by Lois Greiman
“Tell me where he is, you prissy little—”
“Christina?” The voice behind me was snappy, heavily accented, and familiar. “Is that you?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Rivera’s mother stood not three paces behind me. She was dressed to the nines in a blood-red bodycon and three-inch heels. Her arched brows reached for her blue-black hairline. I felt dusty and kind of extraterrestrial.
“Hello.” I cleared my throat, remembering the mind-blowing scene in the restroom not so many weeks before. “Rosita.”
“What do you do here?” Her eyes sparked with protective zeal, like a sleek mother bear protecting her only cub.
“I, um…I came to see…Jack.”
She narrowed cool jalapeno eyes. “Why?”
I felt shaky and winded. “Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay.”
She studied me in silence. Seconds ticked madly away. “So you do love him.”
A thousand denials raced through my mind, but I couldn’t quite voice them. “I try not to.” My voice was little more than a whisper.
“Such is the way with men who are difficult but worthy, no?” Her smile was oddly melancholy, strangely proud. “Ah, well…perhaps you should release the pretty receptionist, then.”
“Oh…” I blinked and set Sonata free. She stumbled backward with a little huff of relief mixed with outrage, but I barely noticed her indignation; she wasn’t even armed. “How is he?”
Rosita stared at me.
“Jack.” The name hurt my throat. “He’s here?”
“Si. He is here.”
I nodded, knowing nothing. “Is he…conscious?”
She was silent for what seemed an eternity, then, “Follow me,” she said, and turned briskly away. The hallway was a labyrinth of white on white.
We stopped in front of room 320. “I will leave you alone,” she said, and turning on her murderous heels, marched away.
I took a deep breath, prepared for the worst, and stepped inside.
Rivera, scruffy faced and handsome as hell, was sitting up in bed. His guest, fat chested and flirty, was perched on the mattress beside him.
I could do nothing but stare.
Then she leaned toward him and giggled.
Maybe that’s what set me off. But maybe it was the bone-wearying fatigue. Or the aching muscles. Or the fact that I am, beneath it all, no more than a wild-ass wolverine.
Whatever the reason, I crossed the floor in three stiff strides.
“McMullen!” I could just see Rivera’s shocked expression past the woman’s left shoulder.
“What the hell’s going on?” Maybe it was my snarl that had her slipping from his bed to face me.
“What are you doing here?” Rivera asked.
“What’s she doing here?”
She drew herself up like a snotty choir conductor. “I’m his therapist, and you shouldn’t—”
“His therapist?” My tone may have lost its honeyed quality of just a few moments before, but at least I didn’t pull out the cutlery.
She raised her chin, imprudently game. “Senator Rivera hired me to massage his leg, so—”
“Get out.”
“I haven’t even given—”
“Get the hell out,” I growled, and she got, skittering past me with a wiggle and an accusatory backward glance.
I shifted my attention to Rivera.
“You weren’t supposed to return until I contacted you,” he said.
“Was it all a ruse?”
“What?”
It hurt to say the words, but I managed to push them out. “Is this Kurt Hudson all over again?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I shook away thoughts of my ex’s alleged death. “Are the Black Flames even real?”
“Have you been smoking something? Let me see your pupils,” he said, and reached for me.
I swatted his hand away. “My damn pupils are fine! Tell me the truth. Were you just trying to get rid of me?”
The room fell into silence. He seared me with his deep-water gaze.
“Look at you.” His voice was gravelly, thick with emotion.
I winced, touched my spider-web hair. “I haven’t had a lot of time to—”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“Well, maybe—”
“Any man in his right mind would want you.”
I stopped my fidgeting, stared at him. “In your opinion, are you in your right—”
“Come here,” he rumbled, and pulled me onto the bed.
His chest felt as hard as granite against mine, his hand strong when he cradled the back of my head.
“Jesus, McMullen! Jesus!” He sounded scared and desperate and relieved all at once. “You weren’t supposed to come back until I told you it was safe.”
“But…” It felt sinfully good in his arms, traitorously comforting. “How were you going to do that? You didn’t know where I was.”
“I would have found you.” He drew back, just far enough to meet my gaze with piercing eyes. “I would have found you anywhere.”
Something warm and wonderful exploded inside me. And then I was crying.
“Hey, hey.” He cuddled me against his body, stroking my hair. “It’s all right. It’s okay now.”
“You’re wounded.” I wasn’t entirely sure if that’s why I was crying. I mean, geez, take your pick.
“It’s just my leg. I’ve got an extra.”
I snuffled a sob.
“I’ll be all right,” he promised.
“What about the Black Flames?”
“Daiki’s dead. He got his licks in.” He shifted his wounded leg gingerly. “I was lucky, though; his bullet went through muscle. No bone. No major blood vessels.”
“You were unconscious?”
He shook his head, eyes never leaving mine. “Moments. Just a matter of seconds. I’ll be discharged tomorrow. Next day at the latest.”
“But your beautiful muscle…”
He grinned crookedly, sobered quickly. “It’s over.” His inhalation was long and slow, making his chest rise dramatically beneath me. “Most of Daiki’s underlings are incarcerated.” I felt the tension in his body tighten and ease. “We have a strong case against them.”
I closed my eyes and slid into the welcome warmth of his embrace. “I should have been here for you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“You were in danger. You could have died and I would have…” I stopped myself before hysteria grabbed me, and lifted my watery gaze to his. “I don’t know what I’d…” I touched his cheek. It felt rough and solid beneath my trembling fingers. “What would I do without you?”
“Grieve for the rest of your life,” he said. “Never have sex again.”
Tears leaked from my eyes.
He chuckled and, wiping the tears away with careful tenderness, took my hand in his. “I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not. You’re…”
“You’re safe. In my arms. In my bed. Life’s perfect. Or it would be…” He trailed his thumb across the palm of my hand. “If you’d close that door.”
His meaning sunk into my brain like hot buttered rum. “What about…” A hundred potential problems. “Your mother?”
“If I remember correctly, she’s pretty good at standing guard.” His voice was low and suggestive, firing up a thousand sexy possibilities.
But I shook my head. “That would be…” He kissed my knuckles. The sensation flittered like fireflies up my arm. “Wrong,” I breathed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, and kissed my wrist.
Sometimes lust is sneaky, but sometimes it hits you like a mallet. I struggled under the blow. “I’ll get the door,” I said, and turned, but he still held my hand. And suddenly, his expression wasn’t so amiable.
“What happened to your arm?” he asked.
Chapter 32
Guilt, a little gift from mothers and Catholics everywhere.
—Christina McMullen
“What?” I glanced at my arm. I’m not sure how I had forgotten about the fights, the bruises, the wounds. But for a short time they had entirely slipped my mind. “Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” He pushed the flannel sleeve toward my elbow, saw the discoloration, and speared me with his gladiator eyes. “What the hell happened?”
I have no idea why I felt guilty. I’m just going to go ahead and blame it on Catholicism. “I don’t think it’s good for you to get upset.”
“Upset?” He already sounded like he might bust a blood vessel. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or punch him in the face.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I just…had a little trouble.” If a little trouble was a pair of oversexed twins, grueling combat training, and attempted rape/dismemberment thrown in for good measure.
“With who?”
I shook my head. “Just…a customer.”
His eyes bored into mine.
“I left here with nothing, Rivera,” I reminded him. “No cash, no credit cards, no phone. Barely enough gas in my…your car to make it a hundred miles. I had to make some money.” I thought back, realizing suddenly that I needed time, probably a lot of time, to think things through. I forced a shrug. It was about as casual as a land mine. “I got a job as a waitress.”
“Let’s skip to the part where some asshole touched you,” he snarled.
“If you promise not to become distraught I’ll—”
“Who did this to you?”
“Hey, Lieutenant…” I turned at the chipper voice. A too-pretty nurse in lavender scrubs and a ponytail was peeking past the curtain. “It’s time for your sponge—”she began, but he didn’t even glance up.
“Get out,” he said.
She jerked, froze, then scooted out of sight.
Something warm and fuzzy purred inside me.
“Tell me,” he said.
I shook my head. “It was nothing, really. Just—”
“Nothing?” His fingers had formed a fist. His knuckles were scathed. I picked up his hand and kissed them.
“Just a scuffle,” I said, and stroked his wrist. “He didn’t hurt me. Not really.”
His fingers eased open a little. “How’d he look?”
“What difference does it make?” I asked, and felt suddenly that it made none. It was over. Past. I was ready to forget. To move on. To make love. I kissed his wrist. His fingers unfurled a bit more, but his expression was as kick-ass as ever.
“Tell me,” he said.
I swallowed and lowered my gaze to his hand. It was easier to speak with his fingers in mine. “He was just a…” I shook my head, shoving the ugly memories behind me. “A man at the restaurant where I worked. Where I stayed.”
“I’ll kill him!” His voice was low and brutish. I managed not to smile.
“You can’t kill him,” I said.
“Is that what he told you? That he’s so fucking tough he’s untouchable?”
I almost laughed at his vengeful tone, his possessive protectiveness. Life seemed right suddenly, easy.
He watched me, eyes scalding. “Give me a physical description.”
“It doesn’t matter, because—”
“Doesn’t matter? I send you away to keep you safe. Worry every fucking day that you might be dead in a ditch somewhere. And now you’re battered like a…” He ran out of words, clenched his teeth. “Tell me how he looked.”
“It doesn’t matter, because he’s already in jail.” I wasn’t ready to tell him about Hiro. There were too many uncertainties, too many tangled emotions.
His brows dropped lower. “In jail?”
“Yes. I…” Didn’t know how much to tell him. He’d obviously been through enough himself. “He…grabbed me. Said some vile things. So I told the authorities.”
“You told the cops that he grabbed you.”
“And…said mean things.”
“And they took him into custody.”
“It’s not L.A. There’s not much going on.” It’s possible I had never told a bigger lie.
He inhaled carefully, exhaled slowly. “Describe him for me,” he said, tightening his hand around mine.
I stifled a sigh, bumped a shrug. “Medium height, I guess.”
“Be specific.”
“Five ten, maybe. Medium—”
He started to speak, but I corrected myself before he could. “A hundred and sixty pounds.”
“Ethnicity?”
“British.”
“British?”
“Caucasian. Caucasian, I guess.”
He scowled but continued. “Hair color?”
“Light brown, worn kind of long.” I felt a little sick thinking about the Carver, but I pushed on.
“Any distinguishable scars?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Tattoos?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Teeth?”
“Yeah,” I said, and reveled for a moment in the fact that Rivera was there, that he was safe. That I wasn’t alone. Gratitude swelled in me, leaving ashy terror in its wake.
“Yeah?” he questioned.
“He had teeth,” I said, and linked my fingers in his. “How about I close the door now?”
Fire stoked in his eyes, but he kept it banked. “You were in danger. Because of me. Because of…” He gritted his teeth, squeezed my fingers.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Whose, then?”
I opened my mouth to object, but he spoke first.
“Whose, Chrissy? When you’re around, I can’t keep my head on straight. Can’t concentrate. Can barely function. I’m an officer of the law, for God’s sake, and all I can think about is how you feel. How you look.”
I liked the way this was going. “How do I feel, Rivera? How do I look?”
“Perfect,” he said, and kissed me.
“Screw the door,” I whispered. He chuckled and tilted his forehead against mine.
“God, I was so worried about you. Not knowing if you were alive or dead.”
“You told me not to call.” I pulled back a little. Our faces were inches apart.
His gaze was hot with the tail end of tension, the beginning of relief. “You did the right thing.”
“I was worried, too.”
“Were you?”
“Harley gets colicky if he doesn’t get his meals on time.”
He snorted.
I squeezed his fingers, all kidding aside. “He’s okay, right?”
“He’s ecstatic. Probably chasing Rocky around the dog park right now.”
Sloppy relief sloshed through me, then disappeared like a double-stuffed Oreo. “With Rocky…and Tricia?”
“Don’t get all riled up.”
“He’s with your ex?” Tricia Vandercourt was cute as a button and sweet as a candy cane. I was neither of those things. Generally, the most flattering expletive used to describe me is prickly.
But he slipped his arm around my back and pulled me closer, apparently unconcerned about the barbs. “She’s good with dogs.”
“So is Eddie. Why couldn’t he keep him? Or Micky or…hell, for all I know, Jack the Ripper’s swell with—”
He laughed. “Mama delivered Harley. I never even talked to Trish. But it would have been worth it just to see the jealousy in your eyes.” He kissed me again.
“This isn’t jealousy.”
“No?” His fingers were scaring up a buttload of twittery feelings and he hadn’t even reached the good stuff yet.
“It’s killer rage.”
“Yeah?” he said, and skimmed his hand beneath my waistband.
My hormones, unattended for far too long, threatened to send me spiraling into spontaneous orgasm. Which would have been embarrassing as hell, but possibly worth it.
“Better watch out,” I rasped, trying to stay lucid. Orgasmically lucid. “I’ve learned some new moves.”
“I meant defense moves,” I said, deftly defusing him even though I kind of enjoyed firing him up.
“Oh,” he said, and slipped his hand onto my abs…which I had…actual abs. I had barely noticed my new musculature until that moment. Funny how all that trying-to-stay-alive stuff will distract you from something you’ve been trying to achieve since the day you were spanked into the world. “You’ve been working out.”
“Some.” I was becoming a master of understatement.
“So that you can protect yourself.” He drew his hand away. His expression was self-incrimination at its finest. “Because no one helped you. No one took care of you.”
“I can take care of myself, Rivera,” I said. “I don’t need you.”
His eyes bored into mine.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t need you,” I whispered, and fisting my fingers in his hair, kissed him with everything I had.
“Jesus!” he said, and rolled me to my side. His hands were everywhere.
He tore at my pants. I ripped at his stupid-ass hospital gown.
“Jack!” someone gasped.
I jerked around. A woman stood in the doorway. She was dark-haired, buxom, and beautiful. She was also pregnant.
I rose slowly. A growl rolled up from below decks, but she didn’t cower, didn’t back away.
Either very brave or very stupid.
“Mac…” Her voice was a throaty rasp.
I stumbled, mind tripping over itself as facts and fears tumbled around in my head. “Who…?”
“Mac!” she cried, and ripped off her wig. Strawberry-blond hair rippled to her shoulders.
“Laney?”
She staggered toward me. I ran to meet her. We fell into each other’s arms.
“You’re okay? You’re…” Her fingers trembled against my cheek.
“I’m fine. I’m good,” I said, but she was crying. Weeping like a child, tearing me apart.
“I’m sorry, Laney.” I gripped her hands. They were cold and shaky. “I couldn’t call. Couldn’t—”
“Where were you? Rivera wouldn’t tell me. All he said was that you were safe, but—”
“I was safe. Completely safe.”
“Then why couldn’t you call? I was half-crazy with worry.”
