The Love Trap by Nicole French

28

Present

Icould hear his steps before the door opened. I listened for them every night, the rush of leather soles on granite. They echoed up the brownstone’s stairwell, each one ringing with the same chorus:

Home, home, home.

To me.

They were slow today. It must have been a long day, which meant that when Eric walked in, he would probably do three things in this exact order: Strip off his tie. Tie me to the bedpost or maybe the dining table while he had his way with me. Fall asleep by the fire with me wrapped in one arm, a few fingers of vodka in his other hand.

Some people have food on the table for their men. I provided…me, I guess. It wasn’t the worst way to start our evenings together.

Unfortunately, tonight I just wasn’t available at the moment.

The door opened. Footsteps on parquet. “Jane?”

I didn’t even look up from my work. The idea had hit me about two hours ago, and I couldn’t stop. I could see the patterns, the colors so clearly. I could see him wearing them too.

I didn’t want to lose them.

There was a knock at the door of my studio. “Jane?”

I frowned, then shaded a few more mustard-color stripes. Yes. Yes, that worked exactly.

A few minutes later, I looked up to find Eric watching me, leaning deliciously against the doorframe with his suit jacket tossed over one shoulder and a far too satisfied expression on his face.

I turned from my desk and pushed my leopard-print glasses up my nose. “Hey. You’re home early.”

He loosened his tie while surveying the sketches littering my desk, then strode into the room. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows again. Oof. It had been a rough day. But his loss was definitely my gain. My husband filled out a button-down like no one else.

“The board meeting went faster than I thought. Good thing too, because the morning was hell. Hard at work, I see. What’s this?”

He reached over my shoulder, giving me a whiff of his Tom Ford cologne as he fingered the sketch. I almost—almost—didn’t notice which sketch he was picking up. A suit, as it happened. Drawn on a male figure. Yes, a blond one. Yes, he had gray eyes and biceps for days. Yes, he was not-so-loosely based on my husband.

“Wait!” I snatched the sketch from his hand, unaccountably nervous.

Eric chuckled and sat on the edge of the desk. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “You know how Dr. Jean said that as part of taking care of myself, I should try to do something every day that gives me pleasure? Besides you, of course.”

Eric flinched at the mention of my therapist, the one I’d been seeing regularly since that day. The one with the knives. The one where I’d finally and completely broken down.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have that ache, of course. The loss of our girl—I couldn’t think of our stolen baby as anything else—nearly killed me. I barely remembered January and several weeks of February too, despite Dr. Jean’s intention to prevent exactly that. Suppression, she said, was a natural response the brain had to particularly traumatic memories. But it was exactly what fed things like post-traumatic stress disorder. Which was why, she said, I had ended up doing something like slashing at my own skin just to feel again after weeks of existing like a helpless ghost.

* * *

“If it’s so natural to suppress trauma, then why is it so bad?” I asked for at least the fourth or fifth time during our daily sessions.

“It’s a biological imperative for survival,” she answered calmly. “Much like the imperative to eat sugar. We’re wired to be attracted to sweets because high-fructose foods provided our ancestors with an evolutionary advantage of higher energy levels. But the world we live in doesn’t match our biology anymore. Now we have generations of people fighting diabetes; others suffering from PTSD. Evolution hasn’t kept up.” Dr. Jean, I had learned, was amiable, but highly unruffled. And she knew exactly how to manage my mood swings with a combination of wit and basic logic.

“I am trying to survive,” I said finally, not ready yet to give in. “My psychotic father is still out there, remember?”

The urge to cut still showed up every now and then. It was hard to function when I felt so…useless. I’d start sinking into that abyss I hadn’t been able to see my way out of, and the paring knife would spring to mind. Or I’d feel almost too much emotion—anger, frustration, and above all, guilt that I hadn’t been able to save her—and the only thing that would feel the slightest bit appropriate was some form of self-flagellation.

That was usually when I would call Eric if Dr. Jean wasn’t available. And to the man’s credit, he always, always picked up, ready to talk me off the proverbial ledge.

“Still,” I said petulantly. “I’m practically a Greek tragedy. And there’s nothing I can do about it? Can you blame me for indulging in a little suppression?”

“Your body wants to let it out, Jane,” she said. “Because, just like it gets sick when you eat too much sugar, it becomes ill when you keep these kinds of experiences locked up and refuse to talk about them. Suppressing trauma is just overloading your body with other toxins. If you don’t let it out in a healthy way, you’ll just keep cutting it out instead.”

* * *

I was wasting away before,and sometimes I thought I still might. But Eric was unfailing, seeking me out in the dark whenever he felt me faltering. Never to banish that ache, that frightful abyss, but maybe giving us both the strength to endure it.

If you had told me a year ago that Eric de Vries would be my savior, I would have thrown a drink in your face and logged on to Tinder just to prove you wrong. But save me he had, many times over. And I had kept my promise. The knives stayed in the drawers. Together, we kept that terrible numbness at bay.

I did wonder about him, though. Eric had also been seeing a therapist—not Dr. Jean, but another doctor who was apparently trying to help him deal with the decades-long traumas of having his entire life dismantled because of my biological father. When I really thought about it, the fact that he wasn’t a walking encyclopedia of neuroses was frankly astonishing.

Then again, maybe he was.

Over the course of a lifetime, Eric had perfected his nonplussed facade, but cracks were now showing. He rarely ever smiled, and it seemed to be only when he caught me watching him. His shoulders were always hunched with tension, and new worry lines had appeared over his forehead along with a streak of gray behind one ear.

I delivered the most impish grin I could, hoping I could distract him into taking his tie the rest of the way off and using it the way he probably wanted to. But the stupid man was too quick. His gray gaze darted back to my drawings, and then just as quickly, he snatched the sketch and backed out of the room.

“Eric!” I shouted as I chased him into the living room.

“Just let me see,” he said as he dumped his jacket on the sofa, then wove around the chairs while he peered at the picture. “Is this me?”

“It’s not finished!” I reached for him again, but he did some kind of voodoo figure-eight move around one of the Danish chairs, nearly causing me to fall over myself in pursuit. I toppled onto the couch and buried my face in my hands. “You’re such a jerk. If I wanted you to see it, I’d have given it to you.”

“That’s too bad, because I really like this.”

I peered through my fingers. “You do?”

He showed me the drawing, like I didn’t actually know what it looked like. “I like the vest. Actually, I like the whole suit, even the peak lapels. How hard do you think it would be to have it made up for a benefit or something? We’ve got a couple coming up this summer.”

I dropped my hands. “I might be able to. I haven’t done much sewing for men’s stuff, though.”

“Maceo could probably help.”

Eric dropped beside me so we could both look at the drawing. It was one of my better ones. More detailed than usual.

“You really like it?” I wondered. “Even the jacquard vest?”

“Of course I do. Just like you knew I would. That is me, isn’t it? Otherwise, I’d sure as hell like to know what other dreamy blonds you’re sketching for—ow!”

I took back my elbow, which had found its way into Eric’s side. “You’re so full of yourself. Maybe I gave the model blond hair because it’s a gray tux. They are complementary, you narcissist.”

I received a half grin that implied I was definitely going to pay for that later.

“Be honest. You were sketching your dream man, Lefferts.” Eric leaned down under the guise of examining the sketch again, but before I could cut back, he captured my mouth in a kiss that left us both breathless.

A terse knock at the door interrupted us.

Eric broke away irritably. “Who the hell is that?”

“Don’t answer it,” I murmured, licking his earlobe as I snaked a hand between his legs. Holy crap. Someone had certainly brought home the bacon. More like a whole freaking leg of prosciutto.

Eric didn’t argue, just set his mouth back to mine with dizzying efficiency. Then came the buzzer. And again.

Reluctantly, I released him. “Goddammit. You’d better answer it.”

Eric groaned, dropped a kiss on my head, and went to answer the intercom. “Yeah?”

“Matthew Zola’s here, sir,” came Tony’s deep voice.

He was extra polite these days after taking full responsibility for what had happened in Korea. I honestly didn’t blame them—how could they have really avoided being shot with enough tranquilizer to fell a horse after rightfully giving me privacy with my doctor? Eric, however, had only kept Tony and his crew on by my demand. My thought was: we had shared something in Korea. Now they were as motivated to protect me and Eric as we were to bring Carson to justice. Loyalty was a treasured asset these days.

I sat up. “Zola?” We weren’t expecting him this week. Not with everything still in limbo.

Eric sighed and pressed the button. “Yeah, let him up, Tony.”

A few minutes later, he opened the door for the man we were getting to know very well these days. Eric tolerated him, but I for one liked Zola. He was just a good egg. He checked on me regularly (probably for Skylar’s benefit, but I wasn’t going to argue) and gave us status updates on the case against John Carson. He didn’t have to do that. In fact, he probably shouldn’t have, considering he worked a department that had been involved in this mess officially. But it was clear he wanted to give us what peace he could.

“Hey,” he greeted Eric and me as he swept inside, shaking rain off his worn trench coat. “I was on my way uptown and thought I would drop in.”

No one asked why Zola was here in person instead of calling. Aside from the fact that Zola really couldn’t risk leaving any kind of trail to us, we were all acutely aware of the potential for wiretapping. This apartment, as well as Eric’s own person, were scanned multiple times per day for bugs. Unfortunately, they couldn’t do the same for the DA’s office.

I hopped up from the couch and delivered a friendly kiss to Zola’s cheek before prancing over to turn on the gas fireplace. Yes, prancing. Eric’s dark gaze was way too much fun to fuck with. Jeez, he really had had a terrible day.

I batted my eyes at him as I returned to the couch. Eric’s face relaxed as he realized what I was doing. He rolled his eyes and muttered “minx” to himself before going to the kitchen to make cocktails. Vodka for him, red wine for Zola and me.

Zola took his gratefully.

“Thanks,” I said when I had mine.

Eric sat closer than was strictly necessary and pulled me into his side so he could toy with my hair while we chatted. Every so often, he yanked on it a little, as if to let me know who was really the boss on this piece of furniture, and what I could expect later.

Um, yes, please.

“This is why I really come here,” Zola was saying after taking an appreciative sip of his wine. “What is this, a Margaux?”

I looked at Eric, who nodded.

Zola balked at me. “You don’t know?”

I shrugged. “This one has the fancy tastes. I’d probably just bring home Three-Buck Chuck every night, but Eric thinks he’s allergic to it.”

“Hey, I keep some PBR in the fridge for you,” Eric argued. “I just don’t see the point of drinking garbage.”

“Why, my dear Rockefeller, what a charmingly privileged thing to say. Leave the swill to the slums, is that right?”

For that, Eric yanked at my hair a bit harder and nipped my neck, causing me to stifle a shriek as I narrowly avoided spilling wine all over the couch. I made like I was going to move to the other chair, but my hair was pulled again so I couldn’t.

“Just try it,” Eric growled. “Seriously. I’m in no fucking mood for that tonight.”

I stayed where I was. Zola just drank his wine and looked amused. And maybe envious. He had seen this act before.

“So what’s up?” Eric said when he had me appropriately flushed, the bastard. “What’s the news?”

At that, Zola’s face fell. “Oh, right. Well, I’m afraid it’s not very good. I got a call from my friend at the CIA. They, um, they are declining to prosecute. They won’t be sending anything to the DOJ.”

“What?!” Eric exploded forward, nearly tossing me off his chest.

I, however, was too upset to even protest. Decline. To. Prosecute. The demon from hell who called himself my father. They were letting him go.