Page 12 of Final Vendetta

“Sunday. You’ve only been out for a little over twelve hours.”

“Good,” I exhaled, somewhat relieved I hadn’t lost too much time.

“But what do you mean you were on your way to see me?” Concern and guilt flickered in his sparkling blue eyes.

“I told Mel everything, and she talked some sense into me. She reminded me there’s a little darkness in all of us. I already lost you once. I didn’t want to lose you again.”

He stared at me, blinking repeatedly, before he jumped to his feet.

His reaction confused me. I thought he’d be relieved. But based on the way he paced the length of the hospital room, he looked more distraught than anything.

Despite the fact it was a Sunday afternoon, he wore a wrinkled tuxedo shirt and pants, as if he’d come here straight from some black-tie function. His bloodshot eyes suggested he hadn’t slept a wink since arriving here.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I began tentatively, watching as he ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “I just finally realized that I overreacted when I heard you talking to Henry about…things. I should have put myself in your shoes before passing judgment on you. Once I realized that, I wanted to?—”

“It’s my fault,” he declared fiercely, his chest heaving as he faced me, his tall stature imposing in this tiny space.

“What do you mean?”

“This.” He waved his hand around the room. “It’s my fault you’re here, Imogene. It’s my fault you were nearly killed.”

“What? No. I didn’t tell you I was on my way to see you to make you feel guilty. I wanted you to know that I was sorry. That I?—”

“The accident was my fault. I set the wheels in motion.”

I parted my lips to argue once more, but he cut me off before I could utter a syllable.

“And not because you were on your way to see me. The man driving the car that hit you?” He drew in a long breath. “It was James Turner.”

I blinked several slow blinks, my brain foggy with confusion. “I don’t?—”

“He was my next target. You overheard as much.”

A chill ran down my spine. “I did.”

“I recorded a conversation between him and Brian McGuire in Atlanta,” he explained, his jaw tight. “It implicated both men in what happened to me. Then I left an anonymous tip that I saw a man matching James’ description walking up to McGuire’s funeral home the day before he went missing.”

“But that still?—”

“Last night, I attended a political fundraiser that James was also scheduled to attend. I approached him and played a snippet of the recording. Then I told him I planned to release it to the media. I just wanted him to get arrested.”

“You didn’t want to…take care of him yourself?”

“I wanted him to know how I felt all those years ago,” he ground out, his jaw tight. “Wanted him to feel the lack of control. To wake up every day scared for his life. He was a prosecutor. Prison wouldn’t be good to him.” He hung his head. “I didn’t think he’d make a run for it when the police showed up.”

“And when he made this run…” I began.

Gideon slowly brought his red-rimmed eyes to mine. “He led police on a high-speed chase through Santa Monica, which came to an end when he crashed into your car.”

He took my hand in his once more, the feel of his thumb grazing my knuckles offering me a sense of comfort.

“I’ve been through a lot of horrible shit, Imogene. But when I asked Henry to find out who owned the car James hit and he told me it was yours…” He pinched his lips, fighting back his emotions.

“I’ve never felt so damn helpless in my life. But I swear to you…”

When he returned his gaze to mine, it was full of determination and sincerity.

“I’m done with all of this. No more lies. No more revenge. No more being obsessed with the past. Instead, I’ll only look toward the future. And I hope you still want a place in that future with me. I promise to be the man you deserve. The man you fell in love with all those years ago. I’ll leave all of this behind and just be Samuel Tate again. For us. Please… Forgive me, Imogene.”

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