Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  He rubbed his eye socket with the heel of his hand, winced as he caught a tender bruise one of the repo guys had landed on him earlier. Darkness had leached the color from her eyes, but not their shape. Big and wide, tilted like a cat’s at the outside edge and topped by movie-star brows—just like Nina’s had been.

  But she wasn’t Nina.

  And while her eyes were pretty they were also heavy with fatigue, lashes drooping, drifting shut, as though gravity alone would put her to sleep.

  He heaved a long sigh that lessened the tension in his chest and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

  The woman wasn’t Nina. But she was trouble. Beautiful women always were. Not what he needed in a life already as complicated as sin. If he hadn’t desperately needed the money he’d have sent her packing, no matter how goddamned tired or pretty she looked.

  Damn.

  He hauled out a couple of tote bags that might’ve contained clothes or bullion. Picking them up, he felt the newly healing skin of his knuckles split as the weight settled against his fingers.

  Maybe next time he’d remember he was too old for fighting.

  And maybe next time he’d grow another head.

  “Better sleep in the ranch house tonight.” He looked over his shoulder at the woman who hadn’t budged. “The cabin takes a good few hours to warm up.”

  At least with his mother in the hospital there was space in the main house. That silver lining thing was happening all over again.

  His lips twitched.

  The woman stood looking at him, dark hair peeking out from under a shapeless beanie, big eyes blinking shut. Not that she’d sounded tired when she’d told him to drop the rifle. Hell, no. She’d sounded like a goddamned army general then. Nat scowled, hefted one bag onto his shoulders and turned away, headed toward the front door of the main house.

  She still hadn’t moved.

  He turned back to her. “You coming?”

  Her hand reached out, palm up. Then her eyes rolled and she collapsed to the frozen earth.

  She hit the ground with a solid thwack. His mouth fell open as his jaw dropped. His legs wouldn’t work, not that he was close enough to catch her even if they did.

  Dropping the bags, he ran over and checked for a pulse. Her face was paler than the snow, but her skin was soft and warm beneath his fingertips. The pulse in her neck beat strong and steady, thrumming rhythmically.

  He heard a soft noise and stared, uncertain. He’d already had one emergency dash that day, didn’t need another. Again, a steady sound. Light, but resonant.

  Grinning, he realized Miss Gorgeous was fast asleep and snoring. He leaned back on the heels of his cowboy boots, and debated what to do. There was no emergency. The woman seemed fine other than collapsing with fatigue, but he couldn’t just leave her here in the snow. She looked so serene, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, peaceful and relaxed. Nat didn’t have the heart to try to wake her. He leaned over and scooped her up in his arms.

  Despite her height, she was lightweight. Her long legs dangled over his elbow, her head rested against his shoulder, tucked neatly beneath his chin. Ignoring the softness of her breasts and the curve of her backside against his arm, he headed toward the house. Didn’t need reminded that she was a beautiful woman, or that it had been a long time since he’d held one close.

  He shifted her higher in his arms, smelled her scent, natural and unadorned. It triggered a response deep within him that he wanted to ignore and explore, all at the same time. He pushed the thoughts away.

  Bare-naked lips were half-parted in rest and her breath caressed his cheek like a lover’s whisper. He looked up, not wanting to think about her lips.

  Moving carefully through the darkened homestead, he carried her up the stairs. He hesitated at the top before entering his room and placing her upon his bed where he pulled off her boots and hat.

  She didn’t stir.

  He smoothed the dark hair off her forehead, felt it slip between his fingertips like satin.

  Drawing the top cover over Miss Eliza Reed’s sleeping form, he stood back and watched her. Told himself it was concern that made him stare. Her breath was deep and regular, her face relaxed and starting to lose its deathly pallor. She twitched in her sleep, her hand creeping beneath the pillow.

  A laugh stirred in his chest and took him by surprise. The day had been a complete disaster and life kept getting weirder and weirder. But at least this time, weird involved having a beautiful woman curled up in his bed.

  TWO

  Something jumped her at six a.m.

  He’d found her. Damn it. She lunged for her weapon—came up empty. Desperate, she swept her hands beneath the pillow, searched and ripped at the sheets. Sweat rolled down her face as she braced herself for his laugh, that bitter twist of sound that froze her heart and echoed through her nightmares. Her breath hitched and jammed as she fought a scream, let it ricochet through her mind but never made a sound.

  She would not scream. Not this time.

  Enveloped in blackness, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t break free of the covers trapping her. Hot, stale air suffocated her, sweat ran into her ear and her fingers were useless pieces of sponge.

  A kick to her left kidney left her gasping and was closely followed by a sharp jab in the ear. She wheezed and choked, fought to get out of the heavy blankets to fight back.

  Where am I?

  A glancing smack on the nose made pain explode in her eye sockets.

  Lights went on further down the hall and a soft giggle penetrated her terror. Elizabeth fell back onto the pillows as a smiling cherub peeped over the top of the covers. She’d finally gone insane.

  Hallelujah.

  At least it wasn’t him.

  The child was beautiful. Gossamer fine curls and big dark blue eyes. Elizabeth reached out to touch a silky tress. Jerked her hand away when she realized the little girl was flesh and blood, not a figment of her imagination.

  The child spotted Elizabeth at the same moment and her mouth turned into a round ‘O’ of confusion.

  “Who’re you?” the child asked in a high-pitched whisper. “Where’s Unca Nat?”

  Elizabeth groaned, rubbed her hands over her face as she remembered what had happened last night. Uncle Nat must think she was a freaking nutcase.

  The little girl pulled at the bedclothes, searching for her missing uncle.

  “I can tell you right now he’s not down there.” Elizabeth gave up the tug-of-war with the covers. The creak of a floorboard warned her someone was approaching the room. Her muscles froze, her breath lodged in her chest.

  A large silhouette loomed and she realized it had to be Nat Sullivan. The missing Uncle. She relaxed slightly. He hadn’t hurt her last night when she’d been as vulnerable as a newborn babe—stupid, stupid woman.

  Leaning against the doorjamb he wore a pair of old denims and an unbuttoned shirt that hung loosely over broad shoulders. The shirt gaped briefly over a lean torso that was ripped with muscle before he started to slowly do up the buttons. She averted her eyes, uncomfortable with the rush of awareness that flooded through her and left her breathless.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  The smooth tones of his voice sent warm shivers down her spine. Good shivers—nice shivers—normal shivers. It had been a long time since she’d felt any of those things.

  Glancing up, she caught his gaze. Sleep-rumpled and tired-looking, he’d recently been in a fight, she realized. One eye socket was blackened and a series of yellow-blue bruises ran over his jaw and a nasty-looking graze darkened his full lower lip. Dark eyes, the color of square-cut sapphires, twinkled at her, amused. A wide forehead, heavy blond brows and a thin blade of a nose complemented a mouth that looked both sensual and reserved.

  He dragged a hand through his hair, made it stick up in blond tufts, then rested his hand against the doorframe.

  “Feelin’ better?” His voice curled through her, with that slow, sexy drawl. Moving into th
e room, he smiled an easy smile at the little girl who sat playing peek-a-boo with the covers, and then looked back at Elizabeth.

  Fear shot through her system faster than a lightning strike. Where was her gun...? Damn it!

  Her stomach roiled as she looked down at the child who played on the floor. Thank goodness she hadn’t had it.

  Nat Sullivan came further into the room, blocked the light as he got closer. He was big enough to fill the space.

  Panic raced over her skin like a thousand dancing ants. Elizabeth scooted up the bed and hunched her knees beneath her chin. She wrapped a hand around each ankle as she visually weighed him.

  Could she take him?

  Too big, too strong. All lean sinew and balanced toned muscles. She forgot to breathe, caught off-guard as he reached the bed and stood beside it, hands hooked in the back pockets of his jeans.

  Frantically her gaze searched his face, but there was no malice. No dark intent. The blue eyes sparkled with laughter and despite the firm, hard jaw, his mouth curved into a smile that looked...bruised.

  “Where’d you get the shiner?” Her voice was croaky from disuse, or maybe nerves.

  One side of his mouth kicked up as if he’d forgotten about the bruises or maybe hoped she wouldn’t notice. They must have hurt like hell.

  “Let’s just say I had a slight disagreement with a couple of guys.” He rubbed his bristled chin with a thumb and index finger and she watched, transfixed.

  Nodding, she ran her tongue over dry lips, but shrank away from the interest in his gaze as his eyes followed the movement.

  “I think your mother gave me directions. Does she live here too...?” She strived to sound casual, knew she’d failed when Nat Sullivan straightened and took an offended step away. Annoyed and backing off.

  Thank God.

  “She’s in the hospital just now, but yeah, she lives here.” His brows lowered over don’t-flatter-yourself eyes that no longer looked amused. “My sister Sas stayed there last night after her shift finished—she’s an ER doc. And Ryan, my brother...well, he’s not back yet.”

  She tried to keep a lid on her alarm, chewed at her bottom lip. “So it’s just you and me.”

  She stiffened as he threw back his head and laughed.

  “You, me,” he pointed to the little girl who was pulling books off the shelf at the side of the bed. “Tabitha. Couple hundred head of cattle, seventy-six horses, three dogs, two barn kittens, a donkey and a couple hamsters.” He laughed again and the deep sound filled the room with warmth. “You’re never alone on the Triple H. We’ve got a couple of hands who live out in the bunkhouse and Sas and Ryan’ll probably roll up in time for breakfast. Make the most of the peace and quiet.” He made no secret about looking her over now. “It won’t last.”

  Tabitha broke in, her small piping voice loud in the pre-dawn stillness. “Unca Nat?”

  Elizabeth remembered to breathe as Nat’s attention switched to his niece. Hunkering down he caught her small hand in his, “Yes, Tabby?”

  “Is this your girlfriend?”

  The quiet laughter had a hard edge that made her shudder, and his glance flickered over her as if he’d spotted her reaction.

  “No, Tabitha Rebecca Sullivan, this lady isn’t my girlfriend, and you,” he pointed his finger at her belly and wiggled it, “shouldn’t be in here hassling our guests.”

  He tickled her briefly before he scooped her up under his arm.

  “What you doing, Unca Nat?” Tabitha asked between giggles and shrieks.

  “Looking for you, Squirt.” He tickled his niece again. “And checking up on our guest,” his voice was low and warm as he smiled, “making sure she’s still alive.”

  If you only knew.

  The tension ebbed as Nat Sullivan turned to leave the room. She relaxed with a sigh that turned into a groan as the big wooden headboard pressed unforgiving against her spine.

  “Come on, Tabby. Mizz Reed here looks like she needs more shut-eye. Let’s see if she can stay on her feet for the whole day this time, huh?”

  Ignoring the heat that flooded her cheeks, Elizabeth pulled the covers back onto the bed and glared at him for no other reason than it made her feel better. He winked at her, ignored her scowl even as she felt her blush spread down her neck. He hoisted his niece over one shoulder and strolled out of the room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  She should be so lucky.

  She slumped back into the covers, both bemused and annoyed by Nat Sullivan. “What the hell am I doing here?”

  Her hands cradled her forehead and she closed her eyes. Turned her face to the coolness of the pillow and nearly cried at the thought of getting up.

  It was 6:10 a.m.

  For the first time in months she let herself drift off, sleep stealing her awareness and lulling her into a light doze. The warmth and security of Nat Sullivan’s bed provided a sanctuary that she needed more than her life’s blood.

  ***

  Federal Plaza, NYC, April 3rd

  Marshall Hayes, Special Agent in Charge of the Forgery and Fine arts Division of the FBI held the SAC of the Organized Crime Unit in a two-handed grip, suspended against a wall in the latter’s plush NY office. Nicotine laced Ron’s breath and Marsh was close enough to see the stains on his teeth. Ron’s face pulsed blue-purple, the sort of color that spelled oxygen deprivation and skyrocketing blood pressure. Short legs kicked uselessly off the floor.

  Marsh’s forearms hurt from the strain of lifting dead weight and his biceps vibrated as muscles began to give. He sucked in a deep, deliberate breath, relaxed his hold a fraction and let the fury dim.

  The whites of Ron’s eyes were blood-shot and highlighted the dirty blue of his iris’s. Pudgy fingers clasped Marsh’s wrists like manacles, an intimate embrace between two men who didn’t even like each other.

  Marsh stepped back, jerked his hands away, fingers stiff with residual tension. Ron clung to him as he slid down the wall and landed with a thud. Marsh shook him off, backed away and listened to the heartbeat in his ears go thud, thud, thud.

  Ron Moody wasn’t worth a murder charge. He wasn’t even worth a new suit. Marsh reached down, picked up the gun off the thin beige carpet. Nobody had drawn a weapon on him in years. The type of criminals he dealt with usually used deception and paper trails, not firearms. Ron had been fumbling with his holster from the moment Marsh had opened the door.

  Things must be even worse than he’d realized.

  Marsh flicked the safety on the weapon and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Slumped in the chair opposite Ron’s messy desk, suddenly deflated as adrenaline crashed. Ron was a moron, a classic blue-flamer, who didn’t care who he burnt on the way to the top.

  “If she’s dead, I’ll bury you.” Marsh kept his voice low as he stared at the view dominated by the Brooklyn Bridge. He turned his head, leveled a flat stare at the man on the floor. “I may even kill you first.”

  Ron gave an ugly mutt scowl. He breathed heavily, his hands wigwaming on the carpet on either side of his hips.

  Marsh reached across the desk, pressed the old-fashioned intercom. He needed information, but first he needed caffeine.

  “Can I get a coffee, Alice, please? Better get your boss one, too.”

  Marsh watched Ron silently. The other man’s neck looked too thick for his starched collar; the flesh bulging against the stiff cotton. Ron inserted a stubby finger and leaned back to suck in more air. After a moment, he rose unsteadily to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He stumbled, just enough to be convincing, before he sank into the black leather throne behind his desk.

  Face beet-red, eyes pitifully distressed, Ron rubbed his throat as he waited for Alice to bring in the coffee. Everything about the man confirmed Marsh’s deeply held belief that you should never judge by appearances.

  After she’d left, Ron cleared his throat. “Elizabeth’s not dead.” His voice was raspy and coarse.

  Marsh waited. Sipped his coffee.

  R
on loosened his tie, undid the top button of that constricting shirt.

  “DeLattio was looking at twenty years minimum with what we had on him. He had no chance.” Ron chuckled, leaned back in his chair with a satisfied rocking motion.

  Callous bastard. Marsh clenched his fists tighter, trapped the emotion inside and honed his wrath. To Ron, Elizabeth was nothing more than a means to a career-making arrest.

  “Once we accessed his computer, we found more evidence of money laundering and embezzlement than we’d ever suspected. Hundreds of millions of dollars worth.” Ron pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and swabbed the sweat that streaked his brow. He glanced quickly at Marsh, eyes skittering away before their gazes connected. “But all the players were entered in code. Without DeLattio’s help we couldn’t pull the evidence together to make the arrests.”

  Silence hummed between them. Marsh didn’t want excuses; he wanted a lead, anything to tell him where his agent had disappeared.

  “He’s smart.” Ron shifted in his seat, held Marsh’s gaze for about half a second. Getting braver. “We could find nothing else to pull this thing together, okay?”

  No, it wasn’t okay. It was not, freaking okay.

  Ron crumpled the grubby linen handkerchief under his right hand. “With DeLattio looking at jail time, there was no way he was talking. The DA brokered a deal and now we can wipe out an entire generation of criminals playing the money game. Do you know what that could mean?”

  Marsh knew what it meant all right. Elizabeth hung out to dry. Screwed three ways to Sunday. He let Ron talk, giving the man enough rope to hang himself.

  “Those files contained information on not just the Bilottis, but South American drug-lords, terrorists, government officials, even dirty cops.” Looking calmer now, his color back to a ruddy brick-red, Ron carried on. “Everything went to plan. He never once suspected a woman would have the balls to infiltrate his family’s organization. The bugs she planted worked brilliantly.”