Afterglow

by Cherry Adair

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. His face was a hard, expressionless mask, but his hazel eyes glowed with … what, she had no idea. She was grateful that he’d missed the reference to the medical bills; no way she wanted to go there.

  “The box containing the vial and wafers was postmarked Seattle,” he said. “Your return address. With a fucking handwritten note telling him and my mom to enjoy their second honeymoon. I saw the note, on the custom notepaper your girlfriend Lucy gave you for your goddamn birthday.”

  “Her name’s Lilly.” Dakota had no idea who could’ve gotten their hands on one of the beautiful cards her best friend had made for her. “Where did you ever see anything I handwrote? Tell me that.”

  “Your fingerprint was on the vial.”

  “I worked for four years in that lab.” She threw up her hands. “Of course my fingerprints were on the vial. My fingerprints were on hundreds of vials.”

  “And one just happened to travel all the way to Italy?”

  Her hands dropped to her sides, and her stomach did a nauseating roll and lurch. She was sick of defending herself to him. Sick of trying to prove to the people she loved that she was worthy. Fuck them all. “Fuck you.”

  He narrowed his eyes, temper simmering in the glittering depth. “You don’t ever say fuck.”

  “I’m saying it now. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you.”

  He grabbed her upper arms. “Just look me straight in the eye and tell me the truth.”

  She didn’t shake him off because her body felt too brittle to chance moving. Locking her knees, she stayed in his steely grip, meeting his hot gaze with one of her own. “I’ve looked you in the eye and told you the truth all along. It’s not my fault or responsibility if you’re too pigheaded and blind or too beaten down by your issues with your father to hear what I’m saying. I’ve tried to rationalize, to excuse your behavior. There are all sorts of abuses—but you’re a big boy now, and your abuser is feeding you so much bullshit you need waders.”

  His fingers tightened like manacles on her arms. “Why would I believe you? The evidence was damning.”

  “Faith, Rand.” Her throat tightened and her eyes started burning. “Talk about liars. You claimed to love me more than you’d ever loved anyone. You should’ve had faith that I wouldn’t lie to you.” But his pattern of mistrust started way before his father claimed she’d given him the wrong drug.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You didn’t tell me about your sixth sense.”

  “God, Rand …” She didn’t know where to begin with that one. She took a deep, painful breath into her restricted lungs. The knot in her chest reached critical mass and she felt tears welling. Damn damn damn. She blinked them back, staring at the ceiling, willing them to stop. This wasn’t the time or place to unravel the entire spaghetti bowl of lies he believed to be truths. “Frankly, that’s the least important part of all this.”

  His lips tightened. “A lie is a lie. It’s a matter of moral fiber. If you’re dishonest in the small things, then you’ll be dishonest in the big things, and I won’t tolerate being lied to.”

  “How damned sanctimonious of you. As if you’ve never withheld something or told a damned fib in your life.” Dakota had never felt so fragile. Rand was the only person on earth she’d let come close enough to truly wound her. Being vulnerable right now infuriated her. She didn’t want to be weak when she needed desperately to be strong and forceful. She’d done nothing wrong, damn it. “You won’t tolerate being lied to? Really? With your parents? My God, they both fed you nothing but lies!”

  “Now it’s both my parents? Jesus, Dakota, really? You get caught in your web of lies time and time again, and your only defense is that everyone lies?”

  “I didn’t mention my tracking ability because it wasn’t relevant.” I couldn’t bear for you to look at me like my parents do. She’d been afraid; Dakota thought bitterly, he’d leave her. And he had anyway. But not because she had this stupid, freakish sixth sense. Because he’d believed every damned lie his parents had fed him. “Let me go. You hate me—it should be easy.” His hands tensed for a second; then he released her and stepped back.

  With effort, she controlled the trembling in her hands as she picked up her bag from the floor where she’d dropped it. “Tell you what. I’ll give you the coordinates and location of your men, and the man carrying the vial. Then I’m done. You’re on your own. I won’t traipse all over the world to help someone who denigrates me and calls me a liar at every turn.”

  She felt adrift and afraid, and ridiculously, infuriatingly, she still wanted to hold on to him because he was big and solid and invincible. More fool her. She glared at him again instead. “I won’t explain myself to you or anyone else, ever again. I am who I am. And if that isn’t good enough, fuck you.”

  FOURTEEN

  She looked magnificent with her red, orange, and gold hair a messy tumble around her face and shoulders. Her eyes looked larger and shimmered like rain-drenched spring leaves. She was furious, and she was deeply hurt. Seeing the pain she was trying hard to mask dismayed him. Her tears unmanned him, ratcheting his temper back under control.

  Dakota was usually pragmatic, sensible, and even–tempered. It was one of the things he’d liked best about her. She was soothing in the storm of his life. But he’d never seen this vulnerable side of her. He’d never seen her cry. He felt a pang of remorse for coming down that hard on her. All his anger and frustration at the situation was spilling into every aspect of this aborted venture.

  He reached out and brushed his fingertips across her hot, wet cheek, and said with aching tenderness, “Don’t cry.”

  She jerked her head away, putting a hand over the rapid pulse at the base of her neck as her throat worked. Her eyes were hot, her mouth swollen and vulnerable. It took a moment for her to snarl, “I never c-cry.”

  She tilted her chin pugnaciously, her tear-filled eyes daring him to say one more damn thing. She didn’t cry pretty. Her face grew progressively blotchy, and her nose was pink as tears streamed down her cheeks. She fought hard to control the sobs tearing through her chest. The sound made Rand’s own chest ache, and something twisted knife-sharp inside him at her pain.

  Her tears ripping him up, despite his determination not to be taken in by her. Dakota never backed down from anything. She confronted life head-on; hell, she’d go toe-to-toe with King Kong if she felt she was in the right. She stood there, braced—for what, he wasn’t sure.

  He’d cut off his own hands before he physically hurt her. But sometimes one didn’t have to use physical violence to wound.

  Furiously, she turned her bag upside down on the floor and crouched beside it to rummage through the mountain of contents. “W-wash your own damned un-underwear!” She tossed several clumps of black fabric in his general direction.

  Sobbing so hard it was a wonder she could see anything at all, she continued digging through the pile, tossing out items as she went.

  Rand sank to his knees beside her, putting his hands on her cheeks to lift her head so he could look into her eyes. She fought him like a wildcat, clawing at the backs of his hands, her nails scoring his skin. Sliding his hand around her nape, he gripped the back of her neck under the tangled mane to hold her still. “Don’t.” Just saying that one word ripped at his throat.

  Pale eyes locked with dark. The rush of heat was hard, fast, and overwhelming. It always was when he touched her. He dragged her face up to his and kissed her. She tasted of salt and a deep sadness that killed him. Rand gentled the kiss, lowering her to the floor and coming down on top of her.

  He murmured, “We’ll figure this out. Together. I promise.” He pulled her T-shirt over her head and tossed it aside. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please don’t cry.” He tugged her bra over her breasts because he couldn’t get to the clasp on her back.

  Her nipples were a deep pink, hard and aroused, and she murmured low in her throat as he brought his mouth down to kiss her again.

  Still ki
ssing her, he pulled down the zipper of her jeans, shoved them down until he could wedge his knee in the fabric and maneuver one of her legs free. He ripped at the scrap of lace barely covering her, and wedged his hand between their straining bodies to free himself from his zipper as she clung to his shoulders.

  He spread his hand under her to cup her ass, and with his other hand, guided himself into her wet heat. With a soft cry she wrapped her legs tightly around his hips and surged upward, meeting him halfway. He nudged her head back with his chin to expose her damp throat to his marauding mouth. Loving her, soothing her, arousing her.

  He moved in counterpoint with her, feeling the way her body clung to his with each thrust and withdrawal. Feeling the shudder of her breath against his neck, and the wetness of her tears burning like acid against his skin.

  She whispered, “Rand,” in a voice that shook, and he thrust faster, harder, wanting to give her pleasure and stop her pain. Anything to stop the tears. Her fiery hair clung to him in long silken skeins, the strong filaments and the sweat on their bodies binding them. She arched against him with each thrust.

  He lifted his head to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen; tears still leaked into her hair.

  “God, I can’t get enough of you.” His voice was thick, his breathing labored as he pumped into her, feeling her body start to clench and tremble.

  In response, she pressed her face against his chest and fell apart in his arms.

  Only later, as he carried Dakota to the bed and covered her with the sheet, did he realize that other than that one involuntary use of his name, she hadn’t said a word the entire time.

  RAND SAT WITH DAKOTA in the offices of Paul’s lawyers in Rome. His father claimed there was an incriminating tape proving Dakota had been instrumental in his mother’s death. Rand wanted to see the damned thing with his own eyes.

  He’d been here a couple of times, usually meeting with various lawyers on his father’s case at the prison. The law office, on the Piazza Venezia, was ultramodern, all sleek black leather, chrome, and glossy surfaces. It looked cold, intimidating, and expensive. A stunning blonde with a centerfold’s body sat behind a glass-and-chrome desk that was so minimalist Rand wondered how it stood upright. He figured the woman’s large breasts, displayed in a low-cut black dress, stood with the help of augmentation surgery.

  The lawyer had agreed to see him as soon as Rand could get to Rome. He should—Rand paid him a fortune to be accommodating. They’d made it there by late afternoon.

  They were in the reception area of the high-priced law office, Dakota flipping a glossy Italian fashion magazine on her knee. Her legs were crossed, one foot bouncing as if she had her motor running. Her hair was tamed into a shiny coil at her nape, diamond earrings sparkling in her ears. She looked effortlessly chic in slim black pants and an off-the-shoulder black top, high heels, and a black-and-white scarf tied around her waist. Full makeup camouflaged any hint of tears, and she’d applied a delicate spray of familiar spicy perfume, just, Rand was sure, to drive him nuts. He wanted to take her right there on the law office’s charcoal wool carpet. “You don’t have to go in with me,” he told her.

  “Mr. Maguire?” An attractive brunette in a formfitting black dress similar to the receptionist’s came toward him with a polite smile. “Signor Mancini is ready for you now. Please come this way.”

  Dakota tossed the magazine onto an almost invisible glass coffee table and rose with him. The woman led them down a wide, brightly lit hallway hung with modernist paintings that did nothing for him. Rand shot a glance at Dakota. She looked cool and unconcerned. Her lips twitched as she caught his eye. “Are you waiting for me to start sweating, Maguire?”

  “I would be,” he admitted sotto voce.

  Her chin lifted as she gave him a calm look from smoky eyes that held no remnants of her earlier tears. “I don’t have any reason to sweat.”

  Yeah, maybe not. Then why was he?

  Their escort opened a twelve-foot-tall black glass door and stood back. “Mr. Maguire and Dr. North,” she announced. Waiting for them to enter, she withdrew, closing the door quietly behind them.

  The picture window on the far side of the room framed a spectacular orange sunset, the lights coming on in the square, and the immense white marble monument constructed for Victor Emmanuel II, the first king of Italy.

  Octavio Mancini rose from behind the slab of black marble that was his desk and came forward, hand outstretched. “Rand, good to see you again.” He was a distinguished man in his late fifties, with well-groomed dark hair graying at the temples and a small, trim mustache. He shook Rand’s hand, then Dakota’s, then led them to a small grouping of chairs beside the large window.

  A tray was laid out on another barely-there low glass table. It held an artful arrangement of bottles, glasses, an ice bucket, and small china plates and napkins for the array of appetizers.

  “I appreciate you coming forward on my client’s behalf, Dr. North.” Mancini motioned for them to be seated, and took the chair with his back to the sunset. “However, I don’t think your testimony will be necessary. We have everything we need for a solid defense.” His voice was polite, but he was clearly not a fan. But then, he was paid to believe in the innocence of his client, and as far as client and lawyer were concerned, Dakota should be the one behind bars.

  “Paul claims you have an incriminating video of Dr. North,” Rand said smoothly. “We’d like to view it.”

  Mancini glanced from one to the other, clearly puzzled as to why Rand was here with her. “We have two. Which would you like to see?”

  Dakota, in the process of sitting down, straightened, her body stiff. “Two?”

  The lawyer looked at Rand. “Is this something you wish to discuss in front of Dr. North, or should I have Rossella escort her out while we talk?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dakota sat down, crossing her ankles as she leaned back in the chair, as if she had nothing to hide.

  Rand’s gut told him to listen to the subliminal message in her expression and body language. “I brought Dr. North with me so we could view the tape. Both tapes, if that’s what you have.”

  “Very well.” Using the phone on the table beside him, Mancini asked his assistant to bring the videos into his office. “She’ll be just a moment. Sanbittèr?” He indicated the bottles of the aperitif soda on the nearby table. “Or a glass of Prosecco perhaps?”

  Rand refused. Dakota accepted a glass of the white wine, mostly, he suspected, because she needed something to hold. He had the insane urge to shift over beside her so he could hold her hand in a show of solidarity and support. Not that she looked as if she needed it. She was composed and clear-eyed as she sipped the extra dry white wine, that he knew she hated, as they waited.

  “What are these tapes?” she asked, the wineglass cradled between her hands.

  “The surveillance tape shows you arriving at the lab and scanning the files the night of the explosion.”

  “Dr. Maguire asked me to scan some files for him a full two weeks before the explosion,” she said calmly before taking a sip of wine.

  “With due respect, Dr. North, I have watched these tapes many times, and both tapes have been verified by my experts.”

  Shit. This was not going to go well. He and Dakota both knew it. He didn’t know how she could appear so composed.

  The door opened and the brunette returned with two boxes. She went over to the large-screen TV on the far wall, then glanced at Mancini. “Which one would you like to see first?” she asked, her English flawless and almost unaccented.

  The lawyer addressed Rand. “Your choice.”

  He wasn’t ready to hear what the second incriminating footage showed. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t Dakota on trial in Italy. The videos of her doing whatever she’d done were to be used for his father’s defense. If they were as damning as Mancini claimed they were, then she’d need a legal defense when she returned home. One damned thing at a time. “Th
e lab.”

  The video was a compilation of security footage taken, according to the date stamp in the corner, the night of the explosion that had destroyed the lab, killing more than a dozen people.

  At just after 8 p.m. on February 8, it showed Dakota driving into the lab parking lot in her white Range Rover. Showed her brisk progress through the drizzle as she crossed the lot, where twenty or so vehicles were parked. The lab was operational 24/7. The lobby cameras showed her walking in, sprinkles of rain on her shoulders and hair. The front desk was dark and empty, no security guard to check her.

  “Where was the guard that night?” Rand asked.

  “I have no idea. The night this was taken, everyone was in the rec room, celebrating Thom’s birthday.”

  Rand glanced away from the image of Dakota walking down the clinically bright hallways to her lab and turned to look at her. “Thom?”

  The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat was the only indication she was not as sanguine as she appeared. “Thom Haller was the guard on duty the night this was filmed.”

  “Jesus,” Rand muttered impatiently. She had no fucking idea just how bad this was for her. “Who’s on first? I just asked you—”

  “Thom’s birthday is on January sixteenth.”

  God. Even with irrefutable proof, she was trying to bullshit her way out of this. “You’re mistaken. This was taken on February eighth. Look at the date stamp.”

  Her peridot eyes were unflinchingly steady as she said quietly, “I can read as well as you can, Rand. That date stamp was tampered with.”

  DAKOTA’S HEART POUNDED LOUDLY enough for her to hear as she observed herself walking through the empty halls. Her hands, wrapped around the cold glass, were clammy. The video hadn’t been taken the night in question, but someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look that way.