Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite)

by Simone, Naima

  She stared out the passenger window of the cab. The car idled, the driver patiently waiting, the meter happily ticking. Even numb with grief, the stunning beauty of the Beacon Hill residence caused a ghost of wonder to whisper through her. The elegant brick building was a classic row house with its wide black shutters and iron grillwork, and yet the recessed doorway and arched door and windows reminded her of the country homes she and Alex had visited during their honeymoon in Italy. It was gorgeous. Sophisticated.

  And it was Malachim’s home.

  She might be in an emotional deep freeze at the moment, but she had working brain cells. If Alex and the person—or people—he had working with him had found her at Pat’s, and were most likely behind the aborted kidnapping at Malachim’s office, then it stood to reason they were also aware of where Malachim lived. And, with her apartment a crime scene, his home would be one of the places she would go to stay. He wasn’t safe with her here.

  Malachim didn’t respond, and a tense silence filled the close interior. Still, she didn’t turn to glance at him.

  “You can,” he finally said in a low, steady voice.

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  “Why?”

  Danielle sighed. Because people in my life end up missing, hurt, or dead. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  He remained quiet, and for a moment she believed he might concede her point. Relief and a trace of disappointment slid through her.

  “I’m going to a hotel.” She’d have to return to the diner and hope a cop there would allow her inside to retrieve her nest egg. A headache set up a faint, steady throb behind her left eye. She should have money available for three, maybe four, nights. Long enough to stay until Pat’s—her breath hitched in her throat—funeral. After…that…she’d still have funds to leave Boston with—

  “I don’t think so.”

  She whipped her head around at the quiet steel in his voice.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you? Take advantage of you?”

  She turned away and leaned her forehead against the cold window. God, no. As much as she feared slapping a big target on his back, she was equally terrified of relying on him…of becoming dependent on him. Of trusting him more than she’d already started.

  “Danielle?”

  “No,” she said, almost wishing she could say, Yes, I’m afraid you’ll hurt and take advantage of me. Because then, he would ask the taxi driver to head to the nearest hotel; she harbored no doubt Malachim would. The man who’d rescued her from an attempted kidnapping, who’d stepped in the way so she wouldn’t have to suffer the unwanted touch of another, who’d raced to the hospital during the night to be by her side—that man would sublimate his wishes just so she wouldn’t experience a moment of fear.

  But those words would require inflicting harm to his heart, his spirit. She couldn’t do that to him.

  “No, what?”

  “No, I’m not afraid of you.” She turned to him again, meeting his gaze. The street lamps threw shadows across his face, slashing his features half in light, half in darkness. But his eyes blazed bright, flaring hotter at her admission. “I still can’t. Malachim,” she swallowed, pressed her fingertips to her eye sockets, “I—”

  “Danielle,” he said, his tone soft as a whisper. As hard as concrete. “I may not be privy to the thoughts and secrets you’re holding close, but I’m not—nor have I ever been—an idiot. You lied to the detective tonight about something that happened during the attack in your apartment. An attack that occurred one week after you were mugged outside of my office building. An attack you refused to report. You’re hiding something. Something that has you scared. It’s the only reason I can think of that would keep you from admitting information to the officer investigating your friend’s death.” His voice lowered, grew impossibly gentler but no less firm. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, and as much as I wish you could trust me with them, you can’t—or won’t. That still doesn’t mean I’m going to let you foolishly hightail it to some dump of a motel where anyone with money for a good tip can get a pass key to your room. I have four bedrooms with en suite bathrooms here. And a state-of-the-art security system installed and tested by Rafe and Chay. It’s like Fort Knox. Here, you will be safe.”

  She lowered her head. Safe. How long had it been since she’d felt secure? Protected? A week ago when he saved you, a small, sly voice whispered. Tonight when he strode through those emergency room doors.

  Yes. A sense of sanctuary had fallen over her like a wide net cast by his presence alone. It was tempting to free fall into that net.

  She could pretend her friend hadn’t been shot down on her living room floor. Forget for a moment that she couldn’t get in touch with her sister. Make believe she didn’t have a ticking extortion time-bomb over her head. She could close her eyes and imagine she was free...

  Firm fingers gripped her chin, tilted it up to meet a resolute gaze as unyielding as the hold on her face. “Understand me, Danielle. You have choices. One. You can walk in that house on your own two feet. Or two. I can carry you out of this cab and through that door. You decide.” A beat of silence. “Please.”

  She blinked. She would have to be the village idiot to believe it was anything but what he’d intended—a concession, an attempt at courtesy. And it in no way softened the ultimatum.

  She closed her eyes. Loosed another sigh.

  “Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll walk.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Good morning.”

  Malachim glanced up from the eggs he scrambled on the stove. Danielle hovered in the archway, her hair rumpled from bed, the gray T-shirt and sweatpants he’d given her the night before hanging off her petite form. Her unpainted toes peeked out from under the baggy hems.

  She was gorgeous.

  If he shoved aside the previous evening’s events, he could pretend she’d risen tousled and sexy from his bed rather than the room down the hall. But the ache in his arms and cock made that dream impossible to cling to.

  “Morning,” he rumbled, switching his attention back to breakfast. Better a pan full of scrambled eggs than the swell and gentle sway of her unbound breasts behind his shirt. How sick was it that he was jealous of his own damn shirt? “How’re you feeling?” he asked gently.

  Sorrow flashed in those dark eyes before her lashes lowered. “Fine.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said politely, avoiding his eyes. Inside, Malachim sighed. They were having an awkward morning after without the sex. “You have heated floors,” she blurted.

  A corner of his mouth quirked at the surprised pleasure in her voice. He transferred the eggs from the range to the plates sitting on the attached marble island, then surveyed the wide, open kitchen with its exposed beams and top-of-the-line appliances and rustic design. Through her eyes, the kitchen and the bedrooms with their floor-to-ceiling arched windows and fireplaces must seem decadent and over-indulgent. Was that how she saw him, as well? Pampered, spoiled, entitled?

  Granted, he’d bought this home with money he’d inherited from his grandfather, but Malachim had always worked hard, putting in long hours at the firm and with his clients. That had been one of Tara’s main complaints. He’d neglected to play as hard as he worked.

  But this home was his sanctuary; he enjoyed its old-world beauty, loved sitting out in the walled garden during the summer with a book. Even though the two reception rooms, bedrooms, and guest cottage provided more space than he could ever occupy, the house was cozy and his. Only the firm and this building had ever been his.

  “Yeah, they’re heated,” he said, setting bacon and a waffle on each plate. “C’mon and eat while the food’s hot.”

  He rounded the island with a plate in each hand and set them on the dining room table. The flames from the gas fireplace warmed his skin through his white T-shirt and jeans. Pulling out a chair, he waited for her to cross through the kitchen
and into the dining area. Once she settled in the seat, he took his own across from her.

  “This looks good. Thank you,” she said, cutting her fork into the waffle.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he teased. “This is about all I have in my repertoire. But I do have a varied and awesome takeout menu file.”

  She offered him a wan smile. “You’re such a man.”

  “I think I should be offended.” He paused, scooping egg onto his fork. “But I’m not.”

  The quirk of her lips was the closest thing to a smile he’d seen since he’d arrived at the hospital the night before. He’d take it and be thankful. They ate in companionable silence. After a while, she leaned back in her chair. She lifted her arms and threaded her fingers through her hair, smoothing the heavy strands away from her face. He quickly averted his gaze. He didn’t know which captivated him more—this unprecedented glimpse of an unguarded Danielle or the thrust of her breasts beneath the faded cotton.

  Hell, she’d lost a friend the night before. Her home was probably decorated in the highest police couture of yellow crime tape, black fingerprint dust, and white chalk. And here he sat ogling her like a pimple-faced teen who’d sneaked a peek at his first boob.

  He was an asshole, no doubt about it.

  “The breakfast was wonderful, Malachim. Thanks again.”

  “No problem.” He rose from the table, returned to the kitchen, and poured coffee into two mugs.

  She rose from her chair and walked over to the island where she accepted the mug he pressed into her hand. She took a small sip before setting the coffee on the counter. With a sigh, she rubbed a palm over the nape of her neck and wound her other arm around her midsection. She paced away from him and halted in front of the wide picture window, staring out the glass. The window offered a lovely view of the walled garden, but from her defensive—or protective—pose, Malachim doubted she even noticed its beauty.

  As if she had a teleprompter erected above her head, he could guess the thoughts running rampant behind her dark eyes.

  I shouldn’t be here. I can’t stay. He could read it in the tension drawing her spine as straight as a ruler. In the rigid set of her shoulders. In the vulnerable self-protective comfort of the arm wrapped around her waist.

  He ground his jaw as everything in him roared and recoiled at the idea of her leaving. Part of him acknowledged the reaction was disproportionate to the situation. He’d known Danielle for so short a time, she shouldn’t matter this much. But she did. Did he trust her? Hell, no. How could he when she reeked of secrets and lies? Did he want her? Hell, yeah. With a passion that shocked the shit out of him. Tara, naked, hadn’t aroused him like the sight of Danielle in ill-fitting sweats and a T-shirt.

  Yet this urge—this need—to keep her close stemmed from more than desire. Maybe it was the vulnerability he spied in her eyes, in her body language. And then maybe it was the humbling strength she probably wasn’t even aware she exhibited. He still had no clue about her past. Whatever had occurred, she’d been hurt, traumatized. And yet she hadn’t been cowed or destroyed. She was a fighter, a survivor. And as friend to a survivor of a horrific crime, he admired her courage. Her spirit.

  Hell, he confused his own self. He held her at arm’s length even as he pulled her close. There was a word for that. Schizo.

  “Let me take a stab at what you’re thinking,” he said softly. Presenting her with plenty of time to shift away, he set his cup down on the counter and moved closer until he paused next to her. He forced his hands to his sides instead of on her. “You’re leaving.”

  Her gasp of surprise preceded a tiny, pensive crease that appeared between her brows, and victory unfurled within him. As an attorney, he understood the prudence of sometimes shutting up. That frown was as good as a confession.

  “I’m going to need to return to the diner,” she said, turning and facing him.

  “Can you really go back there? Sleep there?” The idea of living in the place where so much violence had occurred didn’t sit well.

  She stared over his shoulder, her gaze far away. He suspected she’d returned to the night before. The spasm of pain that passed over her lovely features confirmed his assumption.

  “No,” she murmured. “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Pat on the floor and the blood.” She inhaled, her eyes briefly closing. “If it’s okay, I’ll stay here until after the” —her voice cracked, faltered— “funeral. That should only be a few days. Monday, I think.”

  “Of course.” He shook his head, “Sweetheart, I can help you—”

  “No,” she snapped then held up a hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She inched back, inserting space between them. “I’ve asked and accepted too much from you already. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded, pretending to acquiesce while inside he quietly celebrated as if he’d won the most important case of his career. His mind churned with real estate possibilities. Gabriel had vacated the Charlestown condominium he’d leased from Malachim weeks ago, opting to move into Leah’s home. He didn’t need the rent, but stubborn Danielle wouldn’t move into it without paying. The more he turned the idea over, the more he warmed to it. Maybe he could convince Sharon to bring it up to her. The associate could tell Danielle she knew of a great place with reasonable rent…

  Yeah, he’d make that phone call later in the day.

  Satisfied, he walked back to the counter and picked up her coffee mug, offering the still-warm cup to her once more.

  “There’s a bag on the couch in the front reception room for you.” Her eyes narrowed, and he held up the hand not holding coffee. “Hey, the last thing I’ll give you, I promise. But you can’t walk around in my sweats for the rest of the day.” Though, as long as she remained bra-less, he had absolutely no problem with it. At all. Nada.

  “Fine,” she growled. “But I insist on reimbursing you.”

  “You’ll have to track Leah down then. She’s the responsible party.”

  “Who’s Leah?”

  He cocked his head to the side, studying her. Had there been a slight snap to her question. Jealousy, maybe? Almost immediately, he discarded the idea as wishful thinking. On his part. Desire had him hallucinating emotion.

  “My friend’s fiancée. I called her early this morning and asked her to bring some things by for you.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her head, the dark curls sliding forward and hiding her face from him. “Well, please pass my thanks on to her. But,” she tilted her head back, a glare fixed on his face, “no more handouts. I mean it.”

  He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” Which would have meant something if he’d actually been a Boy Scout.

  “Whatever,” she grumbled, brushing past him toward the kitchen archway that opened into the living room. “You probably weren’t even a Scout.”

  He grinned.

  Damn, she was smart.

  And hot. Couldn’t forget hot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You’re a damn cheat, Malachim Jerrod!”

  Malachim tsked as he gathered the spread of cards across the table.

  “Such language, Danielle. You should be ashamed. And on a Sunday.”

  When she uttered another curse that was anatomically impossible, a shocked laugh escaped him. The face of a saint, the body of a pinup model, the poker skills of a card shark, and the mouth of a guttersnipe.

  He was completely charmed.

  Who knew a game of poker would reveal the side of Danielle he’d longed to catch a glimpse of?

  Three days had passed since Pat’s murder on Thursday night. In that time, the hollow look in her eyes had begun to ease, and her demeanor had slowly lightened. She’d gradually allowed herself to relax, to lower that damnable guard several inches. He believed he might be seeing the Danielle who’d existed before life had screwed her over.

  “I have been advised by Rafe, connoisseur of all things debauched, that the action you so eloquently suggested is not only impossible but probably p
ainful. So I’ll pass.” He smirked, shuffling the deck for another hand.

  “You cheated, Jerrod. Admit it,” she demanded.

  He coughed into his fist. “Sore loser.”

  Laughing, he dealt the cards. The doorbell pealed, echoing throughout the house.

  She snickered. “I keep expecting Lurch to show up saying, ‘You rang.’” Her voice deepened, imitating the Addams Family butler so well, he choked on the pretzel he’d just swallowed.

  Charmed? Try fucking in love.

  He rose from his chair, grinning. “Don’t look at my hand,” he admonished, wagging a finger at her. “On second thought…” He bent and swiped up his cards.

  Her chuckle followed him out of the living room and down the hall to the foyer and front door.

  With a quick glance through the peephole, he punched in the security code and opened the door. His mother stood on the small landing.

  Pam Jerrod smiled at him, reaching up to smooth the back of her fingers down his cheek.

  “Hi, honey,” she greeted, scanning him from head to bare feet. “You’re not dressed for brunch.”

  Ah, damn. He’d forgotten all about their usual Sunday brunch date. “Sorry, Mom, it completely slipped my mind.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow. “Come on in.” He shifted back to allow her entrance.

  “Forgot?” She entered the foyer and removed her dove-gray gloves. “What? Did you get caught up in work again? I swear, if you and your office chair could procreate, I’d have grandchildren by now.”

  He laughed, well used to the undercover bawdy humor Pam possessed. Those closest to her—him, Gabe, Rafe, Chay, their mothers, and, at rare times, Christopher—were the few she was comfortable enough with to reveal that side of herself to.

  And from the choked gasp coming from the direction of the living room, Danielle could now count herself among the privileged circle.

  “What was that?” his mother asked, craning her neck.

  “Not what,” he corrected. “Who.” He entered the room, and Danielle rose from the couch. The moment she glimpsed Pam, her smile lost some of its open warmth. A polite reserve stiffened her full lips and cooled the laughter in her eyes.