“If it’s my blood—my tainted blood—that has the answers? What does that make me? Inhuman?”
Rafe took her hand and kissed it. “Don’t do that.”
She shook her head and tried to pull her hand away, but Rafe didn’t let go. “If my blood is the answer, then take it. We end this now.”
“We didn’t kill Envy; we slowed it down so it could be captured. We don’t know what will contain Lust. And I’m not risking your life until we have a solid plan.”
Rafe kissed her on the top of her head, her forehead, her temple. “You’re scared,” he whispered in her ear. “So am I.”
“I live my life in fear. I know what’s out there. I want to run away so badly, but there’s no place to hide. I can die cowering in a dark room or I can die fighting.”
“Death is not the only option.”
She stared at him. He was only inches from her. “Eventually it is,” she said. “Or I can join my mother and sacrifice people so I, too, can be immortal,” she added sarcastically. “Did I do enough to save Nadine? I keep playing the scene over and over and don’t know what else I could have done.”
Rafe stepped closer and she tried to step back, but the dresser was in her way. His proximity had her hormones rushing every which way, making her confused and nervous. She turned around, facing the mirror, Rafe right behind her. The power of his gaze in the reflection held her captive.
Rafe had never met anyone outside of St. Michael’s who had more internal fortitude than Moira. He’d never met anyone in or out of St. Michael’s who cared as much about the fate of others. But it wasn’t just what she was willing to do in this supernatural battle; Moira had an inner spark, a strength that belied her stated willingness to die for humanity. She would never go down without a fight, and she wanted to live. He saw it in the way she recognized and appreciated beauty in the world, even when they were surrounded by ugliness and evil. She gave him hope; she gave him strength; she made Rafe a better human being. Only with Moira did he feel he wasn’t stumbling on the path drawn for him by St. Michael’s, God, or the devil.
If Moira hadn’t found him two weeks ago, he would have died. He owed her his life, but he also felt deep inside that she’d also saved his soul.
“You did everything you could, Moira.” His fingers trailed up her face, gently skirting the bruises, brushing aside a curl that had escaped her hair tie. “You were faced with something you’d never faced before, and you acted because you care.”
“I don’t want to care,” she whispered.
“It’s not a choice. It’s in your heart.”
She cast her brilliant blue eyes downward, breaking the lock on his gaze. “I’ve spent my life not caring, just doing what needs to be done.”
“That’s a lie.”
Her body tensed under his hands. Her head shot up, a flash of fire in her eyes as she glared at him in the mirror. Good. They’d need that fire, that confidence, when they walked into Wendy’s lair tonight.
“You don’t know me.”
She tried to step to the side, but he wouldn’t let her pass, trapping her against the dresser. She was going to listen to him. “You haven’t spent your life not caring, you’ve spent your life trying not to care. But I know you, Moira—stop.” He put a finger on her lips when she opened her mouth to argue. “I see who you really are, underneath the armor. You care, and it hurts because you can’t save everyone. But still, you go on, every day, fighting a battle you didn’t start, you never wanted, because it’s the right thing to do. Most people ignore evil. Of those who believe in evil, few do anything but kneel and pray. Most people shy away from those in need—like those bystanders watching Nadine go crazy and kill herself. And while we need everyone doing what they can, most aren’t willing to put their lives on the line to save any soul but their own. I admire you more than you can possibly know. You give me strength, Moira, strength I never knew I had.”
Moira was speechless. Rafe’s impassioned expression touched her deep inside, in a place she didn’t know still existed. A door opened in her heart, just a crack, but Rafe’s foot was in the way and she couldn’t slam it shut. A door that had been locked tight for seven years, since the day Peter died.
“Rafe—” Her voice sounded rough around the edges.
He leaned over and kissed her neck, his breath a whisper across her skin. He kissed her again, lightly, moving to her jawline, a tickle, a hint of something more, a promise. Confident and unyielding even in the delicacy of his touch. His thumb brushed across her lips and she kissed it, drawing it into her mouth. He tasted salty and warm and sexy.
She gasped when his other hand moved up her shirt and pulled her tightly against him, his hand under her breasts. His firm chest against her back, his pelvis rigid against her rear, she felt both wildly free and deliciously trapped. His kisses became more urgent, against the back of her neck, to the side, and she tilted her head back against his shoulder, giving him access to her throat. He bent over her shoulder and licked her throat greedily, then stepped forward, pressing her thighs against the dresser with the weight of his body.
Moira’s thoughts fell away as all she wanted was Rafe’s body on hers. His legs were on either side of hers, his penis hard against her backside. His mouth on her neck, her jaw, her ear. She turned her head to kiss him, and he responded with a groan as he adjusted his position, his body mimicking lovemaking though they were fully clothed. The dresser moved and she used her arms to brace herself. Rafe had her bra undone and was kneading her breasts, pleasure winning over pain. She gasped as his thumbs rubbed her nipples, at first gently, then harder until she squirmed, her breath coming in short bursts.
There was no reason, there were no thoughts, as Rafe unzipped her jeans, his fingers slipping under her panties. This was it, she’d been apprehensive about this moment, but she was ready to risk everything for Rafe. Even her heart. She tensed, shaking, but didn’t try to stop him.
Rafe slowly removed his fingers before they touched that one spot that needed attention. He eased up her zipper and used both hands to close the button. She opened her eyes and looked at Rafe’s reflection. Their skin glowed with perspiration; her face was flushed. Her neck was red from Rafe’s stubble, and one breast peeked out from her shirt. Rafe didn’t say a word, but stepped back and rehooked her bra, unhurried, and pulled her shirt back down.
“Rafe—” She didn’t know what to say.
He wrapped his arms around her, rested his chin on the top of her head and let out a long breath.
That sensation, of renewal and discovery, besieged her and she swayed, her knees suddenly weak. He held her steady.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re wrong.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” she said, pushing backward, but he didn’t let go. She wasn’t thinking at all, she only felt, and her senses were overwhelmed by their combined emotions.
He whispered in her ear as he kissed it. She shivered, wanting him to keep going, wanting him to stop. He said, “You’re trying to find any excuse to deny these feelings we have for each other. I know you, Moira. You don’t believe me, but I know you. Deny all you want, convince yourself that I would settle for only one night. But the way I feel for you isn’t fleeting. It’s not a whim. It’s certainly not supernatural. It’s my heart. It beats for you, Moira.”
He dropped his arms, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She really didn’t like how Rafe saw her for who she was. It made her vulnerable. She turned around, was about to say something, but he kissed her lightly on the lips, his fingers barely touching her chin, and all words disappeared.
“I’m sure he’s gone by now.”
For a split second, Moira didn’t know who Rafe was talking about. Then she shook her head to clear it and stepped away from him.
Breathe. Again. Better.
She looked out the window. Grant Nelson’s unmarked sedan was indeed gone. “You’re right.”
She turned back to Ra
fe, and he handed over her backpack so she could recheck her supplies—though she knew everything was there.
She felt momentarily light-headed. When the sensation went away she had a new, odd feeling that she didn’t have time to analyze—and didn’t know if she wanted to.
She cleared her throat and grabbed a water bottle off the counter, drained half of it in one long gulp, then handed the rest to Rafe.
A knock on the door had her sighing in relief.
“Duty calls,” she said.
Rafe looked through the peephole. “It’s Jackson.”
“Twenty-nine minutes,” she said as Rafe opened the door. “Right on time.”
SIXTEEN
It was after eleven by the time Grant finished the report on Nadine Anson’s death and started for home. He’d written most of it while sitting outside the Palomar. He didn’t know why he thought those two from Santa Louisa would be up to something, but he didn’t feel right leaving them on their own. He hoped they’d screw like rabbits and leave his case alone.
Grant didn’t consciously make the detour toward Velocity. It wasn’t out of his way, since he lived just the other side of the 405 in West L.A. He was so exhausted he was practically asleep on his feet, but he wanted to talk to Julie about Nadine. He wished he could have told her in person, but he’d been tied up on the scene, then wanted to make sure Moira O’Donnell and her boyfriend actually checked into the hotel as they said they would. He had a dozen questions and every time he thought he had an answer, another ten questions popped up.
He squirmed at the thought of the two of them in a solitary hotel room. He didn’t particularly like Raphael Cooper. He was too quiet, for one thing, and watched everything with sharp eyes. Grant didn’t like being scrutinized by anyone, particularly Cooper. And he was always standing just behind Moira, like a bodyguard ready to pounce on any man who wandered too close.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wondered where that thought had come from. Moira was certainly his type, all that thick wavy hair and athletic body and sarcastic mouth. But he didn’t go after attached women. He shouldn’t even be thinking about getting her naked beneath him, but it had been on his mind since he’d met her, though that didn’t mean much. Grant usually assessed women as potential lovers. But when he’d seen Moira unconscious and vulnerable in the alley behind Velocity … he’d wanted her.
The line outside Velocity was long, but as a regular and a cop Grant had access whenever he wanted and he used his privilege tonight.
He looked around for Julie but didn’t see her. Sitting at the bar, as far from the dance floor as he could get, he rubbed his temples. A bitch of a migraine had solidified its position dead center after he watched Nadine Anson lose her mind, then her life. It made no sense, and he had been running through the scene over and over again trying to understand what happened to her. But all it did was make his migraine worse.
He should feel elated—she’d confessed right there with witnesses that she’d killed “them.” Not specifically who, but Nadine’s prints were all over George Erickson’s house. It was enough that his chief would close the case and tell him to pick up one of the other fifty case files sitting on his desk.
But Grant didn’t feel satisfied with closing the case with so many unanswered questions. This case—these cases—disturbed him. He was a good cop, but he cut corners like most. Knew what lines he could cross and which he couldn’t. Had he cut a corner he shouldn’t have? Had he let his friendship with the staff here at Velocity cloud his judgment?
“On the house,” Ike said, sliding over Grant’s off-duty beverage of choice, a bottle of Heineken. “You look like you need a couple shots of whiskey.” He nodded toward the bandage on Grant’s face. “I heard what happened.”
“I had paperwork up the ass, otherwise I would have come in earlier.”
Ike waved off his apology. “You want to get good and drunk, I’ll get you a cab, no problem.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Just this one for me. Early morning. I wanted to talk to Julie. Is she still here?”
“Yeah. Wendy let some of the girls off early, but Julie said she’d stay. I think she’s waiting for you.”
Grant shifted on the stool. His and Julie’s on-again/ off-again relationship wasn’t doing either of them any good, but he couldn’t say goodbye. Sure, they weren’t together anymore—they screwed around with others—but neither of them had claimed they wanted to keep their friendship strictly platonic. Grant didn’t want a relationship with anyone. He already had one failed marriage and more failed relationships than he could count on his fingers and toes combined. What he and Julie had was an agreement, though he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. She deserved better. He hoped she found someone who treated her with the respect and love she deserved. Grant cared for her—but she was too good for him. Most women were. Fortunately for his libido, they didn’t seem to know it.
“Tell her I’m here, okay?”
Ike gave him a thumbs-up and walked away. Thank God; Grant didn’t want to talk anymore. The throbbing dance music, which he could usually push to the back of his mind, was punishing with its heavy bass. He tried to focus on the eye candy that filled the trendy club. Like that blonde at the bar being hit on by two guys. Early twenties, small but perky tits, a little chunky around the hips, but he didn’t mind. She caught his eye and he winked. She smiled, enjoying putting on the show, touching one of the men flirting with her.
Slut.
Another blonde walked by and hesitated beside him. He ignored her, though she was hotter than Ms. Perky-Tits. His thoughts disturbed him. He never thought of women as sluts. Some were too loose for his tastes, but they were few and far between. He didn’t expect them to behave better than he did.
Sheriff Skye McPherson was a blonde. Quite a looker, too, better than most of the women in his division. But she was a cop. Physically, Grant would be happy to have her in his bed, but he didn’t date anyone in law enforcement. Period. They were either man-haters or too damn competitive. He wanted someone who was strong and self-sufficient, but also soft and feminine. Gorgeous, but unpretentious; independent, but affectionate.
Someone like Moira O’Donnell. Someone exactly like Moira O’Donnell.
She’d been on his mind since Grant saw her in the morgue early in the afternoon. Gorgeous, check. Definitely not conceited or pretentious. Didn’t flaunt her good looks like the sluts who frequented Velocity. In fact, Grant suspected that Moira wouldn’t set foot in Velocity for fun. He imagined that she enjoyed beer by the pint and rowdy laughter and would know exactly how to please him. She was physically sculpted—he’d seen her muscles, her lean, hard, flat stomach, and pictured what it would be like to have her ride him all night long. No strings attached.
Self-sufficient and independent, check. But he saw her lean on that long-haired jerk who wouldn’t leave her side. Raphael Cooper. What kind of name was Raphael? Or Rafe? A sissy name. And he let her just run the show. Overprotective. She could do so much better than that loser. He didn’t even have a job. Grant had checked on him. He’d been in a fucking coma until two weeks ago. She probably felt sorry for him; that’s why she was at his side. Maybe they weren’t involved.
They’re sharing a hotel room.
Grant pushed that thought aside, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling hot and cold at the same time, trying not to picture Moira O’Donnell screwing the too quiet, pompous, overprotective asshole.
She needed someone like Grant.
He would show Moira O’Donnell who was on top, and she’d enjoy every minute.
“Grant?”
He blinked, then saw Julie standing next to him, concern on her face. Guilt coursed through his body; he’d been thinking about fucking another woman while waiting for the one he’d been screwing most every weekend for the last six months. He had a flash of Julie and Moira in his bed, and his cock tightened uncomfortably.
He flushed. Why was he here?
Nadine.
“What’s
wrong?” Julie’s voice cracked.
Wrong. “You heard about Nadine.” He cleared his throat and focused. He was a cop first. “I’m so sorry, Julie.”
Julie’s green eyes brimmed with tears. “I was stunned. Still am. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. What happened, Grant? The cop who talked to Wendy and me said she committed suicide? I don’t believe it. I—”
“I was there. She was on drugs. I don’t think she walked into the traffic on purpose; it was like she was hallucinating.”
She touched his face. “You were hurt.”
“It’s fine.”
Julie stared at him. He took her hand. Her skin was so soft. He squeezed. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to go home—Wendy said I could, she called in a few people. I just—I don’t want to be alone.”
“Come to my place.” He kissed her forehead. Her scent made him shiver; why hadn’t he noticed how good she smelled before? He pulled her to him, hugged her tightly, breathed in her hair. Kissed her neck, held her.
“Please—my place. You still have some of your things there. And I have that massage oil you like so much.” She touched his face. “Do you have a headache? You don’t look so good.”
“A migraine.”
She kissed him. “You know I can get rid of it for you.”
Julie was inventive in bed, and would do anything he asked. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Let me get my purse.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t—”
“I want to.”
He wasn’t letting her out of his sight.
In the employee room, he locked the door. “Julie, come here.” He unzipped his pants.
What are you doing? Not here—
“Grant—”
“Please. It’ll make us both feel better.”
A cloud crossed Julie’s face, but he pushed her doubt aside.
“You know I make you feel better.”
She nodded. “We have to be fast.” Her bottom lip quivered.
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