Broken Angels

by Anne Hope

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered.

  Oh, that was low. So low. Those simple words tangled up her insides until she felt as if a contortionist had crawled into her abdomen to perform his tricks. She’d never been very good at resisting him, but when he looked at her that way, when his voice took on that silky quality, all her defenses collapsed and left her needy, completely at his mercy.

  He leaned forward, drew her closer. His thumb stroked the underside of her wrist. For one thunderous heartbeat she forgot herself and narrowed the distance between them. She still remembered the intoxicating feel of his mouth on hers, secretly hungered to taste it again. And here he was, so close, glazed by starlight and watching her with a glittering intensity that flattened her resolve and made her belly ache.

  Then, like a sudden draft sweeping in to banish the heat, he severed all physical contact, and the insanity melted away.

  “The kids need a woman around.”

  She was a fool. An honest-to-God fool. How many times did she have to get rejected before she learned her lesson?

  She walked to the window, desperate to place a safe distance between her and the man who’d been toying with her heart ever since she’d been unlucky enough to grow boobs. “Glad to help.” She sounded bitter, but she didn’t care. She was tired of pining after Zach Ryler.

  “Did you get the dog settled in?” He stood, placed his hands on his lower back, and stretched. The thin cotton fabric of his black T-shirt reached across his chest, outlining every delicious muscle. Long, lean, jean-clad legs just begged to be noticed.

  Refusing to give them the satisfaction, she looked away. “I made a nice little area for him downstairs, but I think he prefers my bed.”

  “Can’t say that I blame him.”

  She pinned him with a startled gaze.

  “Who wouldn’t prefer a soft mattress to a hard floor?” he clarified.

  “For your information, I made him a bed. He’s just being difficult. Luckily, I’m used to dealing with difficult males.”

  “You’ve known quite a few of them, have you?” Was that a note of jealousy she caught in his voice? Had he spent the last two years wondering, the way she had, who was warming her bed at night?

  She was tempted to put him out of his misery and tell him Bolt was the first since he’d left her, but revenge was far too sweet. “Wouldn’t you just love to know?”

  A cryptic smile curved her lips at the proprietary look that fell to darken his features. Maybe he did care after all. Or maybe he didn’t like the idea of someone else taking what was his. Some men were like that. Even though they didn’t want a woman, they hated the thought of anyone else having her.

  She glanced past the glass at the hazy sky. Boiling clouds smothered the stars, bringing with them the promise of rain. Come to think of it, the air itself smelled musty, cool and damp as it trickled in to fill her lungs.

  “Looks like it’s going to rain,” she said, hoping to pierce the sudden silence that enveloped them.

  He came to stand behind her, leaned over her shoulder and stole a glimpse of what lay beyond the window. Energy surged between them, made her skin prickle and a shiver glide along her spine. Swallowing a sigh, she embraced herself and rubbed away the stubborn goose bumps that had risen to pebble her flesh.

  He moved in closer and slid his hands up her arms. “Are you cold?” His touch enfolded her like a pocket of sunshine, set off tiny explosions along her nerve endings. She closed her eyes and sank into it, powerless to resist its lure. Her back sought support from his chest as a thrilling current swept in to fuse their bodies together. He was hard and warm and familiar. He was everything she’d ever wanted and everything she could never have.

  The sharp pain that lanced through her brought her back to her senses. She jerked out of his arms and nearly sped out of the room. “I should get some work done now that the kids are asleep.” She sounded winded.

  “Don’t stay up too late. I know how you get when you start writing.”

  She edged to the door, reluctance pulling at her heels. It would have been so easy to stay here with him and let the memories devour her. So easy to fall right back into that old destructive pattern, full of fire and quiet desperation, rapture and heartache.

  His loneliness sang to her, beat in perfect tune with her own, but she didn’t allow its lovely strains to seduce her. She left him standing at the window, surrounded by navy blue shadows, with only the suffocating moon to light his face.

  PART TWO

  Surrender

  Ah, when to the heart of man

  Was it ever less than a treason

  To go with the drift of things,

  To yield with a grace to reason,

  And bow and accept the end

  Of a love or a season?

  Robert Frost, “Reluctance”

  Chapter Nine

  Raymond York wasn’t one to ask questions. He did as he was told, followed the directives he was given with the cool detachment of a machine. He wasn’t burdened by something as cumbersome as a conscience, didn’t spend hours pondering things like ethical behavior or moral responsibility. He got the job done, pure and simple, and his employer always rewarded him with a thick wad of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  When his cell phone rang, he answered immediately. His last assignment had been one of those rare occasions when things hadn’t gone according to plan, and he was eager to make it up to his boss. In his line of work, mistakes didn’t get you a pink slip—they got you a bullet to the brain. If you were lucky.

  “It’s time,” the man told him in a familiar voice that was both cultured and chilling. “I need that backup.”

  A sliver of apprehension lanced through Raymond, and he tightened his grip on the phone. “Are you sure he made one? Birch panicked when he saw me. He surrendered the information before I even asked for it.”

  “That’s how I know he made a backup. Liam wouldn’t have given in that easily, even for the sake of his wife.” Silence stretched between them, thick and stifling. Then, “We wouldn’t be in this bind if you’d done things right the first time.”

  Ice crusted along Raymond’s spine. “I didn’t have a choice. The neighbor showed up before I could search the place. If I hadn’t left when I did, she would’ve discovered me.”

  “And if she had? You could have shot her, too.”

  True, he could have. But all that blood had turned his stomach. He’d been crippled by the overwhelming compulsion to race home and wash the unsavory stench from his flesh. Raymond usually made it a point to keep his intense aversion to blood a secret, even from his employer. Especially from his employer. He’d only divulged his particular weakness to the Birches because he’d known he was about to shoot them. With the wife, his aim had been dead on. Her heart had stopped instantly, stemming the flow of blood. The husband had been a different story.

  Raymond thought fast. “I was afraid she called the cops when she ran back to her place to get the key—”

  “Enough excuses. Stop wasting my time. Just get the job done.”

  With agile fingers, Raymond holstered his gun—the 9mm SIG he’d used to terminate the Birches. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “And the kid?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want anyone to know you broke in. The last thing I need is for some gung-ho vigilante to start digging again.”

  Raymond understood. He wouldn’t mess up this time. He couldn’t.

  His life depended on it.

  The night was as deep as Zach’s sleep was restless. Every so often, lightning flared beyond the bedroom window, but no rain pounded against the rooftop. Will slept soundly, temporarily spared from the teething pain that afflicted him more often than not.

  Zach wasn’t nearly as lucky.

  Thoughts of Becca continued to torture him. He could still feel the imprint of her soft curves, the arousing fragrance of lavender and sage tickling his nostrils, the feathering caress of her fingers in his hair.
His body had come alive, absorbing the sensations the way the earth absorbs water after a long drought, and now it was drunk with need.

  For two years he’d denied himself the pleasure of a woman’s body. He’d remained true to Becca even after the divorce was finalized. It didn’t make one iota of a difference how many papers he signed. In his heart he was still married to her, and he always would be.

  At first he’d missed her with a fierceness that bordered on physical pain. But in time his body had grown numb, and he’d slowly learned to live without her. Now, long-forgotten yearnings stirred within him, red-hot and insistent. All he could think about was going to her, slipping into her bed, touching her the way he knew she liked to be touched. It wouldn’t be all that difficult to seduce her. He just had to glide his hand up the nape of her neck, massage the base of her skull, sprinkle moist kisses along the curve of her cheek and throat…

  The taste of her filled him, the memory of it burning brighter than the sizzling blades of light cleaving the sky, and that snapped him back to reality quicker than a sharp slap. He was treading on dangerous ground, going places he’d sworn he’d never go again.

  Had he made a mistake staying true to her? It wasn’t that opportunities hadn’t presented themselves. He’d had his share of seductive glances and heated innuendoes, not to mention overt offers, over the past two years. If he’d acted on one or more of them, would it have made it easier to move on? Maybe then he wouldn’t be so tempted to do the very thing that could destroy the one woman he’d do anything to protect.

  Cutting her loose had been the best gift he’d ever given her. He’d realized that, if nothing else, tonight. She’d said it herself; her heart was finally healing. If he gave in to temptation and made love to her, he risked breaking it all over again. Nothing was powerful enough to compel him to do that. Not even the pounding need inside him, screaming to be appeased.

  He turned over in bed, tried to get comfortable even as desire fought to ensure he didn’t. Outside, thunder boomed. Lightning lacerated the bruised sky. In the crib beside him, Will softly snored. And a few doors down the hall, barely a heartbeat away, the woman he ached for lay sleeping, oblivious to his torment.

  The townhouse slept, swathed in gray gloom, the windows dark, save for the occasional slash of lightning reflected in the glass. Behind him the night yawned, bottomless and hungry. With the help of his LAT-17 snap gun, Raymond disengaged the lock and crept inside, happy the new occupants hadn’t had the good sense to install an alarm. Not that an alarm would have dissuaded him. Breaking and entering was his specialty. Still, no matter how adept he was at this sort of thing, he didn’t consider himself a thief. Those days were behind him. Now he was a facilitator, the middleman. He got the job done, no matter how dirty, and in the process he kept his employer’s hands clean.

  Around him, silence pulsed like a living creature holding its breath. Oily shadows stretched across the floor and ceiling. His 9mm SIG was strapped to his belt, within easy reach should trouble arise, though he hoped not to have to use it. Another break-in would be sure to raise some eyebrows, and the last thing his boss wanted was for the cops to start connecting the dots.

  There had been too many incidents already. First was the death of Adrien Gorski, the computer geek who had assisted Birch in his investigation. Raymond had learned that Gorski suffered from a heart condition and was on a drug called Digoxin. A few weeks ago he’d broken into the guy’s house and made him ingest five times the recommended dose. Gorski had died of a heart attack that very night. Since the cause of death was obvious and given Gorski’s medical history, the authorities hadn’t bothered with an autopsy.

  Then there had been the first attempt on Birch’s life. When Raymond had gotten his orders, he’d devised a plan to get rid of the target without having to personally spill any blood. He’d punctured one of the tires on Birch’s fully equipped Volvo sedan. The car had been new from the looks of it, the black paint gleaming in the morning sun, without a nick on it. It obviously paid to be a lawyer in Boston. But not as much as it paid to be a middleman.

  Unfortunately, Birch had survived the car crash and had become more determined than ever to find the person behind it. If he’d been smart, he would have backed off. But he hadn’t. The trip to Martha’s Vineyard had sealed his fate…and that of his wife.

  But three deaths were enough for one month. More bloodshed was sure to raise suspicion, so Raymond worked extra hard to be invisible. He wasn’t the kind of man people normally noticed. He was of average height and build, with boyish features and a prominent forehead. There was nothing threatening or extraordinary about him, and that very commonness was what made him special. He could melt into a crowd as effectively as ice cream on a sunny day. That was the reason he was so good at what he did. When a crime was committed, no one spared him a second glance because he looked like any middle-aged accountant, someone’s next-door neighbor, a dad or an uncle.

  Tonight he was a ghost. He made no noise as he slid across the hardwood floor. The fabric of his pants didn’t sigh when it brushed his legs. His breath was steady and silent.

  So he couldn’t help the surprise that rocked him when the sky thundered, and the house erupted in a fit of barking.

  All of Raymond’s instincts sharpened. Adrenaline coursed through him and, although he loathed the thought of using it, he drew great comfort from the reassuring weight of his gun.

  Rebecca jolted awake. Her drowsy brain swam toward awareness. At the foot of her bed, Bolt barked up a storm, then bounded to the floor and scratched at the door.

  Reluctantly crawling out of bed, she fought the irritation that swept over her. “Shh, you’ll wake the children. It’s just thunder.”

  A predatory growl rumbled in his throat.

  With a sigh, she padded across the room and released him. Instantly, the animal lunged into the darkness and nearly flew down the stairs. She was about to return to bed when a thought struck her. What if nature called? The last thing she wanted was to have to clean up a puddle of pee or worse come morning.

  Decisively swiping her sleep-tousled hair from her face, she ignored the bed’s beckoning call and followed the puppy downstairs.

  Raymond didn’t like surprises. He liked dogs even less. For some reason, as dumb as they looked, they weren’t fooled by his boyish cheeks and winning smile. Most of them growled whenever they crossed his path, as if they could smell the stench of blood forever imprinted in his skin. They made him feel tainted, dirty, and if there was one thing Raymond couldn’t stand, it was feeling unclean. He showered three times a day, sometimes more. He was obsessed with cleanliness and couldn’t abide some stinking mutt looking down its snout at him.

  Still, he had no intention of shooting the animal, no matter how much the worthless creature deserved it. That would leave an awful mess behind and draw undue attention to him.

  “I don’t want anyone to know you broke in,” his employer had said. Raymond always followed orders. Except for the times when he had no choice but to improvise. He feared this might very well be one of those occasions.

  A prickle of frustration needled his gut. Anywhere he hid, the canine was sure to sniff him out. His best bet was to make a speedy exit and leave the search for another day.

  But the mutt had other ideas. It came tunneling down the stairs at the speed of a hurricane. Raymond had no choice but to seek refuge in the very room he’d come to search—Birch’s home office. The walls seemed to narrow, swallow him whole. He could still smell the nauseating stench of death, see it spill to saturate the carpet, then slowly trickle toward the window…

  A thin film of sweat formed on his brow. With the back of his hand, he swiped it away before it could leak into his eyes.

  Keep it together. You have a job to do.

  In the dark he made out the black silhouette of a desk, the back of a chair, a bookcase lining the far wall. From the heart of the room the twenty-four-inch computer monitor beckoned him. If Birch had made a backup o
f the hard drive he’d stolen, this is where he would have stored it. But would he have time to locate the information before the dog caught a whiff of his scent and alerted the new residents?

  A bark exploded outside the door, followed by the persistent hiss of claws scraping wood.

  It didn’t look like it.

  Rebecca had expected Bolt to make a beeline for the back door. Instead, she found him in front of the den. The fur on his back bristled, and a low, menacing snarl thrummed through his body.

  Annoyance tumbled into alarm. What if a thief was in there? Or worse, what if Lindsay and Liam’s killer had come back to finish the job he’d started? Ice-cold fear doused her. Voula’s words echoed in her head: “He wasn’t there to rob them. He was there to kill them.”

  She placed her ear to the door, heard nothing but her own ragged breathing.

  You’re being paranoid, she told herself. Only an idiot would return to the scene of the crime.

  Unless he’d failed to get his hands on what he’d wanted the first time around.

  Decisively, she inched away from the door. There was only one thing to do. Imitating Lindsay’s quiet-as-a-mouse walk, she tiptoed to the kitchen, grabbed the phone and began to dial nine-one-one.

  Chapter Ten

  Zach awakened to the drilling sound of barking, drowned by the occasional bout of thunder. With a grunt, he dragged himself out of bed, checked on Will to find the baby still sound asleep, then trudged to the door. The racket was coming from downstairs.

  “Damn dog.” As if three kids didn’t make enough of a ruckus. Now he had furball to contend with. If the mangy beast woke the kids, he’d have his balls sliced off.

  He found the puppy barking and whimpering outside the office. Exasperated, he scooped the frantic animal in his arms, marched to the back door and tossed him outside.