by Anne Stuart
He found he could laugh. As long as she could fight back, she’d be fine. Merlin was sitting on his haunches, his head in her lap, and Bishop was about to order him away when Evangeline lifted her hand and caressed his head. “Good baby,” she whispered.
“Baby,” he echoed in mock distress. “My poor dog.”
“My dog.”
He rose, checking the huge bathtub. It was already filled with steaming water. He turned off the tap, then went back to her. She was still wearing the dress, though it was ripped and covered with mud, and her face was just as bad. He didn’t bother with searching for buttons or zippers—he simply took the knife and sliced through the shoulders of the thing, then ripped it down the front. The wet fabric only resisted for a moment—at that point his adrenaline was still pumping enough that he could have torn through steel to free her from her clothes.
She didn’t make any effort to cover herself—maybe she thought it was too dark for him to see anything. She was wrong. He could see her pale skin, her sweetly rounded breasts, the healing wounds from Clement’s knife. “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, trying to ignore the heat that was filling him. Filling his cock. He was a pig, and he was going to ignore his desperate need to fuck her, hard, claim her, ride her until they were both too shattered to think or move.
She shook her head, her hair hanging down in limp strands around her face. She was lying—he’d seen the bruise on the side of her face—or maybe shock was setting in and she really didn’t know what he had or hadn’t done.
She hadn’t been raped—Claude/Claudia’s affectations didn’t include sexual desire of any sort, unless he had to establish an alibi, which was some blessing. He had no idea how long Claude had her—from the time she’d left him at his computers to the time he finally realized something was wrong could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours.
And what the hell had happened to his usually infallible instincts? He’d never missed danger when it was lurking—he had a sixth sense for it, finely honed.
But he knew the answer. It was Evangeline. She threw everything off. He spent so much time worrying about her that he could no longer trust his instincts, and so he’d ignored them.
He slid his arms around her and scooped her up quite easily. She hadn’t been eating enough—she was lighter than she had been in Italy, lighter than she’d been a few days ago. He was going to have to feed her. Fortunately New Orleans had the best food in the world.
“This might hurt,” he said, and once more she gave that rusty laugh as he set her into tub, the steaming water coming just up to her breasts. She was still shivering, and he realized it wasn’t the cold that was the problem, and all the heat in the world wouldn’t fix it.
It took him less than a moment to slip out of his clothes, and he doubted she was even aware of it, aware of anything until he slipped into the tub behind her and pulled her against him. He expected her to struggle, to complain, to lash out, but she sank back against his chest as if it was where she belonged, resting her head against his shoulder as he put his arms around her. For the first time he felt some of his own tension begin to drain away, felt his heartbeat slow, his adrenaline sinking back to normal levels, and he slid down in the tub, taking her with him, leaning his head back against the porcelain edge. He could feel when her trembling slowed, stopped, when her icy skin warmed. He knew when she became aware of his hard dick pressing against her backside, and he expected her to sit up, to push away from him in disgust. She didn’t move.
He took the soap from the tray beside the tub, wetting it before he touched her arm with it, letting her get used to the feel of his hands, of the soap. After an initial start she relaxed again, and he soaped her, slowly, lazily, her arms, her stomach, her breasts with their tight little nipples . . .
She was warm. The water was steaming—why were her nipples hard? He rubbed the soap around one soft, plump little breast, rubbing his thumb against the nipple, and he felt the reaction slip through her body.
He stopped thinking—he’d thought enough during the last four days. He let the soap slide down her stomach, between her legs, and she deliberately lifted her hips, spreading her thighs for him as he soaped her, gently, tenderly, when he wanted nothing more than to turn her over and put her astride him, shoving up inside her and fucking her until his mind went blank. He set the soap back on its dish, then put his hand where the soap had been, parting her folds, his fingers sliding down, circling her clitoris, waiting for her protest.
She was mute, tense, demanding, and he knew what she needed, knew how to take care of her. After all, hadn’t that been what he’d been doing for the last five years, mostly from a distance? This wasn’t about his own needs; it was about taking care of her, the woman who’d been dragged into his clusterfuck of a mess by accident. Taking care of her and then letting her go.
He wanted to go down on her, but she didn’t need that. He could do this much for her, as he used his thumb, circling, pressing against her.
She climaxed quickly, arching her body, her only sound a soft, keening wail. Merlin didn’t move—the smart dog knew that sound. Bishop wasn’t going to think how he knew—there’d been no one in Evangeline’s life since her rat of a fake husband.
He could rub against her—it wouldn’t take much to bring him off as well. Death always did this to him—brought the need to affirm life on its most elemental level. She might not even notice.
But he wasn’t going to. He let her fall back against him, weak, limp from her climax. He slid out from behind her, climbing out of the bath. For a moment he considered wrapping a towel around his waist to hide his throbbing erection, but he decided, fuck it. She’d seen a cock before; she’d seen his cock before. Besides, she wasn’t in any condition to pay attention to it.
He knelt by the tub with a washcloth, dipping it into the hot water and carefully washing her muddy face. She winced, and he moved more gently, clearing away the dirt to expose a cut, surrounded by a huge bruise on her left cheekbone. He picked up her wrists, darkened by bruises. The places where the thin, strong rope had cut through her skin were closing, and her ankles were only bruised.
He could sense her looking at him, but it was too dark for normal people to see much, and she wouldn’t know the utter rage that suffused him. “Will I live?” she said, trying for humor and failing.
“You will,” he said. “If I could, I’d kill him all over again.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Her voice wasn’t shaking, but it was small, quiet.
Bishop wasn’t sure of anything in this world, including how he felt about this woman, but a lie was easier. “Absolutely positive.” It would take a miracle for Claude to survive, and Bishop didn’t believe in miracles.
And he needed to go someplace and jack off. “Do you need help washing your hair? It’s caked with mud.”
Slowly she shook her head, reaching up to touch her matted strands. “No,” she said, “I’ll be fine. You go do what you have to do.”
Did she have any idea he needed to get away from her before he hauled her out and took her on the bathroom floor? Probably not—she still held a certain naïveté despite all she’d gone through.
“Good,” he said, and moved away from her. Merlin stayed to guard her, though the dog’s reactions were still a little off from the drugs Claude had fed him. It was sheer luck the dose hadn’t been lethal—Claude wouldn’t have given a shit if he’d killed him.
The rain was still pouring down, though the lightning had died back, and the distant rumble of thunder told him the storm was moving off. He stepped out into the night, letting the cool rain wash down his body, reaching for his cock. But then he laughed. He could jerk off a dozen times and still be hard for her. Why waste his time?
He managed to find a pair of shorts in the darkness, and he pulled them on before heading back to the pitch-dark bathroom, his libido under stern, albeit rebellio
us, control.
She was leaning back against the bathtub, her hair clean, her eyes closed, sound asleep. The water had to be cooling by now, and he didn’t want her to get another chill, so he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her drowsy body and holding her against him, all wet and soft and smelling like gardenias.
He was going to carry her into her bedroom, settle her in, but one look at the open window changed his mind. Instead he took her to his room because he knew the bed was big enough, the sheets were clean, and it had a comfortable chair where he could sit and watch her. Merlin padded along behind them as he nudged open his door.
He managed to pull the covers down while he held her, and a moment later he set her on the mattress, watching as she curled up sleepily, all defenses and prickles. He pulled the covers up, and she let out a soft sigh and sank back into a deeper sleep. So much for any lingering fantasies that she’d put her arms around his neck and pull him down with her. She needed sleep more than anything. And he’d given up, hadn’t he? The more he touched her, the more he needed her, and he couldn’t afford to need anyone.
Merlin sat guard while Bishop went into the darkened kitchen, unerringly found his favorite Scotch and a glass, and carried both back into his bedroom. He had a lot to think about, and a glass of Scotch would keep him company while Evangeline slept like a virgin in his clean white sheets.
Damn everything.
Chapter Eighteen
The darkness surrounded Evangeline like a cocoon, thick and warm and smothering. The air was hot and humid, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the soft patter of rain overhead. She didn’t know where she was—but it was not in the bed she’d started out in, the bed she’d been taken from.
Claude was dead. She knew Merlin was lying in front of the door—she could hear the steady sound of his breathing. She could smell Scotch, but it wouldn’t have taken that to know that James was nearby. When had he become James again, and not the snide “Bishop”? When had she wanted to know he was near?
Always. She was a casualty of his murderous business, one she still didn’t comprehend, and he had an overdeveloped sense of honor, a need to keep her safe that had nothing to do with real emotions or caring. She was collateral damage, all right, and for some reason he felt it was his duty to save her.
“Go back to sleep.” His voice was soft in the inky darkness. “You think too much.”
She started, feeling guilty, almost as if she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. “It that possible?” Her low tone matched his.
“To sleep, or to think too much?”
She ignored his response. “I make my living from thinking. It’s the way I solve problems, put my life in order.”
“I use a gun for that.” The words were flat, emotionless.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” The question came from nowhere.
“I told you he was.”
“He drowned? In the river?”
“He drowned,” James agreed in a lazy voice. The Scotch must have relaxed him, at least marginally. “After I shot him and Merlin tore half his gun hand away. He’d have to be Rasputin to survive.”
“Good dog,” she murmured, perfectly comfortable with the gory image, and she heard Merlin’s tail thwap against the floor in response.
“We’ll leave at first light for New Orleans. It’s a short drive—you can sleep in the back while I drive. As soon as we get there I’ll pass you off to Ryder, who’ll have a safe house for you.”
She ignored the pain that hit her. He’d pass her along, first chance he got. Of course he would. “Why do I need a safe house? If Claude is dead, then I should be fine. I could go back home.”
There was a hesitation, and she tried to guess what was going through his mind. Maybe he was trying to find a way to tell her that he didn’t want her to go, that she needed to stay for some trumped-up reason, that he needed her . . .
“The bad news, Angel, is that Claude had absolutely nothing to do with Clement’s attack, so that’s still an issue.”
“What is?”
She heard him sigh. “The Corsini family wants to get its hands on me in the worst way, and they know the best way to do it is through you, thanks to Claude’s help. He wanted you dead for the last five years, ever since you stumbled into Corsini’s execution in the church in Italy, and I refused to let him kill you. I should have realized he was no longer going to play by the rules.”
“Rules? There are rules in what you do?”
It was odd, talking in the dark like this. It was as if they were old lovers, curled up in bed together in the middle of the night, able to say anything they wanted. Except they weren’t lovers; they weren’t even touching, though he was closer than she’d first thought. He couldn’t see her face; she couldn’t see his. What was said in the dark, stayed in the dark.
She slid up in the bed, realized she was stark naked, and slid back again. Her face hurt, her shoulders ached, but she felt warm and clean and safe. Vaguely she remembered the bathtub, his hands on her, but then it was all a blur.
She heard James shift in the chair, the clink of a bottle against the lip of a glass, the splash of liquid; then the rich aroma of Scotch filled the air.
She had the suspicion he was killing time, putting off answering her question, but she was warm, relaxed, and infinitely patient. “Believe it or not, the organization I work for has certain rules.”
“The Committee, you said.”
He made a disgusted sound. “I told you that, did I?”
“What kind of rules?” she persisted. “You don’t kill women?”
His laugh was utterly mirthless and should have chilled her, but right then nothing he said or did could horrify her. “No. We don’t discriminate, and evil comes in all genders.”
“All?”
“Claude,” he said simply.
He was trying to distract her, but it wouldn’t work. “What rules would he have broken if he’d killed me? You yourself said that collateral damage was an unfortunate necessity. Why wasn’t I an unfortunate necessity?”
“Because the Committee has an iron rule that you leave family members alone. If a family member manages to infiltrate the organization, then it’s up to the agent himself to terminate that person.”
“What are you talking about?”
She could feel his eyes on her, even in the darkness. “That’s why I married you. Because it meant that Claude couldn’t come after you.”
The silence in the room seemed almost like a living thing, and it took her a while to speak. “You mean that marriage was actually legal?”
“Yes.”
“And my marriage to Pete?”
“Bigamous and totally fake. If you’d looked happy I would have done something about it, pulled a few strings and gotten a backdated annulment so you could have your perfect little happily ever after, but one look at that slimy bastard and I knew you’d be done with him in less time than it would take me to get the annulment.”
“One look at him?” She felt her breath catch in her throat. “When did you see him? When did I look unhappy?”
“On your so-called wedding day, Angel. You don’t think I’d miss an occasion like that?” he said lazily. “It’s not every day your wife gets married.”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.” What would she have done if she had seen him? Thrown her bouquet over her shoulder and run after him like something out of a screwball comedy from the 1930s?
“It’s my business not to be seen.”
She digested this. She heard him take a sip of the Scotch. “Could I have some?”
“Some what?” He sounded almost irritable.
“Some Scotch. You don’t need to hog it all to yourself.”
“I only brought one glass.”
“I think I’ll survive the germs,” she said, irony thick in her voice.
&nb
sp; He moved, a looming shadow in the darkness, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he handed her the glass. “Drink it slowly,” he said. “You’re not used to it.”
Irritation flared, not the least because he was so damned close and she couldn’t, wouldn’t touch him. “How do you know what I’m used to? I had a bottle in my trailer, didn’t I?” she shot back, wrapping her fingers around the glass. Her hand brushing his. Did his linger for a moment?
“It was opened but untouched, and you bought it in Wisconsin. You’ve been on the road for months—that’s a long time to carry around a full bottle of Scotch, and I’m pretty sure you weren’t expecting guests.”
“I got them, though, didn’t I? What makes you think I bought it in Wisconsin?”
“Tax stamp on the bottle,” he said briefly. “It’s the same rare single malt that I like, and I’m surprised you can even get it in the Midwest.”
She’d special ordered it, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. No, she didn’t drink it. But every now and then she’d uncap the bottle and breathe it in, pretending he was there. A brazen lie was the best. “I bought it to prove to myself that I was over you.”
“Sure you did.” His voice was low, hypnotic, and she wanted him to touch her, she wanted him to get the hell away from her.
She took a tentative sip of the Scotch, letting it burn pleasantly, the rich, peaty taste of it filling her senses. She remembered the burn of the chili in his kiss. What would a whiskey kiss taste like?
She started to edge away from him on the bed, but his hand shot out and caught hers, holding her in place. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I think you know a little too much about me. All I know about you is your name, and I’m not even sure I believe that.”
“You know my name, you know the name of the organization I work for.”
“Great basis for a marriage.”
“We’re not going to have a marriage. Now that Claude’s dead I’ll arrange for an annulment. Since we went through the Catholic Church in Italy it’ll be too complicated for you to handle, and take too long. We have people who can take care of those things.”