Lethal Lies

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Plus, her taste in men truly sucked lately. Carl had been such a prick, and it seemed like he wasn’t giving up easily. She idly wondered how his interview with the FBI would go. What about the FBI? Heath had promised to meet with Reese. Would the FBI chase them?

  Why was Heath running from the police? What kind of mess had she created by identifying him on television, and why was he working with her?

  She knew. Not only her education but her instincts told her he wanted to find Loretta’s killer. He needed to find him. So what was she to make of that? She had to get a grip on her thoughts.

  She tried to concentrate on the small room. Yes, she could handle one night with Heath. They needed sleep, and they’d figure out everything in the morning. Good plan. Definitely a good plan.

  Yet Heath was the sexiest man she’d ever seen, and now she was shacked up in a motel with him as a storm beat against the windows. But the poor guy must be exhausted. He’d gotten into a pretty bad fight and then driven through the storm for hours. No wonder he’d jumped into the shower.

  Her mind returned to the fight. Heath had been brutal. Shouldn’t that scare her, even a little? Yet it didn’t. She felt safer with him—from bad guys, anyway—than she’d felt in much too long. Now all she had to do was control her libido and things would work out fine. She gingerly sat on the bedspread and waited, her thoughts scattering.

  The door opened, and he stepped out with a towel wrapped around his waist, his thick hair wet and curling to his nape. Holy ripped abs, Batman. Her gaze dropped to the ridges in his abdomen, and her mouth salivated. Actually salivated. Then she noticed the folded up toilet paper he was pressing against the back of his rib cage.

  “Do you have a sewing kit?” he asked calmly.

  She leaped from the bed and moved toward him. “A kit? God. Why?”

  Blood had seeped through the flimsy paper. He carefully peeled the paper away to reveal a long gash on his back. “I think I got cut from either the Sheetrock or the mirror when I fought with that asshole earlier. I can’t get the right angle to sew it. Are you up for it?” He tried to twist and better see the wound.

  Bile rose in her throat along with a healthy dose of panic. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been bleeding for hours? Why didn’t we go to a doctor?”

  “I pressed a bandanna against it all day. It just needs a couple of stitches.” A frown drew down his dark eyebrows. “It’s all right. Really.”

  Who the hell was this guy? Her legs wobbled when she walked back to her suitcase. “I have a traveling sewing kit, but it’s for loose buttons.” Not for flesh, for pete’s sake.

  Heat filtered along her back, and his breath stirred her hair as he looked over her shoulder. “That’ll do. I can’t get the right angle to sew it. Are you up for it?”

  She shivered from his proximity. He was so damn big. “This just got weird. Really, really, really weird,” she muttered. “Should we heat the needle or something?” Hadn’t she seen that in a movie? She turned to face him and fought the urge to back up a little.

  “Okay.” He didn’t seem to care. With deliberate movements, he shoved the toilet paper back into place. It stuck to the blood.

  She coughed. Her stomach rolled over and shimmied inside her belly.

  He grabbed the motel matches off the bedside table. “Now aren’t you glad we’re staying in a dive? A nicer motel wouldn’t have good old fashioned matches lying around to promote the place.” Lines fanned out from his eyes—from either pain or exhaustion.

  “Though a nicer hotel would have a doctor.” She tried not to wince as he ignited a match and turned the needle black. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “So long as you don’t pass out or puke on me, we’re good.” He gently threaded the needle with bright yellow thread.

  “Yellow?” she murmured.

  He shrugged. “You have more yellow than the other colors.”

  “That’s because I don’t usually wear yellow buttons,” she whispered. Could she do it? Actually draw the needle through his skin? Her stomach rioted.

  “Hey.” He reached out and cupped her chin to lift her face. “It’s okay. If you can’t do it, I’ll just tape a shirt to it.” His greenish brown eyes softened. How odd for such a huge guy to be so gentle.

  She steeled her back. If he was strong enough to get sewn up without anesthetic, she was strong enough to stitch. “I can do this.”

  “Good girl.” He leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

  The small touch ripped through her with the force of a dangerous tide. Her legs wobbled again. She blinked. “So. Maybe you should lie down?”

  “Yeah.” He handed over the needle and turned to sprawl on the bed, resting his face on his arms.

  The towel dislodged enough to reveal the top of his very fine ass. His long legs hung over the edge of the bed, and even his feet were masculine and sexy.

  Wow. She set a knee on the bed and gently began to pry the bloody paper away from the wound. It was a deep gash already filling with blood again. Her hands shook, and she took several deep breaths, forgetting about his butt. “Okay. It’s okay.”

  He didn’t move and seemed almost asleep. “Just take your time,” he said drowsily.

  How much blood had he lost? “I can do this.” Her hands trembling, she pressed the sides together. He didn’t so much as twitch, but it had to hurt. “I’m sorry,” she croaked.

  “I’m fine.”

  There was an intimacy in caring for him that gave her pause. Something feminine in her, something real, wanted to soothe him. Heal him. She gingerly slid the needle in, surprised by how much his flesh fought her. Her temples started to ache. Then she twisted and tried to draw it through. The angle was wrong. She shifted closer to him, her knee hitting his hip. Nope.

  “You’re gonna have to straddle me, darlin’.”

  She could’ve sworn that was amusement in his deep voice. Her gaze slid to his narrow waist and powerful back. “Right.” Taking yet another deep breath, she shifted closer and lifted one of her legs over his hips. To avoid the wound, she had to shimmy back and sit squarely on his butt. Her skirt rode up her thighs and put her skin flush against the towel, which then rode up toward the wound. She tried to lever up and shove it down, but it was trapped beneath him. “Um.”

  He sighed, partially lifted, and yanked the towel free to toss on the floor. She landed on his bare butt this time. She gasped. God. His skin against hers. A totally unwelcome and insistent humming set up between her thighs. Heat flushed through her. All of him was so damn tight and muscled. Was he real?

  “Anya? We’ll have to pay extra if I bleed all over the bedspread,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  The poor guy sounded pained. “Right. Okay.” She leaned forward and clasped the wound, drawing the needle through. From her new vantage point, it was a lot easier. A lump filled her throat. She blinked away tears.

  He relaxed beneath her, and her hands steadied as she sewed the wound together. His skin fought her, but she prevailed. Man, he was tough. Who could take needles through their skin without flinching? His strength, his very masculinity, stole her breath.

  Finally, she tied a knot at the end and snipped the string free with the tiny sewing kit scissors. “Done,” she breathed out, sitting back. Sweat dotted her forehead, and she wiped the back of her hand across her skin.

  “Thank you,” he rumbled.

  “No problem.” As gently as she could, she slid off his body and tried not to stare at his stunning ass. Fights, blood, and stitches shouldn’t be a turn-on. Yet there was something about his obvious maleness that made her feel soft. Needed. Feminine. “We should get a bandage or something.”

  “There should be something in my bag.” He turned his head to face her, his hair rumpled, his eyes lazy, his body stretched out like a satisfied lion. “Make sure it isn’t wet, though.”

  Wet. He’d said wet. Her nipples peaked. Man, she was out of her depth. “Sure.” She rushed for his bag and almost k
icked it out of the way before bending down and drawing out a dented box holding bandages, quarters, and a couple of condoms. Talk about prepared. She hustled back to him, securing the bandage against the stitches. She kept her movements gentle.

  “Thanks,” he said, his gaze warm on hers. Then his hand took over. “I’ve got it.” He slowly started to roll over toward her, muscles rippling beneath his smooth skin.

  Panic grabbed her. “No!” She lifted a hand and fell back, tumbling off the bed. Her butt hit the floor with a loud thump. Heat flared into her face.

  He leaned over, just his head visible. “You okay?” Laughter made his eyes glow a deep green.

  “Fine.” She primly pushed herself to stand. “I, ah, just will take a shower now.” Keeping her head high, she reclaimed her yoga pants and camisole before striding into the bathroom. Yeah. It would be a very cold shower.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Heath gingerly stretched his side, making sure the stitches remained in place. His ribs ached, but he could live with the pain. The shower started in the other room. He forgot all about his wound as his mind flashed to the idea of Anya in the shower. Naked.

  He groaned and turned his face into the pillow. Minutes before, she’d been straddling him. His groin tightened. Sure, she’d been stitching him up, but still.

  His eyes ached, and he shut them. He wanted to stay awake until Anya returned to bed, but the earlier blood loss took its toll, and he dropped into an uneasy sleep. That quickly, he was right back in hell at the boys home.

  The storage room, the one for beatings, had taken on a surreal glow. Ned, the owner, stood over a dead kid—Ralph—while Denver bled in the corner.

  Ned rushed Heath, and he swung a bat the same second Ryker did, both of them hitting Ned in the head. The sound was worse than a watermelon bursting. Blood went everywhere, and Heath jumped back, his gut roiling.

  Ryker dropped his bat, his face white in shock.

  “He’s dead,” Heath said, looking around. There was no question. Nobody could’ve survived that. The body lay contorted and was still twitching.

  “We killed him,” Ryker whispered. His jaw dropped. “What do we do?”

  “Run,” Heath said, tossing his bat toward the wall. His body vibrated and his head hurt, but they had to run. It was their only chance. He hurried toward Denver and pulled him to stand. “We have to go. Now.”

  They were gonna get caught. But if he could get Ryker and Denver to safety, then he could confess or something. “I have stuff stored on the other side of the woods. Clothes and some food.” Tears pricked his eyes, and he shoved them away. No time. “We have to go.”

  Denver pulled back, his blue eyes so dark they looked black. Bruises covered his entire face and neck. “Fire.”

  Heath paused. “Fire?”

  Denver slowly nodded, his shocked gaze on the dead bodies.

  Heath sucked in air.

  Ryker jerked back into himself. “He’s right. Let’s burn this place down.”

  Heath awoke with a gasp.

  “Heath?” Anya murmured sleepily, turning toward him.

  The old furnace blasted the crappy hotel room with meager heat, he was in bed, and Anya was next to him. He shuddered.

  She brushed her palm over his chest. “Bad dream?”

  “Yeah,” he croaked out, his body slowly relaxing.

  She moved closer and snuggled her face into his neck, wrapping an arm over his chest. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Her breathing deepened.

  His heart rolled over, and he buried his face in her strawberry-scented hair. She had him. Yeah. He thought she did. Her kindness and vow of protection wound around him, through him. She was so damn special. Softly, so not to awaken her, he placed a kiss on her forehead. Then he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  Several hours later, he awoke with an indrawn breath and quickly surveyed his surroundings, tuning in with his extra-sensitive hearing.

  No sounds out of the ordinary to worry about. Snow fell outside the motel room, a long-haul truck started in the parking lot, and a small woman was burrowed into his side, breathing softly.

  The room was freezing.

  He turned and glared at the too-silent heater. The thing must’ve given out during the night, and he’d been too tired to notice. After the fight and blood loss, he’d needed sleep. He barely remembered hearing Anya come to bed after her shower.

  Anya in bed with him. His groin awoke fully.

  She lay on her side with her nose pressed to his shoulder, her hand flattened over his heart, and her leg over one of his. It was as if she were trying to bind him to her during sleep. She felt small and delicate next to him . . . and warm. Sleepy and warm, sexy woman.

  He took several deep breaths and tried to recite golfing scores in his head. Or golfing records. Anything to do with golf bored him, so he pictured green rolling hills and water hazards.

  Nope.

  She murmured something and slid even closer to him.

  Why did she draw him so, especially when he knew better? His body and brain disconnected when he was around her, and he needed to get himself under control. Now. “Anya?” He partially turned toward her. “Baby? Wake up.”

  Her pretty green eyes slowly opened. Her mouth pursed into a silent O. “Heath?” She blinked several times and then drew back, her leg flying off him.

  He grabbed her shoulders to keep her from rolling onto the floor again. “You’re okay.” He waited until she’d gathered herself and then released her when he wanted nothing more than to keep touching that soft skin. “Mornin’.”

  “Ah.” She shoved rioting red hair away from her face. “Um. Morning.” Frowning, she ducked further under the covers.

  He grimaced. “The heater died.”

  “Oh.” She snuggled a little closer to him without seeming to move.

  A tug centered low in his belly. Her hair caught his eye, and he reached out to wrap a wild curl around his finger. “Your hair is curly.” He released it and watched it spring back up. The intimacy of the moment heated him throughout.

  “Yeah. I usually straighten it but didn’t after my shower.” She swallowed, her gaze dropping to his neck, her voice throaty.

  What would she look like in passion with that wild hair and her stunning coloring? Probably all red, green, and luscious pink. He bit back a groan, slowly exhaling to control his lungs. “I like it curly.”

  “Hmm.” She yawned into her hand and eyed his bare chest. Awareness flitted across her pretty face. “This is awkward.”

  Amusement bubbled through him, and he grinned, the lightness turning him on even more. “Do you always blurt out whatever’s in your head?”

  She rubbed her eyes. “I find it’s a lot easier than choosing words carefully, you know?”

  God, he liked that about her. A lot.

  She gingerly reached out and ran a finger along his biceps. “You must work out every day.”

  That one little touch rippled through his skin, filled his chest, and zinged right down to his cock. He pressed his lips together and fought for control. “I run and lift weights when I get the chance.” And hey. Guess what? He was also a freak created in a lab to be superstrong—wasn’t that great? Plus, he was fleeing from a murder charge, and it was easier to run when in shape.

  She pulled back her hand.

  He tried to remain still, itching to have her hand back on him. Anywhere on him. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  She blinked. “No.” There was a hint of uncertainty in her tone.

  He swallowed. “I’d love to take this to the next level, but only if you’re sure.” Yeah, he was taking his lead from her honesty. If she could do it, so could he. “But I understand we’re under pressure from chasing down a serial killer.” It’d be more than nice to relieve some of that pressure.

  Her gaze moved back to his chest. “I feel like I owe her, you know?”

  He felt her stare like a burn. “Your sister?”

  “Yeah.�
�� Anya’s green eyes softened to the color of a spring meadow. “She was strong and so kind. The second I called her, she instantly moved into action to protect me.” Pain sizzled in the air. “She was so good to me.” Anya chuckled sadly. “I didn’t know she’d threatened Carl, though. I wish I could’ve seen that.”

  Carl was really an idiot to hurt a woman like this. Heath reached out and gently rubbed along her neck. “I’ll beat him bloody for you if you’d like.”

  She grinned. “That’s a kind offer.”

  He hadn’t been kidding. Not completely, anyway.

  She shook her head. “I left him, and I win. I’m just sorry I wasted so much time and doubted myself. He’s an insecure jackass, and I hope he loses all his hair and gets warts.”

  Heath slid his hand up into her glorious hair. “So no fear here?”

  She licked her lips, and he felt it in his groin. “No. Although you sure can fight. I’ve never seen such precision.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. It’s a gift.” Good thing he hadn’t needed to snap the attacker’s neck in front of her. Of course, that guy could fight, too. Really fight. He had to be one of Cobb and Madison’s soldiers, which was the main reason Heath hadn’t wanted to deal with the police. “I’ll never hurt you, Anya.”

  She leaned into his touch, interest leaping into her eyes. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t be frightened of your scary fighting abilities, and you stop treating me like some fragile woman who shouldn’t be here.”

  The feeling of all that silk around his hand was torturing him, but he couldn’t release her. What answer should he give? He did have scary fighting abilities, and she was so fucking fragile and petite. Yet she’d given him an invitation. “Should we seal the deal with a kiss?” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her pink lips.

  She visibly swallowed. “You think that’s a good idea?” Her voice had gone husky fast.

  No. It was a terrible idea. Disastrous. “Yes.” He leaned in—carefully, to give her plenty of room and time to move away—and pressed his lips against hers.

  With a low moan, she opened her mouth under his and kissed him back. Hard and fast.