra had prematurely exposed his fucked-up obsession with Grace. That was why Matt wanted to marry her as soon as possible. What if he scared her away with the depth of his need for her?

He was royally fucked.

But he didn’t care as long as Grace belonged to him.

He tossed back a tumbler of whisky and let the amber liquid burn down his throat.

Grace had excused herself to their bedroom, citing the need to take a bath. Matt had not been invited and that, in itself, told him he had fucked up some, but she hadn’t exactly been bitchy about it.

Sometimes he asked himself if letting a woman dominate his emotions this way was worth it, and it always came back to one answer—as long as the woman was Grace. He would put up with all the frustration he’d gone through over and over this last month if it meant that, in the end, she would be his.

But, dammit, enough with asking for space.

Matt slammed the glass on the kitchen counter and stalked toward the bedroom. He opened the door and stepped inside. Grace was sitting at the edge of the bed in a fluffy white robe that hit mid-thigh. Her hair was gathered haphazardly on top of her head, with tendrils framing her face. Her skin glowed from her bath, but she was massaging her temples. Were pregnant women supposed to take baths?

“Babe, are you okay?”

“Shh …” she mumbled as she laid on the bed and curled into a fetal position, her hands now over her head.

Matt’s heart plunged to the soles of his feet. Anxiety like no other ratcheted through his marrow. With long strides, he closed the distance between them, sat beside her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Dammit it, Grace,” Matt hissed. “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Tell me”—he kept his voice level because she looked distressed herself—“what’s going on?”

“Quiet,” she groaned. “The Atlanta airport. I’m remembering stuff and … just … don’t … talk.”

Matt shut up and withdrew his hand from her shoulder and clenched his fists on his thighs. It was either that or crawl into bed with her and absorb her agony. The compulsion to give her comfort was overwhelming, but just like all other emotions he was trying to sort out about her, he was learning when to take charge, and when to let her be.

So he watched helplessly as Grace moaned and thrashed on the bed.

*****

Grace

It was the post-traumatic stress that triggered it. I lowered my body to the warm water of the bath. I had to be careful because I was pregnant, but this twisted knot of tension inside me needed to loosen up. But the events of the day suddenly hit me. I’d been five minutes into my bath when the image of Kyra holding a gun on me morphed into a scene at the airport. A man dressed in a long leather jacket was threatening me.

Everything flashed at the same time and my poor brain got fried. This wasn’t a regular memory, it was a traumatic one, which was probably why it was the last holdout in my amnesia.

Breathing exercises helped to calm my racing heart. Somehow, I managed to put on a robe and make it back to the bed. My mind tried to block the images again as I heard Matt asking me what was wrong. I couldn’t be a coward about this. These last pieces of my memory held the answers to all the burning questions to what exactly happened at the airport.

Therefore, I opened my mind and I got sucked back into that day.

I checked the arrivals screen and saw that I just made it on time to meet my contact. I was here to meet Antonio Escobar—the cartel’s accountant. Troy set up this meeting, but all the negotiations were between me and the accountant. If the information he had for me proved usable, I would have to go directly to the DEA Administrator and the Attorney General. Troy provided the safe house in Tennessee. The accountant was financially savvy enough to redirect some of his funds to buy his cover to fly to the U.S. It helped that he had relatives in Dallas, Texas.

I stood surreptitiously by the baggage claim for Jericho Airlines flight from Dallas. It was up to fate now. The accountant could pass me, and I wouldn’t know. Troy made me wear a dumb Georgia slogan button: Georgia on my mind. The person who stood by me briefly and coughed would be my signal. I kept my gaze nonchalant, pretending to search ahead, but was actually looking at passers-by on my left. A few seconds later, my instinct picked up a passenger. He was dressed in a long-sleeved polo and khakis. He was dark-haired and looked Latino, but it would be foolish to assume that the accountant was Mexican. Drugs were a global business, and the cartel bosses had been known to hire private security contractors from other countries. Why not an accountant? I was right, though. The man stood briefly beside me, did a very fake cough, and I had to fight the urge to cringe. He held a briefcase and pretended to scan the conveyor belt for his luggage. Meanwhile, I turned around and walked to an area I knew would be good for us to exchange information. I never once glanced back to see if he was following me, but I knew he was. But I was feeling an uneasiness I couldn’t shake.

There was a narrow corridor between the restrooms and a convenience mart. Given the Monday morning rush, it was impossible to find an isolated area in the airport that was open to the public.

“Ms. Levinson?”

“Yes,” I said shortly. “You have something for me?”

He handed me a small envelope. My fingers closed over it and I felt the key.