Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite)

by Naima Simone

  Damn, they had medicine for the kind of craziness he’d exhibited in the last twenty-four hours.

  With a sigh, he turned away from the window, scrubbing a hand over his nape. Work. He needed work. The one thing he had control over. But one glance at the computer where the report waited, and he growled in frustration. The odds of work getting done at this moment was nil to nada damn chance. Coffee. And—he tilted his head, peered down at the clock on the monitor—a sandwich. It was past twelve. He needed a break. A break from himself, damn it.

  He left the office and jogged up the steps that led to the first floor and out of the man cave/home office. As he headed for the kitchen, his ears automatically tuned in to Greer FM, listening for any sound from the back of the house. Ridiculous, his common sense sneered. Still, he paused at the kitchen entrance, strained for the slightest noise. Nothing. Curiosity roused, he switched direction and strode on bare feet toward her room.

  A sliver of wall and a bedside dresser peeped at him through her cracked door. She could be getting dressed or in the middle of the feminine rituals his mother and sisters practiced. She might want privacy…

  He slapped his palm to the door and pushed it open.

  “What the hell is this?” Rafe blinked, frozen in the open doorway. Greer whipped around with a startled cry, her long brown ponytail tumbling over the shoulder of a smudged white man’s shirt. Her eyes were wide with shock, her pretty lips parted. She clutched a slender paintbrush between her fingers, and behind her…behind her stood a small easel.

  “The door was closed,” she pointed out in a strained voice, turning around and setting the brush on the palette that rested on a bedside dresser-turned-table.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he replied, still not able to process what his eyes perceived. Small green squares of tarp covered the dresser and floor under her feet and the table. An assortment of brushes and paints joined the palette on the makeshift table, and on the easel…

  “Son of a bitch,” he breathed as he shuffled several more steps into the room. A canvas sat on the easel. Though the painting was a little over half finished, he recognized the image brought to vivid, fantastical life by watercolor and what appeared to be ink. He flickered a glance past the easel to the window behind it and the woods that bordered his property. Her painting. The trees outside the paned glass…but not. The same dense, dark trunks and branches with bright-green leaves and newly budding flowers that reached for the sky. But no smoky, ethereal fog wrapped around those branches as they did on the canvas. No regal spire with a red-and-blue flag snapping in the wind. No tiny pixies—or elves?—peeked from behind the proud trunks surrounding his home.

  Delight. Joy. Wonder. The emotions swirled in his chest, squeezed his heart like a fist. The innocence of the art reached inside him and nudged a place he’d thought abolished with age and the grime of real life. He was transported back to a time when his biggest worry had been how to con his mother into reading another story out of the battered book of fairy tales that had been passed down to him from his sisters.

  With immense effort, he dragged his gaze away from the canvas to focus on the woman—the artist. Who inspired the same awe as her work did. God. He hadn’t known…could’ve never fathomed she could create something so—so wonderful. Christ, that sounded so lame. Damn inadequate to describe the beauty she’d brought to life with mere paint.

  “It’s not finished yet,” she murmured, her fingers plucking at the hem of the shirt. She wouldn’t meet his eyes; instead she studied the floor, turned back to the easel. “I couldn’t sleep, and since I was up pretty early I decided to work. It’s a lovely view…”

  Her chatter finally penetrated the dumbfounded fog surrounding his brain. She was nervous. The prattle, fidgeting—she was jumpy about his reaction. To what? Catching her painting? Her being an artist? The art itself? Or D, all of the above?

  “It’s beautiful.” He moved forward until his bare toes lined up with the edge of the tarp. Up close the vivid dreaminess was even more startling and breathtaking. “It’s fucking beautiful.” He stretched an arm out, his finger hovering just above the line where the trees met the sky. “It’s like dreaming with my eyes wide open.”

  Her smile was slow, hesitant, uncertain as if no one had ever told her how talented she was. One half-finished piece and he immediately recognized her gift. It exceeded being able to mix colors and render a pretty picture. She made him feel.

  Anger sneaked in under the awe, staining the shock. Why the hell was she so surprised? She should know how good she was. Which led to his next question. Which fuck-tard had neglected to encourage and support her? Her parents? Her brother? Whatever new idea, hobby, or activity he and his sisters had decided to undertake or join when they were kids, his mother had always been fully on board. Even when it’d been obvious they weren’t going to be savants in that area. When she was ten, his older sister had decided she wanted to be the next Mary Lou Retton. Jackie couldn’t tumble worth a damn—not even a somersault. But his mother had religiously taken her to practices for a year before Jackie decided gymnastics wasn’t her calling, ballet was. During his sober and paroled moments, even his father had supported Rafe in his karate phase. That’s what family did. So why the hell did Greer seem as if she wanted to believe his praise but wasn’t completely sold?

  “I didn’t know you were an artist.” He tried to bury the anger, but his voice bore the cost of the effort.

  She shrugged. Another round of the finger-plucking and refusal to look at him. “I wouldn’t call myself an artist. At least not yet. I’m trying to get there.”

  “I look at that”—he flipped a hand in the direction of the canvas—“and an artist painted it, not a wannabe. Just because no one is plunking down money for it doesn’t make you any less of one. Although,” he said, contemplating the canvas again, “when you are finished, I’d put down money for it.”

  She stared at him. Snorted. “You don’t have to take it that far. Now you’re just being kind.”

  He gaped at her as if she’d sprouted wings and pointed ears to match the mythical creatures in her painting. “Since when do you know me to be kind?”

  “You’ve been nicer to me than most.” A wistfulness softened her tone, and she ducked her head.

  “What do you mean by that? Who hasn’t been nice to you?” almost burst past his lips, but at the last moment, he swallowed the question. Getting deeper into her business would be a colossal mistake. It led to urges to pound something or someone simply because she appeared uncertain about her talent. Or the need to reassure her. It led to attachment. And attachment to the kind of woman she was inevitably veered to pain, loss, and bitterness. He didn’t want to hear the “whys” or discover the “whats.” Not. His. Business.

  “Anyway, I’m applying to the Massachusetts College of Art and Design’s Illustration program. That’s what this piece is for. My portfolio.”

  Damn.

  Who the hell is Greer Addison?

  The question ricocheted off the walls of his skull. A picture of the first time they met waved in front of his eyes like a mirage. Sitting next to Gavin, quiet, back straight, hair drawn back from her stunning face in a neat bun, understated but lovely makeup, a fashion model in a wine-colored dress that fit her to perfection. A trophy. A society princess. Then he envisioned the woman from the bar. Newly un-engaged, relaxed from a couple drinks, vulnerable but passionate and wild in his arms. Flash-forward to yesterday. Thinner, weary, scared but strong and determined. And today. Shy, uncertain, talented. An undercover artist.

  Who was the real Greer? The one he originally met in his office? Was the woman who rode him with such sweet abandon an aberration? Or was this paint-spattered waif the true person?

  “Illustration?” he repeated, mind whirling.

  She nodded. “I want to be a children’s book illustrator.” Her fingers went to the top of the smock and released the first button. “I know it sounds silly.”

  “Not at all.” He stud
ied her, the careful movements as she slid off the shirt, folded it, and set it on the table. Followed her as she squirted dish detergent on a plate before picking up a brush and scrubbing it. “Why do you do that?” he asked abruptly. Her head jerked up, eyebrows arched in question. “Not that,” he waved toward the brushes. “Why do you qualify the things you say? You’re not talented. A children’s illustrator is silly. If you’re not an artist, then who the hell are you, Greer?”

  A lost, almost haunted shadow passed through her green eyes, reminding him of the mysterious forest on her easel.

  “I don’t know,” she finally whispered.

  The impact of the soft, sad admission reverberated in his ears like a deafening shout. His fingers curled at his sides as he fought the need to reach for her, drag her close, rejection of his touch be damned. He wanted to press his lips to the lids of those troubled eyes, and then lower to her vulnerable mouth and remove the loneliness that scraped over his heart like a rusty, dull knife. He came from a family where hugs and affectionate touching were as normal as Spaghetti Wednesdays. Sometimes a tight embrace said more than “I’m proud of you” or “I love you.” Or “Don’t worry, I won’t let him hurt you.”

  He’d seen images of the senior Ethan Addison and his wife on television right after Gavin Wells’s death. If either of those two doled out hard squeezes or teasing kisses, he’d hand over his left nut right now. Noting the rigid set of Greer’s shoulders and the tension in her slender frame, he was confident his boys were safe.

  “Don’t do that,” she snapped, startling him. “Don’t look at me like you pity me. I’ve had enough of that. More than enough. I may be twenty-six years old and have no damn clue about who I am, what I’m doing, or even what will happen tomorrow. But at least I’m finding out instead of being satisfied with letting others tell me.” Her voice wavered, but even as her lips firmed into a grim line, it strengthened. “So just…don’t do that.”

  He held up his hands. “Got it. No pity. Just please, put the paintbrush down.”

  Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as she glanced down and realized she gripped a brush between her fingers, jabbing it at him.

  “Shit,” she breathed, dropping the tool in the plate full of solution.

  He snorted. The curse word sounded almost prudish coming from her lips. Ruffled. He shook his head. Oh, yeah, she was definitely ruffled. And probably didn’t want him around to witness it. Give her some space and time, his conscience nagged. Fine. Hell if both of them didn’t need it. His stomach took that moment to growl, reminding him of the sandwich he’d come up out of the office to fix. With one last glance at Greer’s straight spine, he turned…

  And halted.

  Frowning, he edged around the easel and painting, nearing the window. He scanned the drive, at first unsure what had snagged his attention. At the end of the drive, the postman drew to a stop and shoved mail into the black box. Nothing special there, yet he remained at the window. He narrowed his gaze, not on the postal worker, but the rectangular white package sitting on the ground next to the iron base of the mailbox.

  A package the mailman hadn’t delivered.

  Before the thought finished, he was moving.

  Out the room. Down the hall. Through the front door.

  Down the driveway.

  “Raphael,” Greer called after him, the alarm and sharp note of fear like a dissonant chord to his ears.

  “Stay inside,” he barked over his shoulder as he rushed over the asphalt, his feet slapping against the cold pavement. He shoved the discomfort to the back of his mind, all his focus centered on the package that hadn’t been there when he glanced outside his office window a couple of hours ago. Slowing a few feet from the mailbox, he studied the innocuous-seeming box.

  Plain white cardboard. Beige packaging tape across the seams and flaps. Cautious, he hunkered down next to it, arms braced on his thighs. His name and address written in bold black letters on the top. No return address or postage. No stains or discoloration. Lowering to his hands and knees, he sniffed. No odor. And no sound.

  He rose to his feet, crossed his arms. Studied the box. As part of their training, everyone in the office had taken a course on recognizing suspicious packages, more specifically those containing biological agents or bombs. Chemicals usually came in envelopes, but not always. But bombs, most were delivered in boxes. Some of the identifying markers—oily stains, protruding wires, excessive postage, “Fragile—Handle With Care” messages, peculiar smells—were missing. Yet since the package appeared to have been hand-delivered instead of mailed, some of those might not apply.

  He stroked a knuckle over his eyebrow. If he had only himself to consider, he’d open it. But he didn’t. Greer was only yards away in the house. He couldn’t risk it.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  He stiffened, slowly pivoted. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.”

  “You were out here without shoes on,” Greer replied, holding out the black boots he distinctly recalled being in his bedroom closet. She’d been inside his room. Shit. That thought should not send a surge of lust through him. Not with a could-be-bomb less than two feet away. He gritted his teeth, ordered his dick to behave, and concentrated on the direct instruction she’d ignored.

  “And that’s a good enough excuse to come out here and place yourself in a potential danger zone?” he growled.

  Her chin notched up, her features assuming the who-the-hell-are-you expression she probably learned at birth. “You were out here,” she pointed out coolly. “I guess I should cower inside while you put yourself in danger for me?”

  “Ex-fucking-actly,” he gritted out. “Go back to the house.”

  “No.”

  “Greer—”

  “Forget it.”

  You cannot throw the pregnant woman over your shoulder, nor can you snatch her up by the hair and drag her back to the house, he reminded himself as he aimed a furious glare at her.

  “Okay,” he bit out. “If you don’t give a damn about your safety, what about the baby?”

  Surprise, anger, then chagrin crossed her features like a slide show.

  “Point taken,” she murmured. Without another word, she whirled around and strode back to the house. Once she disappeared behind the front door, he grabbed his cell phone from his front pocket, pulled up a number, and dialed.

  In record time, members of the Boston PD bomb squad arrived. They cleared the area and moved the package into a pressurized container by robot with a promise to call as soon as they discovered the nature of the box.

  Now hours later, Raphael restlessly paced the living room floor, waiting for his phone to ring. Fury simmered in his chest. And every time he glimpsed Greer’s pale face, the simmer flared brighter, hotter. Whether the box enclosed an explosive device or not, the need to strangle the person responsible damn near choked him. Goddammit, the waiting had him so helpless. Powerless. And he hated it.

  Finally, his cell phone rang, and he answered it before the first verse of Aerosmith’s “Love in an Elevator” had time to finish.

  “Raphael Marcel.”

  “Mr. Marcel, this is Sergeant Derrick Rhodes with the Boston Police Bomb Squad,” the deep voice on the other end greeted.

  “Hello, Sergeant. Thanks for calling me back so quickly.” Quickly hell. It’d been four hours since they’d left. But the rational part of his mind acknowledged it would’ve taken them that long to open and possibly defuse an explosive if one was inside the package. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rhodes said. “The package did contain a hazardous device.” Oh, shit. Rafe’s stomach plummeted toward his feet. He shot a glance at Greer who studied him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. The loud roar howling in his ears almost made him miss the rest of the officer’s explanation. “…wasn’t a live device.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Rafe asked, uncertain he’d heard correctly.

  “The device wasn’t live,” the officer repeate
d. “The mechanism that would’ve caused the bomb to detonate when opened was missing.” He paused. “I know it’s early in the investigation, and I usually wouldn’t give an opinion at this point. But my belief is the detonator was purposefully omitted.”

  A hard kernel of fear and foreboding knotted his gut. A bitter cold invaded his veins, freezing him from the inside out. Except for the pounding of his heart against his chest.

  “Mr. Marcel, a note was included with the box and device. It said”—another pause, and when he spoke again, a grim note had entered the sergeant’s voice—“it said, ‘Boom.’”

  Chapter Eleven

  Greer wrapped her arms around her stomach, but barely restrained herself from rocking back and forth on the couch. That veered too close to padded walls and an extra-long white jacket with buckles.

  Boom.

  An image of Raphael’s furious expression as he relayed the phone call with the officer filtered through her mind.

  He’s letting us know he can get to you any time, anywhere he wants.

  Those chilling words echoed in her head like a death knell. All the worse because she agreed with him. Raphael had warned her the day before in his office that whoever was stalking her would only escalate after going from letters to vandalism to a mutilated doll. And he’d been right. This—a diabolical taunting—was definitely an escalation.

  A potentially deadly escalation. She shivered.

  “How’re you doing?”

  She blinked, tipped her head up and focused on Chayot Grey’s solemn angel face. His pretty hazel eyes studied her closely even as sympathy softened his stare.