Listed: Volumes I-VI Read online

  He’d made a mess of most of his life—constantly letting down the few people who had ever really loved him. Trying to turn it around, to do something worthwhile with his life, made him feel like a frustrated Prometheus, pushing a massive stone eternally uphill, only to have it roll back down when he got it to the top.

  But he wasn’t—he wouldn’t be—the total loser his mother had feared he might be.

  He would work hard at his new job and ensure his mother’s legacy.

  He would testify against his father, no matter how much it felt like a betrayal.

  And he would take care of Emily, since she had no one else to help her.

  He didn’t have a lot of experience with such things, but he was determined to see it through to the end.

  For once, he was going to do something right.

  THREE

  Emily had the worst headache she’d ever had in her life.

  The pain throbbed at her temples and at the back of her head. She couldn’t seem to think clearly, and her eyes would sometimes lose focus. Even her stomach churned sickeningly, although that could have been caused by several cups of black coffee and the double-dose of aspirin she’d taken earlier.

  She’d had headaches before, of course, but she couldn’t remember her head ever hurting like this.

  She tried to focus on the questions being asked of her, and she articulated her responses as clearly and efficiently as possible so her recorded deposition would be strong, official documentation of her testimony. As the minutes and hours past, however, she had more and more trouble thinking about anything but her headache.

  She sat in the same large conference room in the law office where she and Paul had signed the pre-nup. She was dressed, once again, in her best suit, although this time she’d paired it with a little vintage blouse she’d found in a thrift store. She’d hoped to look as mature and professional as possible when she met with the staff from the U.S. attorney’s office. Now her suit felt too tight, though, and the pins she’d used to secure her hair were poking her painfully in the head.

  She had to fight the urge to yank out the pins and rub her scalp with her fingers. She’d slipped her high heels off under the table, but she hadn’t taken off her jacket. She’d been too hot for the last hour, and she was afraid she might have sweated through her thin blouse.

  “Mrs. Marino,” an assistant U.S. attorney named Bill Hathaway asked from across the table, “Can you tell us what he said in the conversation you overheard?”

  “He was threatening the other man, Jud Bentley, about a shipment of drugs he’d been cheated on,” Emily replied, after closing her eyes briefly and taking a slow sip of water.

  “Can you repeat the exact words, please?”

  Emily glanced over to a chair on the other side of the room, where Paul was observing the proceedings. He’d insisted on being present, although she would have been more comfortable without his sharp, observant gaze on her the entire time. Their eyes met briefly now, but she couldn’t really tell what he was thinking.

  She searched her memory and repeated the words Vincent Marino had spoken in that conversation—a conversation she would now give anything to unhear.

  When she’d finished her answer, she rubbed her temples as discreetly as she could, trying to ease the throbbing in her head. For a moment, it hurt so much a wave of heat slammed into her. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

  She took a deep shaky breath and tried to pull herself together. They had a lot of ground to cover in this deposition. She knew why they needed to do this, even though she was still on the docket to testify at Marino’s trial the month after next.

  There was no guarantee that she’d be alive at the trial, and they needed an official record of her testimony that could be offered in lieu of her live body in the witness stand.

  But it wasn’t any fun. She knew the deposition would probably take a good chunk of the day, and later she would have to be questioned by the defense attorney. He and his associate were here now, farther down the table, busily taking notes as she talked.

  She could ask to cut it short because of her headache and pick up again next week, but she’d rather just get it over with today.

  She put a discreet hand on her belly and tried to breathe deeply, fighting past the pain and nausea so she could pay attention.

  “So, Mrs. Marino,” Hathaway continued, looking down at his notes before asking his next question, “Can you tell us what happened after you overheard—”

  “I think we need a break,” Paul interrupted. He’d been peering at her closely and had evidently drawn his own conclusions.

  The lawyers from Paul’s law firm who were present in the conference room responded immediately, looking up and putting down their notes. But Hathaway’s face flickered with annoyance before he managed to say politely, “Of course. If Mrs. Marino needs another break—”

  “I don’t need a break,” Emily interrupted, glaring in Paul’s direction although her eyes were so blurry she couldn’t really focus on him. “We just had a break not long ago.”

  Paul had stood up, the charcoal gray suit he wore smoothly following his motion. He normally dressed more casually but, like her, he must have wanted to convey a professional appearance today. He gave her one more quick look of scrutiny before he turned back to Hathaway. “We need more than fifteen minutes. Should we start up again at about twelve-thirty?”

  Hathaway obviously wasn’t pleased by the delay, but he said, “That’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” Emily objected, trying to get her shoes back on so she could stand up. “I told you—”

  Paul completely ignored her. He turned to an administrative assistant from the law firm and asked, “Is there somewhere comfortable she can rest?”

  Emily almost sputtered in indignation at such high-handed behavior, but her head throbbed too much for her to form a coherent argument. Somehow, without her conscious agreement or volition, she was shuffled into a small lounge that was obviously used for clients of the prestigious firm, since it had a bookshelf full of novels, a stack of current magazines, a television and DVD player, and several plush couches and easy chairs.

  Paul closed the door behind him, shutting out the hovering administrative assistant. He scanned her face closely and reached out to put his hand on her forehead.

  She jerked away from him, regretting the move immediately since it hurt her head so much she almost gagged. “I don’t have a fever,” she managed to snap, “Stop fussing.”

  She hated feeling weak and helpless, and she hated having Paul treat her like an invalid. She might have an incurable virus, but she was still an intelligent, capable person who was equipped to decide the shape of her life. However long that life lasted.

  “It doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” Paul agreed, sounding just faintly impatient, his gray eyes searching her face. “So what’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I have a headache. It’s no big deal. I want to just get this deposition over with, and I don’t appreciate you ignoring my wishes.”

  “You needed a break.” When she started to argue, he went on, “Going on when you obviously feel so sick is counterproductive. You need to be clear and coherent if your testimony is going to be convincing.”

  He was right, and she resented him for it.

  She didn’t resent him for prioritizing his father’s trial over her. She wasn’t a fool, and she knew what was most important to him. He had been incredibly generous with her, and she appreciated it, but she knew he’d not done it out of any tender regard. He liked her well enough. He felt sorry for her, and she was sure he didn’t want to see her suffer.

  But if it came down to a choice between pleasing her and ensuring a successful conviction against his father, he would always choose the conviction. She didn't blame him for that.

  She did, however, resent him for treating her like a child, like she was too sick to make a good decision. And for throwing logic in her face when she’d worked up some perfec
tly good righteous indignation.

  She tried to think of an objection, but she started to feel dizzy so she went to sit in the corner of a big sofa instead.

  Evidently assuming she’d accepted this break, Paul asked, “Do you need anything? Aspirin? Something to eat? More coffee?”

  She almost shuddered at the thought of food or coffee. “I took some aspirin earlier. Just some water, thanks.”

  Then she was left in blessed silence when he left the lounge.

  She leaned against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. It didn’t seem fair. She only had a limited number of days left to be alive, and she had to spend one of them with this horrible headache.

  In just a minute, she heard someone enter the room, and when she opened her eyes she saw Paul reenter with an expensive bottle of sparkling water in one hand and an old-fashioned glass bottle of Coke in the other.

  She hadn’t had regular Coke in a glass bottle in years, and she reached for it instinctively. He’d already popped the top, so she took a sip, the sweet, bubbly liquid a balm in her mouth and throat after the hot coffee she’d been drinking all morning. She took a shaky breath and then another sip.

  Without speaking, Paul had set the water down on a side table and then walked over to shut the blinds on the glass wall that looked out onto the expansive common area of the office suite. He then leaned over to turn on a small lamp in one corner of the room before turning off the overhead lights.

  The room was left in dim shadows, lit only by the small lamp in the corner. The darkness was a relief. She hadn’t realized the florescent lights had been grating on her head, but she knew now that they had.

  She took another swig of her Coke and looked up at Paul a little dazedly.

  “Close your eyes for a while,” he instructed. “You have more than an hour to rest. If you aren’t feeling better then, we can reschedule for another day.”

  He didn’t sound gentle or affectionate. He mostly sounded matter-of-fact and a little bossy. He was giving her that look of intense scrutiny again—the one where he seemed to search for signs of her impending demise. She didn’t like that look at all, since it defined her as an invalid and not a whole person. But at least it was better than the mild gentleness he’d been using on her recently.

  She’d rather be a project of his than an object of pity.

  “I don’t want to reschedule,” she mumbled. “I want to get this over with.”

  “I know you do. Get some rest.”

  She didn’t understand his tone, and he left the room before she could read his expression.

  She was relieved when she was left in the darkened room by herself, with just her Coke and a couch.

  She finished her soda. Then she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she pulled the pins out of her hair, finger-combing it loose and finally able to rub her aching scalp. She took off her shoes and jacket and curled up on her side on the sofa.

  It wasn’t a dignified position, but Paul wasn’t going to let anyone barge in and bother her. And it felt so good to lie down and close her eyes.

  She didn’t go to sleep, and her thoughts were a confused jumble of images and feelings, all intensified by the aching of her head.

  She thought back to her wedding two days ago, still hardly believing the lush, glowing beauty of it was real. It had seemed so much like a romantic daydream she’d thought she’d long outgrown.

  She shouldn’t have been so affected by it. She shouldn’t have cried. She wasn’t one of those sappy romantics. She’d talked herself out of sentimental expectations a long time ago.

  At least, she thought she had.

  She knew the storybook effect of her wedding had been manufactured, but it was something—and she could have died without anything.

  She would have liked for her father to be there. Thinking about him now, she felt emotion swell up in her throat, and she almost started to cry.

  But the crying hurt her head too much, so she forced the grief back—thinking about her testimony, about the rest of the items on her list, and about how to convince Paul to treat her as a person and not a project.

  She must have dozed off at some point, although it felt like she was conscious the whole hour. She was jarred into awareness by the sound of a voice saying her name and then a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Emily,” Paul murmured again. “How are you?”

  She blinked up at him, completely disoriented. Instinctively, she sat up, vaguely embarrassed that he’d caught her in such a vulnerable position.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, as the sudden move made her head throb dizzyingly.

  Paul had sat down in a chair next to the couch, but he said, “We’ll reschedule this. You need to get home.”

  “No,” she argued, glaring at him as best she could. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Here,” Paul said, offering her a new bottle of ice-cold Coke and then gesturing at the bag he’d set on the coffee table. “And I brought some sandwiches. You should eat something.”

  She took the soda gratefully but made a face at the sandwiches. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care. Try to eat something anyway. It will help your stomach, if nothing else.” He reached into the bag and asked, “Turkey, ham, or roast beef?”

  “Turkey,” she mumbled, annoyed with him but too shaky to put up a fight.

  Paul handed her the sandwich and then took another sandwich out for himself, helping himself to the bottle of water he’d brought in earlier since she’d left it untouched on the side table.

  They ate in silence, and Emily was able to finish half of her sandwich. Paul had been right. The food eased the churning of her stomach, although it didn’t help the pounding of her head.

  When they were done, Emily was able to get up without feeling dizzy, and she insisted she was ready to start up the deposition again.

  Paul gave her a dubious look, but he didn’t object.

  He walked out of the lounge with her, putting a hand on her back to guide her toward the conference room.

  She resisted. “I need to go to the bathroom first.”

  Paul adjusted his direction, and they were walking to the restrooms when they passed the pretty receptionist Emily remembered from the day they’d signed their pre-nup, the one Paul had appeared to be flirting with.

  The receptionist glanced away from them now, but not before Emily had caught an expression of amused curiosity.

  Since she wasn’t at her full thinking capacity, it took her a minute to figure out what that expression meant. When she got into the bathroom and stared into the mirror over the sink, she realized what the receptionist had been thinking.

  Emily’s hair was hanging in messy, rumpled waves around her face. Her blouse was wrinkled and disarranged. And her cheeks were unnaturally flushed, probably from dozing on the sofa for so long.

  She blushed hotly as she realized that the receptionist had thought Emily and Paul were indulging in a little sexy-time behind the closed door of the lounge. They were supposed to be newlyweds, after all, and the receptionist wouldn’t know Emily’s condition or the terms of their marriage.

  It embarrassed her more than it should have, probably because it was so far from the truth.

  The receptionist wouldn’t know Paul had absolutely no interest in Emily’s body, even when she’d offered it to him.

  * * *

  Emily made it through another hour of the deposition. But, by then, her head was pounding so painfully that, although she objected when Paul called an end to the proceedings, she couldn’t help but be a little grateful.

  They rescheduled for the following morning. Tomorrow was Saturday, but Paul's lawyers would accommodate any of his wishes, and Hathaway and the defense attorney clearly just wanted to get this done.

  Emily went to the bathroom one more time before they left the law offices. When she came out, Paul was on the phone, but he hung up as she approached.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She frowned at him
. “I wish you hadn’t done that. I told you more than once that I wanted to get it done today.”

  “I know what you wanted, but it wasn’t going to work out. Your answers were getting less and less coherent. We needed to reschedule.”

  She stuck out her chin as she studied his impassive face. “Well, I appreciate your absolute commitment to the perfect quality of my testimony, but I was doing fine. Since I’m the one giving the testimony, I should be able to decide whether I’m up to doing it or not.”

  Something tightened on his face as he pressed the elevator down button, and she wondered if he was going to get angry. He’d been impatient with her before. He’d been exasperated or coolly patronizing. But she couldn’t remember him being truly angry with her. She almost wanted to see it, since it would be proof that he was treating her like a normal person.

  His voice was level and controlled, however, when he replied, “I would let you decide for yourself if you weren’t so ridiculously stubborn.”

  She gasped in outrage, her anger only serving to make her head hurt even worse. “You’re calling me stubborn! You’re the one who—”

  “Emily, enough,” Paul interrupted curtly. “The decision is made.”

  She responded automatically to the clipped authority in his tone and then hated herself for doing so. She was feeling dizzy again, though, and she just couldn’t put up the fight his behavior deserved.

  She shook with indignation and with physical weakness when she got on the elevator with him. She moved to the opposite side without thinking, not wanting to be close to him.

  She’d lived most of her life doing what she wanted, making her own choices, taking care of herself. Even her father had basically given her free rein, partly from trust and partly because he just didn’t know how to control her.

  The fact that Paul thought he had the right to make decisions for her—now, when she had so little time left to live—and that he was somehow capable of making her abide by them was baffling, unnerving, and infuriating.

  She told herself it was just the headache. Had she been in better condition, he wouldn’t have been able to exert such presumptuous authority over her.