A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

  Uh-oh.

  “No pressure,” he added. “Just a friendly exchange of information.”

  Ri-ight. Still. Against her better judgment, she was intrigued. What had this vic been into? Knowing that could help in her murder investigation.

  She checked her day planner. Four hours until she had to be at the M.E.’s. “All right. How’s fifteen minutes? Where would you like to—” The buzzer on her intercom sounded. “Hang on.” She pushed the button. “Yeah?”

  “You up?” came the voice of the dispatcher.

  “Yep.” She grabbed her notebook. Because Jonesy and another detective were testifying in court today and two others were out at another call, she was up in the duty rotation again.

  “DB reported at Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens on Anacostia Ave.” The dispatcher rattled off the relevant information.

  Ah, well. So much for lunch.

  “Got it.” She pushed the line for the feeb. “Sorry, duty calls,” she told Montana. “I’ve got a homicide.”

  Montana promptly said, “Where? I’ll meet you at the scene.”

  Okay. “Look, I don’t—”

  “I’ll bring lunch with me.”

  All sorts of alarm bells went off in her cop brain. Definitely Men in Black. She better watch herself if she didn’t want to be turned into an alien. Or worse, have the FBI horn in on her case.

  “How ’bout I call you when I get back?” she suggested. “Good talking to you, SAC Montana.” She hung up. Without getting his number. If it was important, he’d call back. Which would give her a chance to be better prepared. But meanwhile, she had a case, and with any luck she’d be away from her desk for the rest of the day.

  Kenilworth Gardens, eh? The little-known national park situated along the Anacostia River was dedicated solely to water plants. An unusual place for a murder.

  She grabbed her things and made the fifteen-minute drive, pulling up just as the assistant M.E. did. He got out of his BMW and gave her a smile and a wave. “Detective McPhee. Busy day, huh?”

  She smiled back. “Thanks for the quick turnaround on those prints last night, Dr. Stroud.”

  “No problem. And please, if we’re going to be cutting up dead bodies together later, call me Johnny.”

  She tried not to choke. On either count. “All right. And I’m Sarah.”

  They walked through the ugly gate that led into the park, and followed the dirt path down to the ponds where the new vic had been found. The thick smell of standing water and wet earth filled the air, along with the buzz of awakening spring insects.

  Since the murder scene hadn’t been released by the CSI team yet, she halted when they hit the outer edge of the built-up maze of man-made ponds. With a wave, Dr. Stroud—Johnny—kept walking onto a narrow levee between them. “Give me five minutes.”

  A handful of gardeners in muddy hip waders and the park ranger in a Smokey hat milled about, observing the police activity from a roped-off section of the path where they’d been herded. She joined them.

  The shallow green ponds themselves were for the most part bare of vegetation, save for a glutinous haze of slime and algae. She didn’t know much about plants in general or water plants in particular, but her mom had kept a pretty pink tropical water lily in a half-whisky barrel on the back deck growing up, and it had to be taken in each winter and set out again in spring.

  The official last frost date in D.C. was just a few days away—although Sarah never put her tomato plants out on her apartment’s microscopic balcony before Mother’s Day. So she wasn’t surprised to observe big white buckets filled with rotting plant detritus sitting along the water’s edge, evidence that the staff must be cleaning out the ponds in anticipation of spring planting. Which must be how the DB had been discovered. She wondered idly how long the victim had been in the slimy water. Yuck. And how it had gotten there.

  Pulling out her notebook, she turned to the gardeners and ranger and started asking her questions. She was just finishing up with the last witness when a tall, good-looking, fortyish man in a dark blue suit strolled up holding a Burger King bag.

  He peered at her over the rims of amber-colored reflecto-aviators. “Detective McPhee?”

  She did a double-take.

  Oh. My. God.

  Probably a few years her junior, the guy was at that stage of forty-something that made a man look affluent, sexy, and in his prime—fit, tanned, tailored, and financially sound.

  Well, except for the Burger King part. Lunch? Really?

  “SAC Montana, I presume,” she drawled, torn between irritation and annoyance.

  “I brought lunch,” he said with a bad-boy smile that had doubtless captured the heart of many a hapless rookie straight from the Academy who didn’t know any better.

  “Seriously? Burger King?” she said dryly.

  “Angry Whoppers,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

  Okay, you had to give the man points for a sense of humor. Unwillingly, she felt her lips form a half smile. “How perceptive of you,” she said.

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks. So”—he looked around—“where can we sit and chat?”

  She snapped her notebook closed and started back toward the parking lot without bothering to check if he was following. “I can’t believe they let you onto an active crime scene. Somebody’s gonna wish he didn’t get up this morning.” Referring to the guard at the gate.

  “Not his fault,” Montana said from behind her. “He got a call from your lieutenant to let me in.”

  She jetted out a breath, halted and spun, hands on hips. She should have known Harding would—

  Montana ran right into her.

  For a split second the front of their bodies pressed together intimately. No longer than an instant, but long enough to feel the hardness of his muscles and the broadness of his chest against her breasts. Not to mention a few other things she definitely should not be feeling.

  Like a crazy zing of sexual attraction in the pit of her stomach.

  Whoa.

  She stepped back. He stood still. He cocked his head, gazing at her over those impenetrable glasses again. His eyes were blue as the spring sky. “I’m hungry,” he said, his voice suddenly pitched low. “How ’bout you?”

  God, had he felt it, too? Was that an invitation for more than Angry Whoppers . . . ? Or had her overactive imagination just skipped from too-fertile to plain-old-stupid, due to being without a man for so long?

  “Um, look—”

  “No strings,” he said. “You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to.”

  She blinked. What exactly were they talking about here? “That’s good. Because I don’t have much to give.”

  His lips tilted up—mobile lips, no doubt brimming with experience. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Holy. Jesus.

  She swiped the bag from his hand. “We can eat in my car.” In full view of the officer guarding the gate, she reprimanded herself sternly. With that, she strode off down the path.

  And wondered what the bloody hell he really wanted.

  GINA awoke with a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was—

  Omigod.

  Then she remembered. The attack! She let out a cry of despair. Visions of blood flew through her mind. Along with the feel of powerful hands gripping her and . . .

  Gregg.

  Bolting upright, she looked around frantically. Mother of God. She was in his apartment!

  And in his bed.

  She would recognize that heavy wrought-iron headboard anywhere. Its unusual custom features had figured prominently in their lovemaking on the occasions he’d brought her here . . . and in her fantasies ever since.

  But those fantasies were about to turn into nightmares.

  Her hands flew to her mouth, stifling a cry of panic.

  That’s when she noticed her arms were bare. She looked down at the rest of her body. A desperate whimper escaped.

  She was naked!


  What had he done to her?

  “Hello, Gina,” his deep voice said from nearby.

  She whipped around, and saw him.

  He was sprawled casually in a chair by the window, fingering a bottle of beer clasped between his hands. His faded jeans had holes at the knees; his signature black T-shirt hugged a torso that was still ripped from granite. Short-cropped sandy hair; hard, sculpted features; and a shoulderholstered gun tucked under his armpit completed the picture of the consummate badass. Despite his slack pose with one motorcycle booted-foot resting negligently on the other knee, his whole body oozed strength and power.

  Her throat went painfully dry. She recognized, almost viscerally, that tall, broad, hard-as-nails body. Felt the power of its impact at such a primal level she nearly cried out in protest.

  But she managed to swallow down the sensation and ask, “Why am I here? What do you want from me, Gregg?”

  His sensual lips curved downward. The movement made the hollowed angles of his ultra-masculine face even more harsh than usual.

  She should be terrified. She was terrified! And yet . . .

  A spill of goose bumps washed up her arms and over her chest. Against her will, a coil of sexual desire tightened in her center. Lord help her. Why did the bastard have to look so damn amazing? She didn’t understand why her body steadfastly refused to acknowledge her fear of him.

  “Why am I naked?” she demanded, gaining strength from her inner mortification. She clutched the bedsheet to her tightly, pulling it up to her neck. “What are you going to do, rape me before you kill me?”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek but his expression didn’t alter. “Your clothes were covered in blood.”

  She quickly touched her face, flashing a glance at her hands again. Both clean. He’d washed her, too.

  He dropped his boot to the floor and rose catlike from the chair. Her heart pounded erratically. But he just walked to a dresser and from the top picked up a pair of neatly folded black sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

  In a vase sitting next to where the clothes had been stacked, she suddenly noticed a bouquet of yellow roses and blue forget-me-nots. The flowers she’d dropped? She was so surprised, she didn’t sense him approach until he tossed the clothes down on the bed in front of her.

  She started badly, panic zinging through her like an electric shock. He halted, watching her with narrowed eyes as she frantically scrambled backward.

  They stared at each other for an endless moment. At length he said tightly, “Gina. I’m not going to rape you. I didn’t dress you because after cleaning the blood off your body, I didn’t trust myself to touch you for one second longer. Yes, we have history, and it’s pretty damn clear I still want you. But I wouldn’t take you by force. And I’m not going to kill you.”

  An uncontrollable tremble went through her. She didn’t believe him! The man was heartless; he’d sold her to terrorists! They’d beaten her, drugged her, and forced her to use her expertise in genetic research to weaponize a horrible biological agent. If not kill her, then what could he possibly want with her? Why was he doing this?

  She let out a squeak of horror as an unacceptable thought hit her. Surely, he didn’t intend to give her back to them? Please, God, no! She couldn’t go through that again!

  As the squeak morphed to a scream, he was on the bed in a flash. One powerful hand clamped over her mouth, his arm banded around her body. “Shhh,” he sussed in her ear as the frantic sound fought in vain to explode from her. “There’s no need to scream, sweet thing. No one will hear you anyway. Please stop.”

  No!

  She struggled against his hold. Against his hand. Against the worst fate imaginable. She fought him as tears blinded her and sobs clogged her throat. She scratched and clawed and pounded him. And all the while he held her fast, not giving an inch.

  “Hush, now,” he murmured.

  The words triggered an irrationally calming memory of a similar deep voice.

  Hush now.

  During the worst of her torture at the hands of her captors, when she’d been beaten nearly blind and to the brink of death, the man she’d called the Voice had come to her once, with soothing words and drugs to dull the pain.

  But he hadn’t let her go, either.

  “It’s okay,” Gregg said.

  No! It wasn’t okay!

  Thanks to him, it would never be okay again.

  She fought and fought, until she exhausted her strength and ran out of tears. And still he just held her. It wasn’t a soothing embrace. Nor was it cruel. It was more like . . . awkward.

  “Hush, sweet girl.”

  If she didn’t know better, she might think he was actually trying to comfort her. The idea of that stunned her into stillness, broken only by a long, hiccup-punctuated exhale.

  He bunched his hand in the hem of his T-shirt and tried to raise it to wipe the tears from her face. But because of his broad chest, the shirt wouldn’t stretch up past her chin. So he pulled it over his head, then used it as a big, soft hankie, daubing the wetness from her cheeks, eyes, and nose.

  Shock swept through her, as did the scent of him from the shirt that caressed her face. His naked chest brushed against her bare breasts as he moved, sending her nipples into tight spirals. She held her breath, resisting the irrational urge to pillow them up against her abductor.

  He paused. His focus slipped down to her breasts then up again, hesitating for a heartbeat at her lips. For a split second she thought he might actually try to kiss her.

  Her stomach clenched. She turned away.

  His hands dropped abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she wondered bitterly to what he was referring—touching her naked breasts, making her cry, selling her to terrorists . . . What?

  She shuddered out her choked breath and closed her stinging eyes. “Go to hell.”

  He gave a soft, sardonic laugh. “Sure. Now, why don’t you lie down and get some sleep.” He went to the dresser, swiped up a new black T-shirt, and yanked it on. Thank God.

  She pressed her mouth into a quavering line. “I want to go home.” The trembling statement came out sounding so pathetic she scarcely recognized herself in it. That had been happening a lot lately. The pathetic part.

  “Sorry. Not going to happen,” he said.

  Anger finally overran her fear. “Haven’t I suffered enough for you?” she demanded.

  He gazed over at her impassively, but the tic in his cheek twitched again. “There’s no phone. The door is locked and all the windows are barred. There’s no way out of here, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. The good news is, no one else can get in, either.”

  He turned to leave the bedroom.

  “Gregg?”

  At his name on her lips, he halted at the door. The shadows of the other room touched him like gray fingers reaching out to caress him. He didn’t turn around.

  “Why?” she asked. Her voice cracked on a roil of surfacing emotion. “Why did you do it, Gregg? Why did you give me to those animals? For money? Al Sayika blood diamonds? How much did they pay you? How much was my life worth to you?”

  Even under the T-shirt she could see the muscles in his broad back coil and tighten. Like he wanted to turn and beat the crap out of her. Or someone. But he just walked out, his body quickly swallowed by the dimness of the curtained room beyond.

  “Tell me!” she yelled after him, desperate to know the worst. He halted again. This time he did turn. A shaft of light from the closed drapes painted over his face. Her own tears welled anew and brimmed over onto her cheeks. “I loved you!” she cried. “Why did you betray me?”

  He flinched visibly. His hands balled into silent fists.

  At the gesture, horrible memories seared through her of the many beatings she’d taken at the hands of her terrorist captors. Pain razored across her heart at the idea that this man whom she’d once thought she loved could do such evil. To her.

  As if it took a great effort, he swallowed and met her gaze. His blue
eyes burned like the fires of Hell.

  He said very carefully and deliberately, “I did not give you to them, Gina. It wasn’t me.”

  SIX

  IN his logical mind, Gregg knew Gina really believed he was the one responsible for her kidnapping by al Sayika, and therefore for all the suffering she’d endured. For months he’d known that.

  But hearing the accusation spoken so forcefully from her own lips nearly gutted him. It was all he could do to respond without putting his fist through a wall or smashing some piece of furniture into a million pieces—which would only serve to terrify her even more.

  She didn’t believe him. He could see that clearly in her eyes. In her whole body.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t need her to believe him—or to like him—to do what needed to be done.

  “If it wasn’t you who betrayed me,” she accused, flinging a hand around her, “then why this? Why are you holding me against my will?”

  He took a step toward the bed. She was still huddled on the far side of the mattress, clutching the sheet to her chest. But it had slipped, and he could see her breasts again, ripe and sensual, their tips dark and beaded with excitement.

  In special ops, one of the first things a man learns is that fear produces the same physical reactions in a body as sexual arousal. It was a lesson he had taught Gina with painstaking care in their relationship as lovers. She had always been turned on by being just a little afraid of him. She’d liked his penchant for domination, responded hotly to his physical control over her. And he in turn had been incredibly aroused by having that power over her.

  But that was before.

  Now? Her eyes held a different kind of fear. One he wanted no part in arousing.

  “I have to keep you here,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her bare body. “For your own protection.”

  Her lips parted. “Protection? Are you kidding? You’re the one I need protecting from!”

  “No,” he said flatly. “I’m not.”

  But he would be if she didn’t cover herself. Her feelings for him might have changed, but his hadn’t. He still wanted her with a craving that gnawed at him like a wolverine. It had been pure torture stripping off her bloody clothes and washing her smooth skin of blood earlier and not awakening her by joining their bodies together as he’d always done when they’d shared a bed. He’d left her naked instead of dressing her, terrified of doing something they’d both have bitterly regretted. Just as he would now if she didn’t put on those damned clothes.