Cry No More Read online

  “Yes, it is.”

  “My name is Milla Edge. I’m the founder of an organization called Finders, which helps locate lost or kidnapped children.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rhonda said kindly. “That’s such a worthy cause; I’ll be glad to donate—”

  “No, this isn’t a telemarketing call,” Milla quickly interrupted. “It concerns your adopted son.”

  There was utter silence on the other end. She couldn’t even hear Rhonda breathing.

  “What do you mean?” Rhonda finally choked. “How can it concern—He’s adopted,” she said in a fierce whisper. “We went through a lawyer to make certain everything was legal. Don’t you dare—”

  “It’s a complicated matter,” Milla said, and hurried to reassure her. “There’s some paperwork that needs to be done. Could I make an appointment to meet with both you and your husband tomorrow? I promise it won’t take long.”

  “What kind of paperwork?”

  “Legal,” Milla said, unwilling to go into more detail on the phone. She didn’t want to spook the Winborns into grabbing Justin and disappearing in the middle of the night. She knew that’s what she would do, rather than risk her son. “It’s just some signatures. No one is questioning the adoption.”

  “Then why—How is Finders involved?”

  “That’s complicated, too. I’ll explain all of it tomorrow. What time would be convenient?”

  “Just a minute.” Rhonda’s voice was faint; there was a clatter as she laid down the receiver, and Milla closed her eyes as she pictured Rhonda whispering to Lee where Justin—Zack—couldn’t hear her. Lee would pick up on his wife’s panic, alarmed that something seemed to be threatening his son, and he would hurry to the phone—

  “This is Lee Winborn. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve frightened your wife,” Milla said apologetically, “and I didn’t mean to. It’s important that I meet with the both of you to explain something about your son’s adoption, and give you some legal papers.”

  “You can explain over the phone—”

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s complicated, as I told Mrs. Winborn. You’ll understand much more when you read the papers. Is there a convenient time tomorrow? While your son is in school would be best.” She softened her voice. “Please. It’s nothing threatening.”

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “One o’clock. Do you need our address?”

  “No, I have it. Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be there at one sharp.” She clicked off the phone and closed her eyes, and realized she was shaking in every muscle. She’d done it. Now all she had to do was hold together through the next step. Since she had been able to get an appointment so early, she called the airlines and managed to get on a six o’clock flight out of Charlotte. Tomorrow night, she thought as she went to bed, she would be back in her own home for the first time since . . . she couldn’t remember, exactly. Longer than a week, she thought.

  The next day she slept as late as possible, ate a late breakfast, watched some morning talk shows, showered and washed her hair and took extra care styling it, as well as with her makeup, keeping the effect subtle. It was vain of her, but she wanted to make a good impression.

  She dressed carefully, in a trim navy skirt and a fitted, long-sleeved blouse in seafoam green, with matching navy buttons. The outfit was both feminine and professional. It was an old trick; the more nervous she was, the more attention she paid to how she looked. By concentrating on her clothes, she could ignore the screaming of her nerves, the nausea that knotted her stomach, the tension that pounded in her temples. She had learned how to remain calm in the face of unspeakable pain, and she did so now, at least on the surface—and that was all that mattered, anyway. The mirror reflected back a face that was almost expressionless, like Diaz—No, don’t think about him, she thought fiercely. He was out of her life.

  The Weather Channel said Charlotte’s high temperature today would be sixty-three, but with a brisk north breeze, so she laid her camel coat aside as she packed. She did the video checkout on the television, and then it was time. Twelve-fifteen. She took a deep breath, made certain her lipstick was even, left the room key on the bedside table with a tip for the maid, then checked once more that all the necessary papers were in her briefcase. Satisfied that she hadn’t left anything undone, she squared her shoulders, balanced her coat and briefcase on top of the suitcase, slung her purse on her shoulder, and opened the door. And stopped dead, all her momentum lost.

  Diaz leaned against the wall beside her door.

  So many thoughts and emotions stormed through her that she could scarcely focus on any of them. Shock was uppermost; she’d thought, hoped, that she would never see him again. And, somehow, she’d forgotten all over again how powerful his physical impact was, what it was to have those cold, dark eyes leveled on you.

  They hadn’t been cold when she was lying naked beneath him, whispered the animal in her, and she wrenched her thoughts from that dark pathway.

  My God, why hadn’t someone called hotel security? Men didn’t just lurk outside hotel rooms for God only knows how long without someone noticing. Even if another guest hadn’t been suspicious, the hotel maids definitely should have been. She glanced wildly up and down the long corridor; a housekeeping cart was parked about a third of the way down the hall to the right. With just the one maid on the floor, perhaps he’d been able to avoid detection. Or perhaps he’d had a quiet word with her and scared the hell out of her, and she was hiding in that room waiting for him to leave.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone cool and hostile, not at all like the tumult going on inside her.

  He straightened and shrugged. “Curiosity. Like rubbernecking at a car wreck.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  And that was explanation enough, she supposed. He’d known where Justin was, and that gave him a start. Even though Charlotte was a city of half a million people, he’d found her—probably with a few phone calls. The hotel wasn’t supposed to give out room numbers, either, but he’d been waiting outside her door. How did he know where she was going? And how did he know she was going today? She burned to know the answers, but she would bite off her own tongue before she asked him. She didn’t want to talk to him at all.

  She pulled the hotel door shut and walked down the carpeted hallway to the elevator, pulling her suitcase behind her. Diaz fell into step beside her, as she had known he would. She didn’t waste time trying to talk him out of going. She couldn’t evade him, couldn’t convince him to butt out; all she could do was ignore him, so she did—as much as one could ignore a wolf.

  Details of his appearance registered with her. He had shaved, and he wore a decent suit in a dark blue-gray; his hair actually looked brushed, instead of looking as if he’d run his fingers through it and left it at that. Some people might think he looked respectable. She knew better, knew that the cold, enigmatic dark eyes in no way reflected the streak of violence that ran just beneath his surface. He probably had a knife strapped to his leg, a pistol holstered in the small of his back, and God only knows what other weapons hidden on his body.

  But why was he here? This didn’t concern him. They had parted on bitter terms, and he was the last person Milla wanted with her during the wrenching hour she faced. She was still so furious she could barely tolerate being this close to him. She felt the rage bubbling up all over again, tightening her throat. How dare he—?

  She stopped the thought before it could completely form. Going over and over things wasn’t going to change what he’d done, wasn’t going to make her change her mind. Oh, she could try explaining things to him, but what would that accomplish? He had totally misjudged her, he was wrong, and even if he apologized she doubted she could ever forgive him. He knew—knew—how important Justin was to her, knew the hell she’d gone through searching for him, and still he’d kept her son’s location secret from her. How could sh