by Pamela Clare
If she was right, this van Halen person was directly responsible for Alex's imprisonment and torture, Kick's terrible injuries, and the hideous deaths of their teammates.
For Alex and Kick, the mission was one of pure revenge. God help van Halen when the two of them got hold of him.
And they would. That was a fucking promise.
Kick finally opened the SUV's door and got in. "Quinn called a meeting," he said. "He wants us back at HQ, asap."
"What about the Cappozi place?" Alex asked, glancing uneasily at the three-story brownstone before hesitantly reaching for the vehicle's ignition. "What if I'm not being paranoid and--"
"Johnson and Kowalski have her six on the subway. And they're bringing in Miles to finish your shift here," Kick told him. "She'll be in good hands until Marc and Tara take over their regular watch at nine tonight."
Alex pushed out a breath. "All right." He checked the dashboard clock. It was just after five. "I guess that works."
Kick raised a brow as he put the SUV in gear. "You good to drive, bro?"
Alex gave a humorless chuckle. "Worried about my mental health?"
"Hell, yeah. I need to stay alive. Newlywed and all, remember?"
"Like I could forget," he muttered with a wry curl of his lip. Kick had been relentlessly happy since tying the knot. Not that Alex begrudged his friend. He was glad one of them was happy, at least.
He gunned the engine to life. "And damn, Kick. In case you hadn't noticed, everyone behind the wheel in this town is a fucking lunatic. Trust me, I'll blend right in."
GREGG VAN HALEN followed Gina Cappozi onto the subway car at the last possible second, making sure she didn't dart out again just before the doors closed.
She didn't. Didn't even try.
Not that it surprised him. For the past week, since returning home to Manhattan after her lengthy convalescence upstate, his former lover had done nothing to avoid being found. Nothing to escape the menace that lurked in the corners of the darkness, seeking to hunt her down.
Almost like she was taunting him. Or fate. Except for the occasional furtive, hollow-eyed glances she gave her surroundings, you'd never know she was in a constant state of terror.
Avoiding the vigilant observation of the STORM agent tailing her, Gregg casually grabbed the center pole of the subway car along with the horde of commuters anxious to get home for the night. The sliding doors slammed shut and the wheels lurched forward with the distinctive rattle and squeal of the New York subway.
He turned his back on Gina. He didn't need to face her. In fact, he preferred watching her in the flickering reflection of the grimy window. Better to keep the rage from showing in his face and giving him away.
Her dark green eyes went to and fro as she clung to an overhead strap, her gaze alighting for a quick perusal of each passenger before shifting to the next. Always moving. Always searching.
For him.
He allowed himself a grim inward smile. So nice to be wanted.
She'd never see him, though. Yeah, she'd see a man, a tall man, his head and shoulders obscured by a baggy hoodie. But not him, not Gregg van Halen. Not until he chose to show himself. Which he wouldn't. Not with those STORM clowns following her every move. But he could be patient when he needed to be.
Gregg had been invisible for so much of his life, it took no effort at all to remain so. Even in plain sight, in broad daylight, he was a true shadow-dweller. A ghost.
A spook.
His lips flicked up. An apt double entendre. The description went far deeper than his job. The shadows themselves drew him. Dark obscurity spoke to him. Even now, it whispered in his ear, beckoned to him from the pitch-black void just beyond the strobing flash of subway window where he watched his own reflection, and that of his woman.
Alas, he could not answer the call and slip back into the void. There was something he must do before returning to the sheltering comfort of anonymity. He must deal with the overwhelming fury in his heart. And take care of this woman. His lover, Dr. Gina Cappozi.
In the mirrored film noir frames of the moving window, he searched her face for any sign of recognition. Or of alarm. And found none. Her eyes passed quickly over him.
But within himself, crouching right next to the anger that simmered and roiled in his chest, he felt a bone-deep physical recognition of her. And had a sudden, overwhelming need to put his hands on her. A need so potent and visceral it nearly sucked the breath from him.
He knew this woman, intimately. Knew her flesh and her fears. He had plunged deep inside her and felt her quake with the pleasure his presence there had brought her. And felt her tremble with the fear of his absolute power over her.
He wanted to feel her quake and tremble again.
But she would never allow it. Never accept him again as she once had.
Because he had betrayed her.
He had betrayed everything.
He battled back a surge of sick fury. Steeled his insides and beat back the clot of unwanted emotion. Anger would not help. Emotions would not help. Only action would.
As the train screeched around a curve he released the pole, letting his body wedge into the clutch of commuters surrounding her. No need to hold on. His balance was perfect, honed through years of hard physicality on his job as a mercenary for Uncle. Bit by bit, inch by inch, he eased closer to her--the backward bump always accidental, the sideways step seemingly unintentional. Until his back was at her front. Not quite touching.
But oh so close.
Close enough to catch the familiar, tempting scent of the woman he'd once tied to his bed and taken in ways that had both thrilled her... and frightened her to the marrow.
He'd always frightened her. From their first wary, agenda-filled meeting, he'd scared the pants off her. Literally and figuratively. It was part of his attraction. And hers. She had once loved the edgy thrill of it. But now ... she hated him. Hated him with a passion that nearly matched his own.
While she'd been at the sanatorium up north, from his hidden vantage points on the grounds he had watched her body slowly heal from the terrible trauma she'd gone through. But in her mind the terror still loomed as large as when she'd been a captive of al Sayika. She'd learned to defend herself, studying deadly moves, plunging her knife into the center of a man-shaped target over and over. Imagining it to be his own black heart, he was sure.
Over the months he'd observed her and covertly listened in on her debriefs and conversations via the device he'd planted in her room at Haven Oaks, one thing had become abundantly clear: Gina Cappozi blamed him for her capture.
She wanted him dead. And she wanted to be the one to kill him.
Too bad he couldn't let that happen.
The train sliced through the black tunnel, lights flashing to the cacophony of the steel rails. He cocked his head to the side and inhaled, picking out his lover's unique fragrance from the potent olfactory brew of refuse, burning brakes, and the perfumed sweat of a thousand bodies.
She glanced around uneasily. Nervous. Instinctively sensing a predator close by.
Impassively, he read an ad sign hanging on the wall, keeping his face hidden. She anxiously caught the eye of the STORM agent across the car from her, who shook his head reassuringly. She shuddered out a breath and tightened her grip on the strap above her again as wheels screamed and the train pulled to a herky-jerky stop at the next station.
Passengers all around disgorged, jostling them so her body was wrenched away from his. New people crowded around. He steered closer. The doors slammed shut again.
Heedless to the danger, he turned and deliberately stepped up right behind her, this time his front to her back. She was tall, especially in her work heels, but he was taller. Much taller. Heartbeat accelerating, he spread his feet and grabbed the strap next to hers.
He hovered over her. Close. So close. Silky strands of her long black hair tickled his nose... smelling of the woman he had stripped naked and taught to pleasure him as no other woman ever had.
His body remembered those nights. Achingly well. He could still hear the echoes of her groaned sighs and throaty moans as he took her. Could still feel the touch of her fingers and the tip of her tongue as she explored his body with mutual, shivering delight.
His cock grew thick and hard, remembering.
Again the brakes squealed, the car slowed; people shifted in readiness to exit.
He nearly vibrated with the urge to touch her. To step into her. To press his body right up against hers and feel her succulent curves fitted against his unyielding muscle. Just for a fleeting moment.
But he didn't dare.
She must have felt the air around them quicken. Must have sensed the taut, electric thrum of lust, which pulsed through his whole body for want of her. Must have inhaled his eager male pheromones as they sought a way to lure her to his bed again. Suddenly, she went rigid. Her knuckles turned white on the strap she clung to. Her head whipped around and she raked his features with a fear-sharpened glare.
But he had already looked away. Averted his hooded face so she couldn't see the hunger prowling in it like a trapped tiger. Or read the intent lying there, in wait. Waiting for the right moment.
To take her.
The train jerked to a halt and she stumbled backward into him. She gasped. He didn't move. But she felt it--the long, thick ridge that the memories had raised between his thighs. Her breath sucked in. Her hand dropped. To touch him?
He knew better. She was reaching for her knife.
But too late.
He was already out the door.
It wasn't time. Not quite yet.
But soon he would have her.
Very soon.
Pamela Clare began her writing career as an investigative reporter and columnist, working her way up the newsroom ladder to become the first woman editor of two different newspapers. Along the way, she and her team won numberous state and national journalism awards, including the 2000 National Journalism Award for Public Service. A single mother with two teenage sons, she lives in Colorado at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. Visit her website at www.pamelaclare.com.
Table des matières
Démarrer
