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

by Naima Simone

  “Greer, honey,” Ethan rasped. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to endure that shit.” He scrubbed a palm down his face. “Damn you, Mom. I can’t believe she told Karen about the baby. How could she even have anything to do with them? Unbelievable—”

  She shot from her chair and clutched the edge of the table, granting her trembling legs a moment of reprieve to settle. But only a moment. She had to get out of there. Just…get away. “Don’t worry about it, Ethan. If you will excuse me.”

  She tried to ignore the furtive glances and outright stares as she wended a path through the tables toward the rear of the restaurant. Each pair of eyes pricked her skin like visual pinches. Only once she entered the woman’s restroom and closed the bathroom stall door behind her did she allow her composure to wilt. Her shoulders slumped as she flipped the toilet lid down and sank to the top of it. She covered her face with her hands, and finally, finally, surrendered to the emotional typhoon wrecking her apart inside.

  Hoarse sobs ripped free. Minutes later when the restroom door squeaked open and the hinges on a stall farther down the row squealed in protest, she muffled the seemingly endless sobs by pressing the heel of her hand to her mouth. With every breath she drew, every cry she loosed, her throat, her ribs, her heart—her spirit—ached. No bruises darkened her skin and limbs, but her insides throbbed with the blows from Karen’s attack.

  Shit, the need to smash something vibrated beneath her skin. To kick, scream, have the mother of tantrums at the injustice of it all. To plead her innocence to Karen. But what would it have served except to throw gas on the almost fanatical fire burning in Karen’s gaze? And she wouldn’t have believed Greer anyway. Nothing Greer could’ve said—or could say—would change her mind about her role in the death of her son.

  So instead she remained in the bathroom stall scrambling to scrape together the scattered shreds of her pride after Karen’s attack. Eventually she would have to emerge. And when she did so, it would be with her head held high, cloaked in a composure that was one fat lie.

  Sighing, she stood and exited the relative haven of the stall. As much as she longed to curl into a ball and tend to her wounds, she couldn’t—she wouldn’t. These past months had educated her in the art of survival. She’d encountered and faced belligerent cops, voracious press, a faceless stalker, and an unexpected pregnancy. And she was still here, still moving forward—sometimes plodding, but still moving. One confrontation with an angry Karen Wells wouldn’t wreck her.

  And besides, the bathroom floor didn’t look all that comfortable or clean to collapse on.

  She washed her hands, and as she turned the water off, a stall door opened behind her. Great. The person who’d overheard her momentary emotional breakdown. Awk-ward.

  She glanced up.

  The automatic polite smile froze on her lips.

  A face in a black ski mask stared back at her from the mirror’s reflection.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shock slammed into Greer, rendered her motionless.

  Her muscles locked, but her heart raced in her rib cage like a bucking horse.

  She whimpered—it was all she could manage. The sound seemed to galvanize the figure behind her. Suddenly, the muzzle of an ugly black handgun pressed to her temple. He snaked an arm around her neck, wrenching her backward and off-balance until she grabbed on to his forearm, her tiptoes tap-dancing against the white tiled floor to remain upright. She dug her fingernails into the black jacket covering his skin, scrabbling for purchase.

  “Cut it out, damn it,” he ordered, tightening the imprisoning band around her neck. The rough gravel of his voice scraped her eardrums, jacked her pulse past scared-shitless to coronary. The pressure of the gun muzzle bruised her skin.

  The face of the red-and-black joker on the back of his hand leered at her, seeming to grow in size the longer she stared. That tattoo is nothing like Raphael’s.

  She stilled, the random thought grounding her like a reality slap across the cheek. What would Raphael do? WWRD? He’d survive. He’d fight. Stop fighting. Cheat or trick. Anything to live.

  Me, too.

  Their loud, harsh breathing bounced off the white walls of the bathroom. Again the din of her heart crowded her ears. With a will born of primal fear, she shoved the noise back, forced her brain to function past animal instinct.

  Make it to the door. Just make it to the door.

  When she entered the restroom, the distance from the entrance to the sink had been negligible. Now it seemed cavernous.

  “That’s better,” he whispered, grazing the gun over her cheekbone before returning it to her temple. His grip across her neck loosened a fraction, permitting the soles of her feet to touch the floor. “Much better— Bitch!”

  His snarl blasted her ear as she slammed her heel on the instep of his foot and ground down. Hard.

  She burst forward, breaking free and hurtling across the room. A sob ripped past her throat, and a desperate hope churned in her roiling gut as her fingernails scrabbled against the door above the handle. She grabbed it. Shoved it down…

  A heavy weight crashed against her back. Her cheek smashed into the wood. Pain radiated from her face, throbbing like a homing beacon as the coppery flavor of blood stained her tongue.

  “Stupid whore.” He seized her wrist, jerked it up and behind her back until her shoulder screamed in red-hot pain. He jammed the gun into her spine so hard she arched under the punch of it. “Try something like that again, and you won’t make it out of this bathroom. You get me?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Won’t make it out of this bathroom.” What did that mean? Did he plan on taking her out of here? The restaurant? Acid razed a path up her esophagus to the back of her throat. Black and gold dots swarmed in her peripheral vision, closing in. Jesus, I can’t faint. I’m dead if I black out. Me and my baby. Please, God…

  She dragged in a deep, ragged breath, and the spots receded a fraction of an inch. Then another.

  “I’m gonna open this door, and you’re gonna walk out easy and slow. Head toward the rear exit. One wrong move and I’ll blow a hole in your spine. You got me?” He jabbed the weapon in her back, emphasizing his threat. He waited for her to nod, then slowly released her arm. A soft whisper swished behind her, and the pale, freckled hand that grabbed the handle clutched a black knit ski mask. “Don’t look behind you. And remember. If I even think you’re trying to run for it, I’ll leave you and your bastard bleeding on the floor.”

  A chill skittered over her skin, and again she nodded.

  Then he opened the door.

  …

  Raphael tugged open the door to the restaurant where he’d dropped Greer off. He grunted and glanced down at his watch. At least an hour and a half had passed. She should be ready by now. And if not… A feral grin curved his mouth. Well, he would just have to join her. Oooh. Fun.

  “Can I help you, sir?” A young, no-way-in-hell-is-that-color-real blond man greeted him. Rafe had to resist the urge to offer him a hamburger as his one-step-above-emaciated frame rounded the reservation stand. Or desk. Shit. The thing appeared to be constructed of black marble. He spared a glance down at the baggy black jeans, scarred boots, and long-sleeved knit shirt he’d thrown on this morning. Then contemplated the attendant’s tailored slacks and shirt made of some material that probably cost more than his whole outfit. Jesus, this was the kind of place Greer ate at for lunch?

  “Sir, do you have a reservation?”

  “Nope,” Rafe said, brushing past the greeter and his offended gasp as he spotted Ethan at a table near the middle of the room.

  Greer’s brother glanced up as Rafe dropped into a seat, the frown creasing Ethan’s forehead still in place. “Hello, Raphael,” he murmured, glancing toward the rear of the restaurant where a discreet sign directed customers to the restrooms.

  “Hey. Where’s Greer?”

  “She went to the bathroom almost ten minutes ago and hasn’t returned yet.”

  Rafe arc
hed an eyebrow. “Morning sickness?”

  Ethan shook his head, anger flickering across his face. “No. But she was…upset.”

  Not waiting for an explanation, Rafe shot from his chair and strode toward the bathroom. Unease skipped up his spine, settling into an edgy dance at his nape. “Upset” could mean anything. A pregnancy hormonal attack. The lunch not agreeing with her stomach. Feeling fat. Yet after nearly a decade in the security field, he’d learned to rely on his intuition. And right now that sixth sense insisted something was up. That he needed to hurry.

  He stepped into the hallway, scanning the long corridor. No sign of Greer, just a large man in a black jacket headed in the direction of the rear exit. Rafe skimmed the doors on either side of the corridor. The woman’s restroom with its tasteful gold W on the door stood on the left. He neared it, noting a sliver of space between the door and the jamb. As if someone had very recently exited, and the door hadn’t had time to catch yet. A swift glance at the men’s room across the hall revealed a securely latched door.

  He returned his scrutiny back to the man who’d nearly reached the heavy steel back entrance. As the guy lifted an arm to push the bar and open the door, Rafe caught the sleeve of another coat. Black with a white button on the cuff. Just like the one Greer had worn to the appointment this morning and when he’d dropped her off here.

  Shit!

  “Let her go, motherfucker,” he snarled, charging the son of a bitch. The guy’s head snapped around, his eyes widening and mouth parting in shock. That’s when Rafe glimpsed the gun in his hand. Pointed right at Greer’s back. Double shit.

  Rafe drew up short. I can’t risk her or the baby being shot. Damn.

  But either the dumb bastard didn’t realize he’d just regained the upper hand, or his self-preservation trumped finishing the kidnapping Rafe had interrupted. With a blistering curse, he shoved Greer to the floor and slammed into the exit. And disappeared.

  In two short strides, Rafe dropped to a knee beside Greer’s sprawled body.

  “Baby, you all right?” He brushed a palm over her head, down her cheek. Her big green eyes, damp and dark with horror, stared up at him. Her bottom lip trembled, but she bit down onto it, nodded. More blistering fury poured into him, and a lava pit boiled in his gut.

  “Yes, I’m…fine.” She pushed up, sitting. “Call the police.”

  Right. He didn’t hesitate. Rafe leaped to his feet in one motion and hurtled through the exit. The door opened into a glass- and garbage-littered alley. The POS who’d assaulted Greer had almost reached the mouth of the passageway.

  “Tag!” Rafe roared. The hunch to call that name hit a bull’s-eye, because the fleeing ferret skidded to a stop, stumbling several steps, throwing Rafe a surprised glance. Black hair tumbled into wide brown eyes before he disappeared around the corner. Rafe tore after him, but by the time he reached the end of the alley, the other man was nowhere in sight. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it to hell.”

  He pivoted, striding back to the restaurant and Greer, already reaching into his pocket to dial Chay’s number.

  It seemed Rafe had located the mysterious Adam Morgan, aka Tag the Dealer.

  And he’d graduated from threats and bombs to kidnapping.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Greer set down the sketchpad and pencil on the bed next to her hip. A quick glance at the digital clock on the nightstand revealed the time in red block numbers: 12:13. She’d been drawing for two hours, and sleep continued to remain in a galaxy far, far away.

  Sighing, she tossed the covers back, climbed from the bed, and stood still, taking stock of her body. No nausea. For the second night in a row. Maybe the morning sickness was finally passing. Sending up a little prayer of thankfulness, she left the room, tying the belt of the robe she’d slipped on. The slap of her padded feet echoed in the silent hallway. The kitchen, den, and living room were dark and quiet; for once the television that seemed to blast 24-7 was off. That was a quirk she’d learned about Raphael in the three days she’d been in his home. He appeared to enjoy noise. The radio broadcasting sports news, the stereo playing the rock and metal he seemed to prefer…the man exhibited an aversion to silence.

  At the moment, she wasn’t so gung ho about it either. Too much quiet was a permission slip for her brain to kick into hyperdrive. God, she’d lived through being accosted in a bathroom by a masked gunman, an attempted kidnapping, extensive questioning by the police, and another trip to the hospital. She didn’t want to dwell on it and wallow in it. Not tonight.

  Cupping her elbows, she drifted through the large first floor, eventually coming to the slightly ajar door leading to the basement—and Raphael’s office. She hesitated for a brief moment before opening it and descending the stairs.

  She hadn’t seen him in a couple of hours. Not since the doctor Rafe had insisted she see had pronounced her fine and they’d returned to his home. She’d been in her room drawing ever since. Which wasn’t very odd for her. When she was happy, she drew. When she was upset, she drew. When she was lonely, she drew. Art was her escape, her friend, her confidant, her comforter. It was her…normal.

  But tonight, it wasn’t enough.

  She paused at the bottom of the staircase, suddenly unsure. Raphael had been solicitous, but he’d returned to the aloof, distant man from his office several days ago. She wasn’t so sure of her welcome from that man. Still, she scanned the long, wide room. Like a homing beacon, her attention zeroed in on Raphael behind his desk, his focus riveted to the mounted plasma television where one of the Die Hard movies blared. Her breath snagged in her throat, her heart dancing a quick step in her chest. A coil of heat knotted, then loosened, in her belly, spreading upward to tingle in her breasts, and beamed south to pool in the flesh between her legs. This purely physical reaction should be old hat to her by now. During their first meeting in his office, he’d fascinated her so much, she’d had to be extra cautious Gavin wouldn’t catch her sneaking awed glances at his tall, powerful frame and stunning face. Even the conservative black suit he’d worn on that day hadn’t managed to squelch the animal magnetism and sensuality that seemed to pulse from his skin. In the bar a week later, she’d been a goner. Gavin hadn’t been holding her back any longer, and she’d willingly dived in and drowned in the dark, consuming desire Raphael had unleashed on her.

  Since he’d installed her in his house, the need for him had only deepened…or worsened. She didn’t want to want him. Passion led to convincing the heart it loved. Loving led to pain, to vulnerability, to betrayal. The night before proved she possessed no self-preservation. One kiss had almost led to sex. If she let him inside her again…

  She didn’t fear the mind-shattering pleasure or moments of oblivion as much as the deceitful sense of safety. Of having reached a port of harbor where nothing or no one could harm her.

  Of the three—pleasure, oblivion, a safe haven—the latter presented the most danger.

  She almost whirled around and retreated up the stairs, but he glanced up from the movie, pinned her to the spot. Caught. And she couldn’t state for certain if it annoyed or relieved her.

  “I thought you were asleep.” He pointed the remote at the television, and the volume lowered from bleeding-ear level to tolerable.

  “I’ve been up. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Bad dreams again? From earlier today?”

  She shook her head. No nightmares, because just the thought of closing her eyes and what awaited her behind her closed lids scared the hell out of her. Between the resurfacing memories, the latest acts of harassment, nearly being kidnapped at gunpoint, and dormant memories already trying to resurface, her psyche had a smorgasbord of fears to pick from for night terrors. She didn’t dare sleep.

  He rose from behind his desk and dragged over a dark-red club chair from his “play” area. Setting it down next to his leather office chair, he patted the high back and dipped his chin in its direction. She accepted the invitation and sank onto the comfortable, overstuffed cushi
on. Curling her legs under her hips, she propped her chin on her palm and peeked at his computer monitor. The screen was split in two. On the left, lines of information streamed, reminding her of The Matrix. On the right, pictures flashed and flickered at lightning speed.

  “What are you doing?”

  He dropped into his chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He had traded the long-sleeved knit shirt for a vintage black T-shirt with a Metallica logo emblazoned across the front, leaving the gallery of tattoos on his arms visible. The same jeans encased his strong thighs, and his feet remained bare like hers. Except where hers were on the small side, his were broad, tough. Strong. Gavin used to have weekly pedicures. She couldn’t imagine Raphael plopping his feet in a soapy basin to be scrubbed and buffed. As the incongruous picture popped into her head, she snickered.

  He arched an eyebrow in question. “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not.”

  He snorted. “To answer your question, I’m cross-referencing the information I have—as limited as it is—with the police database. See if I can find the bastard who tried to grab you today.” He grunted. “Unfortunately, with just a name, tattoo, street name, and very vague date of birth, there are tens of thousands of hits to sift through. Hopefully, if Leah can come up with something from her sources, I can narrow down what I find. Tag.” He snorted. “You’d be surprised how many enterprising criminals have chosen that original name. Does the name sound familiar to you?”

  She shook her head. “No. But you might want to add defacement of property to your cross-check variables. Could be where the name came from in the first place.”

  A slow smile spread across his mouth. “Look at you, all Criminal Minds ’n’ shit,” he drawled. She blushed, searching his grin and eyes for mockery, but found none. Just teasing humor and admiration. “Good idea. I’ll add it to my parameters.” His fingers danced over the keyboard, and several clicks later, turned back to her.