9 Kill for Me

by Karen Rose

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 7:45 p.m.

  “Goddammit,” Bobby hissed, her lips white with pain. “Be careful.”

  Charles lifted his brows at her. “I can call 911 if you prefer.”

  Bobby glared. “I said I was sorry for this morning and I’ve thanked you a thousand times for coming to help me, even though it took you long enough to get here.”

  “I told you I couldn’t just drop everything. I was with a client.”

  “Which one?” she demanded.

  He shot her a sober look. “And this became your business since when?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. Just get the damn thing out, all right?”

  He chuckled suddenly, remembering the look on Rose Bowie’s face when his cell had started vibrating on the table just as he’d started to commune with the spirit world. “You called at a perfect time, actually. I thought Rose Bowie would have coronary.”

  “Rose Bowie? What did that old bag want?”

  “She was worried violence would mar her daughter’s funeral tomorrow,” he said, pulling Bobby’s arm far harder than he needed to. “Rose didn’t want a scene like there was at that Sheila Cunningham’s service. Since I was reasonably sure you had no more staff to shoot, I told her it would be fine.”

  “And for this she paid you?”

  “A considerable fee, both for the reading and to keep our sessions secret. Her husband’s constituency would not approve of her dabbling in the occult, nor would Rose’s friends at the Baptist church.” Rose was one of his most lucrative clients.

  Although Carol Vartanian had paid much more. Charles missed their sessions. Who knew that under that cool exterior beat the heart of a woman who had truly despised her husband? She’d started coming to Charles to see her future and he’d made certain that just enough of it had come true to keep Carol believing every word that came from his mouth. She’d kept coming out of a perverse desire to do exactly what would have enraged her husband the most.

  That sex had been Carol’s best weapon had been his gain. Yes, he missed Carol Vartanian. Susannah looked a lot like her mother. It would have been such a pleasure to initiate her, to have her hang on my every word. But that was no longer in the cards, as it were. That Susannah would die was never in doubt. That she’d die painfully became an inevitability the night she destroyed one of his best and brightest.

  An eye for an eye was a fool’s trade, Pham had always said. His mentor had never been wrong. Charles bent over Bobby’s arm, his movements harsh as he dug the bullet from her flesh. “You took a chance coming here. To this house.”

  “They won’t look for me here and if they do, there are tons of places to hide. Shit,” she hissed again. “That hurts.”

  He imagined it did. He handed her a bottle of Arthur’s best scotch. “Drink this.”

  She pushed it away. “I can’t be drunk. If they come looking, I have to be sharp.”

  “You said they wouldn’t look for you here.” He tugged, earning more hissed curses.

  “Who taught you bullet removal, Joseph Mengele?” she muttered.

  “Actually, I learned when I had to pull a bullet out of my own leg,” he said mildly.

  Her gaze whipped over to the walking stick he’d propped against the table. “Oh.”

  Charles pulled the bullet out with a twist. He’d actually had it in his grip several times, but playing with Bobby had suddenly become old. He held it in the palm of his hand for her to see. “You want to keep it as a souvenir?” he mocked.

  “Did you?” she asked bitterly. “When some Vietcong soldier shot you?”

  Charles considered slapping Bobby senseless, but he wouldn’t have to slap that hard. There was no sport in breaking her when she was hanging on to control by a thread. But she was hanging on, and a small part of him had to admire her for that, so he answered her. “Actually I did. I kept the bullet to remind me how much hate I felt at that moment. I needed that hate to survive. And I was not shot by the Vietcong,” he added. It was a point of pride, after all.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Then who shot you?”

  She’d never asked before. She’d never had the nerve. Toby Granville had asked long, long ago. He’d been only thirteen and far more self-confident than Bobby had ever been. Charles had answered Toby then. He decided to answer Bobby now. “Another American soldier. We’d escaped together.”

  Her eyes opened, narrow slits as he cleaned the wound. “From where?”

  “A hell-hole in Southeast Asia otherwise known as a POW camp.”

  She let out a breath between her teeth. “That explains a lot.” She flinched when he jabbed the needle into her flesh. “Sir. So why did he shoot you?”

  “Over a crust of bread,” he said, still mildly, although speaking the words aloud brought the cauldron within him to a steady boil. “Then he left me to die.”

  “Obviously you didn’t.”

  “Obviously.” But that wasn’t a story he’d share.

  She gritted her teeth as he began to suture the wound. “And your revenge?”

  “Slow in coming.” Charles thought of the man who sat in a New York prison for a crime he had not committed, protecting the family he’d never had the chance to know. The man who deserved every day of his torment, and more. “But long in duration and well worth the wait. Every day I smile knowing that every day he suffers. Mind, body, and soul. For the rest of his natural life.”

  She was quiet while he stitched. “Why didn’t you just kill him?” she finally asked.

  “Because in his case, death was too quick.”

  She nodded, her teeth imprinting her lower lip, but she didn’t cry out. This was the tough girl he’d met all those years ago. This was the backbone he hadn’t seen in some time. He pulled hard on the suture. She sucked in a harsh breath, but remained silent, so he pushed her further. “Susannah, on the other hand . . .”

  “I want to see her dead,” Bobby said between her teeth. “But it won’t be quick.”

  “Good,” he said, a little too vehemently, and she looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

  “You hate her, too. Why?”

  He frowned, angry with himself for being so transparent. “My reasons are my own.”

  She frowned back. “All these years you’ve pushed me to hate her. To take back what’s mine.”

  He bandaged her arm. “As you should. Susannah lived the life to which you were entitled.” He placed her arm inside a sling and stepped back. “I’m finished with you.”

  “I’m not finished with you. You’ve pushed me for years to kill her for you. Why do you hate Susannah Vartanian? What did she take of yours?” When he didn’t answer she grabbed his arm with her free hand. “Tell me.” She towered over him, blue eyes flashing cold fire, and for the briefest of instants he felt a tiny spear of fear.

  Well done, he thought, proud of her once more. Carefully he removed her hand from his sleeve. “Sit down before you fall down. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  She sat, shaky, pale, but still intense. “Tell me,” she repeated, more quietly. “If I’m going to kill her for you, I at least deserve to know why. What did she take of yours?”

  Charles met her eyes. She made a fair point. “Darcy Williams.”

  Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 7:45 p.m.

  “Susannah, wake up. We don’t want to be late.”

  Susannah fought her eyelids open, then sat straight up, looking around. “Why are we here?” Here was the airport and Luke was pulling into the parking garage.

  “Surprise,” was all he’d say. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.”

  “Why are we here?” she asked again when he led her to baggage claim, toward the wall where the oversized luggage had been placed. “You had my clothes sent? But how . . . ?” The question trailed as he took her shoulders and turned her. Susannah stared for a moment, then her heart flooded. “Oh.” She ran to the hard pet carrier sitting against the wall, falling to her knees to peer in the little wire
door. A familiar face peered out, happy to see her. Thor. “How did you do this?”

  “Al and I arranged it with your kennel.”

  She opened the little wire door wide enough to stroke her dog’s silky coat. “Good girl,” she murmured. “I missed you. Soon. You can come out soon.” She locked the door, then looked up at Luke, and the tenderness on his face closed her throat.

  “You missed her,” he said. “I thought it might be easier for you if she was here.”

  She stood, swallowing hard. “You are a very nice man.”

  His brows waggled. “And?”

  She laughed. “And sinfully sexy.” And he was, reminding her of a pirate with his stubbled jaw, dark eyes, and devilish smile. Joy bubbled up and she surprised herself by throwing her arms around his neck. She’d surprised him, too, by the sharp intake of his breath. But he caught her to him, lifting her feet from the floor.

  Then she sucked in a breath of her own as she felt him hard against her, suddenly, fully aroused. Her skin prickled and her body answered and that fast she wanted him.

  You don’t have to stop this time. He knows it all. And he doesn’t care. So stop being a coward. She pulled back to see his face and her racing heart accelerated. The tenderness on his face was gone, replaced with raw hunger.

  “Thank you.” Then she kissed him, full and lush, and felt his big body shudder.

  He’d needed this, too. The knowledge made her want to kiss him again, so she did until he made a sound deep in his throat, relief mixed with frustration.

  “Not here,” he said, leaning his head back and drawing a breath that pressed his chest into her breasts. New shivers shook her and she brushed her mouth along the strong line of his throat, feeling his pulse throb beneath her lips.

  Behind them Thor yipped in the crate, yanking Susannah back to reality. “Oh.”

  Luke’s lips twitched as he put her down, setting her well away from him. “Can you thank me again like that later when we’re not in a crowded airport?”

  Her cheeks heated, but she refused to look away. “Yes.”

  His hands flexed wide as if he’d reach for her again. Instead he shoved one hand into his pocket and pulled out a nylon leash. “It’s Darlin’s. We’ll have to stop and get another for . . .” He picked up the small crate and grimaced.

  “Thor,” she supplied helpfully. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just not right. A dog named Thor should weigh more than twenty pounds.”

  She smiled at him. “And ugly bulldogs shouldn’t be named Darlin’?”

  He huffed. “She’s not that ugly.”

  She laughed. “You’re just an old softie.”

  “Thank me again when we get home,” he promised, “and I won’t be.”

  Her heart started racing again and she found she liked the feeling, the anticipation. The thrill. “It’s a date.”

  Dutton, Sunday, February 4, 7:45 p.m.

  Bobby watched Charles methodically clean his surgical tools. He had quite a collection. She supposed some secrets he learned took a little more force to pry free than others. Having been on the receiving end of his scalpel today, she understood how he’d become so successful at breaking down his opponents’ defenses.

  “So . . .” She tilted her head slightly. “Who was Darcy Williams?”

  “She was one of mine.”

  She nodded. He’d used that same terminology that morning. “Like Paul?”

  He nodded. “Like Paul.”

  “Is Paul your son?”

  He smiled at that. “Of a fashion.”

  “Did you raise Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Darcy, too?”

  “More or less.”

  “But Susannah didn’t kill Darcy Williams.”

  His eyes went cold. “She didn’t beat her to death, no. But Susannah made it necessary for Darcy to die.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t intend for you to.” He snapped his bag closed. “Call me when you’re ready to make your move. I’d like to be there.”

  Bobby watched him leave, leaning more heavily on his walking stick than he normally did. “Charles?”

  He turned, his face hard as stone. “What?”

  She touched her bandage. “I pay my debts, so here’s some information. I learned from my GBI mole that Susannah Vartanian described the man who raped her in New York to a police artist. My mole was asked to fax that picture to the DA in New York so he could show it to the man who’s sitting in prison for the murder of Darcy Williams.”

  For the first time ever Bobby saw Charles pale. “Did your mole fax this sketch?”

  “No.” She lifted her brows. “I asked her why today as she was driving me away from the press conference. She said the man in the sketch was the cop who’d caught her, who hadn’t arrested her, who’d been holding her crime over her head, biding his time. Since Paul was the cop who’d given her to me, connecting the dots wasn’t difficult. And since Paul is important to you . . .”

  He nodded, just once. “Thank you, Bobby.”

  It was the first time he’d ever thanked her. After thirteen years, it was far too little, far too late. “Consider yourself compensated for the bullet removal. Sir.”

  Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 8:45 p.m.

  “That’s so cute.” Susannah stood in Luke’s bedroom doorway, smiling at Thor, who had curled up next to Darlin’ in a laundry basket, on top of Luke’s laundry. They’d brought back Chinese takeout and eaten it off his mama’s fine china, talking about wonderfully neutral subjects. By mutual unspoken agreement neither had mentioned Bobby or thíchs or pending concealed-weapons charges.

  Neither had they mentioned the kiss in the airport, but the memory of it hung thickly between them. The anticipation had built, sweetly.

  Now, Susannah’s heart beat hard, wondering what would happen next.

  Luke stopped behind her. “No, it’s not cute,” he protested. “That laundry was clean.”

  “Next time, put your clothes away.”

  “Put your clothes away,” he mimicked nasally. “You sound like my mother.”

  His arms came around her, locking over her stomach, which was turning delightful little cartwheels. He rocked her gently from side to side and she leaned her head back against his chest, comfortable with a man for the first time in her life.

  “I had a nice time with your family today.”

  “Good. They were thrilled to have you.”

  “And you, too? Were you thrilled to have me?” She’d intended her tone to be light. Instead the words came out reedy. Husky. Needy.

  There was a beat of tense silence, then Luke tugged the collar of her borrowed sweatshirt from her throat. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I haven’t had you yet.” His mouth found the curve of her shoulder and she shivered, tilting her head to give him better access, holding her breath to see what would happen next.

  “Will you?” she asked but he shushed her, massaging her shoulders.

  “Don’t talk,” he murmured, his lips tickling her skin, his fingers working magic between her shoulder blades. “You just went all tense on me. I want you relaxed. I want that mind of yours to take a rest. Don’t think about what will or won’t happen. Just feel. Feel this.” He twisted her hair around his fist and gently pulled her head forward, brushing kisses down her neck. “Feel good?” he murmured when she sighed.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He pushed her head to the other side, and she hummed deep in her throat when he treated her to the same teasing caresses on the other side. “This is how it should be,” he said. “You should feel good, want more. Do you want more?”

  He was making this so easy. So sweet. Slowly she nodded and he went still for a moment. Then his hands slipped under her sweatshirt, warm on her skin. Her stomach muscles clenched and she felt him smile against her neck. “Ticklish?”

  “More like nervous.” She tensed as his fingers slowly climbed her rib cage.


  She heard him swallow and his hands ceased. “I think we need to stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you. But I won’t push you. I want you crazy for me, not afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, but even she could hear the tremble in her voice.

  “You don’t want to be. And soon you won’t be. But I can only hold back so much.”

  And he was holding back, but he hadn’t retreated. Even though his hands had stopped, they hadn’t withdrawn. His thumbs were mere inches from the fullest part of her breast, tempting, tantalizing.

  She didn’t want to be afraid. Today she’d faced a killer without fear. To be afraid of this, her own sexuality, seemed ludicrous and more than a little sad. She was standing in the arms of a good, decent man who knew everything about her and wanted her anyway. She’d walked away from too many things in her life.

  There was no way in hell she was walking away from this.

  Before he could say another word she pushed his hands up. His groan mixed with hers as he claimed her, covering her lace-covered breasts with his palms. It felt good. Too good. And not nearly enough. She pressed back against him, feeling him hard and ready against her. She wriggled, wringing another groan from his chest.

  “No,” he said, his mouth on her neck. “Not yet.” She pressed harder backward. His thumbs found her nipples and electricity sizzled over her skin. “It’s not time.” But he was breathing hard in her ear and his hips were thrusting, the rhythm making her crazy for him. “Dammit, Susannah. Tell me to stop. Please.”

  And he would stop if she asked. She knew it. Just as she knew she didn’t want him to. “I almost died today.”

  “I know. I can’t stop seeing it happen again and again. But that’s not good enough reason to do this now, tonight. We’ve got time. Lots of time.”

  “I’ve waited long enough. I came back here to get my life back. Help me do that.”

  He hesitated. “How do you want it?” he asked roughly.

  The question thrilled her darkly and she thought about the dusty box he’d hidden back in his closet. But this was new. She was new.