by Naima Simone
“Aubrey, please, you don’t have to do this.”
The other woman snatched the weapon up, stared down at it. “Yes, I do. You’re the last loose end. Noah worked nicely. Not my first option, but he worked.”
Greer blinked, momentarily stunned. “Noah? What are you talking about? What did you do?”
Aubrey’s head jerked up, and she looked at her as if she’d forgotten Greer still sat there. “My ram in the bush.” She smiled, the gesture obscene as she talked so casually about murder. “Originally, I sent the letters out of fun. Just to know you were scared and looking over your shoulder made me feel good. Made me laugh. But then Karen told me about you going to the hospital and your memories possibly coming back. That’s when I called my brother in a panic. I couldn’t let you remember and tell what happened that night. So Aaron helped me.” She snorted. “Not out of brotherly affection, but because I promised him ten thousand dollars. He trashed your car, left the doll, hired that junkie to drop off the dud one of his low-life friends built. But he botched the kidnapping and the shooting of your boyfriend. He was becoming a liability I couldn’t risk. And after I saw Noah again in the restaurant, I realized I had the perfect solution right there. I told Aaron we were going to take care of Noah. We strung him up, and then I shot Aaron.”
Greer whimpered, and a corner of Aubrey’s mouth kicked up.
“Yeah, Noah flopped like a fish, gasping your name right up to the end.”
“Stop it.” The image she described taunted her, tormented her. Hate streamed through her, and she was ablaze with it. The liquid fire burned away the pain in her shoulders, the fear in her heart. For the first time, she understood the desire to kill a person.
Aubrey chuckled. “You’re not in the position to give orders. In the next few minutes you’re not going to be able to give or say anything, because you are going to kill yourself. Shoot yourself in the head. And when they find your body, a note will be next to you explaining how you couldn’t live with the guilt of Noah’s and Gavin’s deaths, since your friend killed on your behalf. You came back here to die, yada yada yada. It’s all pretty melodramatic, but hey.” She shrugged. “It’s what I can come up with on short notice.”
“No one’s going to believe it,” Greer stammered. “No one will believe I killed myself and my child. They’ll come looking for me.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be too late by then. And it doesn’t matter what your boyfriend accepts. As long as the police do.”
Aubrey started for her, and Greer scooted backward until her arms hit the wall. Think. Think, damn it! Raphael, the baby…she had to fight for them, not lie here like a dog about to be put out of its misery. There was a future for her. With a man she adored. Fight. She had to fight. Nodding, she drew her knees to her chest.
“Where exactly do you plan to hide? There’s nowhere—”
Greer shot her legs out with all her strength, her feet connecting with Aubrey’s knee. The other woman screamed as her joint bowed backward with a sickening crunch. She buckled, hitting the floor, and the gun in her hand tumbled to the ground. Desperate, Greer scrambled to her feet and scooted up the wall. The agony in her wrists, arms, and shoulders disappeared under the deluge of adrenaline and desperation crashing over her, through her. She darted for the door. One step. Two. Three.
She screamed as she plummeted, twisting at the last instant so she landed on her shoulder and hip instead of her stomach. Hoarse whimpers tore at her throat, the wind punched from her.
“Bitch,” Aubrey snarled, releasing the ankle she’d grasped. She crawled to the gun, her knee jutting at an odd angle. Wheezing, Greer pushed to her knees, fire blazing in every part of her body. But she had to make it. A loud, ominous click popped behind her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not stopping. She had to get to…
The door of her apartment crashed against the wall.
“Greer!” Raphael filled the doorway, and she rasped his name.
A shot blasted. She screamed.
Then nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Disinfectant. Floor wax. Ammonia. The scents hit her right before the pain. The god-awful pain. As though her joints were being pulled in four different directions and she had rug burn over her whole body.
What the—?
Oh, right. She’d been kidnapped, cuffed, held at gunpoint, and almost killed by Aubrey. Oh, no…
“Shh.” A gentle hand smoothed over her forehead. “You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.”
Raphael.
She lifted her lashes, met the most beautiful navy-blue eyes she’d ever seen.
“Raphael.”
“Hey, baby.” He smiled, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “About time you woke up.” His grin widened but she caught the worry in his gaze, the strain around his lips. “Don’t try to move too much. They could only give you so much medicine for the pain, so moving? Bad idea.”
“What happened? Aubrey?”
“Aubrey is currently cuffed to a hospital bed. Thank God she’s a bad shot. I had to wrestle the gun away from her, but she’ll be fine. Locked up for the foreseeable future for attempted murder, but fine.”
“She killed Gavin. And Adam Morgan. He was her brother. They killed Noah… He didn’t kill himself, Raphael,” she babbled, suddenly in a rush to get it out, almost as if she feared Aubrey would get away with her heinous crimes if she didn’t speak now.
“She’ll pay, baby. She will. And she’s not going anywhere. We have to concentrate on you.”
She nodded. He was right; it was okay. Wait. Could only give her so much medicine? Did that mean…? Please… “The baby? Is the baby…?”
“Is fine,” Rafe said, enfolding her hand in his and lifting it to his mouth. He touched each knuckle with his lips, then pressed another kiss to her palm. “The baby is fine. They did an ultrasound, and the doctor said the cramping you experienced earlier was most likely ligament pain. And the spotting isn’t unusual. You’re going to be fine, and our little girl is perfect.”
“Our little girl… Oh my God,” she breathed. A girl. The smile started in her belly, swelled up her chest, and bloomed across her face. She’d known. Somehow she’d known the baby was a girl. Greer laughed, and then groaned as her shoulders and back flamed. Raphael’s loud laughter joined hers.
“Yeah, a girl. Chay, Mal, and Gabe are already cracking jokes and pointing out the hell she’s going to put me through.”
Her joy lessened the pain, making it negligible. Then his words penetrated. Our little girl. The hell she’s going to put me through.
“You believe me?” she asked softly, hesitantly…fearfully. If he said no, it just might break her heart. Just tear it in two.
Raphael sank onto the bed, his hip notched next to hers. Gently, as if afraid he might hurt her, he cupped her face between his big palms. Touched his forehead to hers. “Yes, princess, yes. I believed you almost from the first. I was just too much of an asshole to accept that you wouldn’t leave me. That’s on me, my fucked hang-ups, my fears. And I’m sorry I hurt you with them.” He swept his lips over hers, once, twice. “But I know with a certainty that baby is my little girl. Our little girl.”
She closed her eyes, covered his hands with hers. Hope, the capricious bastard, rose inside her. Teased her with its presence.
“I love you, princess. I. Love. You,” he whispered. “You make what I believed was love a joke. Because it was nothing like this feeling of flying and falling at the same time. You fill me so much I don’t have room left for myself. Look at me, baby. Look at me.” He waited until her lashes lifted, and he kissed her forehead, her nose, her eyelids, her mouth. “I told you once, looking at your paintings was like dreaming with my eyes open. I was wrong. Finding you again, waking up to you…loving you…is like dreaming with my eyes wide-open. And I don’t ever want to close them.”
The tears spilled over, as did hope, and joy, and peace, and the sense of belonging. She belonged to him. And he was hers.
“Good.” Raphael grinned. “I was going to bribe you with a ready-made family in Gabe, Mal, Chay, my mother, aunts, and sisters. Then I thought that might be a little scary. But since you already love me, it’s too late to back out.”
A man she loved beyond reason.
A baby girl she already planned on buying a shotgun to threaten horny boys with.
A family of love instead of blood.
She smoothed her thumbs over his cheekbones, caressed his beautiful mouth that could curse worse than a sailor, utter the loveliest words, and give her the sweetest pleasure.
“It’s too late?” she whispered.
“Like four months too late.”
“Good.”
“You’re stuck with me.”
She kissed him, long, tender, deep.
“Good.”
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Acknowledgments
At the risk of sounding as though I’m accepting a Grammy (I promise no foam fingers, gold-toothed posse, or flashing girly bits), thank You, God, for blessing me with Your creative spirit every morning I sit down to write. I couldn’t do this without you. More importantly, I don’t want to do it without you.
To Gary, for enduring my endless texts and calls with baseball and pregnancy questions. And for just being you. That long walk down the aisle to “Here and Now” was the best road trip ever!
To Debra Glass and Jessica Lee. You two are my creative rocks. You ground me, support me, and knock me in the head every so often. Love you both so much!
To Sergeant Stephen Wyatt for all of the invaluable information about police procedure.
To Daddy—thank you for helping me to be a bigger person.
To Katie Reus for an awesome book cover quote, your friendship and selflessness. You now—and will forevermore—rock!
To Tracy Montoya, my editor extraordinaire. I know you’re reading this going, “You don’t have to mention me in every book.” But umm…yeah, I do. For me not to mention you would be like Hall not thanking Oates. Like Bono not thanking U2. Like Frodo not thanking Sam. I can go on and on… You push and challenge me to do better—to be better. And I thank you for it. And I thank you for always believing in me as a person and writer. Tissue, please…
About the Author
Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights— creating stories of unique men and women who experience the first bites of desire, the dizzying heights of passion, and the tender, healing heat of love.
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
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Other books by NAIMA SIMONE…
SECRETS AND SINS SERIES:
SECRETS AND SINS: GABRIEL
SECRETS AND SINS: MALACHIM
SECRETS AND SINS: RAPHAEL
Secrets and Sins: Chayot (Coming July 2014)
Watch for the final book in the “Secrets and Sins” series
Secrets and Sins: Chayot
Coming July 2014 from Naima Simone
Chapter One
Jesus. Aslyn crossed her arms and briskly scrubbed her chilled skin. A Peeping Tom. At her window. Watching her without her knowledge. She hadn’t seen the little bastard, but her neighbor had spotted him at the side of her house before he’d hauled ass across her backyard. Now the police were in her living room, questioning both her neighbor and her about the incident.
Her stomach dived for her feet before reversing its course and screaming toward her throat. She battled the fear back down until it was a small knot in her belly instead of the suffocating fist in her windpipe.
Get a grip. She peeked out the dark window as if she could spot and catch the pervy son of a bitch. Odds were the person peeking in her house had been some pimply faced, oversexed teenager bored with his video games and hoping to glimpse real-time tits and ass. Or even a dirty old man with an open trench coat and his penis in his hand. The peeper could’ve been anyone…anyone but another Quinton Lakes. A shudder rippled through her at just the thought of the lunatic who’d broken into her dressing room, killed her assistant, and attacked Aslyn six months ago. Terror and revulsion crawled across her skin. She stopped breathing. Because if she inhaled, she could still smell the oily pomade in his hair. Could choke on the overwhelming lemon verbena odor of his cologne. Could gag on the cold, wet glide of his lips down her face…
No. She jerked, inhaled a sharp breath. The loud, angry retort reverberated in her head, snapping her back to the here and now. No. Stop borrowing trouble. How could she ever expect to heal, to reclaim the independent, fearless life she once led if she kept imagining bogeymen where there weren’t any?
Besides, what were the chances she would have another obsessed—crazed—fan? She was a concert pianist for God’s sake, not Madonna.
She turned away from the window, arms still wrapped around her torso. As if the cold assaulting her originated from the central air instead of from inside her. Not that the scene currently playing out in her living room inspired any warmth. Two uniformed officers with their notepads out, their shoulder walkie-talkies occasionally squawking as they conferred with her next-door neighbor. The same next-door neighbor who’d appeared on her doorstep quietly ordering her to call 911 because he’d witnessed someone sneaking around outside her house.
Chayot Grey.
Shay-oht. Unusual. Unique. As unusual and unique as the man. A slow, sinuous heat wound through her body, chasing away the chill that had taken up residence in her bones. The curious melting softened and evaporated the metallic bite of old memories and fears. Lord, he stole her breath away. Like he should be handcuffed, read his Miranda rights, and carted away for pilfering the air from her lungs.
He was huge. Not cauliflower-ears-and-steroids huge, but tall. Basketball player tall with wide shoulders, slim hips, and long, muscled legs that his lightweight summer sweater and dark-blue jeans emphasized. But it wasn’t his height or muscled frame that’d had her gaping up at him like a demented Kewpie doll when she’d first opened her front door. Nope. That honor rested solely with his face. She blinked, as if even now she couldn’t accept what her twenty-twenty vision perceived. She’d traveled the world, seen her fair share of good-looking men. Hell, she’d dated one for nearly two years. But Chayot Grey—with his jaw-length gold-and-brown waves, beautiful hazel eyes, and full, sensual lips—made her cheating, I-hope-you-get-warts-on-your-dick-and-it-falls-off ex-boyfriend look as though he should slap on a mask and stalk an opera house.
As if sensing her study of him, Chayot lifted his head, his steady gaze meeting hers.
Holy freaking God, the man is gorgeous.
Chay’s stoic expression never changed, but surprise flashed in his eyes. Low snickers punctuated the room, and her eyes widened.
“Oh, shit. Did I just say that out loud?”
More chuckling. Chayot slowly dippe
d his chin.
She cringed. Flames scorched her neck and cheeks. Jesus H. Christ, they must all think I’m a bubbleheaded idiot. They were in her home responding to a peeper call, and she was ogling the witness. Where was that floor-opening-up-and-swallowing-you-whole wand when you needed it?
Flipping their pads shut, the officers thanked her neighbor for his cooperation, then approached her.
“Ms. Jericho,” the younger of the cops said. “We’ll put out a BOLO with the description of the man Mr. Grey gave us. Also, we’ll have officers on patrol drive by your house, keep an eye out for suspicious activity. If you hear or see anything, please don’t hesitate to contact us.”
She nodded. “I will. Thank you so much for your help.”
Both officers nodded before leaving. She stared at the closed door for a long moment, avoiding the man standing silently in her living room. Swallowing a sigh, she gathered her courage—and pride—and faced Chayot, a strained smile and apology on her lips.
“Listen, I’m sorry about”—she twirled her fingers—“that. Believe me, I’ve been told I have no filter. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Those steady light eyes didn’t waver. They didn’t soften or flirt. If a woman had humiliated herself by blurting out how beautiful he was, her ex, Lorenzo Argiolas, would’ve been preening, his dark eyes smoldering with sensual invitation by now. But not Chayot. He just continued to stare at her, his shuttered gaze and unsmiling mouth revealing none of his thoughts.
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about it.”
Yeah. Right. She tried another smile and extended her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced yet. My name is Aslyn Jericho. Chayot Grey, right?”
He enfolded her fingers in his, then quickly released them. “Chay,” he said. “And I know who you are, Ms. Jericho. I’m a fan.”
“Aslyn,” she corrected, ignoring the tingling in her palm and the urge to rub it against her thigh. Another swirl of warmth tickled her at the thought of this man sitting in a chair big enough to fit his large frame, eyes closed, that thick gold hair framing his stunning face as he listened to her CD… She studiously ignored that tickle, too.