She jumped when Warner slammed the driver's side door.
His gaze sought hers in the rearview mirror. "We'll be there soon," he promised. Despite the shadows cast from the bars of the cage, kindness and compassion burned in the depths of his eyes. He reminded her of her father in that way, and that made her throat tight.
She missed her father so much all of the sudden. He always knew what to say to make her feel better, to reassure her that things would work out. Even when she'd been at her lowest, fighting to walk, he'd been able to give her hope and make her smile. What would he say if he knew what she'd spent the last several weeks doing? If he learned of the thing she'd let Tristan do to her in the middle of the club? The things she'd wanted him to do to her?
Lillian glanced across the street at Teplo, at the people Tristan wanted so badly to save. Would her father understand why she'd said yes? What had driven her?
She didn't know, but she prayed he never found out the truth.
Malachi's gaze burned as Warner pulled away from the curb, driving her away from the chaos her life had become since meeting Tristan. As Teplo faded in the shadows behind them, she had a feeling whatever waited ahead would be even worse.
Chapter Two
Standard gray paint peeled from the walls in Warner's office, flaking off to reveal the dirty tan color beneath. The scent of burned coffee and industrial strength cleaner made Lillian's head ache as she stared at the walls, listening to the faint ring of telephones in the distance.
"Are you comfortable enough?" Warner asked solicitously, glancing up from the papers strewn across his desk when she shifted in her seat, trying to ease the ache in her leg. They'd been at the precinct for over two hours already. The pain in her thigh rose in intensity minute by minute. She needed to walk, to stretch, to do anything other than sit and wait for Michael to whisk her away to wherever they planned to keep her.
"I'm fine, thank you," she said, offering Warner a weak smile. He'd been nothing but nice to her since they'd arrived, getting her a drink, rounding up worn and tattered issues of American Police Beat magazine for her perusal, even dragging a more comfortable chair into his cramped office when he realized how uncomfortable she was in the hard, aluminum folding chair.
They hadn't spoken much, and that was okay with Lillian. She'd asked once where they were going to keep her, but he either didn't know or didn't feel inclined to share that information with her. There wasn't much else to say. Warner was doing the DEA a favor, babysitting her because Tristan had asked.
She still hadn't heard a word from him.
Hurt and anger ran like a current through her, rising in intensity alongside the pain in her leg. He'd dragged her into this, and then he'd disappeared, leaving Michael and Warner to deal with her in his stead. Regardless of his reasons, the fact that he was avoiding her hurt. After all they'd shared, he should have been the one to tell her what he wanted to do. He should have been the one to face her, and she hated that he'd sent someone else to do it for him.
Funny thing though, she still ached to see him, to touch him, to assure herself that he really was safe. She wasn't sure she could believe Michael and Warner until she saw Tristan for herself.
Maybe she didn't know every detail about him, but she knew enough to know he was hurting. That all of this—avoiding her, the fake arrest, sitting in the precinct for hours—was his way of trying to keep her safe. But who was keeping him safe? Who was watching over him, making sure he didn't do anything foolish?
She didn't know, and that terrified her.
"How long have you been a detective?" she blurted to Warner, trying to keep her mind off of the icy fear squeezing her heart in a vise. Tristan would be fine. He had to be.
Warner glanced up at her again. "Nine years next spring."
"Do you like it?"
He eyed her as if trying to decide whether or not to humor her and engage in this conversation. When he nodded and settled back in his seat, she barely contained a sigh of relief. "Yes," he said then. "It's a tough job, but it's rewarding."
"Oh." She licked her lips.
"This job, law enforcement, isn't for everyone. You see things you can't forget, deal with people you'd rather avoid." He crossed his arms over his stomach, getting comfortable. "But you also see the good—people rallying to help out a stranger, or make a difference. When the unthinkable happens, no one goes through it alone."
Tristan went through it alone. Or at least he thought he did. He kept so much to himself, trying to shoulder the burden alone, because that's what he thought he deserved. To be alone. To continue paying for the deaths of his parents. When did it end? When did he get to live?
The pager sitting on the corner of Warner's desk vibrated its way across the top. He reached out and snagged it, flicking his eyes toward the display. He pushed a button and tucked it into his pocket before flipping closed the file in front of him. "Kincaid's here," he said then, rising to his feet.
Lillian gripped the edge of his desk and fought her way into an upright position. Her upper lip curled in a rictus of pain as she placed weight on her bad leg. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply in through her mouth and out through her nose until the pain eased, allowing her to step away from the desk.
Warner offered her a sympathetic smile, but, thankfully, said nothing. Instead, he made his way toward her, squeezing through the narrow passage between filing cabinets and the wall, and then held the door open for her to pass through.
"Thanks," she mumbled, limping into the hallway.
Warner preceded her down the hallway toward the back of the building. "Agent Kincaid will meet you outside and take you to the safe house," he said, reminding her of the hasty plan Tristan had put together at some point after walking away and leaving her standing outside of Teplo alone.
"Okay." She bit her lip, fighting the urge to ask if he would be there, instinctively knowing he wouldn't. Not when he'd sent Warner and Michael to deal with her so he wouldn't have to do so. Not when she hadn't heard from him in hours. Blinking her eyes to hold back tears, she took a deep breath. "Thank you for your help," she said softly when Warner stopped at a door with an exit sign glowing overhead.
"Anytime, sweetheart."
As soon as he pushed the door open, Michael was there, tugging her toward a sleek gray sports car idling in the alley. Lillian stumbled along at his side, holding her breath as if that would keep anyone from seeing her. Logically, she knew it wouldn't. If Anton Vetrov had sent someone to watch her, nothing she could do would stop them. But holding her breath, hunching her shoulders, and keeping her head down made her feel better. Smaller. Less of a target.
"You good?" Michael asked when he settled her into the front seat, locking the seatbelt around her.
She offered him a jerky nod. He took it for truth and slammed her door before jogging around to the driver's side. He said something to Warner who frowned and then nodded. And then he was sliding into the car beside her.
Lillian curled up in the seat, squeezing her eyes closed.
Michael chattered as he raced through the darkened Seattle streets, twisting and turning until Lillian lost all sense of direction. She didn't answer him, and she didn't open her eyes to see where they were. She wasn't sure she really cared where she ended up; it wouldn't change anything.
She was wrong about not caring.
As soon as she opened her eyes, her stomach sank.
"Why are we here?" she asked as Michael pulled up right outside the doors of the Ashton and slammed his little sports car into park. Her heart pounded, sweat breaking out on her forehead. This was Tristan's building, where he lived.
"You're staying here," he said with a shrug before climbing out and slamming the door. He'd been talkative on the short drive, but hadn't said much of value. Lillian had a feeling he simply didn't like the silence. He seemed too restless, full of pent up energy.
She glanced up at the massive glass-spired building and swallowed hard.
Was Tristan here?
/>
God, she hoped so.
Swinging her legs out of the car, she struggled to get her feet beneath her. Michael already had her bag in hand as he stood to the side, waiting for her. He watched her struggle for a brief moment before holding out a hand. She took it gratefully, allowing him to pull her from the car.
"Thanks," she mumbled when his eyes drifted to the long surgical scar peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. She tugged it down, her cheeks burning.
He shot her an odd look, but didn't comment, instead turning toward the building. "Sup, Frank?" he called to the security guard, who smiled and waved him through. Pausing inside the building, he leaned close and said something to the older man, whose gaze darted in Lillian's direction and then slid away.
"Will do," he said with a nod.
"What did you say to him?" she asked as Michael led her through the empty lobby toward the elevators. As soon as he put his finger on the button, one slid open. The same one she and Tristan had taken what seemed like ages ago. When he'd backed her into the corner and worked sexual voodoo over her body without even touching her.
"I want you under the lights next time. I want to see you with your hair down, your head thrown back, and sweat sliding down your body. I want to watch what the music does to you while I fuck you."
"Does the thought of feeling me deep inside while you move make you wet, beautiful?"
"You comin', Little Mama?" Michael arched a brow.
"Yeah," she muttered with a shake of her head, limping inside the elevator.
The doors slid closed.
"I told him if anyone asks, he's never seen you before."
Who?
Oh, the security guard, Frank.
She glanced sideways at Michael, her eyes wide. He didn't say anything else though, instead slinging the strap of her bag over his shoulder and then pulling his phone out of his pocket. His fingers flew across the buttons, a furrow taking up residence between his brows.
"Elevators," he grunted a few seconds later and shoved the phone back into the pocket of his jeans.
Lillian caught sight of herself in the mirrors and grimaced. Her hair was still neatly pinned in a bun, but her normally bright hazel eyes were red-rimmed where she'd spent half the night crying. Her bottom lip was swollen where she'd bitten it. Her face was pale and pinched, showing her pain plainly. Not only the way her leg throbbed with every step, but the other stuff too—the crushing sadness she felt for the dead girl, and the heartache threatening to consume her if she thought too long about Tristan.
Where was he?
What was he doing?
Did he intend to come for her here?
Was it over between them?
She had so many questions, and no answers. All she had was hope, and she wasn't sure that would be enough, not when someone else had died while she and Tristan were wrapped up in each other, consumed by the desire raging like an inferno between them.
"Let’s go," Michael said when the elevator dinged at the top floor. Tristan's floor.
Lillian hesitated once more. "I–"
He cocked a brow.
"Never mind," she said and followed him out of the elevators before the doors closed on her. As she feared, he immediately started strolling toward Tristan's penthouse, oblivious to the way her heart sped and then fractured the closer they got.
"Ames said Riley wants you here," he said, extracting a key from his pocket and pushing the door to the penthouse open. "I gotta take care of something, so I can't stay. He'll have an unmarked in the parking lot soon, and another stationed down the hall. Don't try to leave until they get here and he won't kick my ass, cool?"
So, Tristan didn't plan to come here.
Another wave of hurt rippled through her.
Michael dropped her bag inside the door and flipped the lights on.
She stepped inside, steeling herself for the rush of emotion being here sent swirling through her. The place was cold, devoid of color or life. The furniture and carpeting were bright white, reflected back in the floor to ceiling windows that circled the entire room until the already massive space appeared cavernous. Everything was elegant, pristine, as if it had only recently been unpacked. She could smell Tristan here though, his scent—woodsy with a lingering hint of citrus—was everywhere. Subtle, but there.
Wandering farther into the room, she ran her hand over the back of the sofa, feeling the cool leather slide against her palm. She might not have known Tristan long, but she knew him well enough to know this place wasn't him.
He'd told her before that he lived here when he was working. She still didn't know what that meant, but being here, feeling how empty and lifeless this place was, she couldn't help but hurt for him. As lonely as she'd been in her house for the two weeks before he'd burst into her life like a comet, at least she'd had warmth and memories and things that mattered to her tucked into niches and corners. Nothing of him existed here. He was heat and passion, energy and raw emotion. This place was a glass prison.
"Little Mama? You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, fine."
"You sure?"
The genuine concern in Michael's voice made her turn to him and offer a small smile.
"I'll be fine, just tired," she said.
He watched her for a long moment and then nodded before turning to leave. "Lock up behind me, and don't open the door for anyone," he said, and then pulled the door closed, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
She stood where she was until his footsteps faded and then sighed heavily and locked the door as requested. That done, she turned and took in the room again, unsure what to do with herself. The penthouse was so quiet, too quiet.
"Where are you, Tristan?" she asked.
As if in response, her phone rang, the loud sound ripping through the absolute silence in the room. She jerked it from her bra and fumbled it to her ear, trying to calm her racing heart.
"Miss Maddox?" Jason Ames, Tristan's boss and his cousin-in-law, drawled.
"Yes. Jason! Have you seen Tristan? Is he okay? He won't answer the phone and–"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, doll."
Lillian snapped her mouth closed and took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing back the sob building in her throat.
"Tristan's safe."
"Oh, thank God." Even though Michael had promised Tristan was fine, breath left her in a rush at Jason's confirmation. Relief coursed through her veins before worry shot through her once more. She made her way into the dining room and sank down into a chair, staring out at the twinkling city lights spread below. "Is he okay?"
Jason sighed, causing that static-like crinkle to sound over the line. "He's not hurt."
"But he's not okay," she stated, reading between the lines.
"He's had a rough night."
Guilt bubbled through her.
"Are you okay?" Jason asked her.
"No." A hysterical laugh broke from her lips, tears stinging her eyes.
"What's going on?"
What's going on?
Was he serious?
"First, he made me wait outside the club so he could break into the storage room," she said. "On my way to do as he requested, I found out someone else—someone we talked to inside the damn club—was murdered. Not exactly something you want to hear when your boyfriend is trying to sneak past the people who probably murdered her, I might add."
"I–"
Lillian spoke right over him, every bit of emotion from the last several hours coming out in a furious burst. "He then demanded I wait at home for him, and then Michael Kincaid showed up and told me I had to leave in handcuffs. I spent hours at the precinct, waiting for someone to call me back before Agent Kincaid brought me to Tristan's penthouse and instructed me not to leave. I thought Tristan was dead or being held hostage!" The sob she'd been fighting to hold back for hours burst out. "I thought I got him killed."
"Hey, breathe, doll," Jason said.
She took a deep breath and then another, pushing back the t
ears and fear. Wherever he was, Tristan was safe. He wasn't bleeding to death in an alley somewhere. Anton Vetrov wasn't holding him hostage, or dumping his body in a ditch.
"Feel better?" Jason asked.
"No. I think I got that girl killed, Jason," she whispered.
"You didn't get anyone killed," he said, his voice calm, quiet, firm.
"What am I even doing here? I'm not a federal agent." Tristan had said the same thing to her before, and it had pissed her off. After all she had endured tonight though, she now understood exactly what he meant.
Jason was quiet for a moment. "You're more valuable than you know, Lillian."
She snorted her disbelief.
"Did Tristan ever tell you about his parents?"
"Yeah, he did." They were murdered by a drug dealer over an uncle's debt. Drug violence was so senseless, so stupid. Innocent people paid the price and no one even cared.
"You know he blames himself," Jason said. "He was a stupid kid, and made a stupid mistake, but he's spent his entire life punishing himself for it. Until you, he never let anyone get anywhere close to him. He's kept himself apart from everyone, burying himself in a job he hates, pushing everyone away, refusing to let anyone in. And then he met you."
"And I forced him to let me in," she mumbled, hating the way Jason confirmed everything she'd hit upon herself. Only, it sounded so much worse coming from him. There was a reason Tristan did what he did, isolated himself and worked himself to exhaustion. And she'd forced his hand. "I refused to listen to him and leave like I should have, and now a girl is dead."
"You didn't make him do anything," Jason said. "You think I couldn't have made you leave had I wanted to do so? Or that he couldn’t have done so? One call to your father, and you'd have been out of there."
"Then why didn't you call him?" she asked, shaking her head. "Why did you ask me to help when I only made things worse for Tristan?"
"Because, for once in his life, he isn't punishing himself for what happened to his folks; he's fighting for something he wants. He's fighting for you. And maybe as his boss, that shouldn't matter to me, but as his friend? As his family? That's the only thing that matters to me, Miss Maddox. I let him drag you into this because you're the only thing he's ever wanted enough to reach for it. And maybe he picked a hell of a time to fall in love and it'll blow up in all of our faces, but my job is to make sure my men make it home at the end of the day. And I have no doubts whatsoever that Tristan will make it home this time because he's too damn obsessive to let himself die if it means leaving you in danger."
Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) Page 2
