by J. Kenner
“Well, that’s the key. But it’s not a magic pill. You have to talk with her. You have to actually communicate. Scary stuff, right?”
Quince chuckled. “You could say that.”
Dallas flashed his famous grin, the one that had been on the cover of dozens of magazines over the years. “Speak of the devil,” he said, looking over Quince’s shoulder.
Quince turned, saw her walking toward them, and felt the warm swell of pleasure curl through him. It was love, all right. For better or worse, Eliza was in his heart.
“Nikki said she saw you two head this direction.”
“Do you need me?” He stood.
“Always,” she quipped, then turned to look at Dallas, too. “Actually, I was hoping to talk to both of you.”
“Fair enough,” Dallas said, taking his perch on the chair again as Quince gestured for her to sit on the chaise.
“I, um, well, the truth is I wasn’t entirely honest with the prince.”
Quince met Dallas’s eyes, and saw his own wariness reflected back at him. “Okay,” he said slowly. “How so?”
“When he asked about Emma and why she’s qualified to take care of Ariana, to keep the princess safe. Well, everything I told him was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.” She grimaced. “I just—well, it wasn’t my place to say, but there might be a problem.” She looked between the two of them. “So I’m going to tell you.”
Quince held out his hand, and she took it, flashing him a small, trusting smile as she did so.
“You can tell us anything,” he said. “We’ll keep your confidence, and we’ll deal with it.” He looked up at Dallas, who nodded consent. “So what’s going on?”
She drew a breath, then said, “We ran away when Emma was fifteen. She—well, she pushed our father down the stairs. We honestly thought he was dead, and we ran. And then we lived on the street for years, bumming rooms in some really dicey neighborhoods, and Emma would do whatever she had to in order to provide for us. I was still pretty little.”
Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath and looked between them again, as if to see if they were shocked. She must have been okay with what she saw in their faces, because she continued. “Like I said, she did whatever she needed to make sure we were safe, and when she was eighteen, she—well, she killed someone. It was justified, I swear. He would have killed both of us without even blinking. But the cops tagged her, and she had a pretty stuffed juvie record at that point and, I don’t know, I guess they wanted to make an example.” Her voice broke, and a tear trickled down her cheek.
She squeezed Quince’s hand so hard he thought she’d crush his fingers. “They were going for the death penalty. And then, suddenly, all the charges went away. Her lawyer told me it was an evidentiary technicality, and I believed him. I was only eleven, and I was so happy that they weren’t taking my sister. But it wasn’t a technicality. She didn’t have to tell me the truth—she wasn’t supposed to tell me—but we’ve never kept secrets from each other. Not ever.”
“They recruited her,” Quince said, his voice little more than a whisper.
She nodded. “A black-ops group. Government, but buried deep. I think it’s funded by NSC money, but I’ve never been clear. I just know that they trained her and they paid her well. We had a house. A real life. And she really liked the work, too. It was totally Emma, you know?”
“That’s how she became a PI,” Dallas guessed. “That was her cover?”
“Exactly. Anyway, she did it for years. Mostly jobs in the US, but some foreign work, too, though she turned those assignments down until I was old enough to take care of myself.”
“You said she did it for years,” Quince said. “So she quit?”
“A while back. She still does the odd freelance assignment, but she’s legitimately a PI now.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Dallas asked.
“Because I don’t get it. She’s on her own. She stumbled across a scheme to auction off a princess into white slavery. The bad guys got really close to her, and she’s on the run. And the only one she contacts is Marissa?”
“Why didn’t she reach out to some of her old contacts?” Quince said, following her train of thought.
“Exactly. Even if you were completely out of the game, you’d still know how to reach people to help if you were in a jam, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded. “No doubt.”
“It’s a good question,” Dallas said slowly, clearly turning it over in his mind. “And I can only think of one reason that makes sense.”
“Someone in the intelligence community is on the bad side of this thing,” Quince said.
“Exactly.” Eliza sat on the chaise, looking relieved to no longer be shouldering this burden alone. “I didn’t want to tell the prince unless I was sure.”
“Agreed,” Dallas said.
Quince nodded. “I’ll talk to Ryan and we’ll see if we can narrow down a lead, then we can go to him with some solid information.”
She sat beside him, then brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you both,” she added to Dallas.
“No kiss for me?”
“Careful,” Quince said as Dallas and Eliza both laughed. He shook his head, bemused. “Since we’re discussing Emma’s contacts, I’m not sure that she made the right choice reaching out to Marissa.”
“Why not?”
“The timing, for one thing. Someone got to that cabin before we did, but the only one who had that message was Marissa.”
“But she didn’t translate it,” Eliza said. “I did.”
“And you were surprised she hadn’t already managed that,” Quince reminded her. “What if she had? What if she sent the location ahead well before we arrived? You said she’s hard up for cash.”
“No.” Eliza shook her head. “No way. I’ve known that girl since she was tiny, and Lorenzo is like a father to me. There is no way she would sell us out because her stepfather’s being stingy with her allowance.”
“People have done even more for less,” Dallas said.
“I know her,” Eliza said. “You two don’t.”
“El, think about it.”
“I am,” she snapped. “Are you? Because not everyone betrays people who are important to them, Quincy. Not everyone is your father.”
He flinched, but held his ground. “If it wasn’t her, then how did they know about the cabin?”
“I don’t know. Somehow.”
He held her gaze, and she melted a bit. “I don’t do this for a living. How does anyone in this business get information?”
“A bug,” Dallas said, and Quincy nodded slowly.
“Possible. We talked. We loaded up the car. They would have only had a short lead, but that fits with the facts.”
“See?”
He almost smiled. She looked so earnest. Instead, he pulled out his phone and called the office. “Mario,” he said when the young analyst answered. “I need you to get an electronics team to Emma’s PI agency. Do a sweep for bugs and call me back.”
He wrapped up the call and passed her the phone. “Let Lorenzo know they’re coming. Tell him it’s just routine.”
“Thanks,” she said, but to him it sounded like, “I love you.”
And that felt pretty damn good.
21
Quincy’s phone rings as we walk into his condo, and he answers it before the second ring, then gives me a quick nod to signal that it’s the office. “Thanks, Mario. Right. That’s brilliant. You’ll handle it? What? Oh, well that’s too bad, but I appreciate the heads-up.”
I frown. The only reason Mario would be calling is to tell Quincy about the bug search at Lorenzo’s. And from this side of the conversation it doesn’t sound good. I still can’t believe that Marissa is selling information about Emma to sex traffickers, though. That goes against everything I know about her, and I tell Quincy as much the moment he ends the call.
“What?” For a moment he looks confused. Then he grins, pulls m
e to him, and kisses my forehead. “You were right, love. The place was teeming with bugs. The sweepers left them in place and informed Lorenzo and Marissa. We’d rather the bad guys not know we’re onto them yet.”
“Oh, right. Good. But then what was too bad?”
“Red’s fingerprints,” he says. “Turns out there weren’t any.” He wiggles his own hand. “Acid.”
I cringe.
“So that’s a dead end, but at least we know there won’t be any more leaks about Emma’s location through her office.”
“Which really isn’t a problem,” I say, “since we don’t have any idea where she got off to.”
“Hey.” I’m still in his arms, and he tilts my chin up so that I’m looking right at him. “I’m proud of you, love. You pushed for what you believed in, and you’re loyal to your friends. I should have listened to you.”
“Thanks,” I say, ridiculously pleased with his praise. “I appreciate that, but you were doing your job. And part of that job is to be suspicious. Besides, you did listen. That’s how they found the bugs.”
“Right you are,” he says. “We make a great team.”
He leads me to one of the bar stools then goes around and enters the kitchen. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” I feel the need to celebrate.
He pours for both of us, then passes me my glass as he leans on the counter across from me. “I listened to more than your suspicions about the bugs,” he tells me. “I was listening last night, too.”
My chest tightens with a hope I’m afraid to let blossom. “Last night?”
“When you asked if we could try. If we could try to deal with my rages or night terrors or whatever the hell you call the bloody things. If we could try to make it work between us.”
I swallow, my fingers so tight on my wine glass I’m surprised I haven’t snapped the stem. “You said you didn’t know.” My voice is little more than a whisper, and I’m afraid to let myself hope.
“I do know. We can try,” he says, moving out of the kitchen and circling the bar. He stops in front of me, then twists my stool so I’m facing him. “And we can make it happen. Together.”
I hear my pulse beat in my ear. “How?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh, you want to do the work? I think counseling’s on the list. And communication.” He brushes my cheek, and I realize that he’s wiping away a tear. “Baby steps, okay?”
I nod, too happy to form words.
“I want to get past this,” he says. “I want to get past this rage and this darkness so I can be with you. Really be with you. I love you, Eliza. I’ve loved you for a very long time.”
“Quincy, oh God.” My voice is thick with tears. “I like hearing that.”
“Just hearing?” There’s a tease in his voice as his hands slide down to my waist. “I can show you, too.”
“Can you?” I hook my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist as he lifts me, cupping my bottom as he carries me to the bedroom. I laugh, then squeal as he tosses me onto the bed, then follows, caging me beneath him, his mouth attacking mine.
“Eliza,” he murmurs, as his hands roam over me, and we tug and pull and twist until we’re both naked and touching, with lips and hands and a wild passion that makes me laugh with joy and pull him close.
“You feel so good,” I tell him. “Oh, God, that feels so good.”
His hands are roaming all over me. Sliding over my breasts, slipping between my legs. I arch up into his touch, then cry out when his mouth closes over my breast and his teeth scrape my nipple as his fingers slide deep inside me.
I want to surrender completely to him. I crave the sensation of being completely overwhelmed, unable to do anything except fall deep into a sensual assault. But I bite my lip and say nothing. How can I when this feels so good and so right, and I can’t risk destroying this moment? Can’t risk drawing out the darkness.
And what does it matter, anyway? Because I am surrendering. To his touch. To his kisses. To our own shared passion. Baby steps, right? And eventually we’ll get there. Back where we were before. Until then, I let myself go, reveling in the knowledge that it’s my time to take what I want. “Roll over,” I whisper, pushing him as I speak as if in illustration.
His brow rises in amusement, and then with heat once he’s on his back and I’m straddling him. I work kisses down his chest, then lower and lower until I take him in my mouth, enjoying the power I’m claiming. But I don’t just want the taste of him. I want him inside me. I want the connection, the heat. I lean forward, losing myself in a long, slow kiss before rolling on a condom, then lowering my hips until I’m riding him, and the sensation of being filled by this man I love is almost too much to bear.
“Eliza.”
My name sounds like a prayer, and I tremble, arching back as his hands cup my hips, then tighten at my waist as I rock against him. The sensation is so sweet, better still when he slips one of those hands between our bodies and uses his finger to tease my clit. I bite my lower lip, and I’m so close to exploding, and I know that he is, too. And I want it—that final thrust, that brilliant explosion—even while at the same time I never want this feeling to end.
“Eliza, love. Eliza, fuck, it’s the office.”
Only then do I hear the chirp of his phone. A unique ring tone that I understand is the SSA. “Bastards,” I mutter, then slide up his body, curling against him as he answers. “Right,” he says, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. “And we believe him? The Raven? You’re serious? All right. Send them over.”
He ends the call and slips the phone back onto the nightstand. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. Disappointing, sure, but—anyway, was that Ryan? What did he say?”
“Corbu swears he had nothing to do with taking the princess. He says he wouldn’t be that much of a damn fool, but he’s certain he knows which of his lieutenants would be. He says the man’s reckless, he put Corbu’s enterprise in danger, and Corbu wants to take him down. He says he’ll share information in exchange for clemency.”
“Information?”
“His code name. His photo.”
“Raven,” I say, and he nods. “And the photo?”
“Apparently, it’s coming,” he says, right as his phone chirps again. I crawl over him to retrieve it, laughing as he smacks my ass lightly.
“Be good,” I say.
“You’re sure that’s what you want?”
I scowl at him, but inside I’m cheering. This is sweet and easy and playful, and I think that maybe we’re going to be able to conquer that damn, fucking beast that set up residency in the man I love.
His phone is locked, of course, so I pass it to him, then scoot beside him so we can both see the image. It’s a bit blurry, but the guy in the picture is identifiable enough. He’s standing in a doorway, his face almost full on to the camera. He has a strong jaw and chin, deep-set eyes, and thick dark eyebrows. He looks Italian. Frankly, he’s damn good looking, which seems unfair to me considering we know he’s evil.
“Right out of central casting as the sexy bad guy,” I say, expecting Quincy’s laughter. Instead, when I look at him, he’s pale as a ghost. “Quincy? Quince, what is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he hurls his phone across the room, where it shatters against the wall.
I scramble off the bed, taking the top sheet with me without even consciously thinking about it. I just need to be covered. “What?” I say. “Talk to me.”
I’m watching him, wary of the rage that overtook him at the beach. But there’s no rage right now. All I see is cold calculation.
When he looks at me, his eyes are flat. Emotionless. It’s like he’s crumbled into himself, and I have no idea what’s going on.
“Who’s in the picture?” I ask, my voice level and gentle and very afraid.
“A ghost,” he says. “A ghost from Berlin. The ghost of a man I killed.”
22
Rage and fear and pain and darkness. The
y burned inside him, eating him up from the inside out.
Right then, he wanted the monster to rise. Wanted it to consume him. To sniff out the Raven so that Quince could reach down his gullet and rip him apart.
But the monster didn’t come.
Half blind, he got out of bed then pulled on his clothes. He didn’t know where he was going, he just knew what he was going to do.
He was going to find the bloody prick and he was going to slit his throat.
“Quince. Quincy. Goddammit, Quincy, look at me.”
He looked. Through the red haze of memory, he looked at her. And he shook his head. “No.”
“The hell you say.” She was standing as straight as a soldier, her naked body wrapped in a sheet. She was warm and beautiful and perfect, and in that moment he was certain that he should never have drawn her in again. Never let her get close. Because now they were going to be hurt all over again.
Hurt.
The Raven was going to hurt, too. Quincy would kill him—hell, yeah. But he’d make him suffer first. The monster that lived inside him? For the sake of the Raven, Quincy would happily free the beast.
Except it didn’t come. He was too damn numb, and the beast was trapped behind a wall of shock.
“Quincy.”
He just shook his head. “I was a bloody fool, wasn’t I? Thinking that it had all ended. That I could get past it and you and I could frolic through the world in search of a happy ending. Bollocks to that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I said we could try? How? This is my life. My legacy. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to drag you into my torture chamber. I’m not that bloody selfish.”
He was talking in circles and he knew it, but dammit he loved her. Couldn’t she see that he was cursed? Tormented as a child. Tortured as an adult. And now the ghost of bloody Christmas Past was back to haunt him all over again. It never stopped. He’d never be free of the monster, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than what he could give her. Because until the Raven was dead, he had nothing inside him to give. He had to strip down to the core. Rely on his training.
