Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “It’s a dangerous thing to believe anything Coppola says,” she said. “He lies as easily as he breathes, so I don’t know. That crack about his alibi, though, is freaking me out.”

  “Crack?” He curled a lip as if confused. “I don’t remember. He talked a lot and didn’t say much.”

  “Take my word for it,” she said. “It was a crack about him having an alibi, and the implication that we don’t.” She held onto the door handle as he took a tight turn, leaving the compound.

  “Okay.” Charlie nodded. “I can tell you this. Implications aren’t evidence. They’re subjective, and—”

  “I know I’m being sensitive because we have shitty alibis, but didn’t you hear the emphasis he put on that word? Alibi. He said it twice.”

  He shook his head. “I remember, but he was having a tantrum at the time, right?”

  “Seems important.”

  “Seems a stretch.” Charlie shrugged. “Maybe Modelli knows I’m under suspicion and my alibi is nonexistent. How hard would that be to find out?”

  “Not hard, if they had insider information. Someone in the know is talking.” She didn’t want to believe it, especially since she wanted to believe Coppola was behind their troubles. It would be much easier if they could drop the full force of the FBI on a known felon’s shoulders than some stupid cop trying to make a buck to put his kids in braces. “My voodoo is on the fritz, I guess.”

  Charlie turned onto a ramp and drove onto the interstate toward the airport. Once he settled on a lane, he reached out, eyes still on the road, and gave her hand a brief squeeze. She felt his thumb press on her wedding rings, something that she had found herself doing a lot. She knew why she rubbed them: it calmed her down. Why did he? To remind himself they were there, or that he’d get them back soon? Cynthia wished she knew, but she didn’t have the guts to ask.

  They drove the rest of the way to the airport in silence, and other than small talk, using each other as sounding boards for the case, they kept their personal thoughts and worries to themselves during the flight to Boston.

  Charlie had to feed Socks, and neither were up to driving there and then to her place, so they crashed at his house. She was in bed, asleep soon after they stepped through the front door. She roused a bit when the mattress dipped, and her body rolled into its depression, stopped suddenly by Charlie’s wide, naked chest. She curled around his warmth, struggling to open her eyes.

  “Cynthia,” he whispered, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I need to turn myself in.”

  “No.” She barely recognized her voice. It sounded rough, and weak from sleep.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Our silence enables a killer.”

  Confessing increased the chance of kissing her career goodbye, abandoning the life she’d created, her friends, her country. She thought of the money she’d moved to offshore accounts, the fake passports that wouldn’t be available until tomorrow. Charlie might be willing to sacrifice his future, but Cynthia would do what it took to stop him. She wished he’d be reasonable, though, and chill out, wait for Benton to do his job.

  “I was at the crime scene,” she said, struggling to find the right words to make him see reason without triggering him to double down on his stubbornness. “Should I turn myself in, too?”

  “No.” Predictably, Charlie shook his head. “Listen. Our investigation stalled with Coppola. We both knew it was a Hail Mary pass. It failed. More delay will expose me to obstruction of justice charges.”

  “Us, not just you.”

  “No, me. You have to allow me to take the fall for this, Cynthia. It will leave you on the outside, working to prove I’m innocent. It’s the only way.”

  “No.” She pressed her cheek to his chest, holding him tightly. “I can’t allow you to do it.” Panic flushed sleep from her mind, but the fear replacing it didn’t make it easier to think. Tears spilled past her lashes.

  “Why?” He searched her face. “Because we’re friends? Because Terrance was driving?”

  They’d shared so many heartaches, struggled to move beyond them, and both had the scars to prove it, but no. She couldn’t let him sacrifice himself because she loved him. How could he not see that? “Charlie, I—”

  “I shouldn’t have asked.” His thumb caressed her lower lip, stopping her words. “No, don’t say anything, because I think you don’t know, Cynthia. Not really. And if you say it, and then change your mind, I don’t think I’d survive it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, hiding his emotions, and when he opened them again, his determination had reasserted itself.

  “Silencing me doesn’t change a damn thing, you fool. I love—” His kiss cut her off, and she wanted to argue, to demand he know what was in her heart, but Charlie either didn’t want to hear, or wasn’t ready to believe. His kiss then became a consolation prize.

  He licked into her mouth, rolling her onto her back, pressing his knee between her thighs as he moved on her, his arousal a stark reminder of the ways a woman could convince a man she loved him. Cynthia was eager to try.

  His weight pressed her deep into the mattress, knees akimbo, her thighs clenching his hips. Overpowered by his size, his strength, Charlie made her feel safe in a world that was anything but. Did he understand her? Sometimes. Enough times. What mattered was he loved her. He hadn’t said it the way she wanted him to say it, but he’d been saying it for ten years with every look, every gesture. She believed him now. And she loved him. That’s what mattered. And now that she knew she had it, she wasn’t giving it up.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she opened her mouth wider, welcoming his thrusting tongue, their kiss breaking only when he moved down her body, kissing her everywhere. Teasing her breasts, caressing her thighs, her belly. He had her squirming under his hands, wiggling against his mouth, seeking to be closer, needing more of him. She sighed with anticipation as he kissed his way back up her body, and when his lips covered the tip of her breast, her breathing hitched, and a shot of electricity moved from her breast to her swollen, wet center. It curled her toes and had her arching her hips toward him. She’d never wanted a man like she wanted Charlie. He’d awakened something inside of her, a spark that felt like it was burning her from within.

  “Charlie,” she sighed, “please.”

  Lying between her legs, his arousal pressing against the apex of her thighs, Charlie rested his elbows on either side of her shoulders as he brushed his lips against hers. Cynthia searched his eyes for intent, drawing her fingertips along his scruff. She moved beneath him, and he saw her impatience. His lips cracked with a smile.

  “I want you so much I ache.” His tone surprised her. It reeked of humility, when he deserved to crow. “I knew it would be like this.”

  He covered her mouth with a searing kiss, and it felt as if she were drowning in it, holding him, feeding off his hunger. When they broke apart, out of breath, she felt a moment of panic. What if this was her shot to make him see reason, and she was so distracted by his touch that she was blowing it?

  “Then don’t leave me.” Cynthia’s words tripped over themselves as they rushed from her mouth. He averted his gaze, and her voodoo was going off the charts. It convinced her that Charlie had decided to martyr himself at the altar of Cynthia, and he might not be persuadable. His sense of obligation risked their future. “I won’t allow you to take the fall. Don’t you know me better than that?” She lifted her head as she pulled his head down to hers. She nipped his lower lip, and then soothed it with a swift kiss before she dropped her head back on the pillow. She’d convince him, or die trying.

  “I know you,” he whispered. Then Charlie moved his hips, dragging himself against her swollen lady parts. Her body clenched inside, longing to be filled by him.

  “If you think I’ll give you a divorce”—it was hard to talk, or keep her eyes open as he moved against her slickness and waves of pleasure pr
omised heaven—“simply because you’re incarcerated, you’ve got another think coming.” With a trembling hand, she cupped his arousal and guided him to her entrance, and cupped the back of his neck with her other hand. “I’m keeping you, Charlie Foulkes.” Charlie smiled.

  “My wife,” he said. Two words, but they landed hard.

  Then Charlie moved inside her, filling her completely, forcing a gasp from her mouth.

  “Mrs. Charles Foulkes,” she said.

  Blinking fast to chase away stupid tears, Cynthia did her best to balance her fear and love as both hammered at her for attention. He arched his hips rhythmically, kissing her face as his eyelids became hooded. “I thought you were keeping your name?” he whispered.

  “You’re threatening to leave me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “To give up and let them ruin our lives.” He kissed her, and his tongue had her moaning low in her throat. Her arousal was weakening her certainty. Was he right, and she wrong? Should he turn himself in, or should they run and take that flight she had on standby? “If your name is the only thing I get to keep of you, I’m keeping it.”

  “Oh, Cynthia.” Charlie buried his face against her neck, then he cupped her bottom with both hands, gripping it, and then his thrusts were no longer slow and seductive, they were demanding and rough. It became impossible to keep up, or think, and she was racing toward release…it was happening too fast. She wanted more…and pushed against his chest. Charlie stopped, out of breath, his eyes wild.

  “You okay?”

  “On your back,” she demanded. He laughed, as if relieved, and then flipped onto his back

  Now he was smiling up at her, his hands behind his neck, giving her a front row seat to his amazingly fit abdomen, broad chest, massive shoulders, and biceps that made her lick her lips. She inhaled deeply, needing to clear her head. Then she raked her fingertips down his body, loving the feel of him, the sound of his moans as her caresses had him biting his lip to stay silent. Though she sat with all her weight on his hips, he was so strong that he effortlessly lifted her, continuing to rock into her as she held his gaze.

  If she could convince him that she loved him, and needed him to fight harder to save himself, she believed he might be persuadable. But Charlie needed to be convinced, so Cynthia studied the man she loved and pondered how best to prove something he was afraid to believe. How best to teach a man he’s loved without words? She feared it was beyond her. But she had to try. She had to fight her shyness, and a lifetime’s habit of protecting her pride.

  Twisted in the sheets, his body undulating beneath her, moonlight from her bedroom windows created stark shadows against his corrugated stomach. It glinted off his now heavy-lidded blue eyes that stared back at her. If he saw her struggles, he hid that knowledge in the shadows that cut into his face, framing the hard line of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. Charlie’s face reminded her of Michelangelo’s David: hard and perfect. But his body was a Rodin. The Vanquished One. A man seen through the prism of black bronze, clawed into existence, scarred, and strong, more beautiful for his imperfections.

  Charlie was like that. More beautiful for his imperfections. She drew her fingers over the scars along his wide ribs, his abdomen, and chest. So many scars. All badges of courage, earned daily as he pushed through chronic pain, practicing a stoicism beyond most people.

  “I’m yours,” she said, leaning forward, allowing her nipples to tease his chest as his strokes increased in speed. She felt herself spiraling toward a climax, and he knew it. His intense gaze told her he reveled in it. Moonlight bathed their skin, so he could see her eyes, could see her truth. “All you have to do is take me, Charlie.”

  His hips stilled as he sat, his fingers burying themselves in her blond waves, gripping her head, controlling her as he covered her mouth with the most mind-clouding kiss she’d ever experienced. Her knees hitched up to keep their bodies close, and then she was wrapping her legs around his waist, holding on as Charlie twisted, throwing her onto her back and thrusting inside her while his mouth gave her a master’s class in heaven on earth.

  She tipped over the edge, where arousal promised release, and opened her eyes, looking at him. “Charlie!”

  She wanted to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but a remnant of pride caught the words before they escaped, and then Charlie left no room for pride, for nothing but him as he took her mouth back, dominating her with his kiss, and she climaxed.

  “I got you,” he whispered, as something inside her shattered into a million pieces.

  Her tears surprised her, welling against her lashes, but she was too busy riding her orgasm to worry they’d be seen. Then she was suspended in a place so free of worry and pain, it lured her to stay. She felt Charlie shudder above her, following her down the rabbit hole to satiation, arching against her, moving inside her as his release lengthened her aftershocks. Then she floated, gently, down to reality and felt calm, if buffeted. Her every defense was gone.

  Charlie collapsed on her, his lips against her neck, his chest a bellows as he caught his breath. She trembled, her palms flat on his muscular back.

  “We’re running tomorrow,” she whispered. “It’s arranged. I’ve never asked you for anything, Charlie, ever. Do this for me. Do it for your parents.” He propped his weight onto his elbows, and her hands fell to her sides, lost in the tangle of sheets as he studied her face, frowning.

  “I’m on borrowed time…since forever. This was inevitable,” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “Promise, Charlie. Give it to me.”

  His jaw muscles flexed, and his gaze hardened. “I couldn’t save your brother, Cynthia. I’ll be damned if I don’t save you.” It was the worst thing he could have said, because it validated her fears. Charlie dropped a kiss on her lips. “Let me do this. Let me…save you,” he said.

  “But will it ever be enough?”

  “Huh?” He blinked, his confusion clear.

  “Will sacrificing your career, your good name, maybe your life, finally square us? Will it be payment enough?”

  He shook his head, clearly baffled. “Payment? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Terrance drank himself stupid, Charlie. He got behind the wheel, and he died. You couldn’t have stopped him. You’ve paid enough. You don’t owe me a thing.” In a perfect world, she’d be yelling, not sobbing. Well, Cynthia was ugly sobbing, and she’d earned every moment of it.

  “It’s not like that, Cynthia.” Charlie squeezed her tightly, kissing her tears. “But, yes, I do owe you,” he said. “More than you could ever know.”

  “Run away with me,” she sobbed. “Please, Charlie.” She saw the truth in his eyes. He’d do no such thing.

  He was hopeless. She was hopeless. As much as they’d changed, they’d stayed the same. Charlie was determined to save her, and Cynthia was unable to save Charlie. Once again, she would be on the sidelines, watching him hurt, fearing he wouldn’t survive. Well, she couldn’t live through that again.

  Running wasn’t a great plan. Becoming a fugitive never was, but it was a plan, and if Charlie continued to fight her on this in the morning, she’d cuff him to the bed until she convinced him. No, she’d hire muscle to shuttle him to the plane. She couldn’t lose him.

  “Shh,” he said, rolling to the side, rubbing her back as she continued to clutch him close. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow. Try to sleep.”

  Soon he was spooning her, and she felt safe in his arms—and loved. Cynthia fell asleep assuring herself that the morning would make things better. He’d be more persuadable. She was tired now, and couldn’t bring herself to leave the heaven of his arms to dig her handcuffs from her pocketbook, but tomorrow would come soon enough, and then she’d find a way…or she’d use the damn cuffs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlie woke to a phone ringing, but the noise stopped in time to allow lingering in the sweet
spot between sleep and consciousness. His usual aches and pains weren’t noticeable, despite not working out or stretching these last few days, and he supposed the sleeping hundred-and-something pound heating pad draped across his body, breathing on his neck, had a lot to do with it. He smiled, and his arms tightened around Cynthia as memories of last night swamped him. They’d slept, but off and on, waking to a caress, or a kiss that ended with making love. Last night was amazing.

  Now, her breasts mashed against him, her fists pressed to his ribs, he couldn’t help but note that, even sleeping, Cynthia was prepared for a fight. He liked that about her, wanted her again, ached with it, and despite the new day and the million things he needed to do, Charlie wanted to back burner everything to hear her moan his name once more. He wanted her begging him to linger as he kissed her breasts, to gasp once again as he buried himself inside her, making them one, moving in concert. His body stirred just thinking about it.

  The phone rang again. Cynthia’s phone. From the looks of her, she wasn’t waking soon. His smiled faded. Neither of them had slept much last night, but the night had passed, his decision was made, and it was time to do the right thing. He lifted the phone, saw Benton’s name on its screen, and chose “accept,” rather than “ignore.”

  “Charlie Foulkes here,” he whispered. A glance told him Cynthia remained asleep.

  “Charlie.” Benton paused, and for a moment, Charlie wasn’t sure if he would continue speaking. It was Cynthia’s phone. Maybe the task force leader had nothing to say to Charlie. “She with you?” Benton said.

  “Sleeping,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “You.” The word was clipped. “Face to face.”

  Charlie revisited all the planted evidence in the case and wondered what had changed. Maybe Coppola complained and Benton got a call from the FPC. “What happened?” he said.

  “An abandoned van happened.” When Charlie didn’t respond, Benton sighed. “Rented with your credit card. Your prints are all over it.”