The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2)

by Nancy Haviland

  If she hadn’t been dying from pleasure, from finally experiencing this man’s touch, she would have wanted to crawl into a hole because she was coming from some heavy petting and a single kiss. But she was coming! Responding like this to a man’s touch!

  This man’s touch.

  And, holy freaking crap, he was amazing. No wonder her body did what it did when he was near. It must have instinctually known he’d be this good. And to now have the freedom to—Wait, he wasn’t allowing her to touch him, was he?

  She moaned, distracted. The whole of her right side was nothing but a mass of gooseflesh and weak limbs from where he held her.

  So incredible, her Vincente.

  My Vincente?

  When she could see and hear again, Nika pulled at her arms. “Let go,” she breathed. She wanted to touch him. Needed to feel him. So she could return the pleasure he’d just given her.

  He freed her trapped wrists and lifted his head so he could look down at her.

  Not noticing that he’d suddenly gone still, she fisted a handful of his hair and pulled him back to her, opening her mouth so she could kiss him with everything she had. She now knew his goatee tickled more than it scratched, in the best way possible. She moved her other hand swiftly down his back and over his rock-hard ass to come around between them, but the minute she ran her fingers over the magnificent erection behind that denim barrier, he tore his mouth from hers and drew back again.

  “No, no, no. Vincente, please, don’t. Don’t stop.”

  Her words came out pleading. Humiliating. But, dammit, why was he stopping? She wanted more. Was amazed and grateful that she wanted more with him. That her experience with Kevin hadn’t ruined her for this.

  She cautiously—almost afraid of what she might see—met his hooded gaze, and her afterglow died. Instantly.

  She’d been right to hesitate. Shouldn’t have looked. The dark brown of his eyes was nearly invisible; his pupils had expanded so much. His breathing was ragged, his lips red and wet, his skin flushed. Totally aroused. He wanted her.

  But.

  He was looking down at her, torn.

  Maybe he didn’t want her.

  “Vincente? Please, let me take care of you,” she whispered, stroking him hesitantly through his jeans. If all he would let her do was pleasure him the way he’d just pleasured her, she’d take it.

  Was she really lowering herself to accept whatever crumbs he was willing to throw her?

  She frowned. No. That wasn’t who she was. Wasn’t who she wanted to be anyway.

  “Fuck, Nika,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he was distanced. “I can’t.”

  Ice chips joined the flow of hot blood rushing through her veins, cooling her completely, but when he pushed himself off and collapsed in the corner of the sofa, Nika still felt the loss of him as if someone had severed one of her limbs.

  Feeling a thousand years old, she pushed herself into a sit, wincing as the material of her shirt rubbed across her sensitive nipples. She lifted her head as she straightened her clothes and looked at him, sitting there leaning his elbows on his knees, hair falling forward to hide a portion of his face, looking like a fucking poster boy for Orgasms-R-Us.

  Anger at his rejection, and for her weakness when it came to him, rose up and trampled over everything in its path. “Do you get off doing this to me?”

  His head turned toward her, all that so-soft hair sliding off his shoulders. Had she not been so upset, the brittle look in his dark gaze would have spooked the shit out of her. Gone was the passionate man who, minutes ago, had given her one of the most intense orgasms of her life—the only one she’d ever not given herself. In his place was her stoic protector. Nothing more.

  “From what I recall,” he said silkily, “you’re the one who got off.”

  She gasped, her eyes flaring wide at the blunt reminder. “And you didn’t. Is that a problem of yours? Or is it just me who doesn’t do it for you?”

  “I usually do just fine.” The crooked smile he gave her didn’t reach his eyes.

  Humiliation flowed like lava over her, burning, battering, shrinking her until she felt as if she were two inches tall. This again? What was it about her that made men want to hurt her? Why did they feel the need to belittle her, make her feel not good enough? Never good enough. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and jumped to her feet. She practically ran to the bedroom, slamming herself in before dashing over to the dresser. Gasping for air, she scrambled in the drawer and almost ripped her shirt as she struggled to throw a bra on, ashamed and embarrassed by how tender her breasts still felt. She strapped on the sandals that she’d left next to the bed yesterday.

  Panicked thoughts tumbled around her head, the loudest telling her to get the hell out of there. Away from the bastard she’d just offered herself to.

  Oh, why did I do that? I knew better!

  She’d known he was unpredictable where she was concerned. Inconsistent.

  Why had he kissed her, touched her, if he didn’t want her? Why hadn’t he just left her alone?

  But nooo. He’d gone and supplied more fuel for her ridiculous fantasies. And if she believed what he’d said, which she so did, the problem wasn’t him. It was her.

  I am so fucking stupid!

  Tears filled her eyes, and her throat ached as if she’d just been choked. Oh, sure, he’d been aroused, but a man could get hard by a stiff breeze, couldn’t he? For all she knew, he’d been thinking about someone else—could’ve been imagining some petite blonde instead of the Amazon redheaded freak that she was. The woman who’d been nothing but some man’s whipping girl for the past year, who’d been the target of every one of Kevin’s nasty, denigrating comments.

  Had Kevin been right about her? About no one else wanting her once he was done with her?

  She hadn’t believed it, but now . . .

  Nika grabbed her purse off the nightstand where Vincente must have put it last night when he’d brought her home—

  Yeah, screw that. This wasn’t home. It was just another version of hell.

  After going to the bedroom door, she paused with her hand on the knob and took a deep breath to settle herself. And then another when that one didn’t work. As if it was even possible to calm down right now. Shaking, she turned the handle and walked out, down the hall, digging her key out as she went.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Her head shot up, and she dropped her purse. Vincente stood in front of the door, blocking her only exit. Trapping her. Physically barring her from freedom.

  Barely able to breathe around the panic his stance incited, Nika bent to pick up her things, throwing her lipstick and wallet back into the soft black leather. She grabbed her hand sanitizer and put it back into its pocket, along with a cocktail napkin she must have picked up at the club last night because it was stamped with the words Club Pant. She was about to stuff it into her purse when she saw writing on the back of it. Palming it at the same time she slipped her purse strap over her head, she straightened and forced her chin up. Vincente had to let her by.

  “I’m leaving. Please get out of my way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m not letting you out of here when you’re upset. Who knows what you might inadvertently get yourself into? What’s that?” He nodded at the napkin.

  Realization crashed over her. Her wants and needs meant nothing. Her freedom of choice didn’t exist. She was insignificant. They all thought she wasn’t even able to care for herself. To know right from wrong, danger from safety. She was still imprisoned. But in chains her brother and Vincente chose to call “protection.”

  Something inside Nika broke apart, splintering with a shattering impact, littering her insides with jagged, spiky shards.

  She suddenly felt so small she had to wonder if she still existed
.

  The painful sensations were fleeting, though, gone almost as soon as they were felt, and then . . . nothing. A blessed nothing. Absolute numbness. Her madly beating heart slowed. Her lungs lost that suffocating tightness. The tension fled from her muscles.

  And she was free. On the inside, at least.

  Not one emotion came forward to pummel her like she would have expected as she clarified that for herself. Just that nothing. That peaceful detachment, something that would have come in handy had she been able to adopt it when Kevin had beaten her.

  But no. This she’d never experienced before, and it took her another dense few seconds to realize what it was.

  You’ve given up, a voice in the back of her mind whispered sadly.

  And she had. Given up. Given in. She was never going to convince them that she was strong and capable, was she? She’d fought for so long—one night in particular, near the beginning, for her very life when Kevin hadn’t known when to stop whaling on her. That had been horrible, waking up in that hospital, her wrist in a cast, a nurse hovering worriedly, a doctor looking at her with professional concern, and a shrink—as if she hadn’t been aware her marriage was a violent one and she’d needed a stranger to tell her she had to get out before she wasn’t lucky enough to wake up the next morning.

  Yeah, because waking up for another round was such luck for the abused person.

  Nika blinked as something solidified in her chest. After having struggled, barely making it through this past year, it was almost a relief to feel like this. Or specifically, not to feel. Finally, some help to deal. And if that help came in the form of her not having to kill herself by caring anymore, about other people’s opinions, about her poor brother and his unnecessary guilt, about the man in front of her, about herself, she’d take it.

  She raised her head and looked at Vincente Romani with eyes that felt as vacant as an unplugged TV screen. “It’s mine,” she said flatly, holding up the crumpled napkin. The guys who’d bought her a drink last night had probably left her their number. Nervy of them, but who cared?

  Vincente ran an agitated hand across the back of his neck. “What is it?” he repeated.

  Bringing it up, not really caring—though, there might be a spark of satisfaction to be had waving another man’s phone number under Mr. Arrogant’s nose—she scanned what was on the napkin. Everything around her faded and all she saw were scratchily written letters, and still she felt nothing but mildly inconvenienced that she wasn’t through with this yet.

  Didn’t I tell you that you’d never get away from me?

  I found you. I’ll always find you. I’m going to make you pay for leaving me.

  I’m going to slice your throat and dance in your blood, Niki.

  Be ready for me.

  The edges of Nika’s vision quivered slightly as little white dots exploded in her periphery.

  Funny, she felt kind of shocked but not afraid. Why was that? Kevin had found her. Why wasn’t she afraid?

  Maybe she actually welcomed death. It would be better than this waking nightmare she was in.

  Kevin had been close enough to slip this letter into her purse last night. Or had gotten someone else to do it for him.

  She wasn’t ever going to be free of him, was she?

  “Red!”

  She glanced up and blinked a few times at Vincente. “What?”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her throat feeling dry and swollen. Stuffing the napkin into her bag, she went for the door. That massive body didn’t move an inch. “I’m fine to leave. Excuse me.”

  “Show me what was written on that napkin.”

  “It doesn’t concern you. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ?”

  “Show. Me,” he growled, obviously not listening to her.

  Her head tilted up, eyes narrowed. “It’s none of your business, Vincente. I can’t be more clear than that. Now get out of my way.”

  His gaze shifted from her face to her bag. Reading his intent, she went to step back, but his arm shot out. She ducked to dodge his grasp, bringing the bag and its contents down with her, and tried to force her way past him. She made it and reached for the door, thinking if she got it open, she could most likely outrun him. But that option was stolen from her, too, when she was spun with a surprisingly gentle, but firm, grip on her arm. She gasped when her back came up against the door. Vincente held her there by pressing his whole upper body into hers.

  “Get off!” she spat, finally feeling something: outrage.

  She pushed at him. Or tried to. Shit. She would have had better luck trying to move the door behind her.

  “Give me that napkin.”

  His deep voice rumbled into her chest where they were pressed together, but Nika felt nothing but the vibration. “No. It has nothing to do with you. Now get off me so I can go. I’d have stayed in Seattle with Kevin if I wanted to play this game.”

  He sucked in a shocked breath and immediately stepped back, but not before snatching her bag so quickly that she didn’t stand a chance. He yanked it over her head despite the death grip she’d had on it and held it out of her reach as he dug in and came out with the crumpled napkin.

  “That’s mine!”

  He ignored her as he tossed her bag back at her before stepping away to read what was written on the napkin.

  After releasing the soft leather of Nika’s purse, Vincente continued his struggle to draw oxygen into his lungs, unable to get the dead look he’d put in her eyes out of his mind. The look on her precious face when he’d implied that she didn’t turn him on enough for him to want to have sex with her was burned into his brain.

  What a vicious lie! If the damn woman turned him on any more, he’d be hanging upside down from the fucking ceiling with a pull chain attached to the back of his throat.

  Yet she’d believed it. Believed she wasn’t desirable. How could that be? Did she not see a reflection when she looked into a mirror? How could she think that after what they’d just shared? Couldn’t she tell she’d owned him in that moment? That he’d put the distance there to protect her from him, not to hurt her?

  God, the ecstasy on her face as she’d come for him. For him!

  But he had to let her believe the foul mistruths, because as she’d lain there beneath him, climaxing so beautifully in his arms, he’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he took her, made love to her fully, claimed her as his, he would never, ever, have the strength to let her go. And she deserved so much more than what he could offer. So he’d thrown the verbal stones hard enough to hurt. Maybe if she continued to look at him the way she had been for the past few minutes it would make denying this wild obsession he had with her a little easier. Because the last thing she needed was a suffocating I’m-keeping-you-under-lock-and-key-just-in-case-something-happens-to-you obsession in her bed. She deserved someone who would allow her the freedom to stretch her wings and fly to the heavens. Vincente could never give her that.

  Feeling nauseous, he stepped away and looked down at the letter that had turned her into a ghost right in front of his eyes. What he saw left him shaking with rage.

  Nollan had found her! That fucker had been close enough to slip her this note!

  Why hadn’t she seemed afraid when she’d read the violent words? She’d paled, but that was it. Why hadn’t she looked terrified or alarmed? Like any other woman would have when reading something as disturbing as this.

  Because she’d been living it for nearly a year. There was no telling how many times she’d been told this very same thing.

  Vincente’s phone buzzed, and he snatched it from his pocket to scan the text. It was from Lorenzo. How the fuck had the guy gotten his number?

  Number five was found this morning. Astoria. Damage to the bodies is escalating. FBI are in. Keep your ears open.

 
Holy shit. Astoria was not small, but it wasn’t large either, and Nollan had killed in the vicinity. He’d been at the club last night. How else would he have written the note on one of their napkins and gotten it into Nika’s purse? And he’d clearly followed them back here. Was that why he’d done more damage to the victim’s body this time? Because he’d been angry that Nika hadn’t come home alone?

  Could he have been tailing her all day yesterday? Had he seen Alesio and Vito doing the same and been too afraid to make a move?

  Vincente’s blood ran cold, and he texted one question to Lorenzo. Needed to be sure. He had his answer within moments. The murder had been committed directly across the street, where the two suits he’d noted earlier had been gathering evidence.

  Holy fuck.

  His plan was suddenly shot to shit. Because no way in fucking hell was he letting Nika out of his sight when that bastard was this close. He couldn’t stay away from her now. Couldn’t turn her care over to one of the other guys. Not until he saw the life drain from Kevin Nollan’s body with his own eyes.

  He focused and took in the obstinate tilt of Nika’s chin, a belligerent and . . . condescending? . . . expression was now on her face, one he’d never seen her wear before.

  “You were going to walk out of here without letting me see this?” he suddenly roared, the volume of his voice escalating with every word. He grasped the vile note in his fist and waved it in her too-pale face.

  “I’m right in front of you. There’s no need to shout. Give it back, please.”

  The cold, so cold, tone wrenched him back from the brink of a total meltdown. He slowly lowered his arm, feeling a stab of panic when she observed him as if he were a coat of paint drying on the wall.

  It was as though she didn’t see him anymore.

  “Where were you going?”

  She shrugged as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Why would I tell you?” she asked in a reasonable tone that made him want to shake some sense into her.