“Again, maybe something locked in your memory. You yelled at me in what sounded like a foreign language outside the hospital. It could have been Polish.”
She closed her eyes and yielded to the sensation of his caress on her face, the feel of his solidity beside her. The sense of cocooned comfort inside his boat. Even his gnarly little rescue dog had decided to nudge his nose up against her socked foot now, and it was snoring in an ugly little fashion that somehow relaxed her.
“What if I learn that I’ve inherited my mother’s illness?”
“Then you need to know. Either way. Because as you mentioned, your mother apparently managed it for years, and you can get treatment, manage it, too.”
“I’d have to quit being a cop.”
“Being a cop is not what it’s cracked up to be. Look at what it did to my life.”
She glanced around the interior of his yacht, this testimony to his solo existence. She thought of him trying to repair this old boat, to somehow mend his old dreams of family, retirement. Her gaze went to the pics of him and Ginny stuck to his little fridge, and her heart opened big and sudden to this man. She fingered his ring. He looked down and watched her doing it. In silence, he withdrew his hand and removed the gold band. He set it on the table next to his glass, and his gaze met hers. She swallowed.
He leaned in and kissed her.
The touch of his lips against hers was soft, seductive, the stubble on his jaw rough against her skin as his mouth opened hers, and the tip of his tongue explored her scar, caressing it. She placed her hand against the side of his face, careful not to hurt his injuries, and she leaned back, angling for a deeper kiss. He began to undo the buttons of her shirt as his mouth moved over hers. He slid the fabric off her shoulders. She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. Her breasts swelled free, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Come,” he murmured against her mouth as he cupped her breast with his rough hand. “Come to my bed.”
CHAPTER 47
Naked, Angie sat on the edge of the bed, Maddocks standing between her legs while she undid his pants, a lust building, boiling, deep inside her. She slid his pants down his hips and that gorgeous dick swelled free. She caressed him, taking him into her mouth, holding his hips as she worked him with her lips, her tongue. His hands clamped down hard on her shoulders, his fingers digging deeper and deeper into her skin as she stimulated him to the point that he groaned, fisting her hair. He stopped her suddenly, pulling her off his wet erection by moving her head back. His gaze, dark, dangerous, locked with hers, and he shoved her backward and hard onto the covers.
She fell back with a bounce against the mattress, hair spreading in a wild tangle around her head, thighs open. She ached for him. Was so ready for him. She raised her hips to him. Slowly—painfully slowly—he raked his gaze down the length of her body. He swallowed, his indigo eyes turning black with lust above his bandage, his carotid fluttering fast at his neck. She rotated her hips slightly in a come-hither-I-want-you gesture, burning for his penetration, to feel his length plunging deep inside her, his width stretching her. A slight smile of appreciation played over his lips. But he took his sweet time, reaching for his pants on the floor and taking a condom from a pocket.
Angie watched him sheath himself, and a slight unease began to whisper along the distant fringes of her consciousness. It was always she who brought a condom, rolled it on. But he had his own, in his pocket, and while that shouldn’t really mean anything to her, it robbed her sense of being absolutely in control. He knelt over her, hands on either side of her head, and with his knees he widened her thighs as he lowered his mouth to her throat, licking, teasing, working his way down toward her left nipple. It tightened with exquisite sensitivity as he took the tip between his teeth. Heat snaked through her. Blood pulsed like molten fire into her groin, swelling her labia, making her clit hard and erect, tingling for his touch. He moved his mouth lower, down her belly, flicking his tongue into her navel, lower, down between her legs. His tongue, warm, wet, slicked in between her folds and encircled her clit. He nipped lightly with his teeth, pulling on the nub. A silent scream, a pressure, built inside her chest, inside her head, inside her vagina, and she felt as though she would explode as her vision, her entire world narrowed to just this moment, to him, on this boat, this bed. She opened her legs as wide as she could, arching her spine, lifting herself to him as his tongue sought deeper entry to her vagina, slipping in and out. She closed her eyes, rolling her head from side to side, moaning until she couldn’t take it any longer. She needed the hardness of him, deep. She needed to fuck him, hard. In rising desperation, her body going slick with sweat, her muscles starting to shake, she moved her arms under his armpits, drawing his head out from between her thighs, and she raised her right knee, bringing her inner thigh up his hip as she twisted her body at the waist, struggling to flip him over onto his back so that she could straddle him and sink herself down onto the hot length of him, rock and rub her clit against the coarse hair of his groin, feel the delicious friction that she recalled from the night in the club. But he resisted her.
Instead, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her hands high above her head as he kneed her open even wider and put just the tip of his erection inside her. Angie stilled. Her heart jackhammered. Her breaths came light and fast and dizzying. He had her totally exposed. She wriggled, trying to free her hands, but he was strong. Far stronger than she was, than she could ever be. Angie closed her eyes, the sound of her blood booming against her eardrums, a cocktail of conflicted emotions suddenly raging like a cracking wildfire through her—submit, she told herself. It felt good. She wanted this.
He moved slowly at first, achingly slowly, and a tension of another kind built inside her as she wiggled to free her hands again but couldn’t. And her eyes flared wide. She was struggling to breathe.
He gave a powerful thrust, and he was inside her, up to the hilt. She gasped, and he moved his hips harder, driving himself yet deeper. Her eyes watered as he began to fuck her, his heavy, muscled build pumping her deep into the bedding, her hands trapped high above her head. She was coming close. Yet fear also continued to build in her chest. Desperate, she fought him again, writhing wildly to free her hands, bucking under him, heat rising, tears building in her eyes, and he took it as pleasure, as mad hunger, and he thrust harder to meet her struggle, a low groan building in his chest, sweat breaking out over his body.
“Stop,” she whispered suddenly. “Stop. Stop!” He stilled, and his eyes met hers, dark and wild. Confusion chased through his face. His erection was quivering inside her.
“Please, Maddocks,” she whispered. “Please.” He swallowed, his muscles beginning to shake against his battle to suddenly control himself, sweat slicking over his skin, and suddenly he gasped, and came powerfully, uncontrollably, inside her, his fingers digging into her flesh as his body took charge, shuddering him inside her. Tears filled her eyes as Maddocks, spent, lowered himself slowly down onto her, then rolled onto his side, withdrawing from inside her.
“Angie?” he whispered, his eyes refocusing.
Tears leaked out from the corners of her eyes, onto his covers. And she still ached with desire, and she felt shame, defeat, guilt. He stroked her cheek and moved a damp tangle of hair off her face. “Did I hurt you? What is it?”
She shook her head, unable to voice it, unable to tell him what was going on, unable to understand herself. And she was filled with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “So sorry.”
She shook her head again, wanting to say, It’s me. Not you. You’re beautiful. But emotion choked her attempt to speak, and she could see the hurt, the disappointment in his eyes. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips, then clicked off the bedside light. In the darkness he brought the covers over them both. And he simply held her, spooning her, as the boat rocked in the mounting wind, Jack-O snoring on his little mat in the cabin.
CHAPTER 48
FRIDAY, DECEMB
ER 15
Angie surfaced as if from a black swamp of molasses. The little girl was running through the blackness in a glow of pink, feet bare, hair flowing. She had a basket in her hand this time. There were trees suddenly, tall, reaching way, way up into the sky, and dappled light came through the leaves to make gold shapes on soft spring grass, and there were dandelions. They were in Italy, there was Rome, the shining ocean, yellow sunshine, and rolling Tuscan hills. Then the sky turned to ink. Sounds of a car crashing, the sensation of it rolling seized her. She struggled to get out of the crushing metal, away from the screaming … her mother’s voice. Flee! Get inside! No. Get out! Fighting, she battled up to the surface of consciousness, and her eyes fluttered open.
A dream. Just a dream.
She was lying on something that was rocking slightly. The scent of fresh coffee reached her.
Shock slammed through her. Cabin. Maddocks. Boat.
Sex.
Oh Jesus. She sat bolt upright. The dog was sleeping on the covers near her feet. It looked up at her with little liquid-brown eyes. She stared into those doggie eyes, feeling every bit the wretched stray. She was another Jack-O, a broken thing that James Maddocks had peeled off the metaphorical road. Tentatively, she reached out, touched the animal’s head. The fur was surprisingly soft. She smoothed it, and he did not growl. Jack-O just closed his eyes with a little sigh and dropped his head back onto the covers. It sent a funny punch to her gut.
Her attention moved toward the warm band of light seeping in through the partially open cabin door. She could hear him, Maddocks, knocking about in his tiny yacht galley. She could hear the wind still hammering, lashing at halyards and lines, sending in swells that rocked and smacked at the hull. Through the little porthole window she could see it was still dark.
Her attention flared to the clock. The digital glow showed 5:55 a.m. Friday. Work. She—they—needed to get to the station. Gathering her clothes up from the floor, Angie dressed quickly. She tied her hair back and entered the small living and galley area. Maddocks had his back to her. He was dressed in his work pants, shirt. A tie.
He turned. “Hey.” A smile creased his gorgeous face, and then he winced again. Angie’s remorse, shame, self-hatred—fear—was instant at the sight of the bandage still plastered across the bridge of his nose, the black-and-purple contusions below his eyes.
“Coffee?”
“I’d kill for some, thanks.”
“Please don’t,” he said, deepening his smile, then wincing once more as it pulled at his swollen face. He turned, reached for a mug, poured. “How do you take it?”
Never sleep with a colleague.
Never kiss.
Leave first. Leave early. No names. Never stay the night. Never breakfast the next morning. Never take one that makes you feel vulnerable in any way … Always stay in control …
“Actually,” she said quickly, “I think I’m good.” She reached for her boots, sat, began tugging them on.
“What about coffee?” He stood there with the steaming mug in his hand.
She came to her feet, snagged her coat off the hook. “I’ll grab some on my way.”
“Angie?”
She stilled at his tone, the gravity in his eyes.
“Where do think you’re going?”
“Home. Shower, change. Work.” She remembered suddenly that he’d taken her service weapon. Her knife. His gaze remained locked with hers. Silence swelled between them, highlighting the outside noises of the marina, the engine of a boat chugging out to sea.
“No,” he said quietly.
She stared, her heart beginning to race.
“We spoke about this, remember?”
Shit. This was real. She glanced toward the portlight above his tiny sink. A dull gray dawn was seeping into the darkness. She dragged her hand over her hair, smoothing her ponytail.
“Angie, look at me.”
She inhaled deeply, then finally met his eyes.
“Call in sick. Take some time off. Go see someone.”
“I can’t just call in sick. The case—”
“I’m giving you two options, Pallorino. Call in sick, and see a professional. Or try to come in, and I’ll have to hand over your service weapon and report what happened.”
She glowered at him, tension thrumming into her body, her hands tightening at her sides.
“I don’t want you on my team right now. On anybody’s team.”
Heat seared into her face as she focused on his bruised and bandaged one. The impact of what she’d done to him was undeniable. And she realized, as much as she wanted it to all just go away, to pretend it never happened, she couldn’t shove it under the rug this time. He’d have to go in to work and offer some explanation as to what had happened to his face.
“Don’t push me, Angie. Don’t make me report this.” He paused. “Let me help you.”
So he was going to hide it, for now? He was going to make up some story for her?
“Why?” she said quietly. “Why are you doing this for me—risking things?”
He was silent a long while. Wind gusted, sending a clatter of raindrops against the thick glass of the portlight.
“Because I care,” he said, in slow, measured words. As if working this out for himself. There was a sincerity in his tone that made her heart gallop up into her throat. She wasn’t worthy of this. Of him.
Uciekaj! Run …
She could not handle it. Didn’t want it. Him. Wanted independence. The panic noose tightened. She moistened her lips, turned her back to him, hesitated, then climbed the small ladder up to the companionway and pushed out of the doors onto the dark, wet deck. Angie wavered for a moment as the freezing rain spat against her face. Then she climbed overboard and made her way along the dock in the dark gray dawn, leaving him standing there in the warm galley with her coffee mug in his hand. And inside she was shaking.
CHAPTER 49
“So, like, where’s Pallorino?”
Maddocks glanced up from his metal desk in the incident room. In front of him stood Kjel Holgersen wearing his narrow-legged, dirty-gray jeans that bagged around his skinny ass in that supposedly fashionable way. Even in stillness the man appeared fidgety.
“What?” Maddocks said, irritated at the interruption. He’d come in early to work on his notes from the Drummond funeral observation and the Father Simon interview. The priest had revealed something potentially key about Gracie Drummond’s promiscuity. He was also trying to focus on work instead of Angie.
Holgersen took a small step backward as Maddocks raised his head from his work. “Jesus, man. What in the hells happened to your face—your nose? You look like shit.”
“Yacht lines came loose in the storm last night—boom swung round in the wind, smacked me in the face while I was slipping around in the snow and seawater on deck in the dark trying to resecure things.”
Holgersen regarded him in silence for several beats.
Maddocks met the detective’s gaze square, unblinking, despite the throbbing pain in his face and his watering eyes. Given Holgersen’s opening question about Angie, he was fishing for something and was reading him for tells. There was a reason this guy came highly recommended despite his oddities—he was sharp. He had an uncanny read on people, and most tended to underestimate him because of his speech, his dress, his quirky body language. And Maddocks was fast learning that this was Kjel Holgersen’s advantage—and possibly he riffed off it to set people off-kilter.
“What’s up your butt, Detective?” Maddocks said smoothly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Holgersen reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a packet of nicotine chewing gum. “I’s said, where’s Pallorino?”
“I don’t know.” Maddocks returned his attention to his notes. But his pulse had quickened. Holgersen remained there, making a crackling noise as he struggled to pop a square of gum out of its cellophane packaging.
“Christ, Holgersen,” he said, looking up again. “What do you want? I nee
d to get these notes wrapped before Buziak’s a.m. briefing.”
He freed the tablet of green gum from its cellophane prison, grinned, and popped it into his mouth. He started to chew as he dragged a chair up to the side of Maddocks’s desk. He seated himself, pointed to his mouth. “Not giving up the smokes, just sos you knows. But the gum fix keeps me calm when I can’t have a cigarette indoors. Been trying it out since Wednesday.”
Two detectives entered the incident room along with the scent of the fresh coffees they were carrying.
Holgersen lowered his voice. “I phoned her. She didn’t pick up.”
Maddocks shrugged and returned to his notes one more time. But his shoulders were tensing.
“Like, several times.”
“Okay, Jesus.” Maddocks slapped down his pen and sat erect. “You’re pissing me off now. It’s early, okay. Maybe she doesn’t want to take your call. Maybe she’s in the damn shower. So wait for her to come in.”
He smoothed his goatee, his twitchy, dull-brown eyes fixed on Maddocks’s face.
“I heard she called in sick today,” he said.
“Where’d you hear that?”
Holgersen’s gaze twitched toward the two detectives who were now conversing in the far corner with another two investigators who’d also entered the room. He lowered his voice further. “Overhead Fitz talking to one of them suits from internal. They was inside Buziak’s office. I figure from what Fitz was saying that he’s gunning for Pallorino as the deep throat, and he wants her badge. And I’s just wanting to be warning her about it. Funny thing—Buziak was not in his office. Just the inspector and the suit. Maybe Buze called in sick, too. Maybe something went down at that late-night meeting he was called into when we was all drinking and celebrating at the Pig.”
Maddocks felt blood drain from his face and anger rise in his chest. “You and Leo cook this up? He trying to mess with Pallorino again?”
Holgersen snorted and was about to speak when the incident room door burst wide open.
The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 29
