What would it be like to get involved with a man like Nat Sullivan?
More to the point, could she face a lifetime of regret, wondering what it would have been like to be held in those strong arms and kissed by that beautiful mouth? No matter how short that lifetime may be?
Can I let DeLattio control my life even now?
She could get lost in those blue depths, in the curve of a smile that hooked a single dimple in his left jaw. He lifted his hand and gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she retreated an inch. She wasn’t strong enough. Not yet. She took a half step back, nonplussed, bit her bottom lip.
“Go to bed,” he ordered, as if he hadn’t noticed her staring at him with naked longing a second earlier. “I’ll wake you in a couple hours.”
“Gee, thanks,” she forced a laugh, started to turn away. She wasn’t ready for intimacy, but God she wouldn’t mind a kiss. Better that than the nightmares that usually kept her company.
She hesitated.
“Least I can do. Go.” He slapped her on the backside and she jumped in surprise. She wasn’t somebody who touched very easily, never had been. People usually kept their distance.
She arched a brow at his grinning face. “You may not have noticed, Mr. Sullivan, but I don’t like being ordered around.” As she said it, she turned her back on his smile. The thought of sex should have made her run a mile, but tonight it tempted.
“Oh, I noticed all right,” Nat drawled as she paused in the bedroom doorway and glanced over her shoulder. Then he grinned, looking like a sinner at the gates of Heaven. “But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
***
The insistent beep of his wristwatch alarm pulled Nat from a deep sleep. It took him a moment to remember why he was asleep on the couch in the guest cottage, but when he did, he threw off the blanket and sat up.
Blue’s legs twitched in his sleep as he dreamed of chasing rabbits.
Nat padded barefoot to the bedroom and carefully opened the door. A slice of soft light filtered through from the lounge where the lamp still shone. It cut across the folds and curves of the covers that outlined Eliza’s sleeping form.
She lay flat on her back, her hand thrown up over the pillow behind her head. Quietly, he crossed to the bed, noting her breathing was deep and even, her dark hair tousled around her face. Nat gently pushed it back off her forehead. He told himself he was checking her scalp wound, tried not to savor the softness of the tresses.
“Eliza,” he breathed softly. “Wake up call.”
Nothing. Not even the rhythm of her breathing changed.
“Eliza,” he spoke louder now, “come on, wake up.”
Nothing happened.
Nat touched her shoulder, shook her, and called her name again.
Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the floor, staring down the muzzle of a matt-black handgun. Eliza’s eyes were wide and staring, her breath rapid and shallow.
Nat knocked her hand aside, grabbed her wrist and tore the gun from her rigid fingers.
“What the fuck?” Nat yelled. “You sleep with a gun under your pillow? God! Jesus! Fuck!”
Holding onto her wrist, he slid the gun to the floor and stood as Eliza stared at him with naked eyes so defenseless they just about broke his heart.
What the hell had happened to her?
He gentled his grip on her wrist and slid his palm down until he held her hand. “Eliza, I’m not going to hurt you.”
The clock ticked down the seconds as she said nothing, just stared back at him not quite conscious.
Picking the gun off the floor, he turned to leave. Her voice reached him through the darkness, just a whisper of breath, impossibly quiet.
“I didn’t know it was you, Nat.”
Rage and fury shot through his mind, anger soaking into his soul like a stain. He kept his voice even. Controlled. “It’s okay, Eliza. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in another couple of hours.”
***
Quantico, Virginia, April 12th
“That bitch. That mother-fucking bitch!” Spittle flecked Andrew DeLattio’s chin. He grabbed the orange plastic chair and slammed it into the wall, pounded it until large shards of jagged plastic flew off into a sterile corner of the interview room.
Larry Frazier stood back out of range, nodding the guards away as they tried to enter the room.
DeLattio’s civilized persona cracked a little more each day. Something dark twisted inside him like a feral beast desperate to get out. Juliette Morgan, fed bitch, was going to discover that his first night in her apartment had been just a warm up. He’d make her wish she’d never taken her first breath, never become a government agent, never set foot in New York City.
Irish bitch.
DeLattio swore again. “A fed. The whole time she was a cock-sucking fed.” He clutched his hands to his head and laughed hysterically, “Jesus Christ, I nailed a federal agent and those bastards let me do it.”
It was the first time he’d felt even a kernel of admiration for the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit. They’d never played hardball before. They’d actually made a fool of him.
Larry had the gall to smile.
Andrew’s gaze narrowed and Larry’s smile turned sickly. The little man started to perspire.
“Isn’t that entrapment?” Andrew asked.
“No,” Larry said. He shook his head and stood straighter. “You drugged her and entered her apartment illegally. If she’d invited you back, then maybe you could have argued it. Except, given the state they found her in, they could still press charges for assault of a federal officer.”
The fact that she was an agent must have been the reason she’d never invited him back to her apartment in the first place. Never let him come upstairs, never once let him touch her outside those perfunctory little kisses that had left him sweating. He’d thought she was sophisticated and discriminating—maybe even a virgin. She had captivated him totally, until she’d dumped him.
A growl worked its way up his throat and he clamped his lips together to stop it escaping. He’d practically had to beg her to go out with him. Woo her with flowers, diamonds and chocolates.
And she’d been playing him like a pro.
Clever bitch. Clever, clever bitch.
‘Beware the fury of a patient man.’
He’d show her fury all right.
He wanted to smash down these walls with his bare hands, wanted to smash his lawyer’s nose until it split in two. Sweat dripped down his back, hands clenched into tight fists. He couldn’t stand it. Could not stand it.
Leaning his head against the wall, absorbing the coolness of the plaster though his hot pores, his rage eased as plans formed.
“What else did you find out?” He took a slow, deep breath.
Larry shrugged his bony shoulders in a quick gesture. “Not much. She’s gone on the lam and the FBI is looking for her.”
“That bitch set me up.” Ruined his life, destroyed his family. He took another deep breath, letting the oxygen calm his wrath.
He knew what he had to do.
“Find her.” He held Larry’s gaze, told him without words what it would mean if he didn’t do as instructed. The lawyer nodded, scurried about collecting his papers.
She’d played him for a fool. Even tied up and bleeding, she’d won the first round. But he was gonna get out of here soon, and when he did, she was going to find out the real meaning of revenge.
***
Elizabeth ran fast through a dark forest, missed her footing and cried out as she stumbled, but was up again in a second. She didn’t have time. She couldn’t see through the fog that swirled around her, but she knew she didn’t have time.
Branches snapped and scratched her face and the bare skin of her arms. Hearing a noise, she pivoted, shadows shifting, and realized he was straight ahead of her. Cold dread pierced her heart and she froze, unable to look away from his glowing eyes. Fear clawed like bile in her thro
at as she wheeled to run away again.
Run. Run. Run.
She was crying, sobbing and sucking in deep breaths, desperate for oxygen, desperate to escape.
A quiet murmur rolled over her, the soft sound of gentle love. Light glowed and banished the darkness. Her mother’s sweet face as she held Sean in her arms, a baby still, gorgeous, with big round cheeks and eyes that sparkled.
Tears flowed, the wet warmth seeping into her marrow. She snuggled closer to the source and smiled. Her mother was here. Nothing could harm her now.
***
Nat woke to bright sunshine and the insistent call of a Steller’s Jay. His arm was wrapped tightly around Eliza Reed’s waist, pinning her back against his chest. Her head rested on his other forearm, her dark hair curling softly against his skin. She smelled of lavender and antiseptic.
She’d scared the life out of him last night and not just with the gun. The sound of her sobs had woken him from a deep sleep and he’d rushed through to see what was wrong.
He’d found her thrashing around, frantically clawing the air and gasping for breath. The torment that drove her, even in sleep, made him want to break something. Instead he’d held her until the dream had faded and then, when she’d clung to him with desperate fingers, he’d lain down on the bed next to her and drifted off to sleep. He hadn’t meant to stay.
But now a certain part of his body insisted it wasn’t sleep time anymore.
He shifted backward, trying to escape without waking her. Somehow he knew the last thing she needed was to wake up with a horny male clutching her soft, relaxed body.
Shit.
He eased out of bed and went to get his shirt from the next room. The Glock sat on the floor next to the couch. He picked it up, measured the weight of the deadly-looking pistol against his palm. He preferred a rifle, but the Glock in his hand was a pretty sophisticated weapon. Something a woman in law enforcement might carry.
He ground his teeth and tried not to think about why Eliza slept with a loaded gun beneath her pillow. What was she scared of? Or maybe she was just crazy. But he’d seen her take care of herself in a hostile crowd, knew she wouldn’t threaten easily. Maybe she was paranoid after years on the job?
And then again, maybe not.
Carrying the pistol through to the kitchen, he put it down on the worn countertop. Eliza had said she’d been in law enforcement, but that covered a lot of bases. Cops to feds to spooks, even the military had their own brand of law enforcement personnel.
She was running from something.
Too weary to think straight, he set about making coffee to wake up his brain. He’d been gone for three days, checking the snow loads in the summer pastures and taking the latest wolf-pack photographs he’d been commissioned to shoot. The work had gone like a dream, the thaw and warm weather bringing the wolves out of the den to loll in the sunshine.
He’d photographed the pack often over the last ten years, had named them all. Pups were due any day now, the alpha female fat and awkward with her bulging belly. Once he got those shots, he was toying with the idea of putting together a coffee-table book. It wasn’t much, but it might keep the creditors at bay for a little while longer.
Out the small kitchen window, he could see Ryan heading to the barn. With Cal out of action he had to get to work. He had four pregnant mares to check and wanted to see how Red was shaping up. He was also thinking about selling the Cayuse ponies to the Wild Horse Research Center in Porterville. Either that or try to get access to some semen from a different stallion. One of the mares was due to come into season soon.
He poured coffee then swept the Glock off the counter, and slipped it into the back of his waistband. He picked up two steaming mugs and walked through into the bedroom.
“Hey, sleepy head, rise and shine.”
Eliza sat up slowly. She looked tired and groggy, her green eyes blurry and her hair a mess. He’d half hoped the sight of her first thing in the morning would kill off his desire, but he was doomed to disappointment. She looked shockingly beautiful, fragile and stark without her defenses to hide behind.
Putting down the coffee on the bedside table, he took the gun out of his waistband, laid it next to the mug.
She watched him anxiously, eyeing the gun from beneath dark brows.
There was a photo next to the bed. A man and woman, each holding a small child. He picked it up.
“Who’s this?”
The small muscles of her face froze, turning her expression brittle.
“My parents and little brother.” Her voice was quiet, loaded with pain.
“They still around?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. People didn’t mourn the living.
She shook her head and he didn’t think she was going to tell him anything more, but the words trickled out.
“They were killed at a border crossing during the troubles in Northern Ireland.” She picked at a thread on the bedspread. “Sean wasn’t even two years old.”
He looked at the photograph and recognized the little girl clinging to her daddy’s knee. She looked seven or eight. Looking at the little boy he realized her parents must have died not long after it was taken. Hell. He couldn’t imagine growing up without a family.
“I’m sorry,” Nat said. She nodded, obviously not comfortable with the emotions, even after all this time. He set the picture down. Changed the subject.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Sore,” she admitted, looking grateful to talk about something else.
“Sore where?” He took a big sip of coffee.
“Head, neck, arms, legs, back,” Eliza told him, tentatively touching each body part. “Pretty much everywhere.”
Nat went to the bathroom, rummaged through the medicine cabinet for Tylenol. Shaking out two tablets, he thrust them into her hands along with the coffee, leaned closer and examined her head wound for signs of fresh bleeding, keeping his perusal strictly professional. He was damned proud of himself for not sneaking a peek down her nightshirt and trying to get a visual on the body he’d held.
There was a thin red welt on her hairline, not too serious. Sarah would check her out later and, if he knew his sister, would have both patients down in the ER before they could blink.
“It’s starting to heal over,” he said. His eyes drifted down her chest, her nipples clearly outlined by thin cotton.
Hell.
Nat took a step back from the bed and tried not to think about how soft she’d felt in his arms, how feminine. Softness wasn’t something he’d associate with women like Eliza Reed.
She stretched her arms over her head, unaware of his thoughts. A Blue Jay’s T-shirt fell mid-thigh. The blankets slid lower, and the T-shirt hitched higher, and try as he might, Nat could not tear his eyes away.
His mouth went dry while his heart beat painfully in his chest.
“I, uh, I.” He couldn’t get the words out.
Eliza shoved her hair out of her face with one hand, and almost inhaled the coffee. She seemed unaware of the effect she was having on him. He should have marked it down as progress, but he couldn’t quite muster straight line thoughts.
“Gotta go,” he mumbled and turned away to leave.
“Nat?”
He forced himself to stop. Forced himself to look into her green eyes without revealing a hint of the desire that stretched his nerves to breaking point.
“Thanks,” she said and smiled.
TEN
Brooklyn, New York, April 12th
Marsh hammered on the door of the Brooklyn apartment. The paint on the pale blue door was cracked and peeling with age. The buzzer was broken, but written on the label in faded black ink was the name ‘Maxwell’.
Could Josephine Maxwell’s father really still be alive?
He glanced down the littered corridor, tried to ignore the smell of filth and urine that rammed his senses. Marsh hammered on the door again and was rewarded by a muffled shout from within.
He held his b
ody tense in anticipation as adrenaline rushed in. Josephine Maxwell could be inside. Marsh stood back as he heard a lock turn and the bolt slide. The door opened a crack and a single eye peered through the gap. The eye was bloodshot, the tiny capillaries fractured and burst. The lone iris was an almost transparent blue with yellow-tinged whites that suggested liver damage. The face was heavily wrinkled and filthy, dirt ground into it like an old doormat.
The apartment loomed dark and empty behind the man, like a warlock’s cave.
The man’s open mouth revealed yellow, rotten teeth and ruddy gums. Marsh forced himself not to recoil from the stench of hard liquor and decay that came from the rank orifice. He smiled and tried not to gag.
“Mr. Maxwell?”
The eye turned from ornery to suspicious in a flicker. “Who wants to know?” The voice was weak, almost hoarse.
“My name’s Hayes. I’m with the FBI.”
The pupil dilated. “I ain’t done nothin’,” the man declared loudly.
“No sir,” Marsh said, “I just want to talk to you for a moment.” Marsh pushed his ID through the crack, willing the man to open the door and cooperate. They could do this the easy way, or they could do it hard. But the hard way was bureaucratically noisy and he wanted to keep his visit here as unofficial as possible.
“I got nothin’ to say to you. Leave me alone.” Maxwell thrust Marsh’s ID back at him and tried to close the door.
Marsh wedged his Italian brogues into the gap and tried a different approach. Pulling a half-bottle of whiskey out of his overcoat pocket, he waved it enticingly; Maxwell’s eyes locked onto it like a ground-to-air missile.
“I just need a couple of minutes of your time, sir. There’s no problem, just some routine inquiries.”
Marsh jiggled the bottle, his stomach turning as he watched the old man lick dry lips and unchain the door.
“I won’t cause you any trouble, sir. Just a few questions and a quiet drink.”
Maxwell made a lunge for the bottle, but Marsh tucked it safely back into his pocket and edged past him into the apartment. The squalor hit him immediately, nothing he hadn’t seen before, but rank and filthy nonetheless. He walked down a small dingy hall before he entered the lounge. It was dark, except for the flickering of the TV. Marsh snapped on the main lights and immediately wished he hadn’t. The couch dominated the room. Old, brown velour, covered with a rancid looking sleeping bag.
Crimes of Passion Page 42
