by Lois Greiman
“How do you know that?”
“The Internet is very informative. Your lieutenant has many commendations. He sounds quite wonderful…lover of dogs, champion of distressed damsels. Most call him Jack. Yet you refer to him as Rivera. Interesting. It makes one wonder if there might be a distance between you and the valiant officer.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss my relationships with you.”
“Why did you come, then, Christina?” he asked, and took a sip.
“To kill you.” Now that I said the words out loud, they sounded a little melodramatic, especially with the tea in one hand. Accepting the tea, I realized, had been a mistake.
But he didn’t mention it. Instead, he stared at me in silent consideration for several seconds, then, “I appreciate your confidence,” he said. “I believe you broke your assailant’s nose.”
My stomach churned at the thought, but I lifted my chin bravely, then lowered it, protecting my throat when I saw his brows dip disapprovingly. “You deserve worse than I gave him.”
“Because I did not come to your rescue.”
“Because you’re a fucktard.”
His lips twitched, and for a moment I thought he might laugh. If so, I was pretty sure I could work up that killing rage again, but he kept his amusement to himself.
“For doing as you requested?” he asked.
“I didn’t—” I began, but he stopped me.
“How do you think the encounter would have ended without my training?”
“We’re not talking about the training. We’re talking about the fact that you sat in the woods and watched me be attacked like it was a fucking three-D movie.”
“I give it thirty-seven percent on the Tomatometer,” he said, and setting his cup aside, stepped toward me.
“Stay back,” I warned, raising my knife, but he didn’t. Instead, he took another stride.
“Or what will you do, Christina?”
“I’ll…” I paused, unsure about the teacup. “Carve you like a Thanksgiving turkey.” Oh crap. Was I really quoting bad movies? Now?
“Do it, then,” he said, and stopped not eighteen inches in front of me. Perfect striking distance.
“I will,” I breathed.
He nodded. “Focus on the vulnerable areas. Eyes, throat, or just above the clavicle if—”
“I know where to stab you!” I snapped, but I had kind of overlooked the clavicle thing.
He canted his head a little. “You were delaying,” he observed, and took another half step toward me. “I thought perhaps you had forgotten.”
“I’m never going to forget how to kill—” But suddenly I was spun about and thrust out the door like a stray cat.
A stray cat holding a teacup.
Chapter 29
Some folks think success is the best revenge. I prefer anything involving Gorilla Glue and soft tissue.
—The entire McMullen clan
“You know anything about this?” Bess asked.
I stopped dead in my tracks. A police officer stood in the middle of the Home’s dining area. I turned innocent eyes toward the cop. “About what?”
“I’m Officer Bindsdale,” he said. “Can I get your name, ma’am?”
“Scarlet.” I tried to keep my gaze from darting about the room like a hunted bunny’s. “Scarlet O’Tara,” I said, and waited, breath held, for him to call me a liar.
“What happened to your arm, Ms. O’Tara?”
“My arm?” I blinked at the offending limb, surprised such a relatively innocuous bruise was the only one that remained. “I’m taking up boxing,” I said. “The punching bag’s fighting back.”
For a second, I thought he would pursue that thread, but he moved on.
“Do you know this man?” he asked, and held up a five-by-seven snapshot.
I almost made a heartfelt denial, but good sense, or at least lucidity, returned. “Professor Holsten,” I said. “He’s a customer. I waited on him last night.” I glanced toward Big Bess, trying to read her thoughts, but her glare was inscrutable. “Why? Nothin’ bad happened to him, I hope.”
Silence ticked around me as I waited for the sky to fall.
“His name is actually Matthew Gallager.”
“Matthew…” I shook my head.
“State troopers found him beside the interstate at four o’clock this morning.”
“The interstate? I don’t understand.”
“This note was tacked to the dash of his car.” He held up a sign. It read: I am the Carver.
“He was…” My voice was barely audible. “The rapist?”
“We have yet to ascertain that, ma’am.”
“What did he say?”
“He remains unconscious at this time.”
“Unconscious?” I steadied my hands against my thighs. He had been fully conscious and blubbering like a talk-show guest when I left him. “From what?”
“Possibly because of the damage to his nose.”
Bess’s brows jerked upward.
“But it could have been the fact that both arms were broken.”
“Both…” I shook my head. Maybe I should have admitted my part in it. Maybe I should have told the officer my real name. But sometimes victims get blamed for the misfortunes of their attackers. You can trust me on this. “Both…” I began again, but I couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead, I rushed toward the kitchen, gripped the edges of the sink with both hands, and emptied my stomach into the stainless-steel depths.
When I straightened and turned, Officer Bindsdale was standing behind me. He offered me a towel. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
I wiped my mouth. “I’m not sure.”
He pushed a stool up close to me. “Please, sit down.”
I did so, shakily.
“Was Mr.—” He checked his notes. “The man known as Professor Holsten, was he a friend of yours, Ms. O’Tara?”
“A friend?” I shook my head. “Not really. Just…just an acquaintance.”
Less than five minutes later, Officer Bindsdale was stepping into his cruiser and driving out of my life. I watched him go in absolute bewilderment. Where were the accusations, the endless questions, the thumbscrews?
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Bess asked. “Them salt shakers ain’t gonna fill themselves.”
Chapter 30
During the day, I know the boogieman is simply a figment of my imagination. But at night, I’m a little more open-minded.
—Harlequin, better as a lap dog than a guard dog
“It was you.”
Hiro opened his eyes and turned his head slowly toward me, like a man awakening from a dream. It was dark, but the moon had winked on, illuminating his eyes, glowing on his skin, shining like dark magic on his loose hair. He sat cross-legged not fifty feet from where I had been attacked the night before.
“Have you come to meditate, Christina?”
I took a step toward him. “You broke his arms, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “About whose arms do we speak?”
“Gallager’s.”
He rose to his feet, quiet as a shadow. “I do not believe I know anyone by that name.”
“Holsten. You found him. Wrote the note.”
“Why would I do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t…” I exhaled shakily. “Because you care about me?”
“Is that what you believe?”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head, unsure of everything.
“Which is it?” he asked, and took a step toward me.
“I have no idea. Do you?”
“Do I what?”
I hissed my exasperation. “Do you—” I began, but he closed the space between us and kissed me.
My lungs collapsed. My heart exploded.
His lips were volcanic against mine. His right hand, that killer artist’s hand, curled around the back of my neck. His breath was warm on my cheek, and when he trilled his thumb across my ear, I’m pretty sure my b
ody went into systemic failure. Still, I managed to speak.
“Don’t do that,” I said, but my voice was nothing more than a whisper.
“Caring,” he said, “makes you vulnerable.”
“I’m not vulnerable,” I breathed, and tilted my head back, granting him better access to all those sensitive nerve-endings in my neck…and my jugular.
“Are you certain?” he asked, and pressed a thumb to the thundering pulse in my throat.
“Pretty sure,” I said, and pulling a blade from the pocket of my camos, pressed it beneath his bottom rib.
His left brow rose half a millimeter. “A fillet knife?” he asked. “Such as the disreputable Dr. Hawkins attacked you with?”
“Paring,” I said. “Easier to hide.”
His expression remained unchanged, but something blazed in his eyes. I wanted to believe it was fear, but in retrospect it might have been amusement. Although, honest to God, it could have been admiration. It was clear by now that he was one sick puppy…and that I had no idea how to read him. “The blade is not very long,” he said.
I snarled a smile and gave the tip a sexy little thrust. “Sometimes size doesn’t matter.”
“Is that what your lieutenant tells you?” he asked, and skimmed his thumb along my collarbone. I shivered violently but managed to remain conscious. Neither did I burst into orgasmic flames.
“Rivera’s got nothing to do with this.”
“That is because he has left you to your own defenses.”
“Which are pretty sharp,” I said, and pressed the knife deeper. His lips twitched the slightest degree.
“Because of me,” he said.
“I should kill you.”
“I would hurry, then.” He spanned my throat with his hand while simultaneously settling his hips gently against mine. “Or you will have difficult things to explain to your cop.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, and jabbed. I felt the tip pierce his skin.
“You flatter me,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I could kill you in a matter of seconds,” he said, and slipping his hand down my throat, eased it onto my pounding heart. “Yet you look at me like that.”
I licked my lips. His gaze settled on them.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.” The words made no sense whatsoever, but I didn’t care. Feelings, feral as farm cats, were racing through my overheated system. But it wasn’t until he opened a button on my shirt that I twisted the blade.
His wince closely resembled a smile. “Do it.” His words were a challenge.
“I’m going to,” I promised, but he was already opening the next button. I tightened my grip on the knife.
“It is not too late,” he said.
“I know.”
“Be careful to avoid the ribs.” Pushing my shirt aside, he kissed my shoulder with whispering softness. “Or it will be difficult to achieve full penetration,” he said, and caressed my collarbone.
I shivered like a palsy victim. “Of course.”
“You must push it to the hilt.”
“I will.” I was breathing hard. My breasts were rising and falling like a motivated porn star’s. “I’m going to slice you in two.”
He shook his head a little, hair brushing against my bare skin like falling silk. “You do not have a long enough blade for that. But you can damage the internal organs if you strike with enough force.” His fingertips followed the down-swept neckline of my shirt.
I valiantly kept my eyeballs from rolling inside my cranium like cue balls. “Will that kill you?”
“It might be slow,” he said, and pressed a sizzling kiss to the little dell between my breasts.
“Slow’s good,” I breathed.
His lips twitched against my skin. I wondered vaguely if he was smiling. “Try to puncture the spleen.” He was performing some sort of Asian voodoo on my shoulder with his thumb.
“All right.”
“You remember where it is located?” I’m not sure I answered; his hand was already traveling down my midline, circling my waist, sweeping magic up my back. I arched against him. “There.” He breathed the word against my lips. “Just below the ribs.”
“Uh huh.”
“Stab. Remove and stab again.”
“And again…” My head dropped back. “And again.”
“Do not let the blood scare you.”
“Blood?” Somehow I’d not quite considered the blood.
“The human body contains approximately five liters. Several of them could leak out before I go into hypovolemic shock.”
I swallowed.
His hand skimmed lower. I felt a little faint, probably due to the talk of blood. “Your cop should have taught you these things.”
“He should have taught me how much blood there is in the human body?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He may have nodded. “And how to pierce a spleen.”
His fingers felt scary good beneath my shirt.
“We were…” Somehow, his right thigh had become cradled between mine. “I think we were busy with other things.”
“Only a cretin has coitus before teaching his partner how to kill him.”
“Holy shit, you’re crazy.” My knife hand shook, tapping a droplet of blood. Only 4.99 liters to go.
“It is so like a cop to neglect teaching his woman how to protect herself.”
“We were thinking of protection of a different kind.”
His fingers were pressing a course down my spine, beneath my camos, scaring up another shiver. “But he would have to be able to protect himself first.”
“He does fine on that front.”
“He does not,” he said, and slid his palm over the curve of my ass. “Especially now.”
I closed my eyes but managed to contain a moan of pleasure. “You don’t know—” I began, then froze. “What do you mean, ‘especially now’?”
“It is difficult to protect oneself while unconscious.”
“What?” I scrambled away, half fell, found my balance, and braced myself.
He remained exactly as he was, body relaxed, eyes calm. Blood ran down his side to his drawstring pants, screwing with my equilibrium, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I tightened my fist on the paring knife.
“He is an officer of the law, Christina. Surely you know the risks inherent to the job.”
I stumbled backward a step, oddly disoriented. “Where is he?”
“How would I know that?”
“Where the fuck is he?”
“You are allowing yourself to become agitated.”
“Tell me or I’ll kill you.” I widened my stance, considered a lunge. “I swear I will.”
“That would make no logical sense.”
I stared at him, then backed away. “Where are your keys?”
“Your hands are shaking,” he said, scowling. “I taught you better.”
“Where are your damn keys?”
He raised his hand, lifting a chiming cluster of metal out of nowhere.
I snatched it from his fingers.
“You are not ready, Christina,” he said.
“Then it’s on your head,” I said, and turning, raced down the trail toward his rusty Beetle.
Chapter 31
Happily ever after only happens to chicks like Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Do I look like some lazy-ass white chick to you?
—Lavonn Amelia Blount, destined to drag down happiness by the balls
“Where is he?” My voice sounded scratchy and unused. The drive back to L.A. had depleted my reserves and taken its toll on my already questionable nerves.
Captain Kindred snapped his gaze from his computer screen to me, brows lowering over his long-day face. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Which hospital?”
“How’d you get in here?” His expression threat
ened dire consequences and possible dismemberment, but I was too exhausted to care.
I slapped my palms against his desktop. “Where’s Rivera?”
He glowered at me, a big black man with a big black attitude. “Dedrich!” he yelled. “What the hell kind of police station is this? Get this woman out of my office.”
It was then that someone, probably Dedrich, rushed in behind me. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—”
“Just get her out.”
“Yes, sir. Ma’am, please come with—”
I had reached the limits of my patience…and possibly my sanity. The paring knife seemed to appear in my hand of its own accord. “Tell me where he is!”
Kindred’s gaze dropped to my weapon. His expression was disgusted and maybe a little bit bored. I was getting kind of tired of that. “Are you shitting me right now?”
My confidence disappeared like toilet water. “Please…” My hand shook suddenly, threating to spill the blade onto his desktop. “I need to know.”
His brows dropped even lower. His mouth turned down in a menacing snarl. “Cedars-Sinai,” he said.
“Thank you. Thank you.” I backed away, bumped into Dedrich, ricocheted off the doorframe, and raced for the parking lot.
By the time I reached the hospital, I felt breathless and a little lightheaded.
“Can I help you?” The woman who manned the front desk wore a little plaque on her chest that read Sonata. She was pretty, well groomed, and as calm as her name suggested. Even in my current state, I realized we barely shared a species.
“I’m here to see Lieutenant Jack Rivera.” My voice sounded bestial.
For a second, she seemed entranced by my hair, but finally she managed to focus on her PC. “I’m sorry. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here by that name.”
“He’s probably in ICU,” I said, but she shook her perfectly coiffed head without glancing at her screen again.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We—” I reached across the desk, grabbed her by her plastic name tag, plus a good deal of smock, and dragged her up to the counter.
