She struggled to get out of his arms, but he held on. He twined his hands into the back of her sweater, angling his weight to lock her against the tile. Fury etched itself into her features, twisted her mouth into a teeth-baring grimace.
It was a start.
“You risked your life— Naomi, don’t,” he said roughly as she lashed out. Her elbow crashed into the tile. Her fist slammed past his ear, spiked sharply into the wall over his shoulder.
Her knuckles cracked and he swore.
“No.” Her voice echoed in the tiled acoustics. “Don’t you dare—”
His heart breaking with every violent denial, he shook her hard enough to snap her teeth together on the words he saw forming in the red-rimmed defiance of her eyes. “You risked your life to save a woman you don’t even like,” he said flatly. “Don’t tell me you don’t care.”
“What do you know?” she hissed. Anger couldn’t fill the shock-white pallor of her skin. It couldn’t fill the void he saw behind her eyes, behind the twisted, bared teeth of her grimace.
“I know that she’s under your skin.”
“Fuck you.”
“I know that she hurt you,” Phin continued, undeterred. He seized her wrists, pinned them over her head, and knew it was because she let him. He’d seen her fight, seen her roll with a bullet.
But she didn’t shake him off.
Somewhere inside that rage, she needed him.
“I know that you—”
“She left me.” It broke on a sob, a wild cry that sounded to Phin as much grief as wounded woman and, somewhere in there, a tormented little girl. She thrashed, slammed her head back into the tile. Shocked to the bone, Phin jerked her away from the wall and slipped. They hit the shower floor in a tangle of sodden limbs, but she didn’t stop. She swore viciously as she tried to get away.
From him. From the memory.
He didn’t know, but she wouldn’t win this one.
She couldn’t afford to.
He pinned her legs, dragged her back over the tile to wrap himself around her. He strained to hold her to the ground until her stream of violent, screaming curses turned into gasping silence. Beneath his shaking hands, the straining, rigid tension of her body melted into exhaustion.
The shower beating the tile around them was all the sound that filled the wrenching quiet.
Panting, Phin loosened his grip. A fraction.
She curled into the tile. Her hair pooled toward the drain, a streaming current of black, but he couldn’t see her face. She’d turned away from him, toward the purple and white tile.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered. It was all he could say.
Her shoulders jerked. “I was five years old.” Her voice shimmered with pain, anger muffled against the floor.
Phin let her go.
She moved. Like a damn cat, liquid sleek and too fast, but she didn’t try to get away this time. Twisting, scooting back into the corner, she shoved her hair from her face and the water from her eyes.
No, not water.
Oh, Christ, tears. Despite the knowledge that he’d wanted this reaction, knowing she needed it, Phin fought back the need to reach for her again, to gather her into his arms and soothe those tears away.
That wouldn’t help her, either.
So he sat back on his heels. It took everything he had to strive for calm as he observed, “Young to remember.”
Naomi sniffed hard, expelling the breath on a sharp, short sound of disgust. “She left the day before my fifth birthday. One day she’d been planning a party with the house staff, and the next she’d packed up her clothes and jewelry and took off.”
Phin watched her. Said nothing.
He had to be so careful.
“My father worshipped her. Fuck,” she snorted, a harsh sound from trembling lips. “God knows why, but he did. He wasn’t the first sucker to marry her, but she never had any kids with anyone else. She used to call me her doll.” Her hands trembled as she scraped them through her tangled hair. “Her little Japanese doll. She just—” Her hands splayed, slashing through the air. “She just wanted a pretty kid to show off. But she didn’t like being tied down.”
He couldn’t imagine. The picture she painted, the matter-of-fact way she painted it couldn’t hide the raw emotion beneath; it explained so much. And God, he wished it didn’t.
“So about three months after she left, she served him with divorce papers.” Her voice tightened, roughened. “Then he died.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She shook her head roughly. Water droplets scattered from her hair. “No one saw it coming.” Her laughter bit deeply, jagged and raw. “He just . . . killed himself. His will left everything to her. Put me in an orphanage, and you know?” She couldn’t muffle the sob that broke against her gritted teeth. Couldn’t hide the tears that spilled over her reddened cheeks.
“You know,” she tried again, “she never . . . she never once came for me.”
He just couldn’t bear it. Abandoned, forgotten. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, knowing it wasn’t enough.
“No.” Her chin came up, and it was as if she’d flipped a switch. He watched a cold kind of strength slide back into place over her eyes. Missionary eyes. “You wanted to know. Fine. My mother abandoned me to the Mission, abandoned my father and took him for everything he had. The divorce suit claimed it all, the house, the money, everything except me. Funny, isn’t it?” She slammed both fists to the tile. Water splashed in a glittering arc. “A fucking goddamn comedy that she got exactly what she wanted. More money, more houses, and she never had to think about me again.”
He closed his eyes, but it couldn’t stop him from seeing her. Huddled in the corner, sodden, a drowned rat with her knees drawn to her chest and pain like a razored knife shimmering in her eyes.
He’d never been so out of his depth.
Or so in love.
“So, yeah,” she said. Quiet, now. Cooler, as mercurial as the wind. “Yeah, I’m a missionary. I kill people for a living, Phin. I lied to you from day one because I’m here to kill someone who’s out to kill other people. Does that make sense to you?” Her crack of laughter split his heart. Shattered it. “It makes perfect sense to me, but then I don’t care. I just kill people. I’m here to kill a man. It’s what I do, it’s who I am—”
“You’re Naomi Ishi—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Phin stilled. The wild rage, the torment that all but ripped her apart before his very eyes pinned him to the tile. She struggled to her knees, swaying, and he wanted to help her. God, to reach her. To hold her.
But she jammed her arms against the wall for balance. Straightened up without him. “My name is West.” It vibrated from her lips, taut and hard. “Naomi West. I work for the Mission. I kill people. God damn it, Phin,” she said on a rush, clearly frustrated as she shoved at the water sliding over her face. “Is any of this getting through to you? I kill people, and I don’t fucking care who.”
Phin crawled across the tile on his knees, caught her by the arms, and pulled her against his chest. She struggled, but he cupped her face in both hands. He met her eyes and forced himself to remain calm, not to rise to the bait she threw out like so much blood in the water.
Not to give her what she so desperately thought she wanted.
“Your name is Naomi West,” he repeated softly. Seizing the advantage, he tilted her face up and brushed her lips with his, as tender as he knew how. Gentle. “You’re a missionary.” Again, his lower lip catching on hers. She shuddered. “You kill people in your line of work, I get that.”
“I—”
“But I refuse to believe,” he said over her, still as soothingly, as soft as he could, “that you don’t care. I know you. Even in this small amount of time, I know you better than you think. You care. You care and it eats you alive.”
Her eyes darkened.
“But you aren’t alone, Naomi.” Phin pressed his mouth to her chin, her cheeks. Tasted the salt of he
r tears and the lingering bite of chlorine. “You aren’t alone, because I’m here. I love you.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“And I’m not going to leave you.” He covered her lips with his, coaxed her mouth open under the gently aggressive sweep of his tongue, and tried to pour every ounce, every shred of love and need and reassurance into a single kiss.
To show her what he tried to say.
Her heartbeat shuddered in her chest, spiked in her pulse beneath his hands. It echoed the hammer of his own heart, the rush of water in his ears.
Her fingers slid over cheek. Into his hair.
Tightened.
And then she wrenched her face away. “No,” she said. Rough, throaty. She pushed at his shoulders.
He eased back, giving her the space she needed, the room to breathe. His stomach in vicious knots, he watched her as she clambered to her feet, surging past him in a wild scramble of soaked denim. “You have some nerve, slick. I’ll give you that.”
Phin watched that so-practiced mask of hers slide firmly in place. He read it in the line of her shoulders, in the cool, faintly amused cast to her features so at odds with the ravaged color in her cheeks.
Missionary mode.
Slowly he stood. “Oh?”
“You love me?” She snorted, wildly unladylike. Pure Naomi. “Unbelievable. What kind of bullshit blackmail is that? You don’t know me, Phin. You can’t possibly.”
Again, because he didn’t know what else to say, how to frame the concern, the anxiety tightening his throat, he repeated, “Oh?”
She spun, throwing a soaking hand out toward the locker room. “Look at this,” she scoffed. “Look at you! You’re wearing a designer that costs more than I make in a solid year, and you just ruined it without even thinking. This fucking place is so isolated and so exclusive, you’re out of touch with everything.”
Phin stepped out of the shower stall. He blinked away the water that dripped into his eyes. Hard. “You think so?”
Her mouth twisted. “You have a couple of moss lickers for parents, slick.” He flinched. “They haven’t been murdered yet because you live nice and tidy up here where the bad shit doesn’t happen.”
His fists clenched by his sides.
Her jaw tightened. “The only reason you’re all sweet and happy and alive is because you’re rich. The Church wants your money, which I’ll bet,” she added scathingly, “you pay with a fucking smile, don’t you?”
“The taxes—”
“Are bullshit hush money.”
“What do you want me to say, Naomi?”
She pulled at her sweater, struggling to peel the sodden wool over her head. She threw it at his feet with a splat, jerking her chin up. Her dark hair clung to her lips in damp tendrils.
Phin shook his head. “What are you trying to do?”
She sliced a hand through the air. It flexed the lean, missionary muscle of her arms, bared by the black lace camisole hugging her body. She was gorgeous.
And trying hard to piss him off.
Jesus Christ, it was working.
“Fuck you,” she said softly. Coolly. “Fuck you and your whole puppy love thing. That’s not my problem. Jesus, fuck.” She turned, stalked for the door. “I don’t need your therapy, I don’t need your goddamn massage, yoga, bullshit. You’ve been trying to fix me since I got here.”
“You’re at a spa,” Phin pointed out, but his voice lashed. Growled.
Her hand jerked as she reached for the door. Her grip whitened around the handle. “You don’t get it, Phin. Take your family, pack up what you need, and get out. As soon as I’ve killed everyone I need to, you can come back and live your pretty little life, and run your rich people spa, and go back to pretending like a fling means more than it does with some airheaded money-bunny who’ll appreciate the lie.”
“I never—”
The look she shot him over her shoulder was so contemptuous, so pitying, that anger surged hot and bright through his vision. “Don’t try. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and, baby, this is it.”
Fury pounded through his chest. His head. “Is that what you think?” he demanded softly.
Her eyes flickered. “It’s what I know. Get out. I’ll let you know when to collect the bodies.”
She walked out without a backward glance. The door shut behind her; it didn’t creak or clatter, there was no sound but the muted hum of the backup power holding steady. No sound but the echo of her voice.
Her scorn.
Phin stared at the slowly swinging door and told himself it didn’t matter. That she was right. That she’d done him a favor, saved him the time and effort of falling for a woman who would never trust him. He didn’t have to tell her about the underground now.
He wouldn’t have to deal with her recriminations. Her accusations.
She’d never believe that he loved her. She’d saved him the heartache.
He was a fucking bad liar.
Chapter Seventeen
“Sorry!” Cally swung out of her way, pressing herself flat to the family wing wall as Naomi barreled past. “Hey, where are you—”
Naomi made a sound. Maybe she didn’t. Her brain screamed, growled a warning, but all she knew was that she swung around, ready to fight. To hurt.
The redhead threw up her hands, fragile ward against Naomi’s wild rage. “Easy,” she said softly, as if talking down a rabid dog. “Hey, it’s okay.”
Her grunted curse raw, Naomi threw her weight against the garage door Phin had shown her earlier and slammed it hard enough behind her that it echoed like a gunshot through the parking garage. Cally’s voice cut off.
Cars lined up in her pulsating vision, sleek and polished and the perfect getaway. Naomi didn’t stop to weigh her options. She didn’t care. Adrenaline battered her system, swirled in her chest until she was gasping for air.
She just needed out. She needed another goddamned gun, she needed—
She needed to escape. Herself. Him. Everything.
Forcing the lock on one of Phin’s gorgeous sports cars was too damn easy. She tore through the echoing vault like a maniac out for blood.
Where the hell could she go?
Naomi’s grip tightened on the wheel as she spun the car wildly around a corner. Drivers blared at her, vehicles swerved to avoid her as she screeched into traffic. Her chest felt too tight, but the speed, the sheer power of the engine beneath her was all that mattered now.
Crying would only make her crash.
And she’d be damned if she died for the idiocy of some asshole of a man.
He loved her. What the hell did he know? He loved an heiress. Fuck him. That’s all she’d done. Sex and love; why the hell did so many people confuse the two?
That was all it was. Just lust.
Something vicious and sharp twisted in her chest.
As if by rote, she found herself on the New Seattle carousel, clouds gathering gray and dark around her. She frowned at the high-tech steering wheel, at the gadgets and buttons that filled almost every inch of the panel.
When the first fat drops of rain splattered the windshield, Naomi jerked. Swore as she nearly slammed the car into a wide, boxy luxury vehicle pacing her in the next lane. Swore again, harder, angrier as white-hot fury bubbled up from deep inside.
Her mother was dead. Killed by some madman out for blood inside Timeless, and now she was dead.
Wasn’t she?
Would it matter?
There wasn’t a word, a description, a feeling strong enough to fill the black, raging emptiness inside her head.
Of course it wouldn’t matter.
Tears gathered, harsh and acidic. They burned, filled the ache in her throat until she thought she’d vomit from the swirl of bile. She swallowed, gritted her teeth. Adjusting her fingers around the steering wheel, she slammed the gas pedal down to the floor.
The coiling highway wrapped around the layered city like a snake, and traffic flowed like water around her. There were no s
ecurity points to pass from topside to the mid-lows; they didn’t care about the wealthy and bored who wanted to slum for a night.
It was coming the other way that would be a problem.
She’d gun down that issue when she got to it. For now she concentrated on making it to her small, mid-level apartment alive. She managed to do all the right things to get inside, bypass all her own Mission-verified security measures. She didn’t notice. She barely cared.
She stepped around the untidy piles of clothing scattered around the floor, already pulling off the lacy camisole. She kicked off the loathed boots, the slim designer jeans, and concentrated on finding her own clothes to put on.
When she found a pair of shredded denim on the floor, its white threads at the thighs and seat as familiar as breathing, something in her chest loosened. Relaxed.
Suddenly Naomi could breathe again.
Running her hands over the rough nap of the jeans, she focused on the cluttered mess of what had been her home for only the past several years. She didn’t stay here much.
Home was where one slept.
But now it looked old. Barren. The carpet was stained and worn thin in places, the rusted water spots on the ceiling and walls looked like blood soaked into discolored plaster. She twisted her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “Honey, this is all you’ve got,” she said aloud. The sound of her own voice anchored her somewhat.
The past few days had been only a nightmare. Not real. This was real.
Bullets and blood, that was real.
That shiny, glittering place towering above the mid-level poverty lines? Sure, it gleamed. Like a diamond, it glittered in the muted sunlight that only barely scraped the streets she knew, and the fuckers topside could keep it.
She had no use for diamonds.
Naomi stepped into the tiny cramped bathroom, so different from the luxurious decadence of Timeless’s beautiful suites. The bolted mirror was mottled with rust and age, but Naomi forced herself to ignore the spots that marred the edges. The orange stains and cracked porcelain that made up her life.
She brushed her hair, pulled it hard into a twisted coil, and frowned at the bandage fraying from her shoulder.
Lure of the Wicked Page 20
