Mistake #2. Lowering her guard around him.
Mistakes #3, 4, and 5. Making love to him.
Even now, an hour after the world-tilting event, she could still feel the press of his firm mouth against hers and the glide of his cock deep inside her. Still catch his skin and freshwater scent. Still see his violet eyes darken to a stormy indigo and black.
She circled her throat, and her pulse jumped beneath her thumb.
The flavor of him lingered on her palate, reminding her of the pleasure…and her stupidity.
From the beginning, she’d recognized the threat Malachim presented. She’d convinced herself she could maintain her distance, protect her past and secrets, and continue to work with him. She’d ignored the stirrings of desire, consigning it to a fluke reaction. And now here she was, holed up in his guest bedroom, shivering in the aftermath of his lovemaking.
Lovemaking she’d initiated.
She plopped down on the mattress, clapping her palms over her face. With other men, she battled the revulsion and anxiety ingrained in her from too many years of abuse. But not with Malachim. At first, his nearness had caused the familiar claustrophobia, but maybe it’d been his limitless patience that had gentled her. Or his blunt addressing of her aversion when others found it more comfortable to pretend they didn’t notice she’d rather not touch them. Or it could’ve been his quick defense or when he’d rushed to her side after just a phone call.
Maybe it’d been discovering that behind the wealth, confidence, powerful physique, and beautiful face existed a soul as damaged as hers. He’d been vulnerable with her, opening his defenses wide and leaving himself exposed for a devastating blow. And in that moment, she’d stepped off the edge with him. She’d pried ajar the door to her darkest fear and stared it in the face.
After Alex, she’d been afraid she would never be “normal” again. Never experience desire for a man, be touched by a man and not relive the horror Alex had inflicted on her time and time again. She’d been terrified of being damaged beyond repair.
Yet when she’d gathered her sorely battered courage and kissed Malachim, touched him, she’d vanquished the boogeyman of her nightmares. Passion—hunger—had clenched her belly, not terror. Arousal had simmered in her veins, not disgust.
She wasn’t broken. Dented and bruised, maybe, but not broken.
Chomping at the heels of that joyous revelation was panic of another kind. One that had her running away…again.
Malachim had been lied to, deceived, and betrayed all his life. From his parents to the woman he’d almost married—and now Danielle. And no matter how much she might be coming to care for him, she couldn’t give him the truth. If the past years had taught her nothing, it’d pounded one lesson into her body and mind. She could trust no one with her life. Not her mother, her ex-husband, or the police. She couldn’t even afford to trust her sister with the truth of her assumed name or her present location. Though a part of her insisted she could turn to Malachim, that same part had been curiously silent when she’d married Alex. Trusted Alex. She’d been honest with Malachim when she’d told him she didn’t trust anyone—that included herself.
Yet she could no longer stay here. She couldn’t tell him the truth about her identity or her past, but she also couldn’t remain in his house any longer than tomorrow. She’d called Julie. The funeral was set for Monday morning. While she attended the repast at the diner, she would pick up her nest egg, find a hotel, and prepare to leave Boston.
Staying any longer would be foolish…selfish. Her secrets would get Malachim harmed…or worse. Pat was dead. Carmen was God knew where. She didn’t have solid proof Alex was behind the gifts or the intruder who’d murdered Pat or her sister’s sudden disappearance. But neither would she allow the lack of tangible evidence to make her a sitting duck. After Pat’s funeral, she would pack her car with her scant belongings and leave.
Leave Malachim. Leave Boston.
She blew out a hard breath and rested a hand over her tightening stomach. Sorrow curled through her. I don’t want to start all over. When do I stop running? How much longer can I keep this up?
She shot from the bed. When Alex stops, damn it. That’s when you stop. Until then, she didn’t. Until then, she’d do what she had to.
But Jesus. She clenched her jaw against a weak sob. She was tired. Scared and tired of running, of hiding… of allowing Alex to still have power over how she led her life even though she was no longer his wife… And the odds of her continuing to run, start over, run, start over… They weren’t high.
She turned on her bare heel and swept a palm over her hair. As she pivoted to retrace her steps across the bedroom floor, the black canvas of her messenger bag snagged her attention. Quickly, she crossed to it and removed her cell phone. Now was as good a time as any to try Carmen again. Six days since their allotted day of contact. And eleven days since they’d last spoken.
In the past, sometimes weeks would fly by before Carmen showed up, skinny, dirty, and strung out. But this…this was different. She couldn’t explain the nagging sense of disquiet, but…
She tapped in the numbers and held the phone up to her ear. Listened to it ring. And ring.
“Damn, Carmen,” she murmured and stared at the black screen. Slowly she rubbed her thumb across the unlock bar. An invisible noose closed around her throat, and the niggling of foreboding bloomed into a bud of dread. Still she pulled up the Internet, located the phone number she sought, and dialed.
“Birmingham Police Department.”
She swallowed, but the vise grip on her neck didn’t ease.
“Birmingham Police,” the female voice on the other end slightly sharpened.
“Yes,” she finally managed. “I’d like to file a missing person’s report.”
“Hold on while I transfer you.”
Several minutes later, a tired male resounded in her ear.
“Missing Persons. Detective Jarvis. How can I help you?”
“Yes, my friend,” she winced at the lie, “Carmen Guerrero has been missing since Monday. I wanted to check and see if someone had filed a missing persons report. And if they haven’t, if I could file one.”
“And your name, ma’am?” the detective asked.
God, of course they would require her name. There was no way she could supply her real or assumed name. “Wendy Little,” she blurted, squeezing her eyes shut. Hell, that didn’t sound believable to her.
“Ms. Little,” the detective drawled, and she caught his disbelief. “What was the name of your, uh, friend again?”
“Carmen Guerrero,” she repeated, and then spelled the first and last names out.
“Hold on a sec.” In the background, she overhead the tap-tap of fingers clacking on a keyboard. Long moments passed, and her palm grew damp against the cell phone, her blood moving like molasses through her veins. This was a mistake. A dumb mistake. Carmen was probably okay. Monday, she’d probably answer Danielle’s call as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t worried her younger sister. She could hang up now…
“Ms. Little.” Her heart plummeted toward her bare feet. Again, nuances. The Southern inflection had hardened, carried an edge of excitement. Shit. “I’m going to transfer you. Please hold, okay?”
“Yes, okay.”
The silence reverberated in her head like a bomb. It echoed over and over, growing louder and louder until she wanted to clap her palms to her ears and shut it, the detective’s voice, and the freaking world out.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Carmen.
Another click and the background noise of murmuring voices and ringing telephones filtered through the line seconds before a gruff voice answered.
“Homicide.”
…
Danielle had been closeted behind her bedroom door for hours now.
Malachim stood in front of the guest room, uncharacteristically hesitant. Frowning, he stared at the white painted door, his hand hovering over the handle. He’d awakened to find Danielle gone. He�
�d assumed she’d needed time alone after the sex that had tilted his existence on its ass. Hell, he should grant them both space. She wasn’t the only one reeling.
But no matter how making love to her had affected him, he couldn’t bury his head in the sand and deny it. And she could no longer hide and not face him.
“Danielle.” He lightly knocked on the door. No answer. “Danielle,” he called again and rapped at the wood. When he still didn’t receive an answer, he tried the handle. It swung down smoothly, and he eased the door open.
Across the room, he spotted her perched on the side of the mattress, her back to him.
“Danielle,” he murmured again, but she didn’t respond, didn’t move. Almost as if she hadn’t heard him enter the room or speak her name. A tingle prickled the back of his neck. He approached her on silent feet, wary of startling her. But as he rounded the bed, he shucked that worry aside. Her body remained in the room, yet from the glazed stare and unnatural stillness, her mind had traveled far away. She didn’t flinch when he sank down beside her. Didn’t rouse when he carefully lifted her into his arms and settled her petite frame across his thighs. Didn’t utter a sound when he smoothed a palm down her curls and brushed his lips across her forehead.
Softly, he whispered to her, asked her to come back to him, assured her nothing would hurt her. He continued talking to Danielle until his voice hoarsened, dusk darkened to night, and his arms ached. But he didn’t stop. Not until she finally—finally—stirred. Relief poured through him, over him. His arms tightened, and he crushed a hard kiss to her brow since he couldn’t do the same with his embrace. Her near-catatonic state had scared the shit out of him. Remnants of it still thrummed in his veins.
Danielle moaned, shuddered, and squeezed her eyes closed.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He smoothed circles over her slim back. “It’s okay.”
“She’s dead.” The words were scratched, rough, as if rubbed over sandpaper.
Shock was a pile driver to the chest. Did she mean Pat? Was she experiencing another bout of grief over her friend? But Danielle had said “she’s dead.” What the hell had happened in the few hours they’d been apart?
“Danielle, talk to me.”
“She’s dead,” she repeated as another quake took hold of her, reverberating through his body.
“Who, sweetheart? Talk to me,” he gently urged.
“Carmen.”
Her sister. He remembered her name from their conversation in his office. Danielle’s older sister was dead, and for some reason, she blamed herself.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered, and cradled her head, lowering it to his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Her grief reached out and wrapped around him like strangling tentacles, constricting his heart. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.
The first sob ripped out of her throat, a ragged harbinger of the ones to follow. They racked her body, seizing her so hard Malachim lay on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. Her tears drenched his shirt; her tortured cries tore at his heart, his soul. He bent his head over hers and just held on.
After a long while, the wrenching sounds of sorrow subsided, and she went limp in his embrace. He eased back. She was out cold. Carefully, he slid from the bed, retrieved a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, and returned to her. He swiped the wet cotton over her face, removing the ravages of grief.
She’d been through so much in the last couple of days. And he suspected her life before then hadn’t been a skip through the tulips either. He knew nothing about her other than the crumbs she’d let fall. Yet… Yet he wanted to stand in front of her and slay the nightmare monsters of her past. And any threat that dared come after her now. Like some knight in dented and tarnished armor.
Hell. He grunted as he tossed the cloth to the top of the bedside dresser and curved his body around Danielle’s still form. Rafe would have a field day laughing his ass off at Malachim right now.
But with Danielle’s soft, even breath fluttering against his throat, he didn’t really give a damn.
…
Someone had taken a flame torch to her throat. And a piece of steel wool to her eyes.
God, she hurt. But even deeper than her burning throat and gritty eyes was the throbbing ache in her chest. Like a hole had been excavated and had yet to be filled. If it could. The reason rushed back in like black water flooding a gaping hole.
On an intellectual level, she’d always known this would happen, that she’d be forced to deal with her sister’s untimely death. She’d thought she’d prepared herself for the call, the finality of it all. But no. Nothing. Nothing on earth had prepared her to hear the words that her sister was dead. Murdered. Not the accidental drug overdose she’d steeled herself for all these years.
All at once, memories of them as children washed back over her like a grainy videotape. The good times they’d shared before the drugs had consumed Carmen. The girlish laughter and squabbles. How they’d exchanged secrets and spent many nights talking under the covers when they were supposed to be asleep.
That was the way Danielle wanted to remember her, but the image of her older sister, her body nothing more than an empty husk on a cold metal slab in some morgue, kept intruding. The detective had claimed the scene appeared as if Carmen had been caught in the middle of a drug buy gone terribly awry; she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anger flared in Danielle’s gut, coalesced in a fiery ball in her chest. Why couldn’t Carmen have stayed clean? Kept her distance from that scumbag ex-boyfriend? If only she’d been stronger… Damn her!
A shudder racked Danielle’s body, and she huddled into herself. On the horizon of her mind loomed a darker thought; it nagged at her. Alex… Alex had something to do with Carmen’s death. Danielle didn’t have proof; the cops certainly possessed no evidence or suspect. Yet guilt welled hard in her soul and spilled over. Had she caused her sister’s death?
She sucked in a breath, and the fresh scent of water, sun-kissed air, and…Malachim. With effort, she peeled her eyes open, and a patch of golden skin met her gaze. A flurry of sensations hit her at once. The firm support under her head wasn’t a pillow but a muscled shoulder. The warmth surrounding her wasn’t the bed’s comfortable blanket but a heavy arm and a thick thigh. Jesus. She shivered, stunned. Malachim. She lay beside Malachim—was sleeping beside Malachim.
She stilled and waited for the terror to pound in her chest and the bile to raze a path up her throat at the weight of his body covering hers. A slight instinctive tremor vibrated inside her, but it faded. His arms harbored, not shackled. His legs sheltered, not pried her thighs open for a painful, soul-shredding invasion.
He protected, not harmed her.
Her mother’s neglect, her aunt’s disinterest, Alex’s abuse, Carmen’s addiction—no! Don’t think of Carmen right now! Not now. It was too painful. Too raw. She tried to claw her way back to the present—back to the man who offered comfort. She needed him. For just a little while, she needed to feel okay.
In her life, she’d been rejected, betrayed, and hurt by those who were supposed to love her; she’d grown to expect rejection and the cruel side of humanity, and was surprised by kindness.
Like Pat’s. Like Malachim’s.
Carefully, she maneuvered from under his arm but didn’t move far. Propping an arm under her, she studied him. The short, white-gold strands on the side of his head lay smooth against his scalp while the slightly longer lengths on top were mussed as if he’d scrubbed his hands over them as she’d often seen him do. Dark blond brows arched imperviously even while he slept, and lashes of the same color fanned thick and heavy under his eyelids. Without the intensity of his gaze, she could leisurely examine his strong-boned, aristocrat/warrior face. The sharp angles, the elegant slope of his nose… She lifted a hand, and the fingertips lingered a couple inches above the sensual curve of his mouth.
He was beautiful.
His eyes opened. Her breath snagged. A fine tremble raced down her arm and settled in her hand. His
narrowed contemplation dipped before returning to her face. He intertwined his fingers with hers, brought their clasped hands down to rest on his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hushed in the quiet room.
Nod. Just say yes, and he’ll be satisfied.
She nodded. “No,” she whispered.
“Okay.” He untangled his fingers from hers and brushed her hair back from her cheek. “What do you need from me? What can I do?”
“Make me forget.” She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Just for a little while.”
His palm cradled her head, and he closed his mouth over hers, towing her under into the sensual world only he could weave. His tongue dipped between her lips, and she eagerly met him, needing more of him.
She crawled on top of his body and straddled his hips. His arms closed around her, and she shuddered as much from the pleasure as the utter sense of safety. Of sanctuary.
His hard, wide palms slid up her spine, gathering her T-shirt. They broke apart long enough for him to whisk the material over her head then feasted on each other again. Basked in each other. Drowned in each other.
“Please.” She fumbled with his button and zipper, lowered the metallic teeth, and reached inside his jeans. Palming him, she released his cock and swallowed his groan.
“Whatever you need, baby,” he murmured, offering himself to her with his soft voice and the sensual roll of his hips. She didn’t pause to think why he gave his body to her so freely. She didn’t stop to consider why she found oblivion and peace in his arms.
She just sank over him. Around him.
Into him.
Chapter Twenty
The tinkle of forks scraping plates and glass clinking underlined the soft drone of voices in the diner. A sad smile quirked the corners of Danielle’s mouth as she scanned the crowd of people gathered to mourn Pat’s death and celebrate his life. He would’ve appreciated holding the repast in the place he’d devoted his life to. Pat had loved the diner and the people who’d frequented it. Julie’s decision to shut down the place for the day and honor him there was perfect.
Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) Page 16