Destroyed With You

by J. Kenner

  “Christ, Linda.”

  I watch his face, desperate for him to touch me. Not because this is a ploy to get me out of this mess—or at least, not entirely—but because I’ve been numb since the night I supposedly died. No. I did die. In every way that matters.

  No, I want his hands on me so that I’ll feel alive again, even if only for a little while.

  “Please,” I repeat. “Hate me if you want, but touch me now.”

  For a moment he does nothing. Then he holsters his gun. I watch, then raise my eyes to his. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I laugh. “Guns aren’t really my thing. You know that.”

  He makes a scoffing sound, then reaches for my upper arm, pulling me toward him. “Take off the damn ring,” he says, lifting my hand.

  The mention of the ring brings me up short. One prick, and he’d be totally amenable to anything I wanted, unless of course he got too much of a dose and passed out. But neither of those situations sound appealing to me. It’s not what I want. I want the man. I want to steal back a remnant of our past to keep with me when I get out of this mess and walk out that door.

  Still, the mention of the ring disturbs me, and I look at him curiously. “What’s wrong with my ring?”

  “That setting’ll scrape the hell out of me.” His hand slides down to my fingers and he tugs it off. I hold my breath, afraid he’ll discover its secrets. “If I’m getting scratched, it’ll be with teeth or nails.”

  He releases me and backs away, then leaves me long enough to set the ring on the dresser by the television, along with his holster and weapon. Relief washes over me. If he’s putting away his gun, then he trusts me.

  He turns, and for a moment he simply stands there. Then he lets his eyes roam slowly over me as sparks ignite inside me. “I should hate you,” he says, as he comes closer, then closes his hands over my shoulders.

  “I know.”

  His hands glide down to cup my breasts, and I gasp. “I should,” he says. “Hell, maybe I do. But it doesn’t matter. Right now, I just want you.”

  “Yes,” I murmur as I arch back, losing myself in the feel of his hands on my skin.

  He eases me sideways so that we fall in a tumble onto the bed. I’m on my back, his hands moving as if he needs to feel every inch of me to be certain that I’m real.

  When he shifts to straddle me, I moan. He’s still dressed, and I’m naked, my body so responsive. I’ve missed this. Missed him. And even though I know this isn’t real—even though I know that I’m only playing this role to get out of this situation—I still want this moment. I want his touch. I want him inside me.

  I reach for his belt and fumble for the buckle. He finishes the work, then slides the belt off and tosses it on the bed as I work on the button and zipper.

  He bends forward, his hands sliding up to my breasts again, his fingers pinching my nipples. I’m naked and he’s clothed, and the rough feel of the material of his slacks against my naked flesh is wildly enticing.

  He lifts my arms above my head, then bends to kiss me. I close my eyes, losing myself in the heat of the moment as his hand roams down my side, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip. For a moment, I feel no contact, then his large hand tightens around my wrists.

  I open my eyes and try to yank my arms down, but he’s straddling my ribcage now, his knees digging painfully into my sides.

  “Winston!” I cry out his name, but it’s myself that I’m cursing. Because not only has he trapped me under his weight, he’s bound my wrists to the ornate ironwork of the bedframe with his belt.

  “You son of a bitch.” I jerk against the bond, only to wince when the unyielding leather cuts into my tender skin.

  Winston leans back, his eyes going cold as he looks at me, still straddling me. He cups my breasts as he leans forward, looking straight into my eyes. “And now, my lovely wife, I think it’s time we had a real conversation.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Goddammit, Winston, let me up.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll get right on that.”

  There’s sarcasm in his voice, but when he comes and stands right by me and starts to fiddle with the belt, I think maybe he really is going to free me. Then I hear the distinctive zzzzzp and realize that, no. All he’s done is tie me down even tighter with cable ties.

  He steps back, the belt now in his hand. “There you go.”

  “You bastard.”

  He grins. “Pretty much.”

  I make a frustrated growling noise as I tug against the headboard, but to no effect. All I manage to do is make my wrists sore. But what the hell, right? I deserve the pain. I completely misjudged the situation, and all because being around this man has thrown me completely off my game.

  I yank at the bonds again. “Let me go, damn you. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You should have done your homework better, sugar. You should have been more interested in what became of the man who was your husband.”

  “Is my husband,” I say. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  I see the comprehension on his face as he realizes the impact of my still walking this earth. But he doesn’t smile. There’s absolutely no hint on his gorgeous, rugged face, that still being tied to me could possibly be a good thing.

  Fuck.

  “I’m not too sure about that,” he says. “I don’t think you are my Linda anymore. After all, Linda Starr is legally dead. I know, because I’m the one they handed the death certificate to.”

  My heart twists painfully in my chest. “Winston, I—”

  “Doesn’t much matter, though, does it?” His eyes narrow from where he stands above me beside the bed. ”After all, you’re not my Linda. You’re Michelle Moon, and God knows, I’ve never met her.”

  I turn my head, not wanting to meet his eyes. I’m still naked, but I haven’t really felt exposed until this moment.

  “People pick new names all the time,” I say. “And I told you the truth. I had to get a new life in order to keep you safe.”

  “Well, sugar, I surely do appreciate you looking out for me all these years. It warms a man’s heart.”

  If it weren’t so tragic, I’d be laughing. Winston used to thicken his Texas drawl just because it amused me. It’s not amusing me now. I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my thoughts. When I’m ready, I open them and look back at him.

  He’s seated beside me. His hip resting against my thigh, his hand on the other side of me. It’s close and intimate, and I feel far too exposed and vulnerable. It’s not a feeling I like. I’m certain he knows that, and I force myself to keep a steady gaze as I look into his eyes and say, “For better or for worse, remember? However it plays out, I’m still your wife.”

  “It seems to me, couples break up all the time. I think that even if a judge needed a reason to make it official, I’ve got one.”

  I turned my head to the side. He’d always been sentimental, and I thought that he would still have some compassion for me. Some nugget I could mine in order to convince him to untie me. Apparently it’s not going to be as easy as I’d hoped.

  Once again, I draw a breath and look at him. “All right, then, you tell me. You say I should have gotten to know you better? Why don’t you introduce me to the man who is my husband?”

  “Well, that’s a pretty long story, darlin’. It’s true that I’m not with the Sheriff’s Department anymore. But I do still know things. Hell, I even know a few things about you.”

  I keep my expression perfectly composed. “Is that a fact? What kinds of things do you know? Other than how to tie a woman down. Should I be worried about my virtue at this point? Is it rape if you’re still my husband?”

  “Don’t worry,” he says, his eyes cold. “I’m not going to touch you.”

  They shouldn’t, but both his words and his tone rattle me. And in that moment, I have to acknowledge my disappointment. I’d played a sensual game as a means to an end, but I can’t deny that I’d wanted his touch. Once upon a tim
e, this man had been my heart and soul. And even when I’d been mired in a shit storm of secrets and lies, I could always find comfort in his arms. His kisses soothing me. His touch reassuring me.

  He hadn’t known my secrets, but he had always known my heart, and the fact that I can no longer claim that comfort from him bothers me even more than the fact that he turned the tables on me, leaving me tied down and frustrated.

  With a Herculean effort, I gather my thoughts, telling myself I need to at least pretend to be the professional agent I’m trained to be. “All right,” I say slowly. “I’ll bite. What kind of things do you think you know?”

  He flashes a sideways grin. “You tell me.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not the way it works. You say you have information about me? Prove it.”

  “Well,” he says drawing the word out in a perfect West Texas drawl. “I suppose I could do that. Or maybe I should use this to convince you to talk.” As he speaks, he gets up and moves to the dresser. He turns around, holding that hideously ugly ring, and I have to force myself not to wince. Apparently, he does know what secret is hidden inside.

  I meet his eyes. “Then use it.”

  “At least you’re not denying it. But I won’t. I imagine you’re trained to withstand Sodium Pentothal or whatever you have in here.” He puts the ring on the bedside table. “You keep it. Use it to seduce your marks. Although, honestly, with your skills in the bedroom, I’m surprised you need to use a drug. How lucky am I to have been able to witness those unique talents up close and personal?”

  “I never faked a thing with you,” I snap. The words are true enough, but I’ve said them mostly to cover the wild spinning of my thoughts as I shift the puzzle pieces in my mind to fit this new reality. “And in case it escaped your notice, you’re the one who tied me up. Naked, I might add. Not exactly what nice little boys do.”

  What does he know? What exactly does he know?

  “Oh, come on, Linda. Please.” He looks at me with so much disgust I actually turn my head away. “You’re trying to make me look like the villain of this piece? How exactly does that work when you’re the one who faked her death and now earns her keep as a killer for hire?”

  My entire body goes cold, but I hold his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes,” he says. “You do.”

  I say nothing for a moment, weighing my options. And the sad truth is. I don’t have many. Many? Try none. So I don’t argue. I don’t protest. I don’t deny. I just turn my face away from him and say, very simply, “Put a blanket over me.”

  I want to cry. I never wanted him to know that truth. But, dammit, I’m too well trained. And though I close my eyes, the tears won’t come. I can’t even fake them and hope for his sympathy.

  To his credit, he doesn’t flout his victory. Instead, he puts the blanket over me, just as I’d asked.

  I swallow, then murmur, “Thank you.”

  “Tell me about Hades.”

  I fight the impulse to open my eyes and turn to look at him. His voice is further away now as if he’s standing across the room.

  “Tell me the truth this time,” he says.

  I stay silent.

  “Damn it, Linda, Michelle, whatever the fuck your name is, I deserve the truth. What the hell, right? It’s not like I can use it against you.”

  That confuses me enough that I do turn my head and look at him. He’s grinning, looking straight at me with an expression so cold and dangerous I feel even more exposed despite the blanket.

  “Spousal privilege, darlin’. Like you said—we’re still married.”

  “If I believed there was even a kernel of anything real left between us,” I say, “I’d tell you everything.”

  “And if I believed there was ever anything real between us, I’d untie you.” He stares down at me. “Talk.”

  I stay silent.

  He draws an exasperated breath. “As far as the world knows, you’re dead. Which from my perspective, means that you can leave this room as you are or as the public records think you are.”

  “You wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “You forget how well I know you.”

  “Knew me,” he says. “You don’t have a clue who I am now.”

  He’s right about that. Maybe he consults for Hollywood, and maybe he doesn’t, but the man who tied me to this bed and knows that I’m an assassin is neither naive nor uninformed. I don’t know how deep his clearance goes, but I’d lay odds he’s in intelligence. Probably got pulled in after my purported death. He’d have wanted answers, after all.

  As for the threat, though … well, about that, he’s bluffing. I’m almost certain of it.

  Too bad almost could get me killed. And while sometimes I think that dying would be easier than living the life I’m stuck with, I’m not ready to leave this earth.

  “I’m waiting,” he says. “And we both know you owe me the truth.”

  Chapter Nine

  Winston wanted to hate her. That longing—that need—sat in his gut like a stone.

  He wished he could erase her from his mind, the pain he’d felt after she died and the joy he’d known during their time together. Yes, even that. He wanted it gone. Wiped out of existence.

  Because what she was now stripped it of all meaning. An assassin. A fucking assassin. It was surreal, and the sooner he could hand her off to an SOC agent and then bring Bartlett and the laptop in safe, the better.

  And he’d do that soon—he would.

  But first he wanted to know the truth. No, he needed to know it. And he was happy to keep her strapped down on this bed for as long as it took to get the story out of her lying, betraying little mouth.

  “Talk,” he said, but she only met his gaze, looking back with an intensity that matched his own. Her boldness infuriated him.

  Even so, damn him, he couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was. She’d always had a glow about her, a vibrancy. Making love to her had been like losing himself in a lightning bolt. Wild and stunning and shocking and beautiful, and often times so very unexpected.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d liked that about her—the surprises she gave him in bed and in their marriage. But he’d never seen this biggest surprise of all coming.

  “Talk,” he repeated, his voice tight. “And in case you’re even the slightest bit unclear on the point, keep in mind that you’re talking for your life. Bullshit me, and you’ll be dead all over again, only this time it will be for real.”

  She said nothing.

  A blinding wave of fury cut through him, and he crossed to the dresser in three long strides and grabbed his gun. He was back at her side in seconds, the muzzle pressed against her temple.

  “You won’t hurt me.”

  He held her gaze for a full three seconds. It felt like forever. But he saw the way she shrank into herself. For a moment, just a moment, he hated the hardness within him that made him say the words. But he said them anyway. “Yes. I will. Now talk.”

  She closed her eyes, but whether to gather her thoughts or to block him from her vision, he didn’t know. He almost thought he was going to have to prod her again, but then she began to speak, her eyes still closed.

  “I was in college—really struggling to pay rent and tuition—and a friend dragged me to one of those career fairs on a lark. The NSC and the CIA were there, along with all the branches of the military and the FBI too, everybody offering a chance at a paid higher education, exciting opportunity, yada, yada. No one knows how to sell like the government does.”

  She shifted on the bed, wincing a bit as the cable ties bit into the flesh of her wrists. He expected her to beg for release again and had to admit that he was impressed when she didn’t.

  “Go on.”

  “I thought being an agent would be the height of coolness. I told you about my childhood. None of that was a lie. My mom died when I was young, my dad in an explosion. And the aunt who was supposed to ra
ise me was useless, so I bolted. I pretty much grew up on the streets. Had to make my own way. It was not what I’d call an ideal life.”

  He nodded, remembering the one conversation they’d had in which she talked about her past. They’d made love afterwards slowly and sweetly, and before they’d fallen asleep, she turned to him and whispered one thing. “Please,” she’d said. “I don’t ever want to talk about that again.”

  He’d honored that wish, and he was struck now by the fact that she was bringing it up again. He was making her bring it up again. Despite himself, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to dredge that up.”

  The corner of her mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. “Thank you for that,” she shifted on the bed and started over again. “It’s not even that relevant, but I think that my background made me a good candidate for deep cover work, because I came up through the ranks pretty quickly.”

  “Did you?”

  She must have noticed the edge in his voice, because she smiled a bit before answering. “I enjoyed the work. And I sailed through training. I was like a prodigy. All modesty aside, I really was good at my job.”

  He thought about the efficiency with which she’d killed the man on the roof, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, I believe you.”

  Something in his tone must have made her ill at ease, because she stumbled for a bit before catching her rhythm again. “At any rate, I went through training quickly, and about a year before I met you, I was made a full-time agent. Believe me, you can learn a lot in a year in a place like that. I traveled the world. Saw exciting and exotic locations, and had my life put in danger more times than I’d like to count.”

  “Well, look at you. Might as well be your own movie star. Must’ve been disappointing to end up assigned to marry the likes of me.”

  “That was no assignment,” she snapped, the fury in her voice seeming real enough that it made him take a step back. He looked at her face to find her looking right back at him, her eyes filled with both anger and sadness. Maybe even regret. “Please tell me you don’t really believe that.”