by Debra Webb
Lacon pushed back his chair and stood. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Marissa couldn’t take her eyes from the screen even as Lacon rounded the table and stood behind her chair, waiting for her to follow his lead. A dozen things she could have said whirled in her head as she rose from her chair, her legs shaky, but none of those things felt right. Instead, she turned and walked out of the coffee shop with Lacon.
He was the only person she trusted in all this.
Colby Safe House, Monday, July 2, 12:50 a.m.
LACON PLACED HIS weapon on the bedside table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this pissed off. He shouldered out of his jacket and pitched it on a chair.
He’d given Michaels an update on the drive back. Like Lacon, the senior investigator couldn’t get right with the timing of the visit from the detectives. How the hell could they have known about the invitation from Anastasia? It wasn’t like they could have followed them from the safe house.
There was always the chance that Nader and Watts had made it a personal mission to watch Anastasia as often as their work schedule would allow. They obviously understood that Bauer’s death was on Anastasia, not to mention a truckload of other murders.
Both men from the scene at the old store were dead. At least now Lacon understood why the tracking device he’d tucked in the one guy’s pocket had never left the neighborhood. Nader had shown them the photos of the bodies. Anastasia’s men had apparently executed the man with the superficial knife wound.
Marissa had been devastated all over again by the photos. He’d watched the tears fill her eyes before she closed herself in her room. For that and so many other things, he wanted to rip Anastasia’s arms from his body and beat him to death with them. Even a slow, torturous death wouldn’t come close to covering what Anastasia deserved.
“Son of a bitch.” He yanked his shirt free of his jeans and started unbuttoning it. He wanted to hurt Vito Anastasia like he’d never wanted to hurt anyone before. Lacon understood that he had crossed the line so far he couldn’t even see it anymore, much less get back to the other side. If he messed up and Issy got hurt...
“Idiot.” Hopping on one foot, he dragged off a boot, tossed it aside. He pulled his backup piece from the other boot, left it on the bedside table and tugged off the other boot the same way. One by one, he peeled off his socks and flung them at the chair.
He exhaled a big breath wrought with frustration and reached for his fly. A knock at the door stopped him in the middle of the task.
One, two, three—he counted to five, reminded himself of his duty in all this, and ordered his body to relax before crossing the room. At the door he stood there, mentally repeating the words—This is a case. She is a client. The agency’s client. His job was to protect her. Not take her to bed. Not get all tangled up emotionally with her.
Don’t screw this up any further.
He opened the door, and she stood there in a T-shirt and nothing else—at least nothing else he could see—staring up at him. “I can’t sleep.”
“Would you like a glass of wine? Maybe a vodka on the rocks?” He would be more than happy with either one or both. Despite his best efforts, his gaze slid down her body, along those long legs and back up to the nipples jutting against the thin fabric of the T-shirt. He was pretty sure a whole bottle of vodka couldn’t quench his thirst right now, or keep him from going any stupider than he’d already gone.
You have so screwed this up.
She shook her head and a tear slid down one cheek.
Oh hell. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight against him. The feel of her soft cheek against his chest made him weak as a kitten.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“Hey now. We’ll get you through this. It might take a little more time, but I’ll keep you safe until we do.”
She turned her face up to his. “I trust you completely. You’re the only person I can trust.” Another tear trekked down her cheek.
Holy hell, he was in trouble here. He swallowed back the warning he probably should have given her—Don’t trust me at the moment. He couldn’t even trust himself right now.
“Let’s go downstairs and get you a nightcap. That’ll help you sleep better.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want anything to drink.”
He held his breath, his heart pounding so hard he was certain she felt the effect she was having on him.
“I want you.”
“Issy.”
She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. He froze. Told himself to resist. Warned himself not to take advantage of her vulnerability.
One soft hand slid inside his jeans. He growled. “Whoa, now.”
She ignored him, her fingers reaching and finding his dick that was hard as a rock. He was doomed. She squeezed him. He shuddered. “Issy.”
Her mouth latched on to his right nipple. She sucked hard. He blinked repeatedly. Struggled to get air into his lungs. With every ounce of willpower he possessed, he pulled her away, those warm fingers slipping away from his dick.
“You’re killing me here.”
Her green eyes sparkled with desire. “You’re an adult. I’m an adult. I don’t see the problem.” She rested her palms against his chest, and his entire body reacted.
“My objectivity is already compromised,” he confessed. “I can’t risk making a mistake with your safety.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Are you saying because you got upset every time Anastasia touched me or stood too close to me that your reaction was a bad thing?”
Irritation—at himself—spiked inside him. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“I see.” Her hands fell away from him, but her gaze locked on his. “I’ll need the number for that Ian Michaels guy who serves as your backup.”
A frown tugged at his brow. “Why do you need his number?” He’d be happy to give it to her and all but...why?
“Because you’re fired.” She braced her hands on her hips. “If you feel compromised by this—” she gestured from her to him “—then you’re fired.”
He had to admit he hadn’t expected that reaction. “I’ll call him right now, if that’s what you want.”
He felt for his phone, remembered that it was in the pocket of his jacket. His hands fell to his sides, mostly because he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “You really want to fire me?”
“No, Lacon. I want to make love with you, but you feel that would compromise you even more and—”
He hushed her with his mouth. Her arms went around his neck and he lifted her into his arms. He kicked the door shut and carried her to the bed. His mind was on fire, his body aching for her. She’d bested him and there was nothing he could do to stop this rush toward crash and burn.
He wanted her.
All of her. Now. This minute. He pulled off her T-shirt, lost his breath at the sight of her naked body. “Man alive.” She was so beautiful.
She came up on her knees, matching his stance. “First, I just want to touch you.”
Taking her time, she touched his face, traced the line of his jaw, the hollows of his eyes, the shape of his lips. When he could move, he did the same, touching her face, memorizing every beautiful detail. His fingers toyed with the shell of her ears, tugged at those lush red curls. They traced each other’s throats. Shoulders. Arms. Fingers. They held their hands up, palm to palm, her creamy-white skin against his rougher tanned skin. Just touching her overwhelmed him.
“My turn,” he whispered.
He backed off the bed, shucked his jeans and then returned to her. He ushered her down onto the comforter and learned the rest of her body all over again. His mouth traced a path over her breasts. He sucked each nipple until she begged him to finish. Her body writhed beneath his touch as he kissed his way down her flat belly and to that sweet spot between
her soft thighs.
He made her come with his tongue, then he did it again with his fingers. Every part of him was hard with need, and she was everything he needed.
“No more,” she murmured. “I want you inside me.”
He moved into position, nudged into her hot, wet opening just an inch or two then he held still and watched her come a third time.
When she was done, he got started, pushing all the way inside, making her scream his name.
He brought her to the edge once more, then he sat back on his heels, pulling her with him, forcing himself deeper inside her. She gasped, those pink lips damp from their kisses, her green eyes glazed with pleasure. He rocked her back and forth until she found that instinctive rhythm in this new position. When those sweet muscles deep inside her tightened on him again, he bent forward and lost himself to the final thrusts that would take him over that edge with her.
When they had caught their breath, he held her tight. Never wanted to let go.
Chapter Eleven
9:30 a.m.
Using Lacon’s sculpted chest as her pillow, Marissa propped her chin on her hands and smiled at him. “I want to hear more.”
He laughed. She felt it rumble through his chest. She loved the sound of his laugh.
“My sister is going to be completely embarrassed about all the stories I’ve told.” He stroked her hair. “She has kids of her own now. She’ll swear to you that she never participated in any of those sneaky pranks.”
His words tugged at something deep in Marissa’s chest. It sounded as if he expected that she would meet his family. No matter how very often she reminded herself that this time was not real, not a foreshadowing of a future together, some part of her simply refused to accept it. Yet the rest of her fully understood that this was only a shared moment trapped between tragedy and uncertainty. Survival was encoded in human DNA, the mind programmed to sort through and to find the most optimistic possibilities and to take them.
She propped a smile into place. “You have my word. I will never tell.”
He cupped her face, his thumb sliding across her cheek, his gaze serious now. “You are so beautiful.”
They’d gotten up at three this morning and eaten, then they’d come back to bed and made love again. And again after that. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. He’d made breakfast around seven, and then they’d ended up back in his bed again. Maybe they would spend the day here hiding from the world.
Tomorrow was soon enough to face reality.
“You make me feel beautiful.”
He pulled her upward, drawing her mouth to his. He tasted like rich coffee and the sweet jam he’d spread on his toast. Her hands rested on his hot skin, and her body relaxed along the length of his.
His cell phone rattled on the table next to his side of the bed. He groaned.
She wanted to tell him not to answer it because she wasn’t ready to let go of this moment, but she rolled onto her back instead and closed her eyes against the intrusion.
“Traynor.” He listened for a bit. “You’re sure about that?” More listening. “Glad to hear it.” A few seconds more of his silence, and then the indistinct murmur of the caller’s voice. “All right. Thank you.”
She held her breath as he tossed the phone back onto the table.
“That was Detective Nader.”
Marissa sat up. Feeling naked at the mention of the detective’s name, she pulled her knees to her chest to cover her bare breasts. “Did he have news?”
Lacon trailed a finger down her leg, drew a circle around her ankle. “He did.” His gaze met hers. “The prints of the two guys they found in the Dumpster came up a match to the ones in your bedroom. So you’re no longer a suspect in Bauer’s murder. They’re now looking to some element of organized crime—considering the two dead thugs are known players.”
“We can connect those two to Anastasia.” Hope bloomed in her chest. “We can take him down.”
Lacon sighed. “I wish it were that easy. We can tell the police what we saw, what we did. We can tell them it was Anastasia who told you to do it. But we can’t prove it. If the goal is to take him down, we need evidence.”
He was right. Damn it. At least one part of the nightmare was over. Yet the relief she had expected would not come. The worry on Lacon’s face told her he wasn’t relieved either. The fact that she had tried to help those two made her angry. They had drugged her and killed her husband, and she’d felt bad she couldn’t save them. She wanted to be glad they were dead but she couldn’t bring herself to have so little regard for human life. What she understood with complete certainty was that those two men had been sacrificed.
She hated Vito Anastasia.
“Anastasia handed the police those two men to keep his promise to me.”
Lacon nodded. “He sacrificed them to prove a point to you.”
She pressed her forehead to her knees and fought back the damned tears. She was sick of crying. Sick of feeling the guilt for things out of her control. “I want to be grateful they’re dead. I want to feel good about it. What kind of person does that make me?”
“This isn’t your fault, Issy. What you’re experiencing is your response to the perfectly orchestrated machinations of an egomaniac. You are the victim, not those two thugs who chose their own destiny.”
She lifted her head and met his gaze once more. “How will I ever be free of him?”
He didn’t respond, because they both knew the answer.
The only way to stop a man like Anastasia was to kill him.
Hampden Court, Noon
THE ONE UPSIDE to the news from the detectives was that her home had been released from evidence. The exterior signs that it had been a crime scene were now gone. No more yellow tape, no red warning bulletin taped to the door. But inside was a whole different story.
Dust from the search for fingerprints was everywhere. Drawers and shelves were disorganized from the rummaging of the police. Upstairs, the sheets from her bed and the pillows had been taken to the lab, so the bare mattress with its glaring round bloodstain was all that remained of where she had slept her last night in her home.
“We can call someone to remove the mattress and have a new one delivered,” Lacon offered. “Pillows, too. Just tell me whether you want soft or firm.”
She nodded. “That would be good. Soft. Definitely soft.”
He checked the brand of her mattress, did a quick search on Google and made the calls. She wandered around the room, surveying her things as if they were foreign objects. It didn’t feel like home anymore. How would she live here again?
“There’s a service we use frequently that can clean everything up for you,” he offered once his other calls were complete.
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll do it.”
She didn’t want anyone else here, touching her things. If there was any possibility of her ever feeling at home again in this place, the effort had to start somewhere.
“Sounds like we have our work cut out for us.” He gave her a wink. “I can handle myself surprisingly well with a mop.”
“I think maybe I’ll have to see that one to believe it,” she teased.
Downstairs, they raided the laundry room for supplies. When Lacon pulled on a pair of plastic gloves that went halfway up his forearms, she had to laugh.
“You know,” he said, ignoring her, “after my mother died, my sister and I usually got stuck with the housekeeping chores.” He shrugged. “We were the youngest. My older brothers were needed in the barn or the pastures. Doing all the fun stuff.”
“You looking for sympathy, tough guy?”
“No, ma’am.” He gave her another of those winks that made her want to smile despite this awful mess.
“Where do you want to start?” She hefted her bucket of supplies. “While you tell me about your terri
ble childhood, I mean.”
He pointed up. “Did you ever have to wash dishes for a whole crew of ranch hands?” He shook his head. “Not a walk in the park.”
“My mother,” Marissa explained as they trudged up the stairs, “was a throwback housewife from the fifties. She wore the apron and made cookies every day. Whatever shopping needed to be done, she took care of it while I was at school. Whenever I was home, she was home. The only exception was if the school needed her.”
“Mine was the same way until she got sick.”
At the top of the stairs, Marissa waited until he stood in front of her. “That must have been really hard. Kids need their mothers, even tough little boys.”
One corner of his sexy mouth hitched up. “You have got to stop tempting me, Dr. Marissa Frasier.”
Despite the fact that he smiled, she heard the sadness in his voice. He was right. This was a case. She was his job. If they were lucky, it would be over soon. She shouldn’t keep prying into his personal life. In a few days he would be long gone.
And then the real hurt would come.
A glutton for punishment, Marissa nudged him into telling her more stories of his childhood while they cleaned. His stories kept her mind off the one currently unfolding in her life. She could not recall ever having seen a man more handsome in yellow plastic gloves and brandishing a bottle of furniture polish.
“Now, you’re prodding all these stories out of me,” he said as they settled in the kitchen for a late lunch. “When am I going to hear more about your childhood? You and your brother must have had plenty of adventures.”
She smiled as she nibbled a cracker. The bread had expired so they had to make do with crackers and cheese. “I was the good girl. Never got into trouble at home or at school.”
His gaze narrowed. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“It’s true. I spent all my time keeping my little brother out of trouble.”
“No slipping out of the house with your friends after your parents were in bed, or sneaking a beer when no one was looking?”
