by Pamela Clare
He was too selfish to push her away. Still, he had to drive his point home. "If I had waited, Maria Ruiz and so many like her might still be safe and alive. You wouldn't be going through this. Because of me, he got away, Tessa. It's that simple."
"It's not simple at all, Julian." Her fingers slid into his sweat-damp hair, pulled his face down to hers, her lips brushing softly over his.
For a moment, he let her kiss him, his chest tight, everything inside him straining toward the purification of her touch, toward the sweet forgetfulness he always found with her. But Burien was still out there, still hurting women, still killing.
And it was Julian's fault.
"Stop, Tessa." He set her away from him. "I have to go."
Then he walked off toward the shower, leaving her to her tears.
"So he says whoever sent that 'news tip' is working for the bad guys?" Sophie asked.
"That's what he says, and I believe him. I just wish he'd tell me exactly who the bad guy is so I could splash his picture on page one." She hated the bastard—whoever he was—not only for the harm he'd done to women but also for the torment he'd laid upon Julian's shoulders.
"Well," Sophie said, her voice hinting that she had a surprise up her sleeve, "remember Chris, that guy I went out with at the Post who did the four-part series on the Red Mafia? I managed to talk him out of his source in Moscow. Okay, so I promised to go out with him again, but, hey, what are friends for? He wasn't that bad of a kisser."
"Oh, my God, Sophie!" Tessa felt her spirits lift. 'That's incredible! Bless your heart!"
"I'm e-mailing you the number now. Just remember there's a ten-hour time difference between Denver and Moscow. Don't wake the poor guy up in the middle of the night."
"Ten-hour time difference. That means it's almost five a.m. there right now."
"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Sophie asked. "We didn't mean to get you into hot water."
"I don't know. He wasn't happy about it. Secrecy is survival in his business."
"I hope he wasn't too angry with you."
Tessa remembered the groceries, the espresso machine, the azalea, and the hours of mind-blowing oral sex that had followed.
When you tell your friends about this, be sure to tell them about the swirly-sucky thing. If you're going to share details, you might as well be thorough.
She fought to keep the tone of her voice grave. Sophie deserved to feel some guilt, after all. "I got through it."
"Holly said she thought he would probably punish you with his tongue."
Tessa felt herself blush. "Actually, he didn't bring the four of you up until after he was finished using his tongue."
Sophie groaned. "God, Tess, if it weren't for the murder and mayhem, I'd say you were really lucky."
Tessa felt her spirits slip again. Was she lucky? Certainly, she was lucky to be alive. She was lucky to have a man like Julian protecting her. She was lucky to spend nights in his bed, to feel the shattering heat of his touch. But he didn't love her.
You think because we fuck a few times that I owe you my life story?
Some stubborn part of her wanted to believe he hadn't meant it the way it had seemed. He'd lashed out at her only because answering her question meant dragging his soul over barbed wire. Three years ago, he'd made a decision anyone with a heart would have made—he'd decided to save those girls. But he'd paid dearly for it, losing his girlfriend, two of his men, his job. He'd obviously spent every day since blaming himself, carrying the weight of the killer's crimes on his own shoulders.
Was that why he pretended not to have feelings? Was that why he was so determined not to get too involved with a woman? And who was this bitch Margaux who'd left Julian to deal with his anguish and regret alone?
Margaux couldn't have loved him, not the way Tessa loved him.
"Yeah, I am lucky," Tessa said at last.
Then Sophie recounted the entire spying-in-the-parking-lot incident, from the moment Julian had arrived in his truck to the moment they realized he'd trapped them to the smile on his face as he'd walked away. "He is the hottest guy I have ever seen. Holly said so, too, though I believe she used the word 'fuckable.'"
"That sounds like Horny Holly."
There was noise in the background—the harmonious sound of Tom's shouting.
"Oh, crud, I have to go. Tom just went ballistic over my headline."
"Sorry I'm not there. Good luck, and thanks so much, Sophie."
Tessa hung up, walked back to the table, set the cell phone aside, and downloaded her e-mail, wondering what time she should call this source in Moscow and what, exactly, she should ask him. Perhaps she could ask him about Lonnie Zor-yo, see if he knew whether Zoryo had ties to any known criminal—
Tessa stared at the screen of her laptop, felt her stomach knot. There in her in-box was Sophie's message—together with five from an address she didn't recognize. They looked like spam, but the subject line read, "TESSA WILL SUFFER."
Her hand moving almost of its own volition, she clicked on one of the messages—and felt the blood rush from her head.
Julian gunned his truck into the garage, the black mood he'd been in all day growing darker by the moment, his own words a knife to whatever was left of his conscience.
You think because we fuck a few times that I owe you my life story?
She'd reacted as if he'd hit her, her head snapping back, her eyes going wide. Then she'd sucked up her emotions and let it go, somehow finding it within her to shed tears for him, to touch him, to kiss him. As if he'd needed her to comfort him. As if he deserved her compassion. As if she could change what was inside him. And what had he done?
He'd pushed her away.
It only proves what you've known all along, asshole. No picketfence.
He parked, closed the garage, keyed in his code, telling himself it was stupid for him to have come home. He ought to be heading to Pasha's or looking at surveillance tape or casing out one of the empty warehouses Irving's men had identified. An apology wouldn't make a goddamned bit of difference in the long run, because he'd only hurt her again. Better to quit while he was behind.
Except that he needed to be near her.
He knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door. Tessa didn't meet him or call out a greeting. The house was dark and silent. The stove was cold. Her computer sat on the table in sleep mode, its screen dark, the ON button pulsing green.
Then he heard a choking sound.
'Tessa?" His gun was out in a heartbeat. He moved quickly down the hallway to find the door to the bathroom shut and locked. "Are you all right?"
She didn't answer. And then he understood why.
She was throwing up.
He tucked his gun back in its holster, stood there while the toilet flushed, waited for her to open the door. But she didn't. "Are you sick?"
Brilliant question, Darcangelo.
And then it struck him. Maybe she was pregnant. But it was too soon for her to be showing symptoms, wasn't it?
He did some quick math, tried to figure out how soon she would know, and realized he didn't know a damned useful thing about pregnancy or her cycle—where her eggs had been or when. The only thing he knew for certain is that he'd more than done his part to start a baby boom.
"Christ!" He waited for her to answer, wanting to rip the door off its hinges. "If you don't talk to me, I'm going to pick the lock!"
The door opened with a soft click.
Tessa stood there, her face white as a sheet, her eyes haunted.
He felt her forehead for fever. She was ice cold. "What's wrong, honey?"
She looked up at him, her voice almost a whisper. "There were pictures—in my e-mail."
"Son of a bitchP' Julian turned and strode in a hot rage down the hallway to the dining room, certain he knew exactly what kind of pictures could have upset her so much. He grabbed her mouse, woke the drowsy machine—and felt his gorge rise.
There on the screen was a digitally altered image of
Tessa suffering unspeakable horror.
Five messages. Twenty images. A repertoire of cruelty.
Burien had Wyatt's photograph of Tessa in the tub and was making the most of it, dredging up some of Zoryo's finest work and doctoring Tessa's face onto the bodies of other victims. The bastard was trying to frighten her, showing her just what he hoped to do to her.
"TESSA WILL SUFFER," read the subject line.
Over my dead body, Burien.
Fighting to control his fury, Julian tossed his jacket aside, unhooked his harness, and walked back to the bedroom. He needed to call Dyson, get someone started tracing these e-mails— probably a hopeless task. But first he needed to make sure Tessa was all right.
He draped his harness over the footboard of his bed and strode over to the bathroom. She was brushing her teeth, her motions wooden. He stroked her hair until she was done, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders, led her to the bed, and drew her down onto the quilt beside him, pulling her into his arms. "Come here."
Tessa heard the steady thrum of Julian's heartbeat, felt the strength of his arms around her, and gradually the sharpest edge of her terror receded. 'Those pictures—that was all real, wasn't it?"
"Yes." Julian's voice was deep, soft. "That was Zoryo's handiwork."
The man Julian had arrested. The man who'd held a gun to Julian's head. The man who'd committed suicide in prison.
"I'm glad you caught him. I'm glad he's dead." She said it, and she meant it, the rules be damned. And then she had to get it out. "That's what his boss plans to do to me."
"He's never going to have the chance." Julian kissed her hair. "He won't get near you."
She pressed herself deeper into his chest, tried to force the images from her mind, the brutality beyond anything she could have imagined. "God, I've been so stupid!"
"No, you haven't."
"I had no idea, Julian. I didn't know anyone could do anything so terrible to a woman!" She shuddered, a wave of revulsion, of sheer terror, passing through her.
He held her closer. 'Try not to think about it. Just let it go."
"Those poor women!" She squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't get the images out of my head! How do I make them go away?"
And then it hit her.
She sat up, stared at him. "My God, Julian, you're exposed to this every day! How do you—?"
He pressed a ringer against her lips. "It's my job, Tessa."
Something about the way he said it—the quiet strength, the resignation, the hint of buried despair—closed around her heart like a fist. "It hurts you."
He sat up, rested his weight on one hand. "Somebody has to do it, and I'm better suited to it than most men."
She ran a hand up his arm. "You're as human as any man, Julian. You have the same right to feel as everyone else."
"Don't try to figure me out, Tessa." He pushed off the bed, pulling away from her, a dark scowl on his face, an edge to his voice. "It's a waste of your time."
She hopped off the bed, cut him off at the door, her hand pressed against his chest to stop him. "Don't try to push me away! It's my time to waste."
'Tessa!" One word, her name—a low growl of warning.
A muscle clenched in his jaw, his heart pounding against her palm.
She held her ground. "There's nothing inside you that scares me, Julian."
She saw in his eyes the moment his control snapped. In a heartbeat, she found herself pinned beneath him on the floor, her arms stretched over her head, her wrists cuffed by one big hand. He glared down at her, an almost feral look on his face, his thighs forcing hers apart. "You really want to know what's inside me?"
Then his mouth closed over hers in a brutal, punishing kiss.
Chapter 23
Tessa didn't object. Not when he forced his tongue roughly into her mouth. Not when he used his free hand to rip open her blouse, scattering buttons across the floor. Not when he ground his pelvis against hers, thrusting in crude imitation of sex.
He meant to frighten her, she knew. He wanted to show her how violent he could be, how badly he could hurt her. And yet it was himself he was hurting.
Tears slipped from the corner of her eyes down her temples as she yielded her body to his rage, her heart aching for him. Somehow he'd gotten her pants off and was now yanking his zipper down over the bulge of his erection. Then he buried himself inside her, pounded his fury and desperation into her without finesse or gentleness.
It was over quickly.
He groaned, shuddered, then sank against her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his breath coming fast and heavy. For a moment he lay against her. "Jesus God!"
It was a cry of remorse. He released her wrists, started to pull away, but she held him fast, kissing his hair, her tears falling freely now.
"I'm okay, Julian," she said, wanting to reassure him. "It's all right."
"I'm so sorry! Christ!" He raised his head, looked down at her, the anguish in his blue eyes like a knife through her chest. He wiped the tears from her cheek, then lifted himself from her, zipped his jeans, and dropped back against the footboard, his eyes squeezed shut.
His voice when he finally spoke was that of a stranger. "My father was a pimp."
Tessa sat up slowly, tried to take in what he'd just told her, waited for him to say more, covering herself with what was left of her blouse.
"He took me from my mother when she divorced him and hightailed it across the border. I was two." He gave a cruel laugh. "It's not that he wanted me with him—far from it. He just wanted to hurt her. I didn't know that at the time, of course.
"I'm not sure how my father got into the flesh trade. I guess being on the lam he didn't have a lot of career options. We moved from barrio to barrio—him, me, and his ever-changing stable of putas. He dumped me in their laps, left them to raise me while he drank himself slowly to death and gambled the pesos they earned for him.
"Some felt sorry for me—poor little American boy with a real cabron for a father. Others hated me because they hated him. What an idiot I must have seemed to them—bringing them flowers, drawing pictures for them, offering them seashells and other stupid gifts."
Tessa gulped back a sob. Whatever she had expected him to tell her, it hadn't been anything like this. It was no wonder he held himself back. He'd grown up unloved and utterly alone. Who had cared for him when he was sick? Who had comforted him at night when he'd had bad dreams? Who had made sure he got a bath and clean clothes?
At least she'd had her mother.
"Sometimes I went to school. Sometimes I didn't. As I got older, I spent more time on the streets. I learned to speak Mexican Spanish like a native, and I learned to fight dirty. My old man and I got into more than a few scrapes, usually over him roughing up one of his girls. He kicked the shit out of me more than once, but by the time I was fifteen, I was more than able to return the favor."
Julian had never told a soul the details of his childhood, not Margaux, not even Dyson. He had no idea why he was telling Tessa now, except that he owed her the truth. Hell, after what he'd just done to her, he owed her his balls on a platter.
God! Christ! Son of a bitch!
"I grew up thinking it was normal to have a dozen women hanging around the house half dressed, to wake up and find my father hung over with two women in his bed. But listen to me—I'm talking about it as if growing up with a house full of whores was a bad thing. It wasn't, not always. I got laid a lot. I learned what a good blow job was when I was fourteen. By the time I was sixteen, I'd had more lessons in female anatomy than the average gynecologist."
"Oh, Julian!"
He could tell from her voice that she was in tears, but he couldn't look at her face. He couldn't bear to see the truth of what he'd just done to her written there.
"The first woman I had a crush on was one of my father's girls. Only after I'd found her in his bed did it dawn on me that she wasn't free to live her life the way she wanted. It was then I finally understood the reality of what my f
ather did for a living. He owned women, controlled them, exploited them sexually for his own profit. I hated him from that moment forward."
Julian told her how he'd begun to spend more time on the streets, looking for a piece of the action to call his own, venting his rage on the world, eventually getting into a fight with a man over a girl he'd met in a cantina. He'd slammed his fist into the man's face, accidentally killing him and landing a thirty-year prison sentence. He'd resigned himself to living and dying behind bars, when he'd gotten an offer from the FBI he couldn't refuse.
"They pulled me out, shipped me stateside, and gave me a new life. I got my GED, mastered aikido, learned how to shoot. And I learned the truth about my mother. They showed me the crime files, the newspaper articles, nurturing my hatred for my father and all men like him. By the time they sent me back to Mexico two years later, I was a weapon, loaded and ready to go off. I might have gone after my old man, tried to bring him down, but he'd taken the easy way out and drunk himself to death. I spat on his grave."
He heard Tessa sniff, then clear her throat. "What about your mother? You found her, didn't you? Working for the FBI—"
"Yeah. I found her. She died in car accident six years after I was taken. Nice Irish girl. The FBI had a thick file on the case. She never quit looking for me." Julian felt strangely naked and spent, lost in memories he wished to God weren't his. "My father always told me she was a whore. Turns out the only thing she did wrong in her entire life was fall in love with him."
Deeply weary, Julian closed his eyes, and they sat for a moment in silence.
He heard her shift, felt her breath shiver across his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Julian!"
Then her lips brushed over his, as soft as the touch of a butterfly's wings, her hands resting on his shoulders for balance as she straddled him. But he didn't deserve this—her gentleness, her tears, her forgiveness.
'Tessa, don't!" He turned his head away.
"Why not? Because you don't want me to touch you? I know that's not true." She slid a hand down his chest, pressed her palm against his thudding heart.
He opened his eyes, grabbed her shoulders, gave her a little shake, pressure building in his chest. "Didn't you hear a goddamned thing I just said? I'm a convicted killer! I've fucked more whores than you have pairs of shoes! I've spent my life keeping company with the worst of the worst—rapists, traffickers, stone-cold killers!"
