She turned toward him, propping herself up on her elbow. Her hair had completely fallen from its bun, so now draped over her shoulder, pooling on the pillow. He smiled back at her, looking sleepy. It occurred to her that she must look a fright, that the bruise on her jaw had to be spectacular, but consoled herself that Vincent didn’t look much better. Swollen nose, purple bruises under his eyes, there was a line of scabbing across the bridge of his nose.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi.” It felt as if the bubble they’d been living in since last night still encapsulated them, and the real world was held at bay. “I’m sorry I broke your face. You used to be pretty,” she said.
His shoulders shook as he chuckled, still struggling against sleep. “Who you kidding? I’m still pretty.”
He certainly was. “You’re the only guy I know that can pull off a broken nose and two shiners and still be sexy.”
“Sexy is good.” He inhaled deeply, and released it with a moan, his eyes focused on her lips. “Why do you say it like it’s bad?”
She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, sitting, keeping an eye on him. “Stop digging for compliments and tell me where the bathroom is.” She had to pee.
He’d closed his eyes, and was lifting his brows as if struggling to open them. “No bathroom.” He tucked his hands beneath his head, and created a feast for her eyes; his corrugated abdomen, thick arms, broad shoulders, not to mention his hard-on from heaven. “There’s an outhouse in the back.” As he spoke, his stomach tightened—as a stomach is want to do when a person speaks—but Vincent’s abdomen was not like others. His rippled with muscles, and had the effect of forcing the air from her lungs.
“Damn. Are you doing that on purpose?” The man was gorgeous. Did he have any idea how he was affecting her? When she could look away from his body, their eyes locked. He winked. So, he did know what a turn on he was, laying there, tempting her to touch him. She licked her lips, totally tempted.
“Didn’t you say something about having to go to the bathroom?” he said.
Yes. Right. “Is the outhouse nasty?”
“Define nasty.”
“Lie if you have to,” she begged.
“Expect turf wars with spiders, but you’re tougher than they are.”
“Which part of that is a lie?” She held his gaze, telling herself not to look at his body.
He smiled back, offering himself up for her viewing pleasure. “I don’t want to lie to you.”
Her stomach clenched, because his words sounded like the truth, and she wasn’t a hundred percent positive they were still talking about the outhouse. “If I use the woods, I’ll have to fight mosquitoes.”
He nodded, his gaze lingering on her breasts, her belly, and the jeans he’d unzipped last night. “Some of life’s biggest decisions are between two evils.”
Dante killing her or life in jail. Truer words were never spoke. “Spiders it is.”
Avery grabbed the sheaths and knives that he must have stripped from her last night, because they were on the floor, and she didn’t remember him taking them off. Yes, that unnerved her as she strapped them into place, and then retrieved her Glock from the side table. Tucking the gun into the back of her waistband, she headed for the door to kick some spider ass.
Vincent’s phone rang as the screen door slammed behind her. It reminded her that there was a world outside of the cabin, and it wasn’t friendly. She didn’t stop to eavesdrop. She preferred to delay bad news, and it had to be Benton, and he was probably calling to give them the all clear. Their borrowed time had expired. Too bad, really, because she’d liked it here, liked being alone with Vincent, her sexy beast. She absolutely loved that her hardest decision was choosing between spiders and mosquitoes.
The outhouse proved easy to find. As promised, the small structure had its share of spiders, and they’d died beneath her boots. She took her time, because she still had no idea how to escape her sexy beast, and the Feds that pulled his strings. They thought she was the pot of gold at the end of the Coppola Syndicate rainbow, so their grip was tight.
Fact was, they wanted to believe Dante’s lie, so nothing she could say or do would convince them otherwise. Human nature, she supposed, but it forced her to run from them, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t be as easy to escape as Dante’s men. The FBI task force was smart. Maybe smarter than Dante. Definitely smarter than her.
Barely a high school graduate, Avery had abandoned thoughts of college when she’d married. There was Millie to raise, and she had other training to keep her busy. These federal agents probably spent most of their lives in school, probably studied people like Dante in a classroom. Maybe people like her, too. They probably thought they had her number, a fleeing ex-mob wife with evidence they wanted. They’d smarten up soon enough, so Avery needed a plan while the Feds remained in the dark. If she didn’t make them her bitch now, they’d make her theirs soon.
Entering the cabin, she froze, causing the screen door to hit her ass. Vincent’s expression screamed bad news. “What?” she said.
“That was Benton.”
She’d assumed as much. “And?”
“They’re interrogating one of Coppola’s men from the sheriff’s office. He’s asking for you. Says he’ll only speak to you.”
“His name?” Her anxiety ratcheted up.
“Pinnella. Know the guy?” Vincent was studying her, as if he knew the answer already, but wanted to see if she’d lie.
Yes, she knew “Fingers.” He’d tried to kill her after she’d hit him with the stolen Audi back at the federal building. “He’s one of my ex-husband’s men.” Pinnella hated her, and would do his best to screw her with the Feds. There was no upside to speaking with the contract killer. At the very least, he would sidetrack her efforts to escape. “I don’t want to talk with him.”
Vincent nodded, as if he understood. “Benton’s thinking if you won’t flip on Coppola, maybe Pinnella will.” He shrugged. “This might be your way of deflecting the FBI’s attention. Could be a win for both of us. All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”
That was crazy talk. Pinnella wouldn’t snitch. There was no one more loyal to Dante than Pinnella. “You can’t trust a thing he says.”
“Of course not, but it’s something. Maybe he’ll give something up without meaning to, or we could make a deal. He’s looking at life in prison. Murder one. He’ll want a deal.”
Pinnella knew too many of her secrets to completely ignore this problem. Her choice was bleak. See him, and risk Pinnella messing with her plans to meet up with Millie, or ignore him, and risk him data dumping to the Feds everything he knew about her. “It’s a bad idea.”
“If we can’t use Pinnella, Benton will want to use you. Make a decision. What do I tell him?” He tossed his iPhone in the air and caught it. “He’s expecting a return call ASAP. He says if you won’t talk to Pinnella, he expects you to tell him where you’re hiding the files.”
She forced herself not to growl at him, but she wanted to. “The damn files.”
“It’s not about the files, Avery.” He slipped his phone into his back pocket and approached her. His pants were still unbuttoned at the top, though he’d zipped them. That little detail didn’t make him any less sexy, because his waistband sagged low, giving her a tempting view she wanted to explore. He wrapped his arms around her hips and pulled her into his embrace. She leaned back, resisting with two palms to his warm, hard chest, inadvertently positioning them groin to groin. He smiled, all sexy and sweet.
“It’s about taking down Dante Coppola,” he said. “We both want that, don’t we?” He inched his hands up her back, pulling her chest closer to his, hugging her. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “The files will do it.”
“Meaning it is all about the files.” His shoulders sagged, and his hands moved to her hips, giving her a pang of regret that she needed to disappoint
him, but damn, the Feds wanted something that didn’t exist. Hell, Avery wanted something that didn’t exist. A life beyond her involvement with Dante Coppola, but her ex just wouldn’t leave her alone.
Pinnella didn’t want to talk with her. Dante ordered him to kill her, so he wanted her dead. She replayed the memory of him at the federal building, lying on the ground next to the Audi. Gun aimed at her, his leg all broken and shit. Pinnella had to have been in extreme pain, and yet his one thought was to end her life. He would have, too, if she hadn’t lucked out, and he’d been out of bullets. His goal didn’t change simply because he was in a hospital, his pain dulled by meds. She’d be crazy to meet with him, and even if she did, she couldn’t speak to the guy with the Feds in the room. She had too many secrets.
Avery groaned, and buried her face against Vincent’s chest, hiding her indecision. His heat, his smell, reminded her of the feelings she’d enjoyed last night. She wanted to feel that again, but this time, without her worries of him scratching at her heart. Just a sliver of happiness. Was that too much to ask? A sliver would go a long way to soothing her unease, and maybe it would help her solve this problem.
Millie was in Boston, afraid, waiting for her, and Pinnella was looking for trouble, possibly poised to spill the beans on her. And Dante, damn him, was probably still asleep, probably nestled with a lover, dreaming of her execution.
Avery needed to escape Vincent and get her ass to Boston.
He tilted her chin up with a fingertip. “Hey.” He compressed his lips, and donned puppy dog eyes. “Stop it. You keep acting as if you’re alone. You’re not. You’ve got me.”
A Fed. She’d be a fool to trust him. “We’re not a team, Vincent. We’re not even on the same side. You want to take Dante down. I want to escape him.”
Vincent frowned. “Is this you warning me not to trust you?”
“Of course not,” she said. “That would be a waste of breath. We both know you don’t trust me. But know this, Millie comes first, before the Feds, Dante, you, even me. Keep that in mind, and you just might have a future.”
She pushed out of his arms, averting her gaze as she hurried outside. The woods, the locked car, was a splash of reality. She was trapped here, and couldn’t leave unless Vincent drove her out. Frustration had her kicking the car’s tire.
Not soon enough, he had the cabin locked up, and was at the Audi’s driver’s side door. Avery had worked herself into a frenzy, worrying about a confrontation with him, but he seemed calm, absently tossing and catching the keys in the air.
“So? Where’re we going, Avery? The hospital or to pick up the files?” He leaned his forearms on the Audi’s roof, peering at her, his expression devoid of emotion. He was hiding something, and she suspected it was glee for giving her two bad choices. Both were win/win for the Feds, of course, Pinnella or the files, but they were lose/lose for her; one wanted her dead and the other didn’t exist.
“Let’s see what that pissant has to say,” she said.
At least, Pinnella existed. It seemed the safer risk, less likely to invite the fury of a thwarted FBI. Didn’t mean she was happy about it, so Avery didn’t hide her resentment. It was real, and she saw no benefit to hiding it. Not that Vincent seemed to care. After a quick call to Benton, he turned on the radio, smiling as he shifted into gear. Smiling.
He wasn’t going to be smiling when she gave him the slip, or when she drove off with the trunk full of weaponry and money. It was happening. Avery just needed to bide her time.
Chapter 11
Avery was silent for the whole ride, despite his attempts to carry a conversation. She was sulking. He tried to keep things light, but she was having none of it, and kept up her silence through the whole drive to the hospital. It was hard to believe she was the same woman who’d flirted with him yesterday over a diner counter. Patty seemed young, a little bored, and looking for something. Avery, not so much.
When they’d stepped through the hospital front doors a half hour later, they received more than their fair share of interest from the staff. Upon seeing them, the elderly receptionist’s eyes widened in alarm, then she lifted a phone receiver to her ear. When he and Avery stood before her, she set the receiver back in its cradle, clearly frightened. Vincent glanced left and right, wondering when security would arrive. He didn’t blame the woman for being alarmed. His two shiners and broken nose, plus his blood-stained flannel shirt was off putting, and Avery wasn’t looking as if she’d just attended a tea party, either. She looked rode hard and put away wet.
Deming arrived before a word was spoken, saving him from having to interact with the pearl-clutching receptionist. Vincent flashed his FBI credentials to soothe the woman’s fears, nodded, and then followed Avery and Deming down the hall. Benton met them at the open elevator, and then fed Avery a list of questions he wanted her to ask Pinnella. Riding up two floors, Benton was relentless.
“I want dates,” Benton said. “Anything he says that can’t be verified is useless to us.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Avery said, eyes front, avoiding their looks. “I know what you want, but you’re cracked if you think he’ll squeal on Dante.” When the elevator doors opened again, she walked into the hall first. “He got me here, so he’s already won.”
Benton indicated the hall to the right, and led them toward the room with the uniformed officers milling out front. “How has Pinnella won?” Benton said. She shrugged.
Vincent caught her arm, making her stop. “What do you mean, he won?”
She narrowed her eyes, glaring at his hand on her upper arm. She tugged once, and he released her. “I’m saying that he used you to drag me here. Mission accomplished.”
“That’s obvious,” Vincent said. “He’s promised us information for a chance to speak with you. Are you saying he brought you here for a different purpose?” She shrugged again, acting as if she had no idea, but he didn’t believe her.
“The moment I step through the door and he sees me,” Avery said, “he has no incentive to tell you anything.” She walked away from them, walking toward the guarded door.
Benton and Vincent exchanged glances. “She doesn’t want to see Pinnella,” Vincent said.
“He tried to kill me,” Avery snapped, glancing at him over her shoulder, but she didn’t slow her gait. They caught up with her at the door, and greeted the uniformed officers.
“No one is going to kill you,” Benton said. “We’ll be in the room.”
“And when he says he won’t speak unless he’s alone with me?” She arched a brow, meeting Benton’s gaze, then Vincent’s and finally Deming’s. “You’ll sell me out quicker than a junkie jonesing for a dime bag.”
She glanced at the two uniformed policemen bracketing the door, as if calculating their effectiveness in battle. It made Vincent wonder what she feared? Pinnella was in his sixties. Sure, he was evil as shit, but more likely than not was in a leg cast, and hopped up on pain meds. He wasn’t a danger to anyone, least of all Avery, who was scary skilled.
Benton seemed to pick up on the same vibe Vincent had. Something wasn’t right here. Deming noticed, too. She was doing her profiler voodoo thing. He expected a data dump after this interview, and couldn’t wait to hear her analysis.
“Let’s get this over with,” Avery said.
Benton nodded to one of the policemen, who opened the door, then he and Deming walked in first. Avery followed, and Vincent pulled up the rear. Deming immediately sat on a chair in the corner, pulled out a small notepad and pencil from her suit jacket pocket, and did her staring thing: blue eyes laser focused on everything and everyone, seemingly unaware that she was being rude.
Pinnella’s brown eyes narrowed as he glared at them all filing into the room. His dark hair had been slicked back, he was clean shaven, and his johnnie seemed freshly laundered. He was pale, despite his swarthy complexion, and seemed frail lying in his hospital bed, his l
eg hooked up to a metal device that elevated it above the mattress. If Vincent wasn’t mistaken, the devise was attached to Pinnella’s leg via metal screws, and had to be painful. Strangely enough, Vincent didn’t feel an iota of sympathy for the contract killer.
“You’re not wearing cuffs,” Pinnella said to Avery. His New Jersey accent was pronounced. “So, you’re a snitch, you piece of—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Avery’s fist connected with his nose. Pinnella’s hands covered his face, but it didn’t stop the blood from pouring down his chin and staining his white hospital gown.
Avery stepped back, eyes still on Pinnella. “Show me respect, little man, or I’ll feed you your front teeth. We clear?” She shook out her hand, making Vincent think she’d reinjured it. He took it, and though she tried to pull it away, he wouldn’t let her, needing to make sure she wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t. The rings probably protected her, as well as added more oomph to her strike. As soon as his grip relaxed, she pulled her hand back, giving her full attention to Pinnella, who was now wiping the blood off his mouth with his thin cotton blanket.
“You always were a bitch.” Pinnella pressed the blanket to his nose.
That’s when Vincent saw his pinkie ring, a replica of the six Avery wore.
Vincent made a mental note to ask her about the significance of the rings later, then stood back to watch the show. Avery and Pinnella were both Coppola Syndicate. One active, and the other…something else. It was rare to have this opportunity to view inners discussing syndicate affairs, and he was kind of excited to see what was said. Born to the syndicate life, a crime lord’s granddaughter, daughter, and his successor’s wife, Avery was royalty. Pinnella, however, was a relative newcomer, having worked his way from the ground floor up. His rap sheet was long. Pinnella chose the life, whereas Avery was doing her best to get out of it.
“You got her here,” Benton said. “Now talk.”
Pinnella glared at Benton. “That bitch assaults me in your custody, and you don’t see nothing. I’m sure my lawyer will make plenty hay with that, maybe even make you lose your job. That the “talk” you looking for?”
Caught by You Page 12
