Kira had never thought there was a unit of time longer than forever, but apparently there was. That was how long it took for Kareem to finish with her.
At last he pulled free. At last he took his hands offher. At last her knees gave out and she fell to the floor in a heap.
An unnatural silence stretched out, filling the room between them. She dialed her anger back a notch and breathed deep and dried her face because Kareem had had enough satisfaction for one night and he didn’t need the additional thrill of seeing her tears.
When she was ready, she pressed her palms to the dresser and heaved herself up. Pain shrieked at her, starting in her lower half and shooting out of her torn scalp, but there was time enough for pain later. Now she had to face Kareem and let him know he hadn’t won. Wincing, turning, she hitched up her chin and stared him in the face.
Unsmiling, he raised one eyebrow and waited.
“Where’s my dog?”
He stared at her. She thought she detected surprise, but they were so good at this poker-faced cat-and-mouse dance, she and Kareem, that it was hard to know what he was thinking. And of course you could never know what a sociopath was thinking.
“Max ran away when I took him out for his walk.” Kareem shrugged as he lied and pulled a what can you do? face. “I called him, but …”
Translation: he let Max out of the house in the sub-freezing cold and/or drove him somewhere and kicked him out of the car. She knew it. Add that to the growing list of reasons she hated Kareem.
He stepped closer, his expression so icy it dropped the temperature of the room into the negative digits. “Now I have a question for you, my loving, trustworthy, loyal wife.”
Something was trickling down her inner thighs now, dripping to her ankles and the floor, and she wrapped her dress closer, covering her nakedness while she waited for the accusation that was surely coming.
“Who do you suppose tipped the feds off about my warehouse over on Muirwood?”
Kira froze.
“They raided it this afternoon. Did you know that? Guess what they found?”
Kira kept her mouth shut, praying they’d found a thousand kilos of heroin and arrested Kareem on charges that could put him away for consecutive lifetimes with no possibility of parole. But then he smiled with genuine amusement and the brief surge of hope she’d felt shriveled to dust.
“They found an empty warehouse.”
No.
If ever in her life her poker face slipped, it was then. Because she understood it all in that one moment, and Kareem had won everything. It was a trap—the whole scene this morning, the paper, the ad, his reaction. All of it had been a test of her loyalty and she’d failed in the worst possible way.
Ironic, wasn’t it? The man who’d claimed entrapment had entrapped her. The circle of life was in full effect, wasn’t it? Now he’d taken her dog, her body and her hope. She didn’t have one damn thing left.
“The thing you need to understand, baby,” he said, smoothing her cheek with the gentle touch that had brought her so much ecstasy over the years, and she was so stunned that she couldn’t even move away, “is that Kareem Gregory always wins. The feds have got nothing on me and there’s nothing you can tell them about me. I’m going to be acquitted and then my life will go on as usual.” He paused to run his thumb over her bottom lip and press a soft kiss to her mouth. “And you will be my wife until the day you die.”
Finished with her at last, he turned and walked out. “I’m sorry it has to be like this between us.”
Yeah. She was feeling pretty sorry herself right now.
Chapter 29
Jack was asleep.
He’d put his head on her chest and they’d talked. Then his voice slowed and eventually tapered off altogether. Now she heard the even and unmistakable deep breathing of a man sleeping like a baby.
What a beautiful sound.
A fierce feeling of protectiveness pulsed in her veins as she stroked his head. Those clowns out there better be quiet. That was all she could think. If anyone flushed that loud toilet or did the slightest thing to—
Outside the bedroom window came the sudden thud-thud-thudding of something coming closer, growing louder. Not the quiet footfalls of their two outside guards as they made the rounds through the night, circling the perimeter. Uh-uh. This was the sudden violent sound of something bad.
Oh, shit.
Her sudden jerk of fear woke Jack up with a start, or maybe the approaching unidentifiable danger did it for him. Whatever it was, he was suddenly wide awake, sitting upright and reaching for his gun on the nightstand, a warrior heading off to battle at a moment’s notice.
Down below, men were shouting now, their voices raised with alarm.
Jack jumped out of bed, yanked his underwear on and tossed her his T-shirt.
She was just pulling it on when they heard the reverberating crash, as though a million full-length mirrors had dropped from the Empire State Building.
For one uncomprehending moment, they stared across the bed at each other.
Had … had someone just thrown something through the bay window in the living room?
And then Sammy’s high-pitched screams rose through the night and the most unwelcome smell in the world hit their nostrils:
The sharp, head-rushing fumes of gasoline.
There was a noise behind her, and for one terrible moment Kira thought that Kareem had come back. Standing upright but still hanging on to the dresser because her spongy knees wouldn’t support a flea right now, she looked in the mirror and saw her mother-in-law in the doorway, staring at Kira with an awful mixture of pity and shock on her face.
Wanda. Just the picker-upper she needed right now.
Kira’s first instinct was to fake a smile and act like she and Kareem had just had a little spat, but her reflection looked so bad that that would be impossible.
Her hair was wrecked and the spot on her crown alternately stung and ached. Mascara streaked down her face in twin strips of tarry black. Her lipstick was smudged up to her nose and down to her chin. Her dress was gaping open again, her underwear ripped. And the bodily fluid that continued to trickle down her legs was, she now saw, blood. It had dripped onto the floor in a growing puddle that would never come out of the expensive oatmeal Berber, no matter how much scrubbing she did.
The only thing Kira could do at the moment was pull the halves of her dress together and tie the belt, so that’s what she did.
The women’s eyes met in the mirror and Wanda started to cry.
Kira knew how she felt, but now wasn’t the time.
“You need to go to the emergency room, Baby Girl.”
Wanda’s use of an endearment was so startling that Kira gaped for a minute, words sticking in her throat. Wanda had never used a nickname for her, and if she’d been so inclined, the choice probably would have been bitch rather than baby girl.
“No,” Kira said. “I need to find my dog.”
“Your dog?” Now it was Wanda’s turn to be speechless. She hurried inside the room, turned Kira to face her and gripped her shoulders. “You could call the police—”
“The police?” Wanda hadn’t meant it as a joke, but damn, it sure was funny. Raw, hysterical laughter shot out of Kira’s mouth, projecting ugliness in every direction. Wanda tightened her grip on Kira, supporting her. “Great idea, Wanda. The feds can’t keep Kareem in jail, but I’m sure the local police will solve all my problems with a domestic violence charge. And while I’m at it, I’ll get a restraining order, too. That’ll scare Kareem.”
The laughter continued until Wanda shook Kira, and then the hysteria took over. There was something about seeing concern in this woman’s eyes and feeling a motherly touch from Wanda, of all people, that was more than Kira could handle tonight.
“What do you need?” Wanda asked, and that was when Kira burst into tears.
Hating herself for it, she sobbed for five seconds and rested her head on Wanda’s shoulder. Wanda smelled like
comfort—like powder-freshness, flowers and rain. Kira wanted to stay there forever, but staying there wouldn’t bring Max back.
“I need to put my clothes on and go find my dog.”
Wanda was aghast as Kira pulled away and rummaged in a drawer for some jeans.
“You can’t go out in the cold in the middle of the night looking for that dog, Kira. You can barely walk.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Kira said flatly. “You can’t stop me.”
After a long look and a frustrated sigh, Wanda seemed to decide that there was no talking Kira out of this decision. “I’ll help you. Let me get my shoes.”
Come again? Kira would sooner expect Wanda to run Max over with her car than help find him.
Kira was so unspeakably grateful that she couldn’t quite stop another surge of tears, embarrassing as they were. Wanda brought her in for a kiss, and the women were standing together when Kerry Randolph appeared in the doorway, making them both jump.
Whoa.
Kerry had no idea what he’d walked in on, but it was some serious shit. Serious and bad. Staring at the boss’s wife was never a good idea, especially when the boss was a known killer and the wife was standing half naked in her bedroom, where Kerry had no right to be, but Kerry couldn’t help staring at Kira Gregory on a good day, when she was fully dressed.
This was nowhere close to a good day.
The women jumped with surprise and then huddled together, trying to hide Kira without being obvious about it. Kira did something with the belt on her dress, but it was too late and the neurons had started firing in Kerry’s brain. Blinking, he added it all together: the dress … the hair … the puffy eyes and streaked makeup.
Trying to be discreet about it, he shifted his gaze lower, to what he’d thought he’d seen. And, yeah, it was … Blood. On the insides of her legs.
Holy fucking shit.
Kira had been attacked. Probably worse than that, but let’s go with attacked for now. The boss’s wife had been attacked and the boss wasn’t screaming for anyone’s head. That must mean that …
“Kareem did this to you.”
It wasn’t a question, so Kerry didn’t treat it like one. If he’d had any doubts about what’d happened, they disappeared when he saw the way the women’s gazes skittered away from his.
Then Wanda started lying, to protect her piece of shit son, no doubt. “There’s nothing here for you to worry about, Kerry.” Wanda handed Kira a tissue from the pocket of her slacks and finally looked at Kerry with anger flashing in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Kerry barely heard her because he was so focused on Kira and his sudden, blinding need to kill Kareem. Something about the way she kept her head low, as though she needed to be ashamed or something, infuriated him worse than he’d ever been in his life.
Kareem had taken this woman, his wife, who was proud and strong and had delicate bones and fine skin and probably didn’t weigh one-twenty-five soaking wet with four layers of clothes on, and used her the way no one should use a ten-dollar pro on the street.
Kareem had killed Yogi, too, but this was somehow worse.
This was Kira.
Kerry wanted to find Kareem, clip his balls off with a pair of gardening sheers and shove them down his throat, one at a time.
“Did Kareem do this to you?” he asked, his low voice vibrating with the effort it took to remain calm. “Did he touch you?”
She flinched and turned away, to look at a blank stretch of wall, and Kerry felt like a slimy-ass garden slug for making her feel worse than she already did, but, Jesus, he had to know.
“No,” she said.
“Bullshit.” Kerry wheeled around, heading for the door with murder in his heart. “Where is he? In his bedroom?”
Both women cried out and Wanda hurried over to dig her manicured nails in Kerry’s arm. Kerry shook her off, but she just grabbed him again. “Don’t.” Wanda all but dropped to her knees in a full-out beg. “He’ll kill you. You know he will.”
If Kerry had been in his right mind, he’d’ve taken a moment to reflect on and laugh at the irony of Kareem’s mother finally opening her eyes to the fact that she’d raised a murderer for a son. But the only thing on his mind right now was Kareem’s blood, and how satisfying and hot it would feel flowing through his fingers.
Jerking free a second time, he stalked out of the room and ignored the women calling after him. It was all he could do not to roar with bloodlust like the Incredible Hulk or a rampaging tyrannosaur. He thought of Kira’s abused body and the slump to her shoulders. He thought of the blood and her tear-streaked face. He thought of the quiet despair in her eyes and knew that she was irreparably damaged if not ruined. And he thought of how sick to death he was of being scared and doing nothing and letting his life be ruled by Kareem Gregory, psychopath.
“Kareem.”
Kerry banged into the bedroom, not bothering to knock. That in itself was a serious offense punishable by beating, if not death. Looking around, he took a minute to get his bearings. The place was an Egyptian palace, with all kinds of moody lighting, black and gold furniture and chairs and shit, and a massive four-poster bed that could fit half of Texas in it.
There was no sign of Kareem, but … whoa, the heavy-sweet smell of wine hit him in a wave and he reeled from it, nearly getting a contact high. Was Kareem shampooing his carpets with the stuff?
“Kareem,” he said again, and that was when he heard it.
The soft, broken sounds of a wounded animal or a man crying.
The shock glued Kerry’s feet to the floor and he paused, listened, and heard it again—quiet but unmistakable sobbing.
It was coming from the walk-in closet, which was one of those deals like the men’s department at Nordstrom, with lighted wooden shelves and the clothes hanging in neat rows, separated by color.
In the far corner, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, a spilled bottle of wine next to him and his shoulders heaving with his face buried in his hands, was Kareem.
Kerry stared.
Kareem looked up. His face was a destroyed mess of snot and tears that he didn’t bother to hide. Apparently he was beyond pride at this moment, beyond dignity. “She doesn’t love me, man. She doesn’t love me.”
Kerry said nothing.
Kareem seemed to take this as encouragement to continue wallowing in his self-pity. “I’ve got nothing.”
Kerry glanced around at the dozens of thousand-dollar suits, the shoes, the ties. He thought of the money, the house and the cars. All of it might well be seized by the DEA at any second, but it was Kareem’s at the moment and it was worth a pretty penny.
Then he remembered Kira’s blood and tears.
Yeah. Kareem had nothing.
After a while, Kareem’s crying tapered off to sniffles, and then he got himself together and stood. Producing a tissue from somewhere, he swiped at his face, taking care of most of the snot, but not all.
Kerry tried not to vomit and wondered why he wasn’t man enough to pull out his piece and shoot Kareem through the eyes right now. God knew he’d be doing the world a favor.
Kareem slung his arm around Kerry’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Kerry. I know I can trust you. You’re all I’ve got left.”
Resisting the urge to throw off that arm, Kerry listened. Waited. Hoped.
“My trial should end tomorrow,” Kareem said. “Hopefully by tomorrow I should have my life back.”
“Right.”
“Are you ready to do some work with me?” Kareem continued. “Get some new responsibilities?”
At last. Kerry’s heart rate kicked up with relief and excitement, but he kept his expression blank and, he hoped, humble. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
“Good.” Smiling with satisfaction, Kareem clapped his free hand to Kerry’s jaw, pulled him in, and planted a kiss on his cheek, the twisted fuck. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 30
Get her out of here.
&nb
sp; That was all Jack could think.
It was all a trap; he knew that.
Assassin 101: throw a firebomb in the house, wait for the targets to run for their lives, and pick them off as they stream out. Either a bullet kills them or the fire does.
Simple.
So if they ran out now, there was a pretty good chance of being shot. On the other hand, if they stayed in here, they were certain to burn. Already smoke was seeping under the door and he could almost swear the floor felt hot against his bare feet, which meant that the flames below were soaring to the ceiling already.
Not good.
Sammy’s scream was bad news, but Jack’s responsibility right now was making sure Amara lived even if no one else did.
So he took a chair and smashed it through the back window, the one that faced the small woods behind the house. Then he grabbed her arm and swung her around.
“We’re going out this way.” He tucked his gun in the waistband of his underwear. “We can’t risk the stairs. I’ll go first so I can break your fall. It’s not that far.”
“Jack—” Terror was wide in her eyes. A gun was one thing but the roaring flames of hell were quite another and damn if he couldn’t hear them coming closer.
He shook her. “Don’t argue with me, Bunny.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath and, just that quick, got herself together. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Pressing a quick kiss to her lips, for luck, he swung himself over the sill, cutting his legs all to shreds in the process. He ignored the pain. Flipping over, he eased himself out until he dangled by his fingers. Then he said a quick prayer and let go.
The ground and the outstretched branches of a tree rushed up to meet him and he landed in a crouch that strained his tight ankles nearly to the breaking point.
Straightening, he looked to the window for Amara, well aware that the house was now an inferno that lit up the night sky, so hot that he almost couldn’t stand even being in its perimeter. Soon the flames would burn through to the second floor and this whole place would be a smoldering heap of embers.
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