Dark of Night Read Free Page B

torturing him finally realized that they could not break him, they would, unflinchingly, put a bullet in his head or slash a knife across his throat.
    And the fourth truth?
    Dave knew that Sophia was—at that very moment—in the company of Lawrence Decker. Deck—who loved her almost as much as Dave did.
    And the jealousy and resentment he'd always felt, the green monster that, for years, Dave had never quite been able to tame, had changed. Over the past nightmarish blur of hours it had been twisted and crushed and turned into something hard and gleaming and clean. A gem of emotion—pure and brilliant.
    It shone through his pain, brighter even than any of his other truths.
    Because Dave knew with faith as solid as stone that Decker would keep Sophia safe from harm.
    And for that, Dave would be eternally grateful, even after his last breath had left his lungs.

C HAPTER
O NE

F OUR D AYS E ARLIER S UNDAY
    I f Dave had known, before he'd picked up the phone, how much trouble this one call would cause, he would've let it go directly to voice mail.
    But it was Sunday morning, and he was enjoying—very much—the experience of surfing the cable TV news channels from the comfort of Sophia's bed.
    He loved hanging out in the bedroom of her little apartment, and not just because most of the time he was in here of late, he was in the process of taking off Sophia's clothes.
    Though she'd lived in this tiny second-floor walk-up for far fewer years than he'd inhabited his spacious and still-spartan condo, she'd turned this place into a real home. Her furnishings were unique—quirky, mismatched pieces she'd picked up in flea markets and painted in the vibrant colors of the Mediterranean. Rich blues in a variety of shades mingled with bright yellows, warm reds, and a green that brought to mind the newness of spring. Artwork—some of it her own, and quite good—hung on the walls. The open windows were covered by full, gauzy curtains that shimmered and breathed with the breeze. A ceiling fan was kept always running, moving at its lowest, laziest speed.
    Last week Sophia had moved the TV into the room for him—an admitted news junkie—and as the phone rang again, he pushed the remote control's mute button as he shouted to her, in the bathroom, “You want me to get that?”
    Sophia had just turned on the water, and as he heard the shower door clunk shut, she called back, “You don't have to.”
    Dave should've ignored it and turned off the TV and gone into the bathroom to help Sophia wash herself in those hard-to-reach places, but he was an idiot. He was still on a high from last night, when his plane had landed and he'd turned on his phone to find that she'd called him while he was in the air. Five times.
    She'd gotten home several days early from her own business trip to Denver and—of course, because he had purposely neglected to tell her of his own international trek—was wondering where he was. She was cooking dinner, although, honestly? After four days apart? They were going to be eating late.
    Dave had called her immediately, headed straight to her place, where she'd jumped him the moment he'd walked in the door—as if she'd been as starved for his touch as he'd been for hers.
    Incredibly, it wasn't the fabulous sex they'd had right there in her living room that had made his day, week, year—no,
life.
It was later, after dinner, with Sophia drowsy, her head on his shoulder, as they were about to fall asleep, telling him that she'd missed him, and that she slept much better—as in, she didn't have her usual nightmares—when she spent the night in his arms.
    It seemed the perfect segue for him to ask her about those nightmares—a topic they'd both shied away from, for years. And this time, he was ready for it. This time, he knew the questions to ask.
    But then she'd added that, in the morning if he wanted her to, she'd clear out a drawer for him, maybe make him some space in her closet… ?
    If he
wanted
her to?
    Dave