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

by Naima Simone

“You think this is a good idea?” Raphael asked, skeptical.

  Warning from Mr. Computer B&E should have given her pause. But worry overrode caution, and she unlocked the door and pushed it open. The beep signaling that a door had been opened chimed, but the house alarm didn’t blare. So either Noah was home or he’d forgotten to set the alarm when he’d left—which was unlikely. Since he’d moved into this home seven years earlier, she’d never known him to neglect setting it. When they were fifteen, his family’s home had been broken into, and the crime had stamped an indelible fear on his psyche.

  So if Noah was home, hadn’t answered her calls or the door, then maybe he really didn’t want to see her. The ache in her chest intensified. Well, tough shit. He’d hurt her. She was dealing with it. He damn well could, too.

  “Noah.” Silence greeted her. Moving farther into the foyer, she called out his name again and received the same response. Sighing, she headed toward the living room. “No—”

  “Greer, wait.” Raphael grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder, impatient.

  “Raphael, what—” But he held up a hand, his narrowed gaze scanning the foyer, hall, and staircase. Her exasperation vanished, replaced by a concern and burgeoning fear that coiled in her belly.

  “You don’t smell that?” He edged past her, halting in the living room entrance, again surveying the room.

  “Yes,” she said, an uneasy apprehension clogging her throat and mouth. But the oily stench of her worry couldn’t mask the odor caught somewhere between spoiled food and old meat. “What is it?”

  He didn’t reply to her question, but instead eased in front of her. “Don’t touch anything. Nothing, Greer, okay? Wait here while I go check through the house.”

  Hell, no. She was right on his heels when he aimed for the back of the place. Scowling, he ground to a halt, glared at her. Maybe he spied the determination on her face because he sighed. “Fine, but keep your arms close to your sides and try to follow directly behind me.”

  She nodded. They trailed through the kitchen, the den, and back to the living room with no sign of Noah. By the time they climbed the steps and topped the staircase, the odor had grown stronger.

  The pounding in her head worsened. And the beige carpet and walls of Noah’s second floor shifted to hardwood floors, light blue walls. She blinked and the image boomeranged back to reality. But for a moment she’d traveled to her old apartment. What the hell? Groaning, she willed the pain from bass drum to low drone. She coughed, trying to expel the cloying stench from her lungs, throat, and nose. But it clung to her. Cursing, Raphael whipped off his hoodie and passed it to her, pressing the warm material over her nose and mouth.

  Noah’s study was the first room on the right. The door was ajar, and on the floor… She swallowed. Blinked. But the view didn’t change. Didn’t disappear. On the floor, a dark stain pooled just past the doorjamb, obscene and ugly against the wheat-colored carpet.

  Raphael’s lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him above her heart pounding away. He grabbed her shoulders and tugged her in close.

  “Greer,” he said, his voice coming to her as if spoken through rolls of cotton. “Baby,” he said, his lips grazing her ear. “Please wait here. Let me go in first.”

  Numb, she shook her head. No. She had to see. Had to know.

  “Please, Greer.” He closed his eyes, pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’t want to know you saw whatever is in there. Please wait here.”

  “I can’t,” she rasped, her voice muffled behind his jacket. “I need to see.”

  He lifted his lashes, his expression flattening until only a blank mask remained. “Keep that”—he nodded toward his sweatshirt—“over your mouth and nose.”

  Not waiting for her consent, he turned and approached the study door. He skirted the large stain but didn’t go into the room.

  He didn’t need to. And neither did she.

  She cried out, stumbled backward, her hands stretched out in front of her as if she could ward off the scene laid out before her. Her spine struck the opposite wall, and she crumpled to the floor, her legs no longer capable of supporting her. Dimly, she heard Raphael call her name, but she didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t tear her eyes from the room.

  The room where a man sprawled across the floor, blood surrounding his body like an oil spill. She narrowed in on the black-and-red joker on the back of his right hand. The same tattoo that had inked the skin of her assailant from the restaurant.

  She focused on it.

  Because if she continued staring at the floor and the hand of her dead would-be kidnapper, she wouldn’t have to look at the body of her best friend swinging from a beam above.

  …

  Forgive me…I love you…didn’t mean to hurt you…wanted you to see me, to run to me…

  Though the words had been printed out on a piece of paper, Noah’s voice reverberated in her head, reading the suicide letter like an audio recording on a constant loop. And if she closed her eyes, his voice accompanied the image of his body swinging slowly back and forth from the exposed beam in the ceiling like a macabre soundtrack.

  Suicide.

  It was too soon for an official determination, but the detective whom Raphael seemed to be familiar with had come to them outside Noah’s house and relayed what they’d found. After questioning them, Rider—had that been his name?—had gently explained that it appeared as if Noah had shot the man on the floor, then hanged himself. Greer’s objection had been immediate and fierce. But then Detective Rider had handed her a paper that had already been sealed and labeled in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  The typed letter had been addressed to her, and in it Noah confessed to killing Gavin because he’d been cheating on Greer, that she had surprised him by arriving home, and so he’d knocked her out. He also admitted to the harassing letters and being behind all the acts that followed, including the kidnapping and attempted murder of Raphael. He’d done it for love, hoping she’d turn to him for safety, and they could finally be together. And when Raphael stepped into the picture, he’d tried to remove his rival for her affection. After their argument, he’d realized she didn’t love him, and he’d decided to end it, including taking out the man he’d hired to kidnap her and kill Raphael.

  The letter hadn’t been signed, but everything—Gavin’s murder, and the person and motivation behind the threats—had been tied up in one neat bow.

  And she didn’t believe any of it.

  Greer shivered on the couch, pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around her body. God, she was cold. Almost as if the blood in her veins had crystallized into ice, freezing her from the inside out.

  Maybe I’ll never be warm again.

  Gathering the blanket around her like a robe, she rose and crossed the living room to the floor-to-ceiling window and stared into the darkness beyond. Flames from the fire Raphael had built after they’d returned to his house reflected in the glass, and the trees surrounding the house appeared ablaze. Usually, she would’ve studied the tableau before her and itched to paint it. But not today. For once the urge didn’t surface, submerged beneath the grief and fury that beat within her like a second heartbeat.

  Another shadow joined the others in the window’s reflection.

  “What did you find out?” she asked Raphael.

  He remained leaning against the living room’s entryway, watching her. She turned, and though he didn’t move, his gaze roamed over her from the haphazard knot she’d scraped her hair into after a shower to the white socks peeking out from under the blanket’s edge. He crossed his arms. Maybe to keep from reaching out and shaking her. Or holding her. God, did she need him to pull her in and cradle her against the hard, solid lines of his body. In his arms, she could breathe, could release some of the agony that swelled within her to the point of bursting through her skin.

  But she didn’t blame him for not making a move toward her. Since they’d left Noah’s house almost
four hours ago, she’d been like a block of ice: unreachable, untouchable, impenetrable. She’d stridden to her room, showered, and settled on the couch. Raphael stayed with her for a long while, but he’d retreated from the room about an hour earlier. To his basement, his lair. And though she’d known him for only a short time, she would bet the trust fund she would come into at thirty that he hadn’t been just watching another Bruce Willis film.

  “Please, Raphael,” she said, hitching the cover higher over her shoulders.

  He straightened, stepping into the room. “His name was Adam Morgan aka Adam Smith aka Aaron Smith aka Aaron Chandler. Nicknames include Ace, A, Twist, and Tag. He’s been convicted of driving under a suspended license, petty larceny, breaking and entering, and yes, there is also a defacement of property charge on his record, too,” he added, acknowledging her guess about that particular crime. “He was released from a Delaware prison five months ago after serving five years on the B&E. All of his crimes were in either Delaware or New Jersey. Which would explain why Leah wasn’t able to find out anything. He hadn’t been busy in Boston long enough to be arrested here or familiar to the cops.”

  “So if most of his time was spent in and out of Jersey or Delaware prisons, how did he and Noah meet? What’s the connection?”

  “I wish I could answer that for you, baby. But I can’t. I’m afraid only Noah or Adam would be able to.” He spread his hands out, palms up, and she couldn’t remember seeing him this helpless. This lost for answers. “Greer, I know you don’t want to believe Noah could—”

  “No.” She shook her head so hard, her ponytail swished from side to side. “I refuse to accept that he did this, Raphael. He couldn’t. Noah wasn’t some great criminal mastermind. He can’t even figure out who the villain is on an episode of Law & Order—couldn’t,” she corrected, inhaling a painful, shuddering breath. “Couldn’t figure out.” She pressed her fists to her eyes. “We’re talking about a man who was too squeamish to dissect a frog in biology class. I killed the bugs whenever one came around us, for God’s sake. And never—never would he have hit me, much less leave me out cold on an apartment floor and allow me to take the blame for his crime.”

  He didn’t contradict her; he didn’t agree with her, either. Instead, he finally did what she’d longed for since she spotted him in the glass. He wrapped his strong arms around her, pulled her into the firm wall of his chest, and held her. She released her hold on the blanket and clung to him. In a world that seemed to hiss and strike with every turn, he was her barrier, her port of safety. Nothing could reach her through him.

  “I can’t breathe past the pain, Raphael,” she confessed on the tail end of a sob. “I swear to God it’s eating me alive, and I can’t escape it.”

  “Shh.” He squeezed her tighter, then bending a little, swept her in his arms. She was too tired, too cold, too swamped in agony to protest. And when he settled on the couch, cradling her on his lap, she burrowed against him as if she could hide from the images of Noah in her head. “It’s why I didn’t want you to walk into that room. I didn’t want you to have to carry the image of death in your head.” He rubbed his chin over the top of her head, sliding his fingers up her nape and into her hair. “I can still remember walking into Chay’s kitchen that night he killed Richard Pierce. The smell hit me first. Like a wet penny and rotten garbage. Then I saw Richard. The blood. His eyes wide open and blank. The stain in his pants where his bowels had released. That’d been the rotten garbage odor. Up until that moment, I didn’t know the body did that when a person died.”

  “That’s how you knew something was wrong,” she murmured. “Why you caught the smell before I did.”

  He nodded. “I’ll never forget it. And I wish you didn’t have to try.” He tilted her head back, brushed a kiss over her forehead and eyes. “If I could take this pain away from you and put it on myself, I would. I can’t, but if you’ll let me, I’ll hold you tonight, stay with you through the worst of it, wipe your tears, and watch Lord of the Rings with you if you can’t fall asleep.” She choked on a soggy laugh, more tears burning her eyes at his words. He fulfilled one of his promises by swiping his thumb over her cheek, catching the moisture that had spilled over. “Let me take care of you and the baby. I’ll tuck you in and fight the world back for just a little while and do my best to ease you through the grief. Will you allow me to do that for you?”

  Forget for just a little while? And if she couldn’t—if the grief became too much—let him shoulder some of the burden? She’d struggled to gain independence, to stand on her own, to create a life for herself and her baby where she could provide and support them both. Could she push all that aside and allow him to take care of her?

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Greer stepped back from the easel, paintbrush in hand, studying the canvas. And smiled.

  It was…beautiful.

  Early this morning she’d woken, an idea burning as bright as a lightbulb in her head. Leaving a sleeping Rafe in his bed, she’d rushed to the guest bedroom. She searched for and located the small photo album she’d brought with her, and flipped through until she found the picture. The candid one she’d snapped of Noah a few years ago when they’d spent an afternoon together at the Harborwalk. He’d been leaning on the railing, turned to grin at some lame joke she’d made, and she’d taken the picture. Those had been happier times for them.

  And it’s how she wanted to remember him—laughing, grinning…alive.

  She’d carried the picture to the sunroom where Gabriel had set up her supplies, pulled out her sketchpad, and gotten to work. Hours later, less than half of the canvas portrait was finished, but God… Tears burned her eyes. The painting would end up being one of her best. Oil wasn’t really her medium of choice, but this one—it would go in her portfolio for school.

  “I can’t even miss you yet,” she whispered to the canvas. “Because I still can’t believe you’re gone. It’s not possible you’re not here.”

  But it was possible. He was gone. And now she had to learn how to go on without the friend she’d spent more than half her life with. She blinked, batting back the stinging moisture. Turning away, she cleaned her brushes, tidied the room, and set the canvas aside for the moment. After a quick shower, she dressed quickly, glancing at the clock on the bedside dresser. 11:40. She’d been painting for seven hours. Raphael had come in at some point and told her he had to go into the office for an appointment, but she’d been so engrossed in her work, she didn’t remember the details.

  Although—she smiled, shaking her head—she did catch his, “Don’t let anyone in the house, Greer. I mean it.” Which, in hindsight, surprised her since he believed the threat to her had ended with Noah’s and Adam Morgan’s deaths. Noah and Adam Morgan. In police records, in news coverage, in people’s minds, their names would be forever linked. She hated it.

  The hiss and gurgle of boiling water filled the large kitchen. As she gathered the tea bag, lemon, and cup, she peeked at the kitchen clock, which revealed noon’s fast approach. Where was Raphael? He hadn’t mentioned any specifics about his appointment—or she just hadn’t heard the details—but that had been several hours ago. Maybe he and Chay had another consultation scheduled. Her phone was…somewhere, so if he’d called, she hadn’t heard the ring.

  Sighing, she poured steaming water into the cup and prepared the tea. Damn, she just needed to admit it—if only to herself. She missed him. The house was too quiet without him. Too empty without his presence there. He could be downstairs in his cave and she could be in front of her canvas and still feel as if everything was okay. There was a settling in her heart, her spirit. A peace she’d never known until him. And not just because he’d tucked her in his home or guarded her. She’d sensed it the night in the bar, sensed that he would let nothing hurt her. That he would not only bring her pleasure but protect her, too. No one had protected her. Her parents definitely hadn’t. She’d shielded Ethan from their father, and even Noah had le
ft her uncovered when she’d needed him. But not Raphael. He didn’t run, he didn’t shrink. He fought and bullied and intimidated. And covered.

  And she loved him.

  She stopped dipping the tea bag and slammed both of her hands on the counter.

  Damn. How had she let this happen? Her number one fear in coming to stay with him had been losing herself, becoming her mother—dependent not on a man’s wealth or status but his affection, his attention, his love.

  She’d had plans: baby, art school, new beginning, new life. Standing on her own two feet. Being her own woman. Being her own damn self. Finding out who that was.

  Instead…instead she was in love with a man who threatened every goal, her every desire. All except one.

  To be seen.

  He saw her. Not the Boston socialite, solicitous hostess, the obedient daughter, protective sister, or amiable fiancée. He saw the woman—the bruised, sometimes-scared woman struggling with her identity, desperate to be more than she’d settled for, but willing to risk it all in order to become. Rafe saw her and so much more. He looked beyond her “now” to her potential, to the strong, gifted, beautiful survivor. That’s who he saw when he looked at her.

  And she loved him for it.

  He didn’t threaten those goals, he helped her realize them.

  She. Loved. Him.

  Oh, God.

  A smile formed in her heart, spreading across her chest, blooming warm and bright. But just as quickly, the clouds reappeared. What happened now? Though she didn’t believe Noah had been involved in the harassment and threats against her, Raphael did. Soon, she would leave and…nothing. While he’d held her, made love to her, he still didn’t believe their baby was his. He hadn’t made any promises. And he didn’t love her.

  Damn. She rubbed the spot on her chest where her heart beat her rib cage like a bat. That hurt. Grimacing, she reached up and opened the cabinet door where Raphael kept the saucers. Or probably his mother had originally placed the saucers. She’d been in his house a week and had yet to see him use—