by J. R. Ward
Then again, across town, a family was in mourning. And her response? Go out and get her hair done, and cap the night off flirting with a stranger.
Real classy.
As she hoofed it down the shallow alley and entered the rear parking lot, other stragglers were also going for their rides, the women talking in quick bursts, like the afterburn of those songs and that singer was still revving them up. In contrast, Cait felt totally apart from them, in spite of the fact that they'd all seen the same performance and been in the same mind-set inside the cafe.
She spent a lot of years walking this stretch of isolation.
By the time she came up to her car, the temperature had gone from refreshing to chilly, and she made fast work of the unlock-and-open thing. Getting in, she shivered as she shut the door, and immediately hit the start button. Heat, heat would be good, but ... shoot, it was going to be a while coming: Three other cars had their white reverse lights on and were inching around, trying to navigate the cramped space. All at the same time.
She was going to be stuck in place for a while...
Later, she would wonder what exactly had made her turn her head to the left. Not a sound, no. Or a flash of movement. Or anything of outward significance.
But sure as if someone had called her name, her head swiveled and her eyes searched the darkness.
There was a truck parked next to her, a rough, rangy vehicle that seemed like it belonged more in farm and forest territory than at a city-dweller cafe. And behind its wheel, sitting with eerie stillness, was a man. A big man.
She could not see his face, but his sharp profile cut through the ambient glow of the lot's security lights, carving a black path through the illumination. His head was nearly shaved, his brow heavy, as if he were frowning, his hard chin giving the clear impression that "uncompromising" was probably not just something he was familiar with, but an operating principle.
The other thing she noticed? His shoulders were tremendous, although that was likely some kind of coat or something against the cold.
Without warning, his head whipped around.
She could see nothing of his eyes, but oh, God ... she felt them crossing the distance, doing away with the car doors, melting through the glass, tearing down any and every barrier between them.
Cait told herself to look away. Pointed out that the idea there was any kind of connection was ridiculous. Made a list of all the reasons that women who lived alone should never, ever encourage strange men--especially ones who were built like that.
Wait, she wasn't encouraging anything--
Oh, really? Then why hadn't she looked away, backed away, driven off? 'Cause those other cars had left and the lot was clear.
The man went for his door.
Before she knew what was happening, he got out of his truck and prowled around the front of it, his huge body moving like...
Maybe the word was ... erotic.
Take out the "maybe."
Cait did not look away. Couldn't. In the sweeping headlights of one more car that had a more sensible driver than her, she got a clear shot at him--much taller than she'd thought, and the body was ... even stronger than it had looked through the glass. And that heft? Not a jacket or a coat, nope. It was just muscles in a T-shirt.
As for the face? His was completely in shadow, the light shining from behind him.
So she couldn't tell.
Her heart pounded as he came up to her car, except it was not from fear. Probably should have been. As things stood, it was more as if an electrical charge was coursing through her rib cage.
Her window went down. Sure as if something other than her mind controlled her arm, her hands, her fingertips.
It was as if she were possessed.
Looking up, her first thought was that she recognized him from somewhere. Maybe it was another case like Pablo and Victoria Beckham? Or, God, had he been on the front page of the newspaper for some horrible crime?
No ... something else.
"Do I know you?" he asked in a low voice.
Before she could reply, a car horn went off and his head shot to the left--and that was how she saw his face properly. Holy Mary, mother of--
He was ... breathtaking. Absolutely stunning.
He had the looks of a fighter, and not as in the puffy distortion of a boxer, but the shrewd, hawkish features of a man who might have been in the military. Eyes were blue, brows were dark as his hair, and that hard, heavy jaw was, yup, a very clear indicator that you tangled with him at your own risk.
On that note, when he turned back, she said, "No, you don't--and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
Even though she couldn't see, she felt his eyes narrow, as if he were testing the statement for truth.
"It's okay," he murmured.
"I have to go." Except she didn't have any impulse of the sort. She just kept staring up at him. To fill the silence, she blurted, "I really just came to hear the singer. With my friend."
"And did you like him."
Not a question. It was as if he already knew the answer.
"Yes. Very much."
"You're missing an earring."
So he was staring at her as much as she thought.
"I lost it earlier tonight. At the hair salon." Okay, maybe she'd better put the SUV in reverse before she told him her life's story. "I went back, but ... it wasn't in lost and found or anything."
Shut it, Cait.
"It was gone," he filled in.
"Yes."
"That happens."
"Did you come here to listen to G.B., too?"
"No."
She nodded. "I can imagine that's not your kind of music."
"Quick read on me, huh."
"Yes. I have to go."
"But you're still here, aren't you."
"I don't want to run over your feet."
He shrugged. "Steel-toed boots. Wouldn't feel a thing."
FFS, that probably would have been true even if he'd been in flip-flops. Not that he'd wear that kind of thing.
"I could swear I know you," she whispered.
"I don't get that a lot." He leaned in. "Tell me something."
"What..."
"Do you like what you see?"
Cait's mouth parted so she could breathe.
"Do you," he repeated. When she didn't reply, he said in that very, very deep voice, "Cat got your tongue?"
"Okay. Well ... good-bye."
He laughed, the sound a rumble through his chest. "You're still not leaving."
"I need to go."
She put up her window more to cut herself off than anything else, and she was relieved that as she began to back out, he did step back. It didn't stay that way. As she put things in drive, he came forward, her headlights making a stage for him, illuminating him as he stood with his legs locked, his head up, his hands on his hips.
A challenge directed to her, even though they were strangers.
And God help her, her body responded: Lust, unrestrained and unrepentant, went through her, waking her up in places that were not just dormant but previously nonexistent.
Run, some inner voice told her. Run fast and far--and pray that he doesn't choose to follow you.
There was no saying "no" to a man like that. Not at all. Not even if he wasn't good for you. Not even if your parents would insist you'd be a sinner.
Cait hit the gas so hard her tires scrubbed out, but he didn't jump out of the way. He took a single step away so that she all but struck him.
Probably would have left a dent in her car before he got hurt.
Shooting through the narrow slot between the cafe and the art gallery, she had to slam on the brakes when she came out to the main road.
It wasn't until she was on the highway, heading for her residential neighborhood, that her heart began to slow down.
Leaning into the front windshield, she looked up at the night sky. Naturally, she caught nothing of the stars, not even a faint glow. But sure as she knew where she l
ived, and how to drive her car, and what she was going to be doing in the morning, she was convinced someone up there was weaving out a destiny for her.
Too many strange things in one night--
When her phone went off, she let out a bark and grabbed for her heart. Had G.B. called her so fast?
Nope. According to her nav screen, Bluetooth had Teresa on the line.
Cait was too rattled to be let down. "Hey."
"I want the name of your hairdresser. Right now. And yes, I'm thinking about going blond, too."
As Cait started to laugh, some of the tension bled out of her--but not all of it. In the back of her mind ... that man lingered.
And not the singer...
... the other one.
Chapter
Eight
Talk about shock and awe.
As Devina poofed out with her prize, Jim stared down at Sissy, his brain totally and completely blank. The girl was shaking as she held on to herself, her eyes wide and terrified as she looked between him and Adrian.
Poor goddamn girl.
Christ, now what.
"Go inside," Jim said softly to Adrian, "and find Dog."
Ad beat feet once again, disappearing in that uneven gait of his.
Left alone with the girl, Jim crouched down, both his knees popping. Putting his palms forward, he tried to make his voice nonthreatening. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Is she gone?"
The three words were so rough, he wasn't sure what he'd heard. But then it computed. "Yeah. She--"
Sissy lunged for him, her body flopping forward in spastic discombobulation, tripping all over itself. He barely had time to catch her as she flailed in his direction, his hands slipping on her torso before finding purchase, his arms easily holding her up off the porch's cold floorboards.
Up against him, she was soft and painfully light--although she held on to his shoulders like a cat trying with every claw to stay out of a deluge.
"I got you," he said hoarsely. "I've got you..."
For a brief moment, he dipped his head, putting his face into that blond hair. Then he felt her shivering, and knew he had to get her somewhere warm. As he stood up, he had the clear sense that he could have let go of her completely and she would have remained Velcroed to his chest.
"I know you ..." she said into his neck. "You came ... you told me..."
"I would get you out."
Going in through the front door, he kicked the thing shut--and ran out of gas. He wanted something clean and fresh for her, a hotel room with sheets that smelled like lemon, and room service that would bring her a hamburger, or a piece of chicken ... or frickin' nachos with melted cheese if that's what she was into. His options?
Bedrooms that were out of a Hoarders episode, a limp-along kitchen, and a whole lot of draft and dust.
After glaring at the stairs, like maybe that would change the composition of the second story, he picked the sofa in the parlor. For whatever reason, maybe because that room was over the boiler in the basement, it was always warmest in there. Except ... when he got to the couch, he took one look at the white sheeting that covered the damn thing and thought, Nope. He wasn't about to put her on that filthy mess--and removing the draping would only create a dust bowl.
"I'm going to ..." Shit. "Take you upstairs."
"Where am I?"
"Out," he said as he backtracked and went for the barely carpeted steps. "You're out of there, and you're never going back."
"Promise?"
He stopped and pulled her away from him. Staring down into her eyes, he said, "Never. I don't care what I have to do or where I have to go, she's never getting her hands on you again."
Sissy blinked. And then she nodded, the agreement rendered upon nothing more substantial than breath and voice, and yet forged in stone between them.
As she collapsed back into his chest, he took the staircase two at a time, and snarled at the grandfather clock as he passed it by--if that thing let out even one gong, he was going to take a chain saw to it and light the pieces on fire in the back-fucking-yard.
It would be the single most satisfying way to blow a security deposit.
When he got to the second-story foyer, he carried her right into his bedroom--the sheets were tangled, but at least they'd been laundered in the last two days.
The instant he put her on the mattress, he went to step back--and found himself locked in.
"You can let go now," he told her.
In the end, he had to reach up and gently pry her hands free, her nails scratching at his skin even through his shirt.
He made sure he went way back, not stopping until his shoulders hit some kind of plaster. Across the room, she tucked into herself again, looking minuscule on the king-size bed, her wide eyes jumping around like she expected the walls to give way and reveal where she really was.
"You're out," he repeated--and wondered which of the two of them he was talking to. "And you're never going back there."
"Where was I."
Jim exhaled, and unconsciously went for his pack of cigarettes. Except he wasn't going to smoke around her. "Not a good place."
"Was it really..."
The idea that she'd been thrown in with Devina's tormented masses made his chest burn. "Yeah. It was Hell."
Sissy's eyes locked on him. "How many years was I there?"
"Ah ... it wasn't years. Not by a long shot."
She shuddered, and seemed to brace herself. "So how many ... decades. Or ... was it centuries?"
Jim recoiled. "It was only a matter of weeks."
She shook her head. "No, that can't be right. I was there for ... an eternity."
Some kind of warning tickled its way up the back of his neck, and he followed an instinct that told him not to argue with her. Fucking Devina.
"You know I'm never going to hurt you," he said. "You don't have to worry about me like that."
Sissy refocused on him, her eyes seeming so old, he wondered if maybe she was right. Maybe it had been forever for her in that wall.
"I know," she said.
Such simple words, but the relief they gave him was worth a million cigarette drags--
The clipping of little feet across bare floors brought his head around to the open doorway. As Dog made his appearance, Jim vowed to give the little guy roast turkey for the next month and a half.
"Your dog!" Sissy cried out.
Dog took that as the cue to do what he did best: get in someone's lap and stay there. As he jumped awkwardly up onto the bed, Sissy opened her arms and the two became one, the girl holding all that scruffy fur to her heart, the animal burrowing in as if she were a living, breathing quilt whose sole purpose was to make him warm and comfortable.
"Actually--" Jim had to clear his throat. "He's everybody's."
She didn't hear him, though, and that was okay. She was murmuring to Dog, soothing him--and likely, by extension, herself.
Jim scrubbed his face. In his negotiating with Devina, he'd never thought beyond the deal--hadn't considered what would happen if Sissy actually was sent back.
"Do you want some food?" he asked.
She didn't answer him, her attention solely on the animal.
"I'll go get you some ..." Well, probably not eggs, no. But maybe he could get something delivered--it was before midnight. "I'll be right back."
Ducking out, he--
Ran right into Adrian. The other angel was standing in the second-story foyer, his face grim, his eyes sharp.
The rise of one of his brows was all the comment that had to be made: Your bedroom. Really.
"It's not that," Jim growled. "For fuck's sake, she's a goddamn child."
All that got him was the second brow hitting that dark hairline: Uh-huh. Right.
"Fuck you, Adrian, for real."
If that angel wanted to make up shit in his head, there was nothing Jim could do about it. He knew where he stood with Sissy--he'd rescued her, and now he was going to take care of her until
the war was over. After that? Hopefully he won, and she could go live in the Manse of Souls, where she belonged.
That was all there was to it. He might have murdered for a living, might have violated a thousand different laws in the process, might have had sex with whores and prostitutes and women who were capable of cracking skulls and killing blindfolded ... but he'd never been with a virgin, and he sure as hell was not starting now.
And certainly not ever with Sissy.
God knew, she had already been through enough--
Dimly, he wondered why he was lecturing himself on the topic. Like any of that sort of thing could ever be a reality.
"Do you want food?" Jim asked the other angel. When all Ad did was shake his head, Jim shrugged and headed down for the kitchen, where he'd left his phone.
As he jogged along, it dawned on him that Sissy was going to have a lot of questions.
If he were smart, he'd start working on the answers now.
Shit. This was going to be another long night.
Chapter
Nine
Mornings were always the best for working.
As Cait sat in the sunshine, the light fell across her drafting table from over on the left, the illumination so much better than anything that came from a lamp. In its crystal-clear glow, the red of the little chocolate Lab's collar was ruby brilliant, and his brown coat seemed made of velvet, and the happy green of the blades of grass under his paws was bright as an emerald.
No more seasonal affective disorder for her--no matter how bad or long the upstate winter got, since she'd moved in here, she'd been free of the January blues.
And the light meant warmth, too. Although it was just before seven a.m., and the morning temperature itself was in the mid-forties, the all-season porch she worked out of was tropical-toasty, the three sides of floor-to-ceiling windows giving her a nice view of her shallow backyard with its bushes and budding trees.
Reaching out blindly, her palm found her stainless-steel mug, and she took yet another deep drink of her coffee. She hadn't slept much over the course of the night, those two men circling in her head, images of what they'd looked like, and sound bites of what they'd spoken, and close-ups of the way they'd stared at her, going around and around and around. She'd finally given up hope of anything REM-ish at five, and had gotten out of bed to make the first of two pots of coffee. Fortunately, solace had come as soon as she had sat in her padded chair.
Leaning back into the paper, she completed the finishing, colored ink touches on the puppy's eye, giving him a lift to his cocoa brow, and tiny dark lashes that flared, and a little flash of silvery white around the edge of his iris.