Vincente smiled as he pictured her and squirt, young and happy. “You two are close, huh?”
“The closest. I hope Gabriel doesn’t mind that I need her so much.”
He frowned. “Gabriel doesn’t mind, Red,” he assured her as he went back to sifting his fingers through her hair. She needed some comfort. She was feeling sick. “I think he likes that you two have each other.”
“That’s good. Because I can’t leave her. What do you do for a hangover, Vincente?” she asked faintly.
Fuck it away? “Sleep it off, or sweat it out in the gym.”
“You’re crazy. This is the best. You’re so warm . . .”
She was asleep within seconds.
And he had to get gone. Had to dig as deep as he could for the strength to do what he knew was right.
Leave her alone. Because this . . . thing he was feeling where his heart should be had nothing to do with simple physical attraction. That connection he’d felt last night seemed that much more solid this morning, which meant she was getting into what he was pretty sure were his emotions and screwing with him.
He could not allow that to happen. Because if he failed her and then lost her, he didn’t think he could climb out of that black hole again.
Lore pulled the sheet back over the face of who he was pretty damned sure was victim five. He’d flown to the crime scene, arriving ahead of the FBI only because he knew the streets better than they did. He was no doubt about to get his ass kicked off scene, so he’d better think fast.
This case, more than his others, bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out why. It was true that they couldn’t buy a fucking break, but that happened more often than not.
Maybe with this last victim, a break had just occurred and they didn’t know it yet.
Because there was a problem with the discovery of unlucky number five.
For every girl they’d found, there had been five identifying factors to tie them to the same killer.
One, they’d all been young redheads—bad dye jobs, wigs, whatever; they’d still had red hair.
Two, all prostitutes, but that could be attributed to them being plentiful and easy to pick up.
Three, strangulation had been the cause of death. Why? A clean means of killing? No blood? Less evidence in the way of no murder weapon?
Four, they’d all been brutally violated after death in the same sadistic, cruel way—with a blade that was messy, resulted in blood, and could be used as evidence; that kicked the foresight assumption on his previous point out on its ass.
The problem, though, in murder number five lay with the fifth similarity that had connected the ones before. The previous Jane Does had all been found within a six-block radius in the Crown Heights area.
This one had not.
Lore’s phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket to check the text, already knowing what he’d find considering what time it was on this Sunday morning. He read his brother’s message.
Will you be at the service?
He hated to do it, but he replied with another put-off.
Sorry, bro. Found another. Can’t get away.
I’ll pray that she’s your last. Call me if you need me.
Will do. Thanks.
Lore tucked his phone away, only to have it buzz again almost immediately. The forensic examiner walked up to him at the same time, her blonde head shaking, features pinched. He held up a finger and read quickly.
Mama wants to know if you’ll be here for brunch.
His sister, Ashlyn.
Talk to Michael.
He hit Send and put the phone away, knowing it wouldn’t go off again. His family was great that way. Gave him the space he needed when he was working a case.
“Think it might be a copycat?” Patti asked now that she had his attention, eyes still on her clipboard. She tapped a pen on the front of her teeth and looked down the alley. “If not, this means he’s on the move. Any idea why?”
Lore shook his head, wishing his answer was different. “Not a one.”
“Well, I hope something comes to you soon—or rather to the two suits getting out of their car across the street—because the location isn’t the only thing different about this find. The others were strangled, as was she.” She tipped her head toward the stretcher. Hanging off the side, the silky material of a black wrap, which was an unusual choice of clothing for the girl to be wearing, fluttered in the light breeze. “This one’s windpipe was shattered, which means your guy’s anger is growing. Or something in particular set him off last night. It’s too bad we don’t know what that was,” she said as she wandered back toward the glaring agents.
Lore jammed his hands into his pockets and fingered the rosary beads he’d carried around since the day Michael had been ordained. He forced himself to clear his mind of everything—the evidence, visuals of the girls—and just watched as the agents did their thing. The body was eventually loaded into the coroner’s vehicle and driven away. The marked cars followed, an unmarked right behind them. He continued to watch until the area eventually cleared like nothing had ever happened but for the chalk outline and two of their boys who’d stayed back to collect anything the others had missed in the seven hours they’d been out there.
And still Lore leaned against his car, allowing only cursory thoughts through his mind so as to leave room for anything important to rise to the surface. Something he might have missed.
He shifted and stared straight ahead as life went on around him. A bike messenger rode by. Two taxis a second later, fighting for the lead. A bus driver was stopped in his lane, clearly arguing with a passenger. The young female passenger got off and stomped away down the sidewalk. The driver hit the gas to put the blue-and-white monstrosity into motion, revealing a Kombat T-98 parked at the curb.
The truck registered with Lore. Sweet ride. Pricey ride. He’d never seen one in the city, other than at the big auto show he guilted Ashlyn into attending with him every year in Manhattan. Manufactured in Russia, if he remembered the spiel the guy had offered while it had rotated center stage last April.
Turning away with a sigh that grated, Lore got behind the wheel of his unmarked car, asking himself the million-dollar question one more time: What the hell had set his guy off, ramping up the violence of his kills and making him change the location of the action from Crown Heights to Astoria?
Vincente let himself back into the apartment, the reason he’d finally up and left in the first place held firmly in his right hand. Fan Boy smiled happily as he peered around for his redhead.
He’d finally dragged himself out of bed—hadn’t lingered between the sheets until noon in years—showered, and then walked out the door and down the block. He’d done his business as quickly as he could, pausing on his way back into the building to look suspiciously at two suits poking around the alley across the street. He’d left them to it because he hated to leave his target unprotected any longer than he already had—Alesio and Vito weren’t due back for another hour. And, yes, he was going to attempt to see Fan Boy’s redhead as nothing more than a target once again.
His recent purchase proved him a failure, but he didn’t give a fuck.
Holding his fist at his side, lest he give himself a punch to the side of the head, he tiptoed—tiptoed!—into the main room just as the bathroom door opened. He froze midstep, his knees almost buckling when he saw Nika pad out, a small towel wrapped around her obviously very naked, freshly showered body, dark, snaky ropes of her hair falling almost to her waist.
Holy fucking heaven on a killer pair of legs.
Fan Boy’s eyes rolled back in his head before he landed with his feet in the air. He jerked once before becoming still.
Nika must have heard the helpless sound that rumbled from Vincente’s chest because her head snapped up, causing her to wince at the fast motion.
“Shit
, Vincente,” she gasped, rubbing her temple with her fingers. “I swear I’m going to buy you a bell to wear around your . . .” She trailed off, her chest practically glowing as a beautiful flush ran up from the edge of the towel, suffusing her neck and then putting some color into her pale cheeks.
Yeah, Red. Your body is hidden from me by nothing more than a large facecloth.
She inched toward the bedroom and threw a breathless “Lemme get dressed” over her shoulder before closing the door.
He didn’t want her dressed. He wanted her bared. Laid out before him, her entire body flushed and ready. He wanted to feast on her, gorge himself, until they were both too exhausted to do much more than breathe.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
The sound of the knob rattling had him streaking into the kitchen. Like he really needed to be caught still standing there daydreaming about the many ways he wanted to have her.
He grabbed the sugar bowl and had made it to the sofa when she entered, bringing with her a fresh blast of oranges and jasmine. Frickin’ hell. The scent slapped him silly as he plunked her coffee and the sweet stuff down on the coffee table.
Her softly indrawn breath made him want to punch something.
“You . . . got me . . . a latte?”
Vincente ground his teeth when her voice broke at the end. “Yeah, don’t get all excited. It’s just coffee,” he said roughly as he turned and, practically raising his hand to his temple as a blinder so he wouldn’t be able to see her, headed back to the kitchen. He hastily grabbed his gun from behind the toaster where he’d stashed it the night before; another had spent its time on the nightstand—
What. The hell. Is that sound.
He placed the SIG beside a bowl of grapes on the counter and slowly turned, a sinking feeling in his gut. His jaw still hit the dirt when he saw Nika sitting on the sofa, bent over, hands swiping over her cheeks as she tried to hide the evidence of her tears. He went over and was on his knees in front of her before he even realized he’d moved.
“Hey, hey,” he soothed as he pulled her into his chest. “What’s this? Why are you crying? Did they give me tea by mistake?” His voice came out weak as he attempted to throw out some humor. He never could stand when a woman cried. It always reminded him of the one time he’d seen Sophia break down, crying hysterically because some boy had two-timed her with a girl she hadn’t gotten along with. That had been only weeks before she’d disappeared.
He shoved the thought off and distracted himself by acknowledging how wildly good Nika felt in his arms. Warm—hot—fragrant. She shook her head and sniffled. So fucking adorable.
“Sorry. God, I’m such an idiot. You just caught me off guard. You’re so . . . sweet. I—I guess it just surprised me.” Her hands touched his shoulders, her palms searing him through his T-shirt, as she drew back. She wiped at her face while his heart bled for her, even as his body burned to ash. To get emotional at a kindness as simple as someone bringing her a hot beverage? “Sorry,” she repeated, taking a deep breath. “I’m just stressed, I guess. Thank you. For the latte.”
Vincente’s eyes landed on his hands. “S’okay,” he said distractedly as he took in the differences between them. Even though she was tall for a woman, she was überfeminine and so damned delicate. His heavy hands looked monstrous where they’d settled on the outsides of her slender thighs. She’d put on a pair of low-slung jeans—
Stand the fuck up and get the hell away from her!
He shifted his palms so that they rested on the tops of her legs, which brought his thumbs down between them. And didn’t the dirty bastards begin a slow caress, swiping lightly back and forth.
A small catch in Nika’s breath had him slowly raising his eyes.
Okay, look, she’s good. Not crying anymore, see? Now get up and get away.
He didn’t. He stayed right the hell where he was. Because she might not be crying, but those bright-green orbs were indeed glittering with curiosity and a yearning so irresistible, so hot and welcoming, Vincente actually felt himself falling. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Just a taste. Like the one he’d had in Seattle. He needed that. Badly.
Shit, V. No! You’re not going to soil this woman, who’s already been to hell and back, by using her because you can’t control yourself.
He stilled his movements. Fuck. Of course he wasn’t. What the hell was he thinking? He’d kiss her, and then what? Say, “Thanks, just wanted to see if you still had the ability to blow my mind”? No. Of course not.
His muscles tensed to move away.
Nika’s legs slowly parted. Just enough for him to actually feel a light rush of heat over his fingers, and his brain oozed and . . . and . . . he forgot . . . everything.
He came up on his knees as she slid forward on the cushion, so slowly, as if she was trying not to spook him.
That pissed him off. He didn’t need coddling. He knew what he was doing.
Knew what he should be doing.
Knew what he wanted to be doing.
Knew what he shouldn’t want to be doing.
“Vincente?”
Her warm, minty breath flowed over his lips. Fuck. Just a taste. The gentle touch of her fingers landed at his throat, leaving a trail of fire as they moved up to his jaw.
“I’m going to kiss you, Red,” he warned.
Her eyes flared and her fingers stilled. “Okay.”
“That’s all it’ll be, though. Just a kiss.” She had to know this wasn’t going to change anything.
But she was the one who brought her lips closer, feathering them over his, barely touching but slaying him just the same. “I’ll take just your kiss, Vincente,” she whispered.
His mouth crushed hers, his hands gripping her legs. His tongue came out to stroke greedily as she opened for him without any further encouragement. She tilted her head and pulled him into her by slipping her hand around to the base of his neck.
Holy hell, her enthusiasm was downright beautiful.
His thoughts broke apart when both her hands slid hesitantly into his hair and her tongue swiped almost tentatively into his mouth to roll over his. And fuck him, but her knees then snugged together to trap him between them. Right then, the desperate yearning he felt for her, and only her, roared through his body like a freight train, and he responded to her with abandon.
Rising, he crowded her back and got her beneath him on the couch with no interruption to the kiss. He imprisoned her long legs between his and trapped her wrists over her head. She had to stop touching him. He couldn’t control this when she touched him.
Yeah, ’cause I’m really controlling this at all.
Shit. He tore his lips from hers. He had to stop. This shouldn’t be so good—so fucking good.
“More. Let me touch you, please.” Nika arched her back, her head coming up so she could take his mouth again. She licked at him and then sucked his lower lip between her teeth to nip it lightly even as she worked to slip one of her legs out from under his to wrap it around his hips, pulling him deep into the cradle of her body. “Oh, yes,” she groaned into his mouth, lifting her hips to rub herself against his aching cock.
More. He needed so much more it was getting critical. “Fuck, Red,” he groaned as she yanked on her wrists. Fuck that. If she touched him, he’d have them naked and joined in the space of one breath.
“Yes, Vincente, please.”
Jesus Christ. As he gave in again and nipped and licked at her mouth, he ran his free hand down her side, holding her in place so he could grind his erection into the sweet spot between her legs.
He swallowed her moan of pleasure and, because he’d die if he didn’t, trailed his fingers up under her little green T-shirt, found her bare skin, and slowly, eventually, her braless breast.
Fucking perfect, he panted in his head. He knew she’d be perfect.
Couldn’t tell her that, thou
gh, because then she’d know how fucking completely she slayed him. He couldn’t show his reaction to her like that—couldn’t let her see his weakness where she was concerned. Especially since he had to walk away from her.
Even more because she deserved so much better than an emotionally wrecked wasteland like himself.
Despite his thoughts, he sank more of his weight onto her, pressing her into the leather of the sofa, marveling that the soft globe fit his palm as if God had created and formed her just for him. Finding her puckered nipple, he rolled the little berry between his fingers, his every nerve sparking and shorting out when she gasped and mewled and arched against him. He moved across to give her other neglected breast the same treatment.
Releasing her mouth, Vincente nipped a wet trail across her cheek and over her jaw so he could get to the soft skin of her neck, but he could barely concentrate on what he was doing because she kept grinding her hips up, rubbing his cock, hitting him in a place that was going to end things before they even got started.
Finally, his mouth made it to that tender, fleshy muscle where her shoulder met her neck, and he clamped his teeth on it. Pleasure shot down his spine at the wild cry that filled his ears, the sensation arrowing around his hips to tighten his balls when Nika dug her nails into his back. He thrust into her again, taking over her frantic movements, shortening the stroke, making it faster and sharper than she had.
Holy fuck, he had to end this.
Yes, finish, Fan Boy cried.
No! That’s not what I meant!
Ripping himself from his internal argument, he just about blew apart when he felt Nika’s beautiful, responsive body stiffen against him. Letting go of her breast, he eased his hand between their sealed hips—absolutely forcing himself not to tunnel into her jeans—and applied a firm, darting touch to her sex through the denim.
That’s it, babe. Give this to me. Let me give it to you. Just this, and then I’ll leave you alone forever.
CHAPTER 14
The sudden orgasm blew through Nika with shocking force. She cried out, stiffening and then writhing under Vincente’s hand, his heavy weight pinning her to the sofa as she moaned through the electric sensations, her inner muscles tightening and releasing over and over.
The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2) Page 20
