by Naima Simone
He peered over his shoulder, and Rafe leaned closer.
“Do me a favor?”
Rafe narrowed his eyes then nodded.
…
Christ on the cross, I’m tired.
The elevator doors closed with a soft whisk. Aslyn leaned her forehead against the wood-grained wall, allowing her lashes to lower for just a few moments. Just a few. Because damn, had she mentioned she was tired?
Having a knife to your throat, rolling into the middle of traffic, and narrowly escaping a psycho did that to a girl.
The rustle of plastic bags pulled her from the edge of a doze. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, her attention focusing on the brooding giant propped up against the opposite wall of the elevator. That fast, tension invaded her body, humming over her skin, prickling along her palms, and crackling down her spine. Chay’s hooded scrutiny didn’t waver. And she fought not to avoid the intense study. Especially when she yearned to duck her head and hide.
Hide from the knowledge there. The promise there. The heat there that reminded her the last time they’d spoken, his fingers and mouth had been between her legs.
She was one comment, one touch, one act of concern away from flying apart into so many pieces of emotional shrapnel there wouldn’t be anything left to gather.
The elevator slowed to a stop, the low ding signaling their arrival at their designated floor. She straightened and switched her gaze from Chay to the doors and winced at her reflection. Damn. Limp, tangled hair. A long cut and butterfly bandages along her jaw. Memory of fire searing her skin infiltrated the numb bubble wrap surrounding her emotions. Her gaze skittered away from the thin slice and dropped to the choker of faint bruises around the front of her throat. And the dirt smudges marring her tank top and jeans. Jesus, she was a hot mess. When the steel panels hissed open, taking the makeshift mirror with them, she sighed, relieved.
“This way.” Chay stepped out of the elevator ahead of her, his big body shielding hers. He moved silently down the corridor, bags full of new clothes and toiletries hanging from his hands. Wide shoulders obscured her view unless she leaned around him. Which, frankly, required too much energy.
When he’d informed her of his plans to move her to a safe house, she hadn’t balked. Prior to the joyride from hell, she probably would’ve metaphorically burned her bra, stating no man could order her around. That with everything she’d suffered, no more. No more allowing her life to be controlled and managed.
But maybe the shell shock hadn’t worn off. Or maybe she’d been too tired to argue. Either way, she’d agreed, weary of having to appear strong when all she longed to do was curl up and sleep like Rip Van Winkle. When she woke, this shitfest her life had devolved into would have passed away.
The idea of hiding tempted her. Maybe this once she’d permit someone else to take charge and have control. And though she’d known him less than a week, she trusted Chay to protect her at her most vulnerable and defenseless.
He paused in front of the last apartment at the end of the hall and withdrew a ring of keys. Moments later, he pushed the door open and stepped through the entrance. She followed. Rays from the setting sun spilled into the spacious living room through floor-to-ceiling windows, falling over a long sectional couch, coffee table, chairs, and…
A piano.
The air snagged in her throat.
Wide ribbons of peach, gold, and orange light beamed over the black baby grand. A Steinway—her favorite—about six feet long and gorgeous.
“Oh,” she breathed, crossing the room before realizing her brain had transmitted the message to her feet.
She paused in front of the majestic instrument and reached for the shining lid. Her trembling fingers hovered several inches above the wood for a long moment before settling on the lacquered surface. As if just waiting for that connection, peace flowed from her fingertips, up her arm, and into her soul. She inhaled, her lashes shuddering before lowering. This was…familiar. In a world that had been shot to hell and back, this surge of peace and joy was familiar.
Clearing her throat, she cupped her hand, squeezing tight to preserve the feeling. To keep it for later. “For some reason,” she rasped. “I doubt this came with the safe house.”
Bags thumped on a surface. Then, seconds later, his heat warmed her back. He didn’t touch her—just his heat.
“Rafe arranged it. It’s just a rental.”
“At your request, I’m sure,” she murmured.
A pause. “I thought you could use a friend.”
Well damn. Hearts really did flip over.
Chapter Fifteen
Aslyn grasped the bedroom doorknob and stopped. Twisted it. And stopped.
After she’d had a restful nap and hot shower, the pity party had been postponed. She was rejuvenated, clean, and hungry. The delicious aromas that had crept into her room a half hour earlier had her stomach rumbling as if yelling. “Feed me!” Food waited down the hall.
If only she could leave her room.
Coward, a small, snide voice heckled.
So what she was cooped up in close quarters for God-knew-how-long with a man who razed every one of her guards and inhibitions to the ground? So what said man had a piano hauled to said close quarters just so she would have a modicum of familiarity in a strange space? So what the last time she’d been alone with said man he’d given her an orgasm that made TNT resemble a firecracker? Nope, no reason to huddle in the bedroom. No reason at all…
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered and yanked open the door. Ordering herself to grow a pair, she strode through the airy condominium, tracking the scent heavy with Italian spices and garlic. She approached the kitchen entrance and skidded to a halt.
And stared.
She’d witnessed Chay as the successful businessman. The knight in shining armor. The sensual lover. But this side of him—the domestic male—was one of her favorites. White cotton stretched across his wide shoulders and hugged tight muscles. Faded denim hung low on his hips, the frayed hem skimming bare feet. God, what the man did for a simple T-shirt and jeans should require ten Hail Mary’s and an Act of Contrition.
Funny how seeing him move around the kitchen reminded her of how he’d touched her the night before. Knowledgeable. Confident. Deliberate. She smothered a sigh. Everything he did reminded her of sex. He personified it. The subtle caress of his hair against his jaw. The play of muscle under his shirt. The sensual, almost predatory glide that masqueraded as a walk.
Yeah, Chay and sex?
Synonymous.
BFFs.
“How’re you feeling?” He didn’t glance up from stirring the contents of a big pot on the stove.
Damn. She winced. How long had she been standing in the doorway ogling him like a band nerd crushing on the high school quarterback before he’d noticed?
“Fine.”
She stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the mouthwatering scents and, well…him. Was this attraction some twisted version of Stockholm syndrome? Except instead of bonding with her captor, she longed to crawl under her rescuer and not leave his side. Would this…this magnetic pull toward him fade once the danger passed?
God, she hoped so.
She couldn’t play the piano. Couldn’t create music. Was having identity issues. Becoming the clingy girl who just wouldn’t go away seemed a cruel and unusual punishment. And unacceptable. When her stalker was captured and she could walk away, she would. She’d done the relationship-with-a-man-who-doesn’t-want-you thing. Yes, Chay had kissed the ever lovin’ hell out of her, but he viewed having sex with her as using her. Last night he could’ve laid her out on that couch and had her six ways to Sunday, and she would’ve let him. But he hadn’t. He’d walked away instead.
One man had screwed a freakin’ teenager rather than her. And another man had passed her up when she’d been ready and willing to be taken.
Obviously life was a mean girl, and she was its bitch.
“Are you ready to eat?” Chay asked, brea
king into her morose thoughts. Thank God. One more second, and she might’ve ended up on the floor, curled in a fetal position, crying, Why don’t you want me? Don’t you think I’m sexy?
Yeah, so not a pretty picture.
“Yes, I’m starving.” She picked up the napkins and silverware he’d set out on the counter and carried them into the dining room. With the open floor plan of the condo, one room flowed seamlessly into another, creating a loft-like space. If a person had to hide away from an obsessed lunatic, this was the place to do it. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she called over her shoulder, placing the dining items on the table.
“Like I said before, son of a single mother who worked a full-time job. Sometimes a part-time one, too.” He entered the room, two plates heaped with pasta and red sauce in his hands. “Spaghetti and omelets. I kill spaghetti and omelets.”
“I kill pizza delivery,” she cracked, plopping down in a chair and picking up her fork. Inside she ached at the picture of a young Chay cooking for him and a mother who’d obviously been determined to make ends meet. Aslyn had grown up in a household with two loving and attentive parents who doted on their only child. They hadn’t been rich, but she’d never experienced lack, either. Both of her parents had worked, but her mother had always been home by four thirty, cooking, helping her with her homework, carting her to piano lessons. Her throat tightened as she twirled pasta around the tines. Most of the time the pain remained a dull, muted ache in her chest. But then there were moments like this when the sorrow from missing them reared up and sank its teeth into her heart.
“You don’t cook at all?” he asked. “Everybody has at least one dish they’re good at.”
She cleared her throat and slid a forkful of food into her mouth. And groaned. Spices and seasonings exploded across her taste buds, inciting them to do handstands and cartwheels on her tongue.
“Oh my God, this is wonderful.” She moaned again, lifting her gaze from her plate. And clashing with his.
Whoa.
Hunger she was 99.9% certain had nothing to do with spaghetti burned in his eyes. Her stomach knotted in response. Intense, hooded, his scrutiny stroked over her face before resettling on her mouth. She swallowed past her suddenly constricted throat.
“Chay…”
He blinked, and that fast his expression cleared. Staring into the hated, aloof mask again, a frustrated cry rose inside her.
“So, no special dish?” He resumed the line of their conversation as if he hadn’t just practically scalded her with lust.
“Yes, actually.” She smiled sweetly and waited until he was chewing on a bite of food before continuing. “Hot sex on a platter.”
He choked. Hard spasms racked him. He reached for his glass of water, glaring at her, and she grinned. Childish? Oh yes, definitely. But worth it? Damn right. And he no longer wore that damn reserved detachment.
“You okay?” she cooed. “Need some more water?”
“You are a menace,” he growled.
“Oh, honey,” she purred, batting her lashes. “You say the sweetest things. But aside from serving up coitus, I can make figgy pudding.”
“What the hell is figgy pudding?” He patted his mouth with his napkin, his voice still rough with a hint of wheeze.
She rolled her eyes. “Figgy pudding. From ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’?” She sang the verse where the carolers demanded the dessert be brought to them that instant.
There was nothing distant about his expression now. Pure shock. “Is this an artist thing? Like walking the fine line between genius and insanity? Because I’m not convinced which side you’re on.”
She threw back her head and laughed. And laughed. It felt so good. Cleansing. A release. When she wiped moisture from her eyes, he appeared less stunned and more confused. Still…a smile curled one corner of his mouth.
“Honest to God, I’m telling the truth. The Christmas I was fifteen, my mother found a recipe for figgy pudding. We’d just heard the Christmas carol on the radio, and we decided to bake it since neither of us knew what the hell it was.”
“And?” He twirled his fork. “How’d it turn out? What did it taste like?”
“Like shit.” She grinned. “Correction. Like figgy shit.”
His bark of laughter echoed in the room. For the second time since she’d known him, he laughed. Real, free, unburdened. And she’d done it. To hell with winning a Grammy. This was true victory. Causing this strong, contained man who she suspected had little reason to find hilarity in his life to laugh was a true measure of her success.
A half hour later, she found herself wrist-deep in hot water washing dishes. Not that she minded. Not with Chay drying and stacking dishes next to her.
“I didn’t want to disturb your nap earlier, but Rafe called with news about the trace on your cell.”
She paused, the contentment fleeing in the face of the grim reminder of why she was cooped up in this place busting suds with Chay. Inhaling, she steeled herself.
“What did he find out?”
“The number belongs to a burner phone. He managed to track the cell to the city and location it was delivered to—which was a convenience store here in Boston.”
“What now?” she whispered. “Even if Raphael can convince the manager to hand over the security video, how will he know who it is? I can’t identify the guy. He wore a mask. Neither can you for the same reason.”
Chay shrugged. “It’s a long shot. But even if the bastard paid with cash, the store should have a record of the date and time the particular phone was sold. That narrows down our timeline and the amount of footage Rafe will review. True, we wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup. But we do know more than you realize. He’s male. A few inches above average height. White or Hispanic with a light complexion. Lean build. Between 150 and 175 pounds.”
“Chews spearmint gum,” she murmured.
He froze. “What?”
“His breath,” she recited, already sliding back into her memory and those hellish moments in the car. “The mask had a slit where the mouth was, and I smelled his breath. Spearmint gum.” It’d seemed to fill the interior. The stench of gum and fear. She’d never chew that flavor again.
“Okay.” He nodded. “Good detail. I’ll pass it along to Rafe. He might’ve purchased gum along with the phone. We never know.”
Cool. Good. Redirect.
“Speaking of gum, I remember when I was ten, Jim Granger stuck a wad of Bazooka Joe in my hair. Like smushed it. Right in the back of my head. I ended up looking like damn Orphan Annie by the time my mom finished cutting my hair to even it out.” She scrubbed a pan with a wire scourer, nearly scraping the coating off but unable to stop. “The next day I kicked him in the balls so hard—”
Firm but gentle fingers gripped her shoulders and turned her, dripping hands and all. Those same fingers tilted her chin up. She stared at a strong, golden neck, a solid jaw, full, sensual lips, and finely cut cheekbones. Finally, she met Chay’s scalpel-like scrutiny.
“Deep breaths, baby,” he murmured. “Breathe with me. In. Out.” The hand on her face and the quiet intensity in his eyes refused to release her. She had no choice but to follow the pattern of his breathing. Slowly, the panic retracted its sharp teeth from her psyche. “Good. That’s good.”
Several more moments passed. The only sounds in the room were the inhale and exhale of their lungs. Then even that lessened, softened.
“I’m not weak,” she whispered, needing him to agree. To acknowledge her declaration so she could believe it, accept it deep in her soul. Weak woman didn’t outmaneuver crazed stalkers. Weak women didn’t thumb their noses at caution and tumble into a traffic intersection. She might be a little damaged and more than a little traumatized but…
She wasn’t weak.
He swept the pad of his thumb over the cut along her jaw. Once. Twice.
“Far from it, Aslyn,” he said. “So far from it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Chay h
ated nights like these. When the deep, silent hours of night pressed down on him like a blanket. Dark. Heavy. Claustrophobic. They’d come more and more often in the last eight months. Since the uncovering of Richard’s death and the counseling sessions. Since he’d had to weekly rip open, expose, and rehash the worst part of his life.
He’d drawn the curtains back from one section of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping the vast view of Boston Harbor and rippling waters of Massachusetts Bay would provide some calm. But one second after drawing back the drapes, the futility of his effort struck him.
Because for the first time, his vigil didn’t relate to that painful period twenty years ago. His restlessness had nothing to do with murder and death and everything to do with the woman who slept down the hall in the bedroom across from his. Her presence—so close, so damn tempting—explained why he sat in a dark living room with a beer as his only company.
At fifteen, he’d had his power torn away from him before completely losing it and stabbing a man to death. Since then, he’d ensured he maintained control—control of his emotions, his body, his relationships, business and personal. And except for the first few years after the murder, he’d retained that strict leash on himself and his life.
But in the short amount of time he’d known Aslyn Jericho, the reins had slipped.
He’d mauled her in his living room, went down on her on top of a piano, and been ready to storm a police department to get to her. And here he sat in a dark living room, brooding—yes, brooding—in the middle of the night, trying to convince himself opening her door and waking her up with his mouth on her breast and his fingers buried inside her was a bad idea.
If only the attraction was purely physical.
Part of him wished like hell this craving for her could be chalked up to that killer body, beautiful face, lovely dove-gray eyes, and mass of auburn and gold curls. If so, he could fuck her out of his system; he could rationalize scratching an itch. But he couldn’t deceive himself. She was so much more than gorgeous breasts and slim thighs. She was magic cloaked in flesh. Vulnerability wrapped in strength. Whimsy and purity embraced by sensuality.
