Caught by You

by Kris Rafferty

  He bit into a piece of toast, lounging, and then wiped his hands on a napkin. “Nice robe.” He wiggled his brows, glancing at the belt, hinting she could take it off and give him a show. Like he’d given her? Avery wouldn’t survive the attempt. Though heaven knows she was tempted—extremely tempted—but her cold shower had woken her to more things than an ill-advised romp in a government paid hotel room.

  If Avery couldn’t give Vincent the slip, he’d become collateral damage in this battle between her and Dante. In fact, the guy was doing his best to position himself for that fall, urging her to include him in her schemes, her confidence. She needed to resist harder.

  He was splitting her allegiances.

  Millie had to come first. The Feds and Vincent had to be an afterthought, and that meant Avery had to resist Vincent’s siren call to trust him, no matter how tempting.

  “You look nervous.” He was smiling, looking naughty.

  She sipped more coffee, and then put it on the tray, picking up a fork. “You make me nervous.”

  His smile widened. “In a good way?”

  “Maybe nervous isn’t the right word.” She shoveled eggs into her mouth, telling herself to shut up. Yes, she wanted Vincent. Wanted him enough to think about long, lingering sex. In the shower, on the bed, standing against the wall…anywhere, really. Avery couldn’t remember the last time a person made her feel this way, because nobody ever had, and he did it effortlessly. “You make me want things I can’t have.”

  Damn. She’d said it aloud.

  Suddenly, Vincent wasn’t laughing. He was staring. She held the robe closed at her throat, and bit into a slice of bacon, fearing she’d open her mouth again. There was something about Vincent that made her default to honesty, and it scared her, because telling Vincent the truth could get them both killed.

  Chapter 13

  He noted Avery’s shaking hand with dismay. Delicate, battered, she seemed to collect bruises. The one on her jaw was almost as green as her eyes now, though it was fading. Her knuckles were raw, scabbing and deep purple. They had to hurt. And she was upset. He was upset, too.

  She’d said he made her want things.

  Well, she made Vincent want things, too, things he hadn’t wanted since forever. Since before Madeline. It was folly. He liked to think his ex-wife had flushed those ambitions from his system, but here he sat on a bed in a hotel room, feeling emotions that had long been dormant. Emotions he didn’t even want to name.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s late morning, day three of our search for the Coppola files. You’re overdue to produce another excuse for why you’re not handing them over.” He glanced at his watch, and then nodded. “Yup. Overdue.” He threw her an expectant smile, and then waited for her response.

  She blushed and looked away. “We need to run an errand first, then you’ll get your files.”

  And bam. An excuse, with barely any hesitation. She was getting good at this. An errand. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. He could picture him now in his hotel room, pacing, wondering why Vincent wasn’t texting him the location. In Vincent’s estimation, that Benton wasn’t calling for an update made him fucking Superman, because even Vincent’s impatience was off the charts. “And will you be sharing the details of this “errand” we’ll be running?”

  She adjusted herself on the bed’s edge, and quickly cleaned her plate, making him wonder if her appetite had returned, or if she was keeping her mouth full to have the excuse of delaying an answer. After she’d swallowed, patted her mouth with the cloth napkin, she took a sip of coffee. Only then did she looked at him.

  “When we’re in the car,” she said, “I’ll program the GPS. You will not share our destination with Benton, or I’ll bail. Got that?” She widened her eyes, and her intensity told him it was a deal breaker. “I mean it, Vincent.”

  He sighed, thinking he was willing to lose this battle if it meant he’d win the war. “I want Coppola implicated and in jail. If this errand gives me that, I’m okay with it.” She couldn’t hide her relief. “When do we go?”

  “One-thirty. The man I need to see won’t be available until then.”

  Vincent grimaced. That meant hanging around the hotel room for two and a half hours. Two and a half hours of him not seducing her and wanting to. Two and a half hours of wondering if she’d kiss him back if he reached for her. Two and a half hours of hell.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She nudged a wet lock behind her ear, sipping coffee, looking like just another woman who might be enjoying a vacation at a posh hotel. For her sake, he wished it was true, but it wasn’t. She was burning her candle at both ends, and he was concerned. Shouldn’t she be freebasing ibuprofen, taking ice baths, and pampering herself? Instead, she acted as if it was just another day in the life. It bothered him, making him fear Coppola conditioned her to take pain for granted.

  “Did Coppola beat you?” Just the idea of someone putting violent hands on her filled him with rage.

  Avery startled, paused, and then shook her head. “Not his style.” Vincent felt a wave of relief run through him, and it was only then that he realized how badly he’d needed to hear her denial. “Dante isn’t a hands-on kind of guy. He has others do his dirty work.”

  Shit. “And did they?”

  “None of your business.” She narrowed her eyes, as if offended he’d asked, yet there was no outrage in her tone. It sounded to him like she simply didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew he wouldn’t rest easy until he got that answer. He was having a hard time matching up the Avery he’d come to know, and the one in her files, who was raised in a crime family, who chose to marry the man responsible for her family’s massacre. Physical abuse would explain it; Stockholm Syndrome. Otherwise, Avery didn’t make sense. Deming would know. That’s what her voodoo was all about; taking people apart and predicting their behavior.

  “Why’d you leave your husband?” His ex, Madeline, left for money and social status, or at least that’s what he’d told himself. Avery lost both of those things when she’d left Coppola, but she’d left him anyway.

  She sipped her coffee, agitated. “That’s personal, and you’re a Fed. When this is over, I don’t want my secrets used to fatten that thin file you showed me back at the sheriff’s office.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Probably.

  Avery must have seen his internal waffling, because she cracked a smile. “You’re horrible, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Your life is your job. Have you ever had a successful relationship? I mean, other than with a gun?”

  Hmm. She made him wonder if she had access to that same voodoo Deming used, because she’d zeroed in on his flaws without noticeable effort. Deming called her a quick study. As much as he was having a hard time understanding her decisions, Avery didn’t seem to have difficulty filling in all his blanks. He blamed his inability to understand women; not their priorities, their mercurial moods. Lots of guys didn’t understand women, but he seemed to have a bigger deficit than most.

  “My ex-wife said she loved me,” he said, “and then cheated on me because she’d missed me so much.” He narrowed his eyes, curious if Avery would sympathize with his ex-wife or him. With women, it was always a coin toss. “She couldn’t handle me being away from her while I did my tours in Afghanistan, but then married an officer two weeks after our divorce was final, who then went to Afghanistan. She had the loyalty of a flea.” Avery compressed her lips and batted her eyelashes, the image of sympathy.

  “She was a fool,” she said.

  He sipped his coffee, feeling embarrassment scratch at his pride. “I’ve bared my soul. Your turn.”

  “That was your soul?” She snorted, making him smile. “Your ex wasn’t worthy of you. Better luck next time.”

  “There will be no next time.” He shook his head. “I’m not looking for love.”

  “Men rarely are.” />
  “And you?” he said, more curious than sensible.

  She avoided his gaze. “I have other priorities.” Setting her cup aside, she stood, and gathered up her newly-purchased clothes.

  “When this operation is over, you’ll be free. Have you thought of what you’ll do?” He braced himself to hear that she’d want to settle down, maybe marry, have kids. It made him uncomfortable thinking of her with another man.

  She shook her head, upset for some reason. “What are you doing, Vincent?” When he had no ready answer, she glared at him. “Just stop it. Okay?” She turned and disappeared into the bathroom with her clothes.

  What was he doing? He feared the real question was what had he done? He’d become personally invested in Avery and wanted her happy. No, he’d done much worse. He wanted to be in her life. When had he become such a dumb ass?

  Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, acting as if their previous conversation had never happened. When she flopped on the second double bed, as far from him as the hotel room allowed, she turned on the television full blast, aiming the clicker like a weapon. And that’s how she remained for the next two hours while Vincent worried his problem, pacing and climbing the walls.

  When he finally had reached his patience’s limit, and putting his fist through the television seemed like his only recourse, Avery turned the set off. “One-thirty.” She looked at her new gold watch. “Time to go.”

  “Where?” He wasn’t in the mood to coddle her, and his tone and expression must have tipped her off, because she refused to meet his gaze.

  “I know a guy,” she said.

  “Enough, Avery. At least tell me what we’re doing.”

  She adjusted her leather jacket, making sure it hid her gun and knife sheaths. “I need something to gain access to the files. We’re getting it now.”

  “What?” His belligerence had his arms folded, and him glaring.

  “A…key.”

  “You sure? You don’t sound sure.”

  “A key. I’m sure. Okay?” Clearly agitated, she nonetheless took his aggression, without pushing back. “Listen, we have to go now, otherwise we might miss him.”

  “Him. So, a “him” has a key. Fine. That’s more intel than I had before. We’re making progress.” He dropped a fifty on the bed’s side table for housekeeping, and then headed for the door. “I like your shiny stuff.”

  Avery looked at him over her shoulder, confused. He flicked a wrist bangle. “The gold seems more your style than those clunky silver rings.” Avery curled her fingers, but that was the only indication that she’d heard him, or cared what he thought as they stepped into the hotel’s hall.

  With his tone deafness with women, he supposed her reaction meant he’d probably made a faux pas somehow. Avery saw him as the enemy. Why would she care what he thought about her bracelet? She probably hated him. It did beg a question, however.

  Why did he care so damn much what she thought of him?

  Chapter 14

  She gave Vincent directions to the restaurant, and as they drove through Jersey City, it left her feeling a terrible nostalgia. It weighed her down as familiar streets, stores, sights, and sounds of the neighborhood triggered memories, good and bad. This place had been her world, where her childhood and married life had been spent. When she’d left three years ago, she’d promised herself she’d never return, because coming back meant embracing uncertainty. It would mean accepting Dante, becoming like her father before her, so she’d run, and put her life and Millie’s on the line to do it. Now, three years later, only the threat to her sister’s life could get her back here, and all this felt like her fault…but it wasn’t. None of it was her fault. It was Dante’s, and somehow, she’d make him pay.

  The GPS directed Vincent to pull off the busy city street, onto a side road, then into a nearby Italian restaurant’s parking lot. “Pull into that space,” she said, “back into it.” It gave her full view of the street, and the restaurant’s parking lot.

  “Quick getaway?” Vincent arched a brow, smiling. He wasn’t taking this seriously, and, why should he? She’d kept him in the dark, so he didn’t know better, because she wanted him safe, but feared his interference. This was her fault.

  “Listen.” She didn’t open the door, just sat in the parked car, peering down the street, scanning passersby’s faces. She was grateful not to see anyone she knew. “Maybe you should stay in the car.” The moment he was seen with her, he’d have a target on his back. “Walking in there exposes you to certain dangers that you can’t understand.” Vincent saw her through the lens of law enforcement, but couldn’t fully understand how the syndicate worked. Not internally. He saw her as the daughter of, or the wife of, when what she really was would curl his hair. There were people in that restaurant that knew who she really was, suspected what she’d done, and more would flood the restaurant once they knew she was there.

  “I’m not leaving your side,” he said.

  “I won’t run.”

  “I never thought you would.” When she grimaced, he shrugged. “I meant from here. The restaurant. I can see you’re nervous. Just know that I’ll protect you in there, Avery.” He tilted her chin up with a finger, and forced her to meet his gaze. “With my life.”

  “Because you’re a Fed.” His job.

  “Because you’re you.” Then he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, and she felt it to her toes. When he lifted his head, she felt raw and exposed, and Vincent wasn’t helping, because he seemed equally unnerved by the effect of their kiss. “Are we about to do something stupid, Avery?” She nodded. “But it’s necessary?” She nodded again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. And she was. “I’m sorry you’re messed up in this, and I’m sorry things are so complicated, but… Vincent, I’m doing the best I can.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Then let’s get this done.” He kicked up a cheek and winked. “I’ll follow your lead.”

  He really was very sweet. “Thanks.” She dropped her forehead to his chest, unable to hold his gaze, because other than Millie, no one had ever given her this level of trust before. He was literally putting his life in her hands, trusting that the risk she took was worth the payout. It was, but maybe not to him. And for that, she was sorry. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.” She pushed off his chest, needing to make him see reason. “I really wish you’d stay in the car. People around me get hurt, Vincent. Yeah, you’re the toughest sonavabitch I’ve ever met, and if ever I wanted someone with me in a tight jam, you’d be it, but….” He was watching her with amused curiosity, as if she was teasing, rather than spilling her heart out to him. Suddenly, she wanted to smack him upside the head, and she was yelling. “Once we step into the restaurant, people will connect you with me. Forever. Somewhere, in some file, there will always be a photo of you, of us, walking into this restaurant. When they can’t find me, they’ll come looking for you, thinking I’m with you. Forever, Vincent.” She searched his gaze, hoping he could comprehend the enormity of that danger.

  “Is this how people from Jersey propose?” Vincent’s brows lifted, as he pretended to be surprised. “We step into the restaurant, and we’re together forever?”

  He shocked a laugh out of her, or maybe it was a sob. “What am I going to do with you?”

  He dropped a kiss on her lips. “Let’s talk about that later, when you don’t have to worry your ex-husband is trying to kill you.”

  Was he saying he wanted a future with her? That was impossible. If she survived negotiations with her ex, odds were, she’d still have to run. “Okay.” It was nice to pretend.

  His face blossomed into a full-blown smile, and all Avery could think was…damn. She liked him. More than liked him. She pulled him into a kiss, and he took control, dragging her over the console to cradle her in his arms, squeezing and kissing her like he would never let her go. When he broke for air, h
e pressed his face to her neck, tasting her skin, nipping at her jaw, and her whole body trembled in his arms.

  “I am a bad, bad, bad person,” she sighed. If she were good, she’d confess all and trust him to help her, but she’d been burned too badly, and trust was a luxury neither she nor Millie could afford.

  He chuckled, his hand cupping her ass. “I like you just the way you are.”

  Guilt had her pushing out of his arms, and hurrying from the car. If they were going to do this, they needed to get it over with. The suspense was killing her. Vincent must have been feeling impatient, too, because he beat her to the restaurant’s entryway, grabbing its ornate door knob. He paused to give the equally ornate, carved door the appreciative glance it deserved.

  “Pete’s dad carved it back when he lived in Italy,” she said.

  “It’s amazing craftsmanship.” Vincent opened the door, indicating with a nod she should enter first, but they walked into the dimly lit, hostess area, nearly attached at the hip. A sparkly, crystal chandelier sent fractals of light across the red carpet, and dark wood wainscoting. All familiar, though the hostess was nowhere to be found. Avery couldn’t remember a time where the hostess’ desk was empty, and it felt a bit shocking. After all, the desk hid a loaded weapon large enough to fell an elephant.

  “When they moved their business to the states, Pete’s dad took it off their restaurant there, and brought the door with them,” she said.

  Vincent’s hand was on her waist as they waited for the hostess. Soon, a blond, young, woman wearing a tight skirt and feminine, flouncy blouse, waved from the back of the restaurant, and smiled. Avery smiled back, while noting that tables were still lined up in familiar diagonal rows, still draped in white linen, and topped with cloth napkins, stemware, and silverware. Nothing had changed here. Still thirty tables, mostly filled with middle-aged adults. The restaurant wasn’t very large, but it was still bustling. Always had been.