Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite)

by Simone, Naima

  Or he could be disbarred, and the firm and livelihood he’d fought so hard to establish and nurture would crumble under his feet like sun-scorched earth.

  “I thought you left for the day.”

  He swallowed a groan along with another sip of Scotch. Danielle. Damn. What had he done in a past life to deserve this torture? Written Christopher Columbus’s directions to the new world? Fought on the wrong side of the Revolutionary War? Told Lincoln going to the theater that Friday night was a good idea?

  Whatever he’d done must’ve been one helluva cardinal sin, because God had decided to punish him with a woman whose sultry beauty hardened his cock and whose haunted brown eyes clutched at his heart. A woman draped in secrets and wrapped in lies. Not the first beautiful woman to deceive him, but he’d sworn Tara would be the last. Yet, just as he’d done with his ex-fiancée, he’d invited Danielle right through the front door.

  Not that he believed Danielle’s heart was the black, cavernous hole Tara’s had been. While greed had motivated Tara’s deception, something much darker and more painful fueled the enigma surrounding Danielle. Something that evoked skittishness around men and a fear of the police.

  Fury crackled and threatened to burn away the buzz he had going. I’ll take care of that. He regarded her as he downed the potent alcohol.

  “I thought you had arranged a ride home from work today,” he said, dangling the glass container between his fingers. The liquid sloshed gently around the bottle as he swung it slowly side-to-side like a pendulum. Another one of his brilliant ideas. Giving her a ride home every night for the past week had been its own special level of hell. Cooped up in a car with her unique scent of soap and skin teasing him, branding itself into his olfactory memory until he could identify it in a blind sensory test. How she could still smell so fresh, like clean sheets drying in the summer air, after a long work day boggled his mind.

  “I did, but Pat’s stuck at the diner.” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you drunk?”

  He glared at the amber liquid. “Unfortunately, no,” he snarled. “It’s a curse. Even in college, I was always the designated driver, because all I can achieve is a pleasant buzz. There’s no oblivion at the bottom of a bottle for me, just more…pleasantness.”

  Her lips twitched, and he had the impression she was trying not to laugh in his face. I’d sacrifice another client to see that. He’d witnessed small smiles and a few smirks curving her pretty mouth. But a full-out belly laugh? What would she look like? Would she throw her head back? Would her serious demeanor brighten? He wanted to see, longed to know. More so, he desired to be the one who incited that joy.

  He sucked down another gulp, trying to drown out the feminine side of his personality the Scotch had apparently unearthed.

  “Is something wrong, Malachim?”

  He grunted. “Sorry. I was never much for the whole Kumbaya, sharing thing. They despaired of me at the circle campfire and eventually gave up.” He studied her, skimming over the gorgeous curls she’d regrettably confined in a bun at the nape of her neck, the ivory, high-collared silk shirt, and the tailored black slacks. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you were into sharing, either. Were you, Danielle?” he murmured.

  She lifted a shoulder. “My family couldn’t afford camp, so I wouldn’t know.”

  Niiice. He smirked at the neat deflection of his question even as her comment roused his curiosity. This woman could easily become an obsession. And not just because of her wild gypsy curls, pure Madonna loveliness, or skin-over-satin-sheets voice. No, he wanted to rip away her layers, go Sherlock Holmes on her, and pick apart the mystery that was Danielle Warren.

  He knew where she lived, where she last worked, her educational background. But he had no clue if she preferred popcorn or nachos and cheese at the movie theater. When she was alone and lowered that steel barricade, did she like to eat takeout in front of the television or love curling up under a blanket with a good book? Did she sleep in an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants? Or did she slide between the sheets bare, enjoying the glide of the covers over skin he instinctively knew would be soft as a baby’s and as breathtaking as an early morning dawn.

  Fuck. Early morning dawn? Maybe he was drunk.

  He set the bottle down on the desk with a thunk.

  Danielle crossed the room and slowly sank into the visitor’s chair. The first time she’d willingly subjected herself to his presence. She’d have made a covert op specialist proud with how she’d managed to escape his company since the mugging. Yet, even before then, she’d only passed the minimum amount of time with him required to do her job. Nothing less, and definitely nothing more.

  So what was her game now? Pick his thoughts about his firm and clients? After a second, he dismissed the idea. Part of him had believed her earlier in the day when she’d denied conspiring with Christopher. Why, he couldn’t pinpoint, but he did. God, he prayed that decision didn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

  “We lost another client today. To my,” he snorted, “father.”

  She frowned. “Are you saying your father purposefully solicited a client away from your firm?” When he nodded, she asked, “Why would he deliberately hurt you or your business like that?”

  Malachim loosed a harsh bark of laughter and tipped his head back, resting it on the chair’s headrest. “Because it gives him great joy to tear me down brick by brick, piece by piece. As money-hungry as he is, I do believe having a hand in destroying what I care for most trumps the profit of a new client.”

  It seemed once the dam was punctured, the trickle erupted into a deluge. The words surged forth, heavy, fast, and in a torrential downpour that refused to be stemmed.

  “Christopher has never forgiven me for being a living, breathing reminder that his wife once found him lacking and betrayed their wedding vows.” Her almost inaudible gasp drew a tight, strained smile from him. “Right. I’m illegitimate, the bastard in the Jerrod midst.”

  “Malachim,” she whispered. “I assumed he was your stepfather, not…”

  He tried to convince himself he was jerking open the closet door and exposing his skeletons so she would feel comfortable doing the same with him. Maybe she would lower her impenetrable guards and allow him a glimpse into the woman behind the wall, offer a clue to the secrets she zealously defended. And the explanation was true—but not the entire reason. Staring into her steady gaze, he wanted—needed—to purge himself of the pain, anger, and bitterness eating at his soul like a malignant cancer.

  “From my earliest memory, he’s resented my existence, detested me. When I was sixteen, I started dating the daughter of one of his business associates. It wasn’t anything serious, but her father caught us kissing and told Christopher, who was furious. He told me I was a mutt and to stick to the girls who hung around Gabe, Rafe, and Chay, because the others—like his associate’s daughter—were too good for me. That blood will tell. And if my girlfriend discovered I was a bastard, the Jerrod dirty secret, she would be disgusted.”

  He locked his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Hell, he hadn’t thought about that in years. Why the hell was he spilling his guts about it now? He sighed, not wanting to glimpse the sympathy—pity—sure to be lining Danielle’s face. Poor little rich boy. He uttered a grunt of disgust.

  “Anyway, family’s a bitch.”

  A moment of silence passed. And the need to discover her reaction, even if it was that awful kindness, proved too great. He lowered his arms and met her unflinching scrutiny. No pity shadowed her eyes, just understanding and acceptance.

  “I never knew my father…and I don’t think my mother did, either. At least when I asked, she wouldn’t tell me. She was a crack addict, and my conception could have possibly been payment for a coke deal.” Her horrifying words laid over that factual tone pummeled him like tiny fists. He sucked in a hard breath. Unbidden images of Danielle as a child with her unruly cloud of hair and large, dark eyes surrounded by filth and turmoil popped in his brain. />
  “My older sister and I witnessed a parade of men tramp through whatever house or apartment we lived in at the time,” she continued. “There were so many because sooner or later the rent money went up her nose or to one of her men, and we were eventually evicted.”

  Her quiet expression didn’t alter, but her voice did lose some of its matter-of-factness.

  “Sometimes—” She briefly closed her eyes. “Sometimes, I wished she would have screamed at me or hit me. At least then she would’ve paid me some attention. But my sister and I were neglected, sometimes abandoned for days at a time. Though she was only three years older, Carmen would make sure I made it to school, was fed. My mother’s drugs and boyfriends were more important than her girls. And when she died after I turned eleven, I didn’t miss her. I barely knew her. It was kind of a…relief because we didn’t have to live in fear anymore of who she’d allow in the house or if she would walk through the door again. After her death, we were sent to live with my aunt and for the first time I slept with a bedroom door unlocked.” She paused. “Do you think any less of me?”

  He slowly straightened in his chair. Anger for the child she’d been and admiration for the woman who sat in front of him eddied in his chest. Was she serious? Think less of her? Hell, he wanted to drag Danielle to her feet, pull her into his arms, and whisper foolish promises that nothing else would hurt her. Vow he would stand in the gap, protecting her from anything or anyone else who intended her harm.

  Instead, he remained glued to his seat, hands gripping the chair arms to keep him planted and from doing anything stupid.

  “Of course not,” he rasped.

  She leaned forward, and her voice lowered to an urgent murmur. “Then do me a favor and don’t call yourself a bastard. You didn’t do anything to earn his hostility then or his disloyalty and enmity now. And no one with a fully functioning brain in their head would respect you any less because of circumstances before your birth. It’s to Christopher’s shame that he does.”

  He stared at her, taken aback. Had that been why he’d confessed to a woman he barely knew, giving her information he’d only confided to his best friends?

  Yes. Hadn’t he been trying to drive her away? Maybe he’d expected her to somehow reflect his most secret and disquieting fear—that if anyone found out his true paternity, they would reject him as his father had. That Christopher’s loathing of him would taint him in everyone’s eyes, including hers. But it hadn’t. Instead, he’d met a kindred soul—one who understood spirit-changing damage.

  “Is that who hurt you?” he asked softly. “One of your mother’s boyfriends?”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. But he observed the moment her wall slammed back into place, shoving him back out the infinitesimal amount she’d allowed him in.

  “No.”

  He had to give her credit; at least she didn’t deny it. And he would get nothing else out of her tonight.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sighing, Malachim pushed to his feet, grabbing the Scotch. Muttering a curse, he went still. The room didn’t spin exactly. It did do a little bob-and-weave, though.

  Danielle stretched forward across the desk and removed the bottle from his grip.

  “I’ll take that.” She moved to the fully stocked minibar in the corner of the room and replaced it. “I hate to break it to you, but you can’t drive me or yourself home.” Turning around, she crossed her arms. “Inability to get stinking drunk withstanding, you’re not fit to be behind the wheel of a car.”

  He scrubbed his hand over his scalp. Suddenly, he was tired. As if the totality of the evening’s confessions and revelations had sapped his energy and weakened the walls he’d erected against the past.

  “Fine,” he conceded. He plucked his suit jacket off the back of his chair and slid his arms into it. “I’ll call a cab for both of us.”

  “Take a cab to Dorchester?” she scoffed. “Uh, no thanks. The T is cheaper. But I’ll request a taxi for you.” She moved toward the phone, but he beat her to it, clapping a hand over the receiver. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, and he caught the swift intake of her breath before she moved away. He couldn’t decipher whether fear motivated the reaction or something…else. The buzzed, masochistic fool in him wished for the latter.

  “We’ll both a take the cab, or I escort you home on the T then ride it back to my place. Would your conscience permit you to let me ride home buzzed…by myself…on the train…at night?”

  She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Emotional blackmail? I would’ve thought you were above that, counselor.”

  “Not even the slightest.”

  She huffed out a breath, sounding more than a wee bit exasperated with him. She glanced to the side, down, and then finally met his gaze. “You win.”

  And once again, it didn’t feel like much of a triumph. He wanted to call it pride, but the alcohol forced him to be more honest with himself. Her aversion to being in close proximity to him bruised him in a place he’d thought forever numbed by Tara.

  That’s it. No more fucking Scotch for you. Ever.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled open the passenger door for her to slide into the taxi’s dim interior, and he followed. He gave the driver the diner’s address and then his, instructing him to drop off Danielle first. The cabbie cocked an eyebrow at the backwards directions, but he shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

  Silence reigned in the cab. He wedged his body into the corner of the backseat, sprawling his legs as far as the cramped space would allow. Leaning his head against the window, he sighed, the Scotch making its presence more known. In the close quarters, he heard her every breath, spied the shallow rise and fall of her chest, caught the fresh scent that seemed to permeate her hair and skin. He inhaled, needing to drag more of her into his lungs. Damn the alcohol; she was more heady and intoxicating than the oldest, most potent spirit.

  He studied her exotic profile. The high brow; thin, aristocratic nose just a shade too long by conventional beauty standards; the wide mouth with its full bottom lip; and the small, stubborn chin. His gaze dropped to the elegant, tightly clenched hands on her lap. Even in the shadows, he noted the paler skin stretched over her knuckles. Did she fear him? God, the thought of her sitting there, trembling in terror of what he might do to her caused the alcohol in his gut to roil and pitch.

  “Danielle.” He’d deliberately softened his voice, yet she flinched as if he’d roared her name.

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her head averted, continuing to stare out the side window.

  “Look at me.” He paused. “Please.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, and her fingers were clenched so hard, he feared they wouldn’t easily straighten. Malachim’s breath caught in his throat as he waited. After several seconds, when her head turned in his direction, his lungs relaxed.

  God, he longed to touch her.

  Yes, he would be a eunuch and a flaming liar if he denied he wanted her beneath him, straining against his body as he thrust deep into soft, hot flesh he knew would squeeze his cock in the sweetest, tightest embrace. He craved it. Woke up in cold sweats from dreaming about it. But this… This need swelling within his chest now was gentler but no less hungry. No less desperate.

  He yearned to rub his thumb over the hard line her mouth had become, coaxing the sensual fullness to appear once again. More than the next critical beat of his heart, he desired to brush his lips over her brow, ease the panic and pain in her eyes, and replace them with pleasure. With wonder. With joy.

  What would Danielle look like carefree, laughing…unburdened?

  Jesus, he wanted to know.

  He straightened from his slouch, at the same time shifting closer to her. Carefully, unhurriedly, determined not to spook her. Not to threaten her.

  In the darkness, her eyes widened, and her breath quickened. At any other time, he would’ve backed off. But not tonight. As much as he needed to have her sun-kissed skin under his fingers, she needed to understand—believe�
��he would take a blade to his own hand before harming her.

  Gently, he cupped the nape of her neck. Pressed a thumb into the side of her throat and circled. She went rigid beneath his hand and loosed a tiny whimper.

  “Shh,” he crooned. “No, look at me,” he tenderly ordered when her lashes fluttered. He had to see her eyes, had to be able to detect if his caress became too much for her to bear. Even more, he had to see the moment the fear bled from her beautiful dark gaze and trust entered. “Thank you,” he murmured, staring into the brown depths. Yes, panic still lingered, but so did another emotion…an emotion that set his heart racing for his throat.

  “I would never hurt you,” he murmured. “Not that way. I may be an asshole sometimes and kick the hell out of your feelings, but I’ll never hurt you in the way that makes you shake under my hand.” He slid his hand into her hair, loosening the bun and cradling her head. And had to bite back his groan at the sensuous glide of her heavy hair over his hand and wrist. “You’re safe with me. I promise,” he said hoarsely.

  This time when she closed her eyes, he didn’t request she reopen them. Another tremble shivered through her figure, but he sensed the reaction wasn’t born of fear. Weariness, maybe. The fool in him whispered maybe pleasure at his touch, but the realist quickly rejected the idea. He figured it had to be tiring carrying so many secrets and shadows around. He also sensed if he pushed her right now in this weakened moment, she might break and confess who’d harmed her, bruised her soul, heart, and possibly body. But to take advantage of her state would make him no better than the phantom who haunted her. Would make him no better than his father who preyed on the vulnerable.