by Lea Griffith
Irrationally, he wanted to crush Dmitry’s hand for daring to touch her skin. The sibilant emotion snarled in his throat and he tried to breathe through it, but found the task impossible. Dmitry glanced at him but quickly lowered his eyes.
“The water’s ready,” the Russian murmured.
“Get out.”
Dmitry threw him a look full of warning but left. Rand stepped into the tub, clothes and all, holding her against his chest and sinking down into the depths of the warm water.
She stirred immediately, mumbled a garbled “no,” and then quieted. He was burning up, but her skin was frigid even after long moments in the heated water. He settled her between his legs, laid her head against his chest, and began lifting water to clean her face.
The steam continued to rise, but Rand knew he’d have to get her clean and wrapped up. She smelled to high heaven, and Dmitry would have to reclean her wounds. Her head drooped to the side, and he turned her body slightly. Her hair trailed in the water, and he did his best to filter water through it. What was in the tub was now muddy.
His hands roamed her collar bones, over her shoulders, and just once his hand slid over a breast, the nipple taut. He froze, hand itching to shape the perfect mound, mind rebelling in disgust that his cock was hardening behind the wet fly of his jeans.
But his heart stuck in a pounding rhythm. He had to get her away from him. Now. This was wrong. So very fucking wrong.
He stood, holding her tightly against him, water puddling on the floor as he stepped out and reached for a robe. He covered her with it before he yelled, “Dmitry!”
The door opened and Dmitry was there. The man knew. Somehow, the quiet Russian was aware of what Rand was feeling. “Take her.”
Rand handed her to him and Dmitry grunted as her weight settled against him, but he turned and quickly strode from the room. Rand didn’t give himself time to dwell. He walked back downstairs, sodden steps echoing eerily in the silence and headed to the hole he’d pulled her from.
He stripped out of his clothes, climbed down into the freezing water, and stayed there for as long as he could handle the anguish of it.
He lasted less than thirty minutes.
Muscles locking, he had to have help from Ken to get out, and then he collapsed as his best friend stood over him, a look on his face Rand had never seen.
“Don’t do this,” Ken murmured.
Rand closed his eyes against everything Ken left unspoken and took deep breaths as his body rebelled at the cold. After long moments he was able to stand, and he walked painfully back into the house.
“Rand, don’t do this.” Again, only this time an edge of desperation in the words.
Rand stopped and turned. “I think it may be too late, Ken.”
The other man’s face tightened, and then he hung his head and turned away from Rand, staring into the night.
Rand made it in, showered, and lowered himself into bed. He refused to think about what his words to Ken meant. It wasn’t possible, yet it was. His body felt beaten and his mind was in turmoil, but begged for rest. He closed his eyes, centered his breathing, and willed himself to find sleep.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the woman.
Chapter Nine
She slept sitting up and against the wall behind the door. Rand entered expecting just about anything, but when he finally located her, his heart turned over. He thrust the emotion aside and sat down on the bed, waiting for her to awaken.
It was time to take a new approach with the determined Bullet. He was hoping he could beat a path through her hard inner core and find the woman who had to be there.
Two days had passed since he’d pulled her out of the water pit. He’d used the time to distance himself from any and all sympathy for the experience he’d put her through. Dmitry had been the only one to have contact with her, and that had been to dress her wounds, give her medicine, and make sure she ate.
Rand ordered clothes for her, and once they’d arrived, he’d sent them to her through Dmitry. They were mostly sweats, but he’d had one of the housekeepers pick up some undergarments as well.
He sucked in a breath as the vision of her naked body ran through his mind. When had she become more than a killer to him? The distance he’d achieved over the past two days disappeared in a flash. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of silky skin and generous curves taunted him.
He opened his eyes and found her staring at him. In the dawning light, her eyes nearly glowed, but she moved slightly, and it left her face in shadows. He drew in a deep breath, and with it came the scent of plumeria. Soft and invasive, her smell made his heart jerk and his palms sweat.
He stopped breathing through his nose immediately. It didn’t matter. He realized he would forever associate the scent with her. Goddamn it.
Several more minutes passed, and she didn’t move a muscle. Still, quiet, like prey that senses a predator is near, she remained in the darkness that hadn’t been touched by the sunlight and waited.
“I will not apologize to you,” he said in a hard voice. Where the fuck did that come from?
“And I will not break. Does this make us even?” Her voice, naturally husky, was even raspier than normal. Dmitry had told him she had congestion and would be lucky if it didn’t set up into pneumonia.
“You and I, Bullet,” he inclined his head as he said her name, “You and I will never be even.”
She didn’t respond, and he recognized his need to goad her. It was what it was.
“Why did you come here?” The question had been burning in his mind for days now.
“I will not answer that question,” she responded, and her voice was stronger this time.
“I could physically make you.” He shrugged and continued, “But it is a waste of my time and your effort. So instead, I’m forced into a position I loathe. Compromise.”
She chuckled, the sound hoarse and painful, almost as if she’d never done it. “Compromise? I wasn’t aware you knew the word, much less what it meant. Tell me, Mr. Beckett, have we reached the part of the date where you tell me I can call you Rand?” She raised her head and speared him with a look so intense his breath caught and held in his lungs.
“You are a first class bitch, aren’t you?” He sneered and sought to clear the anger she stirred up relentlessly.
“I assure you, Mr. Beckett, I have been called much, much worse.” She cocked her head, though her gaze never left his face. “I believe you asked me why I came here, but I think there are other questions better suited to your agenda.”
He snorted. The woman was a fucking pill and not the make-you-feel-happy kind. “Well then, since you know the questions I should be asking, perhaps you can both ask and answer them.”
“I would like an opportunity to hear about Lily and Anna first,” she whispered into the stillness of the morning.
His heart stopped beating. “If you need absolution, you won’t get it from me,” he managed to get out around the pain in his throat.
She looked directly at him, no quarter in her expression. “I never expected it from you, Mr. Beckett.”
He stood then, unable to stop the need to move, to purge. How dare she ask about his wife and daughter? He walked to the big picture window and stared out into the day.
“This was to be my daughter’s room.” He shuddered but once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop. “She was all that was sunlight, and Lily wanted her to always wake up to it.”
He heard her get up, felt her attention like a stroke along his skin, and wondered why she wanted to hear this, why he felt compelled to share it?
“My wife—” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “My wife and I met in high school. Lily was everything I thought I’d always wanted. She reminded me of my mother, quiet, disciplined, and pretty much willing to do whatever I wanted her to do if it made me happy. She let me run off and play G.I. Joe, and was always there to welcome me home.”
&n
bsp; He put his hands in his pockets and sighed. “She really deserved better than me, but she loved me and I loved her . . . completely, totally. We made plans to build this house shortly after we married and found out we were pregnant.”
The back of his neck tingled. Her attention was a tactile caress.
“I finished my first tour right before Anna was born. We were over the moon happy. I had a beautiful wife, a brand new baby, and we were building this house. I got sent out for my second tour, and that’s where I ran into Joseph Bombardier—in a poppy field in Afghanistan. But you know that don’t you, Bullet?”
He didn’t say anything for several heartbeats, and finally she spoke.
“What did Lily look like?” she asked softly.
Disbelief shot through him and he glanced at her. What the fuck did she want from him? What was this about?
“She was beautiful. Tall and willowy, she looked like her brother, but more feminine and with lighter hair—look, why are you asking me this?”
“What about Anna?” she interrupted when he opened his mouth.
He stopped what he’d been about to say. “She was tiny with blonde hair. Her eyes were blue, like mine, and she was everything perfect. . ." he trailed off, the pain of his loss overwhelming him. “Why the fuck are you asking me this?”
She took a deep breath, the action lifting her breasts against the cotton of her T-shirt. He noticed and damned himself for it.
“Tell me why you loved Lily,” she urged, and there was a pleading quality to her voice.
“She was my wife—what are you asking me?” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the base of his skull hoping the sharp pain would keep him in check.
“Why did you love Lily?”
“Because she loved me,” he said on a harsh sigh. “She loved me and never stopped. She gave me Anna. Lily gave me hope.”
“Why did you love Anna?” Relentless. The woman was relentless.
“She was perfect.”
“Nothing is perfect, Mr. Beckett. But I saw pictures of your daughter, and she was probably as close to perfect as anything I’ve ever seen,” she whispered. “The reason I ask is because I’ve always wondered what motivated you to pursue Joseph Bombardier. Why would a man who’d lost his family to a sniper’s bullet risk his own life to chase after the man who’d ordered them killed? Most people would simply move on, left with the memories and pain, they’d try to rebuild a new life. But you’ve actively sought this man and risked your welfare to do it.”
She took another breath and walked within feet of him. He met her gaze, and what he saw there rocked his foundations.
“You mentioned hope. You said ‘Lily gave me hope.’ But I have no idea what that emotion is. It’s hard to understand your motivation without having a more accurate vision of what your wife and daughter meant to you. What did they mean to you, Mr. Beckett?”
He reached for her, grasped her upper arms near the shoulder, and shook her. She didn’t wince, didn’t bat an eyelash at his aggression. He got in her face and snarled. “Everything, goddamn it. They were my everything.”
He released her and she stumbled back, gaze never lowering, eyes never blinking. She licked her bottom lip and stroked over the place that had been raw just days ago. Her fists tightened, and she held them to her stomach.
She lifted her chin after a few moments, as if daring him to challenge what she was about to say or do.
“Are you a good man, Rand Beckett?”
Her question floored him. He backed away from her as confusion rifled like a shot through his body.
She advanced a single step, determination silhouetted in every line of her body. “Are you a good man?”
Was he? Had he ever been?
“When I was with them, I was good,” he said in a low tone, and the rightness of those words echoed in the room around them. “Now, I am not.”
She stood silent for long moments and then nodded.
“Then I will give you what you need so you can find your peace,” she whispered. “For Lily and Anna, I will give you The Collective.”
Chapter Ten
She’d been here two weeks. It had been three days since the water pit and two days since her decision to lead Rand Beckett to The Collective. Her decision hadn’t been made easily. But it had begun when she’d seen him strip naked and lower himself into the same water pit he’d put her in.
The action had made her heart hurt. She’d understood his reason for placing her there. Most men sought to break before they pushed in for the kill. She’d shown him she would not break. But then he’d pulled her out and warmed her against his own body.
A shiver peaked her nipples, and the feel of the hard tips against the soft cotton of her shirt was so foreign she lifted her hands and rubbed them. Lightning zipped to her core and she gasped, lowering her hands. The feel of his hands on her skin had brought much more satisfaction.
Sorrow arrowed through her. She would never know his touch in the ways she’d begun to yearn for it.
“You asked to be allowed access to the gym. Are you ready?” Dmitry asked from the door.
She nodded. Had he seen her touching herself? She shook off the possibility. The man who’d cared for her during her stay here was a conundrum. There was no doubt in Remi’s mind the man was a killer, similar in small ways to even her, but something about him was so tragic. He reminded her of someone . . .
Then it hit her. He reminded her of Bone. She pushed those thoughts away. Remi needed a workout.
She stood and followed him out into the house proper. A long, wide hallway led down a beautiful staircase to an enormous foyer. Off the foyer branched huge rooms, unfurnished but sparkling clean, the hardwood floors immaculate, the windows clear. They turned left at the bottom of the staircase and walked down another hallway, passing a large kitchen and finally coming to a room with a keypad.
Dmitry punched in the numbers, then ushered her into a fitness lover’s wet dream. Every imaginable tool was available for workouts: stair climbers, treadmills, free weights, and the list went on and on.
“Is there a pool?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He snickered and pointed. She followed his direction and discovered a two-lane lap pool. Her stomach knotted, but she began to strip out of her clothes.
“Whoa, there!” Dmitry said and turned away.
She’d known he followed her, but nudity was nothing to her. Her body was a tool only, nothing to be ashamed or overly concerned about anyone else seeing. Any embarrassment had been punished out of her long years ago.
He faced in the opposite direction from her, but held out what looked like a swimsuit. She took it, shrugged, and stripped off the rest of her clothes.
“Please put that on,” Dmitry choked out.
She had no idea what his problem was, but stepped into the suit and took a deep breath. She hovered at the edge of the pool for long moments until she heard a rustling behind her.
“You can swim, right?” There was amusement in Dmitry’s tone, and she glared back at him, wondering where the urge to do so came from.
He held up his hands and backed away from her, a small smile playing about his lips. “You’re just standing there . . . I wondered. . ."
She looked away from him, felt a chill break over her skin at the thought of being submerged, and dove in.
The water was warm, caressing her like a lover, but she had to fight the compulsion to rise to the surface and jump out. She sank to the bottom, fighting with herself, her instincts demanding that she rise, gulp in precious life-saving air. The struggle was mighty; it always was. Water was the one thing that she’d never been able to face with aplomb.
Joseph had used it against her for her entire life. She blew out, centered her mind, and closed her eyes, sitting on the bottom of the pool feeling the water touch her skin and hating it with every fiber of her being.
Images of being in the cold, cold Pacific with Rand flashed through her mind. She’d given him her br
eath, the breath of life. And she’d given it willingly to a man she’d known would kill her if he ever had the chance.
But he hadn’t. She blew out, felt her oxygen depleting to a level that was dangerous and still she sat there, feeling the rough concrete of the pool under her flesh, reveling in the fact that she was alive for but a single moment. There was still so much to do. Her objective had only just begun and she must get stronger.
Quickly.
Mind over matter, Bullet. This is how you do it. Arrow had always been the one preaching calm in the storm. Those were the lessons Remi had clung to in the water pit. Her body was an instrument to be honed and perfected, but her mind was the most important part. Sometimes bodies were weak things, easily overcome. But minds . . . they lead the body. Where the mind went the body followed.
She opened her eyes, saw movement above the water, and kicked up, breaking the surface with barely a ripple of water.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Rand demanded.
She lifted her gaze up over muscular thighs hugged by very broken-in denim. She allowed herself the luxury of traveling up his slim hips, over his chest, along his corded neck, until finally she reached his chiseled face. There was a hardness there that drew her and made her body clench in delicious ways.
“I’m swimming.”
Disbelief broke over his face. He inhaled swiftly, anger following the disbelief to track back again. “Did you not have enough the other night?”
She felt her face crack, the sensation so novel her façade weakened. A wide ripple in the water sent a wave to hit the side of the pool. It startled her. She watched the water slosh and purposefully did it again. It splashed onto his shoes and the look on his face tipped to something even more disbelieving.
“That wasn’t swimming,” she said, and even to her ears it sounded like laughter in her voice.
His mouth kicked up at one corner, and it took her breath. She ducked beneath the water, let it slide over her face though her gut tightened, and she had to forcibly stop herself from gasping in great gulps of water. She pushed her hair off her face and glanced up at him again.
