A Kiss to Kill

by Nina Bruhns

  Tears blinded her, because she knew very well he was taking her in wounded frustration, not because he wanted those same things. But she’d take it. She’d take him. For now. Because she was hurt and frustrated, too.

  He drove into her. Again and again. Mindless oblivion took over, and forgetting everything else, she gave herself over to the raw physical pleasure of the act. He was rough, he was demanding. He was giving and fulfilling. Most of all, he was hers.

  For now.

  Climax burst over them like a train wreck, sudden, unexpected, total annihilation of the mind and senses.

  And when it was over, he leaned heavily into her, against the wall, so neither of them would collapse onto the floor. But it was a near thing.

  “Jesus, Rebel,” Alex groaned. “Jesus fuck.”

  She didn’t have the energy to admonish his language. But that’s when it hit her what she’d done. Add one more layer to the annihilation of her heart. Why did she keep doing this to herself?

  She swallowed a half sob and dashed at the moisture that trickled onto her cheeks.

  He pulled back to look at her. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” She turned her face away but couldn’t disguise the tears in her voice.

  “Angel, there’s no crying in sex. Unless—God, did I hurt you?”

  Men could be so incredibly clueless. “No,” she ground out and pushed at his chest. But he was still inside her. He didn’t budge.

  “Baby . . .” He caught her face in his hand and covered her mouth with his, kissing her deeply. Intensely. But by the end, almost . . . bleakly.

  “My beautiful angel,” he whispered when he finally lifted his lips. The words were a soft lament. The mood had shifted.

  Pain squeezed her heart even as echoes of pleasure pulsed through her center and the taste of him saturated her mouth.

  “I don’t believe it. You really are leaving me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Why, Alex? Why are you doing this to me?” she asked, nearly suffocating with anguished confusion.

  He looked away. “I’m a selfish bastard, Rebel. I had no fucking business touching you. The flashback reminded me of that. That I needed to let you go before . . .”

  “Before what?”

  He took a deep breath. “Before I couldn’t do it. I don’t want to give you up.” He slid out of her, leaving her cold and empty inside. “But I have to.”

  She stared at him, a numbing disbelief settling over her. “Surely not Helena?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. That insanity is over. She met someone a while ago, and—” He cursed. “It was such a boneheaded idea to begin with. Why I ever thought it would solve anything . . .”

  She let go of his shoulders, where she’d been clinging to him. Gently, he let her slide down the wall to touch the floor, then stepped backward, away from her. Her suit skirt fell back into place. Like nothing had ever happened.

  His eyes were shadowed, full of pain. He shut them, blocking her from reading his emotions. “I need to just walk away from you. Face the truth and be a man about it.”

  “What truth?” she asked. “What is this really about, Alex? And I swear if you say it’s your stupid job I’ll shoot you myself!”

  “But it is!” He glanced away, then back. “Partly, anyway. Do you not remember I almost killed you this morning?”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “It wouldn’t make you any less dead.” He shook his head. “Besides, I know you, Rebel. Don’t forget, you were my best friend for five years. I know what kind of life, what kind of future you want. The kind of man you want. And I’m not it.”

  Her heart went out to him. “Don’t say that. You’ll get better. How can you even think that? You’re all I’ve ever wanted!”

  He grasped her by the upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “No, that’s not true. And what about a family? Tell me truthfully that you don’t want my children just as much as you want me. Go ahead. Tell me, Rebel.”

  Her lips parted but no words would come out. She couldn’t tell him what wasn’t true. Because she did want his children. Desperately.

  “You see? I’m right.”

  “Maybe there’s something they can do about it,” she quickly said. “Have you seen a doctor? There’ve been so many advances in medicine—”

  He dropped her arms and his beautiful mouth set itself in a cruel parody of a smile. “There. That’s what I mean. It’s been less than twenty-four hours and already you’re trying to change reality. Imagine how you’ll feel in ten years when your biological clock is running out and you finally realize it’s not going to happen?”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, each coming to the most painful conclusion possible.

  “I am what I am, angel. Nothing’s going to change that part of me.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He ran his fingertips over her cheek. “That look in your eyes is exactly the reason I can’t stay. Watching that love and hope turn to hate and sorrow will kill me. I can’t do it. And you shouldn’t have to. You don’t have to.”

  She felt sick to her stomach. He pressed a deliberate kiss to her forehead.

  “Forget about me, Rebel. Find someone else who can give you that beautiful life you want. Hell, go back to Montana. Even he’d be a better choice than me.”

  Then he opened the door and waited for her to go out. She was too shell-shocked to protest. Shell-shocked, because she had just learned an ugly truth about herself: he could well be right about her. She didn’t want to think so. But she was just uncertain enough about the depth of her desire, that the painful future he foresaw could happen, that she swallowed her fervent denials and walked out of the room without another word.

  And that was the worst truth of all.

  EIGHTEEN

  SARAH got a call from Lieutenant Harding to join him at Walter Reed Army Medical Center just as she and Wade had ordered coffee at a nearby Cosi, and spread out Asha Mahmood’s and Raul Chavez’s autopsy files on a table way in the back.

  “Damn,” she muttered. “I have to go. The murder of a suspect in federal custody this morning at Walter Reed seems to be linked to the Mahmood case.”

  Wade glanced up sharply. “You mean Gibran Allawi Bakreen?”

  “You know about the case?”

  “Suspected terrorist, believed connected to al Sayika. Possibly to Gina’s kidnapping. He was shot while being arrested yesterday during a joint FBI/Coast Guard/DHS operation in Norfolk. Somehow he got sent to the army hospital when his wound reopened during transport to his interrogation here in D.C. It’s a freaking jurisdictional nightmare.”

  She rolled her eyes and started to gather up the files. “So they called in D.C. Metro in order to keep the peace between the alphabets?”

  He grimaced. “Something like that. You getting assigned to it?”

  “God, I hope not. Right now the lieutenant just needs to know what I’ve learned about Mahmood. Want to tag along?” She smiled. “Since the Bureau’s part of the nightmare, and all.”

  He looked torn. “Hell, you know I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

  She winked. “So wait five minutes before walking in.”

  “Devious.” His body brushed intimately against hers as they rose. He kissed her ear and whispered, “I knew there was a reason I like you so much.”

  When they got to the hospital, they split up.

  “I’m going to stop by security,” he said. “See what I can find out there.”

  Sarah went up to the third floor, where the lieutenant was waiting for her. Walking into the ward reception area, she ran into a tangle of arguing G-men with every possible three-letter combination emblazoned on hats and Wind-breakers. Good grief.

  She held up her creds to a Metro officer checking them, and elbowed her way to the lieutenant, who was speaking to a willowy redhead in a slate blue suit nodding and taking note
s. Directly behind the woman a seriously tall, grim-faced, blond man stood with his arms crossed, his eyes traveling the room like he wanted to kill something. He saw Sarah approach and his body rippled to alertness. The woman looked like a feeb. He didn’t.

  “Ah. Here she is now,” Lieutenant Harding said, raising a hand to beckon Sarah into the conversation. “Detective McPhee, this is Special Agent Haywood, FBI. I was just filling her in on the Asha Mahmood case.”

  Sarah shook hands with the other woman, waiting for an introduction to the man behind her. When none was given, she tipped her head toward him. “And he is?”

  “Not here,” Agent Haywood said crisply, and continued to ignore the man.

  Instead of objecting, he just sized Sarah up, apparently decided she was harmless, and went back to scanning the waiting room like a wolf looking for prey.

  Ho-kay, then.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked Haywood.

  “What have you got?” the FBI agent answered with a smile, pen poised.

  At the LT’s nod, Sarah gave her a rundown on all the relevant information, omitting sources in case she needed a bargaining chip later. But she omitted nothing important—this was terrorists they were talking about, right here on American soil.

  When she got to the part about Raul Chavez and the autopsy results, Special Agent Haywood glanced up, startled, then wrote like crazy. Even Mr. Wolf looked Sarah’s way and frowned.

  “Have you established a definite connection between my two murders and this one?” Sarah asked.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of your second victim. But we believe—” She halted in mid-sentence, looking over Sarah’s shoulder. Her eyes widened slightly and twin banners of red streaked across her cheeks.

  The wolf’s blue eyes cut like lasers in the same direction, practically singeing the air with their intensity. His muscles bunched as though he were getting ready to pounce and rip something to shreds.

  Curiosity firmly captured, Sarah turned to see what unlucky soul was about to become mincemeat. She blinked.

  It was Wade.

  Halfway through the room he had stopped in mid-stride, visibly taken aback.

  She blinked again. Wow. No history here or anything.

  She debated whether to be jealous or not. Decided against it. The wolf looked jealous enough for both of them.

  Special Agent Haywood recovered first. She turned to Lieutenant Harding. “Did you request the D.C. field office?” she asked.

  “No,” he assured her. “I thought Norfolk was handling this case.”

  “You?” she asked Sarah.

  “Don’t look at me,” Sarah said. Well, she hadn’t called them.

  Wade walked up. “Hello, Rebel.”

  “What’s going on, Wade? Has something happened?” Agent Haywood asked him.

  “Didn’t know you were in town,” he said pleasantly enough, but his tight lips betrayed him. “You should have called.”

  The banners intensified. “We just got in a few hours ago. Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  “So I see.” He glanced to the wolf. Nodded stiffly. “Zane.” Zane, huh? Wade ignored the rabid-dog looks the other man gave him, and said to Sarah, “Detective McPhee, good to see you again.”

  She was grateful he was playing it professional and distant. No way was she getting dragged into this dogfight. Nor did she want her boss to witness any possible fallout.

  “SAC Montana,” she acknowledged, then observed neutrally to her boss, “Gee, Lieutenant, you’d never know D.C. Metro was lead on this case. Seems to be some confusion.”

  Harding grunted, then looked around as though seeing the chaos for the first time. “Damn straight. Time I did something about it, too.” He strode off, bristling.

  “You’ll have to teach me how to do that someday,” Special Agent Haywood mumbled. She sketched a mystical half circle in the air with her fingers, and said, “Those aren’t the droids you want,” in a Jedi voice, then flashed Rebel a wry smile.

  Sarah chuckled and decided she liked the pretty redhead, despite the male posturing going on over her.

  But as soon as the lieutenant was gone, Wade’s demeanor changed on a dime. He turned angrily on Zane. “What the hell is STORM doing in D.C.?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you out looking for Gina Cappozi?”

  STORM? Sarah did a double-take at Zane. Ah. That explained it.

  “Because we’ve found her,” Zane shot back with equal force.

  “What?”

  “Keep your voices down,” Agent Haywood admonished the men sharply. People around them were starting to stare.

  “Is she all right? Why wasn’t I informed?” Wade ground out.

  Zane got in his face. “Because you have no goddamn business—”

  “Shut up, Alex,” Special Agent Haywood said. “You, too, Wade.” She turned to Sarah apologetically. “Sorry, Detective McPhee. I think maybe I’d better take these boys outside.”

  “Uh, sure,” she said.

  Agent Haywood started to herd the two men toward the stairs, then turned back to her. “Do you have a card? So I can get in touch with you later?”

  Sarah produced one. “Call anytime.”

  The other woman tucked it into her jacket pocket. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Then she hurried after Wade and Zane, who were moving through the crowd like two beasts stalking each other.

  “Yeah. Good luck,” Sarah mumbled after her.

  What the hell was that all about?

  Like she had to ask. Nothing got men’s competitive hackles up faster than a beautiful woman.

  Maybe this was the relationship Wade had mentioned. The one after Gina that hadn’t worked out. She could certainly see the stunning Agent Haywood with him. But no, he’d said it was some congressman’s wife. Still. There was definitely something going on between them. And where did the feral Mr. Zane fit into the picture?

  Ah, well. Not her concern.

  She felt a pang of regret. Obviously the whole my bed, naked thing with Wade was not happening. Yet again. Which was just as well. SAC Montana was smart, successful, and sexy as all get-out, but the man came with hidden baggage that seemed to catapult out of nowhere with surprising regularity. No doubt it was a stroke of luck that something always stopped her just before making that irreversible decision to jump into bed with him.

  Though he was an amazing kisser. She could only imagine what he’d be like in—

  Forget it, Sarah. That was just not meant to be.

  “McPhee!”

  Lieutenant Harding was summoning her from the nurses’ station. She put all thoughts of Wade and kissing and getting naked from her mind. Anyhow, tonight she’d be otherwise occupied.

  It was time to put this case to bed.

  “QUINN warned us you might show up here, sniffing at Detective McPhee as a way to worm yourself into this investigation, too.” Alex was so furious he practically growled the words at Wade Montana. “Do you really think she’s that stupid?”

  Montana didn’t respond.

  Alex was pacing back and forth in a deserted courtyard outside the hospital cafeteria where Rebel had dragged them. Montana sat at one of the rusting metal tables that dotted the cement patio, the accompanying chairs squeaking in gusts of a cold wind that had picked up. Rebel had admonished them to keep it down for heaven’s sake, and gone for coffee. Alex wanted something stronger. A lot stronger.

  “You still in therapy for your PTSD?” Montana asked. Alex spun and glared at him. “I’m just saying. Your temper could use some work.”

  He held on to his knee-jerk response. The fact that the fuckwad was right just made it even more infuriating. Though in this particular case, his mercurial temper had nothing to do with it. It was the thought of his woman ending up with Montana that had him seeing red. That he’d actually suggested it was beyond comprehension.

  He forced himself to calm down. They were not talking about Rebel, but about Gina’s case. “You were warned by your own people to stay a
way from this investigation, Montana. Gina’s fine. She doesn’t need your help.”

  “Hell, Gina’s not what this is about and we both know it,” Montana volleyed back. “Admit it. You’re jealous of my involvement with Rebel.”

  “You are not involved with her,” Alex said through gritted teeth.

  Montana shot him a smug look. “Says who?”

  “She does.”

  “It must be true then.” This with a casual shrug.

  The bastard was just baiting him. He knew that. Fuck. It was working.

  But Alex had no right to be jealous. No authority to tell this asshole where he could shove his fucking bogus involvement. Alex had let Rebel go, and he meant to stick by that. It was the right thing to do. It was.

  No matter how much it would tear him up inside.

  Funny . . . sixteen months of torture, sickness, and degradation had not managed to kill him or diminish his inner spirit. But leaving Rebel behind just might.

  “Doesn’t matter either way,” Alex told Montana now. “But you stay the fuck away from this investigation.”

  “Not until I talk to Gina. I want to see for myself that she’s safe.”

  “And then you’ll walk away?”

  “From the case.”

  Alex’s fingers curled into fists. He wanted to hammer the bastard into the pavement.

  But he had no right.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll arrange a phone call.”

  Montana shook his head. “No way. In person.”

  “In person what?” Rebel walked up briskly, carrying a cardboard tray that held three large cups of coffee. She handed one each to him and Montana. “I hope you realize I don’t fetch coffee,” she groused. “I only did it to get away from you two morons.”

  Alex held the hot cup in his hand and breathed in. But it wasn’t the coffee he smelled. It was Rebel. Standing this close to her, he caught a slight drift of her fragrance. And a hint of sex. Their sex, the lingering scent of their mingled essence. He could smell it—the barest suggestion—on her skirt and her skin. Was it crass to hope Montana could, too?