She had to play her cards exactly right. There was no room for error.
So when they got home and Kareem suggested a drink, she plastered that damn good-wife smile on her face and said, “Great,” like she meant it.
And, wouldn’t you know, just when she thought the night had gotten as bad as it was going to get short of Kareem barging into her bedroom in the middle of the night, it got worse. Wanda, Kareem’s mother and Satan’s Gucci-clad surrogate here on earth, waited for them on her perch in the leather armchair in the corner.
Kira pretended she was Halle Berry and really started to act. “How was your evening, Wanda? I thought you were playing cards tonight.”
Wanda sipped her scotch before she answered. “Betty canceled on us, so we didn’t have a foursome.”
“That’s too bad.”
Wanda turned to Kareem, stood, and received his kiss on the cheek. Kira tried not to snort because they did the whole kissy routine every time they saw each other, which was several times a day.
“How was your steak, Baby Boy?” Wanda asked him. “Was it cooked right?”
Kareem grinned. “Wasn’t bad. Wasn’t yours, though.”
Kira worked on not rolling her eyes. Neither Kareem nor Wanda had ever seen the need to cut the apron strings, so Wanda’s living here with them was the perfect arrangement. That way, Wanda could fawn over Kareem’s every burp, fart, and sigh, and receive, in return for her never-ending devotion even in the face of the mounting evidence of Kareem’s evil, unlimited access to Kareem’s platinum cards, luxury cars, furs, and enough diamond jewelry to have a collection to rival the queen’s.
Kira was the only outsider here, but she was used to the feeling.
Kareem sat next to Kira, bringing the sporty scent of his cologne with him and frowning at the dog, who’d trotted in and climbed on her lap. “You’re getting hair on your dress, baby.”
“Leave the girl alone, Kareem,” Wanda said. “You know she doesn’t worry herself about clothes.”
Translation: your ungrateful wife doesn’t appreciate the expensive things you buy for her, son, but I appreciate you enough for both of us.
Kareem put Max on the floor and ignored his mother. “It’s time for bed.” He stroked Kira’s nape and, God, it felt good. All he had to do was touch her there, and she unraveled. She was sick, obviously. Her ongoing lust for this man was a sickness that could kill her, the same as AIDS or malaria.
With rising desperation, she scooted to the edge of the sofa and stood while Kareem tracked her every movement. His white-hot gaze scraped over every inch of her body, stripping away the dress, the bra and the panties until only his remembered intimate knowledge of her body remained, offering no protection whatsoever.
Kareem stood and extended his hand; she took it. What else could she do?
“Good night,” they both told Wanda, who craned her neck to watch them with sour interest as they headed down the hall to the enormous curved staircase, and then they were climbing toward God knew what with Kira leading the way.
On the fourth step, he skimmed her bare thighs.
Eleven more steps to the top … ten … And then there was the cool rush of air below her waist as he raised her skirt high, baring her to the waist.
“Have mercy, Kira,” he muttered.
The black lace of her expensive panties drove him wild. That was why he’d bought them for her. It didn’t explain why she still wore them, though. Maybe she needed the physical reminder of her moral decay. If she had any integrity at all she’d burn everything he’d given her with his drug money and replace every last stitch with Walmart selections, but her integrity had evaporated years ago.
Besides. What other kind of underwear should a slut wear?
They walked in silence to the closed door to her bedroom, which was part of the master suite. “Kareem,” she began.
He was too busy turning her in his arms to listen. With utter focus, he kneaded her ass with one hand, bringing her up against the unforgiving length of his heavy erection, and stroked her face with the other.
Kareem had always known what buttons to push. He’d always aroused her in a way no other man ever had. Add her forced abstinence to that mix and she was a powder keg looking for a lit match.
She hadn’t had sex in almost two years, ever since his arrest. Her young body was alive and awake, and her breasts needed a man’s hands and lips. The throbbing core between her thighs wept for a man’s possession and she wanted it to be hard and fast, rough and unforgettable.
Kareem knew all about her wants and needs because he’d introduced them to her.
Looking into his brown eyes now was a mistake, but she did it anyway.
The connection was still there.
He was as beautiful as he’d ever been, no question. If anything, the years had only sharpened his features. He had smooth walnut skin warm over slashing cheekbones, sleek black hair and brows and lush lips framed by a neat mustache and goatee.
Kareem had the face of an angel. A fallen angel, yes, but still an angel.
“I miss you, baby.”
In that weak moment, she missed him, too. So when he lowered his perfect, perfect lips to her mouth, she raised her chin to meet him.
Chapter 15
Like the worst kind of street hooker, spreading her thighs for whoever had twenty bucks to spend, Kira moaned for him, opened her mouth wide and took him deeper. She couldn’t help it. Only when his entire body tightened reflexively around her and she felt his control slipping and hers along with it, did she remember.
The memories slammed through her with the force of a forked lightning strike. This man was a murderer—if not with his own hands, then with his deeds, his very existence. This man distributed drugs to children and he’d never lost a single night’s sleep over it. This man was a parasite who belonged behind bars if not six feet under.
Didn’t she have a little control here? Couldn’t she exert it? Just because she’d prostituted herself during their entire marriage didn’t mean she had to prostitute herself tonight. Right?
Stiffening, she pulled back and lied because she was a good liar.
“I can’t.” God, was that her voice husky with all that lust? “I’m on my period.”
This may not work, of course. There were many ways she could satisfy him short of intercourse, and he might demand one because his erection was full and insistent.
Had he even heard her? Probably not, judging from the way he kept kissing her.
Or was she kissing him?
Stop, Kira. You’ve got to stop.
“Kareem.”
This time he heard her. Letting her go, he took one step back and clamped his skull between his own hands, frustration radiating off him in waves. But he wasn’t angry. His joyous smile was blinding and beautiful and she, against all reason, felt guilty for doing this to him and for what she was about to do.
It hurt to see him like this, to feel the responsive pang in her heart. Why couldn’t she stamp out all feelings for this man? Hadn’t she learned enough about his true nature by now? What else would it take?
Destroyed, she couldn’t even look him in the eye. How crazy was that?
“I love you, baby,” he told her.
“I know.”
She did know. He loved her as much as a sociopath was capable of loving, which was probably right around zero percent.
“Does this mean we can try again?”
No. Not in this lifetime. Never. “Yes,” she said.
That beautiful smile widened, killing her, and then it seemed to dawn on him that an apology might be appropriate, given that he’d lied about pretty much everything he’d ever told her.
“I’m sorry. About … everything—”
“I know,” she said again.
“—and when the trial is over and I’m acquitted, we’re going to start all over. Maybe a second honeymoon—”
Oh, no. She couldn’t let him get too far down that road because it would only m
ake things worse in the end. It was better to divert him.
“Are you so sure you’ll be acquitted?”
Whoa. There it was. A hint of the darkness in his soul, so subtle and fleeting she would have missed the ugly flash in his eyes if she hadn’t known what to look for.
“I’m sure.”
“How do you know?”
His smile shifted and changed into that secretive and malicious abomination that was the reminder she needed. She was dealing with evil here. She wouldn’t forget that again, not even for one weak second.
“You know I don’t leave things to chance, Baby Girl.”
“No.”
He took her back into his arms and nuzzled her temples. “How was your test? I forgot to ask.”
Test? What test? Oh—the test she’d lied about to get out of the house this morning. Yeah, she remembered. She also remembered the thing she’d discovered when she went to the jewelers, another gambit in the cat-and-mouse game between them.
“Great. I think I got an A.”
“Good girl.”
“Kareem.” She kept her voice sweet even as she rested her arms on his and locked them so that he couldn’t pull her any closer. “I took my ring to the jeweler’s today.”
Suddenly he was all business and the languid passion disappeared even though his hands continued their slow circuit of her body as though he couldn’t help himself.
Sharp with focus, he narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“A prong was loose.”
“And what happened?”
“They told me this ring is a fake.”
They stared at each other, each playing their part.
He kept his expression benign, as though he hadn’t switched her ring with a fake because he knew she’d try to sell it to get the money to leave him, and she kept hers wide-eyed and honestly bewildered, as though she hadn’t taken it to the jeweler for that very purpose. As though she was a dutiful wife who wanted to take good care of the jewelry he’d bestowed upon her in all his benevolence.
Her performance was better.
He backed down, the hint of belligerence slipping away and leaving what seemed to be guilt. “I should have told you. I didn’t want to take the chance on someone trying to, ah, steal the ring—”
Right. Like there was anyone stupid and suicidal enough to try to steal the engagement ring off a drug kingpin’s wife’s finger.
“—so I, uh, had another one made. With CZs.”
“Oh.” Nodding as though this made perfect sense, she pressed her luck a little bit more. “Where’s the real one?”
“In a safe place.”
Kira knew a brick wall when she saw one and she also knew that she could kiss the real ring good-bye. She’d never see it again. She should have sold it when Kareem was in prison, but she’d thought she had more time. That was the story of her life, apparently. She always thought she had more time.
But she didn’t.
One day soon her cat and mouse game would be over and Kareem would know exactly what she was doing. Which was why she was trying to form this alliance with Dexter Brady, the only man in the world who could possibly help her.
If she could hold on long enough.
“Well. Good night.”
She started to open her door and escape into the room. Not that it was safe in there or anywhere in this house, but it was safer than being in the hall with Kareem’s hands all over her body. Before she could get two steps away, though, he grabbed her back for another kiss.
And she wondered, with Kareem’s tongue deep inside her mouth and her body boiling hot, how soon she could find evidence that would send him back to prison, where he belonged.
Amara woke and stared into the darkness, knowing he was there even if she couldn’t see him. They were in a hotel suite with a guard posted outside the door. Mateo and Jack were in one bedroom, Amara in the other.
They’d let her go this morning and they’d leave for Cincinnati tomorrow, where she could stay in the safe house while she recovered. Jack insisted on it because he felt sorry for her pitiful lack of anyone in her life to give a damn that she’d been shot.
If she hadn’t been so anxious to spend more time with him any way she could, her pride would’ve demanded she read him the riot act for his charity. Who the hell did he think she was? Did he think she couldn’t stay in bed to rest and feed herself a bowl of chicken soup every now and then? Did she look like an invalid?
Not for the first time, though, her pride shut right up where Jack was involved.
Where was he? She knew she wasn’t imagining things. “Jack.”
Nothing for a few seconds, and then a shadow detached from one side of the drapes and came to stand at the foot of the king-sized bed.
She levered up on her elbows but couldn’t see his face. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
There was a trace of defensiveness in his voice and she realized he’d been watching her—watching over her—probably for a while. “You should get some sleep.”
“I told you,” he said. “I don’t sleep.”
“Oh.”
O-kay. Now what?
She stared at his dark figure. She checked the blue lights of the digital clock: one forty-three. She thought about how tired she was and how she needed her rest. She felt sad for him that he didn’t sleep well. She looked at the vast expanse of bed to her right, all fluffy pillows and down comfort.
And she wanted.
If she had a single ounce of common sense, she’d ask him to leave. It wasn’t her rule that there should be a thousand brick walls between them, but the rational part of her could see that it was a good rule and should be observed.
They weren’t going to build a relationship. They should, therefore, put the kibosh on any further touching, snuggling or encounters in a horizontal position, gunshot injuries or no. Jack’s sex appeal was so overwhelming and her attraction to him so strong he could probably make her come while she was in a coma.
He should leave. Tell him to leave.
She opened her mouth. “Come here.”
At first, she thought he’d refuse, but then he sprang into action and got in the bed, bringing all his wonderful warmth with him, stretching out alongside her, being careful to spoon her gently so there was no risk of touching or injuring her side.
Those arms came around her, strong and secure, and pulled her closer, until they were molded together like two pieces of a giant jigsaw that had been cut from a single piece of wood and reunited.
And even though she’d nearly been killed a couple times since she met Jack and, for all she knew, a killer was walking down the hall to their suite right now, gun in hand, Amara felt safe.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he whispered.
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Sleep, Bunny.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.
And she slept.
DEA Supervisor Dexter Brady braced his hands on his desk, tried to ignore the blinding headache skewering him between the eyes, and concentrated on not shitting a brick.
Leadership came with responsibilities, one of which involved not killing the people who worked for you even when they needed killing on account of gross stupidity. Being a leader also meant keeping cool and making levelheaded decisions in the face of adversity, when what you really wanted to do was hop the next plane to Cancún and hope things turned out okay in your absence. Most of all, being a leader meant dealing with rogue special agents who were at turns brilliant saviors and, just as often, royal pains in the ass.
One of the biggest pains in the ass he’d ever had the misfortune to manage had just arrived in his office, looking surly enough that he wanted to vault over his desk and backhand his scowling face into next week: Jackson Parker, accompanied by a new transfer to the Cincinnati office, Mateo Garciaparra.
If only he’d listened to his mother and gone to business school.
Jackson Parker, who had extensive weapons training an
d the guns to go along with it, needed to be installed in a safe house and babysat. Normally the DEA didn’t do safe houses. Normally they only babysat snitches, not their own agents who, theoretically, were able to defend themselves. Never under any circumstances did they babysit agents’ girlfriends. Despite all this, they’d set up a safe house, sent over a small task force of babysitters, and let Parker’s girlfriend move in and unpack.
Yeah, the world had turned upside-down and dogs and cats were living together in harmony here in the Cincinnati office. Soon it would probably be raining gum balls.
Dexter watched and waited as the special agents who’d been assigned to the task force guarding Parker escorted him into his office and lingered, looking to Dexter for instructions.
“Wait outside,” he told them.
They filed out, leaving Dexter alone with Parker and Garciaparra and still too angry to deal with Parker.
He stuck out a hand to Garciaparra. “Welcome to Cincy. I’m Brady.”
The new guy pumped Dexter’s hand. “Garciaparra. Thanks.”
Dexter waved a hand at the chairs in front of his desk. They sat. He sat. He stared at them. They stared back.
None of them spoke.
He hadn’t laid eyes on Parker in a long time, not since Gregory was convicted and Parker went into hiding. In theory he should be happy to see him again, still alive and healthy. In reality he was thinking this’d been one of the quickest periods of his life.
He studied Parker and decided the ass chewing could wait a minute or two. The brother looked the worse for wear, as though he’d been burning the candle with blowtorches at both ends. A little haggard, a little gaunt, he had heavy bags under his eyes and appeared to need a sixteen-year nap.
“Is there a reason you gave your escort such a hard time when they picked you up at the airport, Parker?”
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