Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  Although she was worried he might not appreciate someone obstructing justice on his behalf, Vin just nodded once, like he was the kind of man who'd handled things in the same way Trez did. “Tell him I appreciate it.”

  “I will.”

  In the silence that followed, Vin ran his thumb up and down his mug's thick handle. “Listen, I didn't do anything to those two guys last night. Well, other than what you saw me do to them. I didn't kill them.”

  “That's what Trez said.” She took a sip and had to agree with him: The coffee was superb. “And I didn't mention anything about you or your friend when I spoke with the police. I didn't tell them about the fight at all.”

  Vin frowned. “What did you say?”

  “Just that the two guys had been harassing me. That Trez spoke with them, and when that didn't work, they were escorted from the club. Turns out that was what the two other witnesses who'd come forward maintained as well so it all matched.”

  “Why did you lie for me?” he said softly.

  To avoid his eyes, she looked out the window next to them. The river, which seemed close enough to touch, was sluggish and opaque, thickened by the rain they'd had earlier in the week. “Why, Marie-Terese?”

  She took a deep drink from her mug and felt the coffee warm its way down into her belly. “For the same reason Trez did. Because you protected me.”

  “That's dangerous. Given what you do.”

  She shrugged. “I'm not worried.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Vin rub his face and wince as if the bruising hurt. “I just don't want you risking more trouble down the line for my sake.”

  Marie-Terese hid a smile. Funny, some things a man could say made you feel warm all over—not because the words were sexual, but because they went beyond that lowest common denominator and into more important, more meaningful territory.

  Fighting the pull of his voice, his eyes, his savior routine, she said, “I'm sorry I left so quickly last night. You know, from the locker room. I was just…rattled.”

  “Yeah…” He exhaled on a curse. “And I apologize for flipping out like that—”

  “Oh, no, it's okay. It…didn't appear you had much control over it.”

  “Try none.” There was another long pause. “I hate to bring it up again, but what did I say to you?”

  “You don't know?” He shook his head. “Was that a seizure?”

  His voice grew tight. “Guess you could call it that. So…what did I say?” He's coming for you…

  “What did I say?” Vin reached across and put his hand lightly on her arm. “Please tell me.”

  She stared at where he touched her, and thought…yes, and sometimes it wasn't even what a man said that made you warm—just the feel of his palm resting above your wrist was enough to heat your entire body.

  “Your pancakes,” the waitress said, breaking the moment. As they both sat back, the woman put down a plate and a little stainless-steel pitcher with a flop top. “More coffee?” Marie-Terese glanced in her half-empty mug. “For me, please.”

  Vin got busy with syrup, pouring out a thin amber stream over three big, fat golden circles. “Mine aren't that high,” Marie-Terese said. “When I make them…they're not that golden or that high.”

  Vin let the lid on the syrup bounce shut and picked up his fork, cleaving through the stack, carving out a forkful. “I'm sure your son doesn't complain.”

  “No…he doesn't.” Thinking of Robbie made her chest burn, so she tried not to remember how he'd looked at her with such love and awe when she'd flipped those homemade flapjacks for him.

  The waitress returned with her pot of coffee, and after she'd poured and left, Vin said, “I'm really hoping you'll answer my question.”

  For no good reason, she thought even more of Robbie. He was an innocent that she'd ended up dragging into a harsh life thanks first to the bad husband she'd picked and then the way she'd chosen to clean up the financial mess she'd found herself in. Vin was not dissimilar. The last thing he needed was getting sucked into the black hole she was trying to get out of—and he'd already proven he had a come-to-the-rescue complex. At least where she was concerned.

  “It was just nonsense,” she murmured. “What you said was nonsense.”

  “So if it doesn't matter, there's no reason not to tell me.”

  She stared out the window at the river again…and called forth all her strength. “You said, 'Rock, paper, scissors.'” As his eyes shot to her face, she forced herself to meet his stare and lie. “I have no idea what it means. To be honest, it was more what you looked like than what you said that made me nervous.”

  Vin's eyes bored into hers. “Marie-Terese…I have a track record with those kind of things.”

  “Track record how?”

  He resumed eating, as if he needed to do something to cut the tension. “In the past, when I've gone into that state and said stuff…it comes true. So if you're keeping whatever it was from me for privacy's sake, I understand that. But I strongly urge you to take whatever it was very seriously.”

  Her cold hands squeezed her hot mug. “Like you're some kind of fortune-teller?”

  “You're in a dangerous line of work. You need to be careful.”

  “I am always careful.”

  “Good.”

  There was another long period of quiet, during which she stared at her coffee and he focused on his food.

  It was pretty easy to guess that the “careful” thing was not just about creeps chasing after her. It was about other aspects of the job.

  “I know what you're wondering,” she said quietly. “How can I do it in the first place, and why don't I stop altogether.”

  When he eventually spoke, his voice was low and respectful, like he wasn't judging. “I don't know you, but you don't seem like…well, some of those other women at the club. So I'm guessing something must be pretty damn wrong for you to be in that line of work.”

  Marie-Terese looked out the window again and watched a branch float on by. “I'm not like most of my colleagues. And let's just leave it at that.”

  “All right.”

  “Was that your girlfriend last night?”

  He frowned and lifted his mug to his lips. After he took a deep sip, he cocked an eyebrow. “So you're allowed to keep secrets, but I can't?”

  She shrugged and thought, damn it, she needed to keep her mouth shut. “You're right. That's not fair.”

  “Yes, she's my girlfriend. At least…well, she was last night.”

  Marie-Terese actually bit her own lip to keep from pressing him for details. Had the pair of them broken up? And if so, why?

  Vin resumed eating, but his broad shoulders did not relax. “Can I say something I shouldn't?”

  She stiffened as he stared over at her. “Okay.”

  “Last night I fantasized about being with you.”

  Marie-Terese slowly lowered her mug. Yeah, okay…and there were some things a man could say that made you hotter than hell. And some looks that were as tangible as touches. And both of those together, coming from the man across from her…

  In a stunning rush, her body responded, her breasts tingling at the tips, her thighs tightening, her blood racing…and the effect shocked her. It had been so long—forever, actually—since she'd felt anything remotely sexual toward a man. And yet here she was in this diner, sitting across from a huge no-no in a cashmere sweater, experiencing for real something she'd been faking every night with strangers.

  She blinked quickly.

  “Shit, I shouldn't have said anything,” he muttered.

  “Oh, it's not you. Honest.” It was her life. “And I don't mind.”

  “You don't?”

  “No.” Her voice was a little too deep.

  “Well, it wasn't right.”

  Her heart stopped in her chest. Okay, that little comment was better than a gallon of ice to get rid of those warm fuzzies.

  “Well, if you're feeling guilty,” she said roughly, “I think you'
re confessing to the wrong woman.”

  Maybe that was why he'd hit a bad patch with the girlfriend.

  Except Vin shook his head. “It wasn't right because I imagined paying for you and I., didn't like how that felt at all.”

  Marie-Terese put her mug down on the table. “And why is that.”

  Although she knew the answer: because someone like him could never be with somebody like her.

  As Vin opened his mouth, she held up one palm and reached for her purse at the same time. “Actually, I already know. And I think I'd better get go—”

  “Because if I were with you, I would want you to pick me.” His eyes flashed up to hers and held on. “I would want you to choose me. Not be with me because I paid for it. I would want you…to want me and want to be with me.”

  Marie-Terese froze with her body halfway out of the booth.

  He continued softly. “And I'd want you to enjoy it as much as I know I would.”

  After a long moment, Marie-Terese eased back down into her seat. Picking up her mug again, she swallowed hard and heard herself talking—although it wasn't until after she'd spoken that she realized what she'd said: “Do you like redheads?”

  He frowned a little and shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Why?”

  “No reason,” she murmured from behind her coffee.

  Chapter 18

  A crossroads meant you went left or you went right, Jim thought as he lay stretched out on the garage floor, a wrench in his hand.

  When you came to a crossroads, by definition, you had to pick a course, because going straight on the path you were on was no longer an option: You got on the highway or stayed on the surface road. You passed this car on the dotted line or stayed behind him to keep safe. You saw an orange light and either sped through or started to slow.

  Some of these decisions didn't matter. Others, unbeknownst to you, put you in the path of a drunk driver or kept you out of his way.

  In Vin's case, that ring he was sitting on was the equivalent of a right hand turn that took him out of the way of an eighteen-wheeler that was just about to hit a patch of black ice: What the guy did now meant everything to his life and he had to hit that direction signal and get onto the new road fast. The SOB was running out of time with his woman and had to pull the trigger on that all important question before she—

  “Fuck!”

  Jim dropped the wrench that had slipped and shook out his hand. All things considered, he probably needed to pay a little more attention to what he was doing; assuming he wanted to keep his knuckles where they were. Trouble was, he was consumed with the whole Vin thing.

  What the hell did he do with the guy now? How did he motivate him to ask for that woman's hand in marriage?

  In his old life, the answer would have been easy: He'd have just put a gun to Vin's head and dragged the fucker to the altar. Now? He needed to be a little more civilized.

  Sitting back on the cool concrete floor, Jim glared at the piece-of-shit motorcycle that he'd been carting around since he'd landed back in the States. It hadn't worked then and it didn't now, and going by his half-assed rehabbing job this morning, its future didn't require shades. Christ, he had no idea why he'd bought the thing. Dreams of freedom, maybe. Either that or, like any guy with a set of balls, he was into Harleys.

  Dog looked up from the patch of sunlight he'd been snoozing in, his shaggy ears pricking.

  Jim sucked on the knuckle he'd skinned. “Sorry I cursed.”

  Dog didn't seem to care as he put his head on his paws, his bushy eyebrows up like he was prepared to keep listening, whether it was curses or something folks could say in mixed company.

  “Crossroads, Dog. Do you know what that means? You got to choose.” Jim picked up the wrench again and had another go at a bolt that was so encased in old oil, you couldn't tell it was hexagonal. “You got to choose.”

  He thought of Devina looking up at him from the driver's seat of that fancy-ass BMW. I've been waiting for him to warm up and trust me and love me, but it hasn't happened, and I'm losing the strength to hang on, Jim, I really am.

  Then he thought of the way diPietro had stared at that dark-haired prostitute.

  Yeah, there was a crossroads, all right. The problem was, diPietro, the fidiot, had come up to the signpost and instead of going to the right, where the arrows pointed to Happyville, he was gunning for Work-yourself-into-an-early-grave-and-be-mourned-by-no-one-but-your-accountant-opolis.

  Jim hoped that telling Devina about the ring would buy some time, but how long would that last?

  Man, on some levels, his last job had been easier, because he'd had much more control: Get the target in his sights, drop the bastard, take off.

  Making Vin see what was so obvious, though…much harder. Plus, before Jim had had training and support. Now? Nada.

  The growling sound of two Harleys brought his head around. Dog's too.

  The pair of bikes rolled up the gravel to the garage, and Jim envied the SOBs who were gripping those handlebars. Adrian's and Eddie's rides gleamed, the chrome fenders and pipes catching the sunlight and winking like the Harleys knew they had the goods and would be damned if they'd hide the pride.

  “Need some help with your hog?” Adrian said as he kicked out his stand and dismounted.

  “Where's your helmet?” Jim balanced his arms on his knees. “New York has a law.”

  “New York has a lot of laws.” Adrian's boots crunched over the driveway, then stomped on the concrete as he came up to give Jim's DIY project a look-see. “Man, where did you find that thing? A landfill?”

  “No. I got it at a scrap yard.”

  “Oh, right. That's a step up. My bad.”

  The men were nice to Dog, giving him pats as he wagged around. And the good news was that limp of his seemed a little better today, but Jim was still taking him to a vet on Monday. He'd already left messages at three different places and whoever could get them in first won.

  Eddie glanced up from doing the pet and coo thing to shake his head at the bike. “Think you need more than one person on this.”

  Jim rubbed his chin. “Nah, I'm good.”

  All three of them, Adrian, Eddie, and Dog, looked over at him with identical expressions of doubt…

  Jim slowly dropped his hand, his nape tightening sure as if a cold palm had settled on it.

  None of them cast a shadow. As they stood backlit by the brilliant sunlight, in the midst of the spindly dark trails thrown by the bare branches of the trees around the garage, it was as if they had been Photo-shopped in—in the landscape, but not of it.

  “Do you know…an English guy named Nigel?” As soon as the words left Jim's mouth, he knew the answer.

  Adrian smiled a little. “Do we look like people who'd hang out with a Brit?”

  Jim frowned. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “Chuck told us.”

  “He tell you it was my birthday Thursday night?” Jim slowly got to his feet. “He tell you that, too? Because I didn't, and you knew yesterday when you asked if I'd had myself a birthday present.”

  “Did I.” Adrian's big shoulders shrugged. “Lucky guess on my part. And you never did answer that question of mine, did you.”

  As the two of them went nose-to-nose, Adrian shook his head with a curious sadness. “You did her. You had her. At the club.”

  “You sound disappointed in me,” Jim drawled. “Hard to believe, considering you were the one who pointed her out to me in the first place.”

  Eddie stepped in between them. “Relax, boys. We're all on the same team here.”

  “Team?” Jim stared at the other guy. “Didn't know we were on a team.”

  Adrian laughed tightly, the piercings at his eyebrow and lower lip catching the light. “We aren't, but Eddie's a peacekeeper by nature. He'll say anything to chill people out, won't you.”

  Eddie just fell into silence and stayed right where he was. Like he was prepared to physically break things up if it came to that.

 
Jim leveled his stare on Adrian. “Englishman. Nigel. Hangs out with three other pantywaists and a dog the size of a donkey. You know them, don't you.”

  “Already answered the question.”

  “Where's your shadow? You're standing in sunlight and throwing a whole lot of nothing.”

  Adrian pointed to the ground. “Is this a trick question?”

  Jim looked down and frowned. There on the concrete was the black reflection of Adrian's wide shoulders and tight hips. As well as Eddie's huge body. And Dog's scruffy head. Jim cursed to himself and muttered, “I need a fucking drink.”

  “You want me to beer you?” Adrian asked. “It's five o'clock somewhere in the world.”

  “Like England,” Eddie cut in. As Ad glared at him, he shrugged. “Scotland, too. Wales. Ireland—”

  “Beer, Jim?”

  Jim shook his head and planted his ass back on the floor, figuring that if his brain wasn't working right, he wasn't about to chance his knees anymore in the event they decided to take up the fad. As he stared out at the pair of Harleys in the drive, he realized he was in a rat-piss kind of mood and clearly paranoid. Neither of which was a newsflash.

  Unfortunately, beer was only a short-term answer. And head transplants had yet to be approved by the FDA.

  “Any chance you know how to work a socket wrench?” he said to Adrian.

  “Yup.” The guy took off his leather jacket and cracked his knuckles. “And I got nothing better to do than get this piece of junk back on the road.”

  * * *

  As Vin stared across the table at Marie-Terese, the cascading daylight filtering through the diner window transformed her into a vision, the echoes of which resounded in the back of his mind. Where did he know her from? he thought once again. Where had he seen her before? God, he wanted to touch her hair.

  Vin forked up the last bite of his pancakes, and wondered why she had asked him if he liked redheads. Then he remembered. “I don't like red hair enough to be with Gina, if that's what you want to know.”

  “No? She's beautiful.”

  “To some…probably. Look, I'm not the kind of guy who—”

  The waitress came up to the table. “More coffee? Or do you want the ch—”