by Pamela Clare
Tessa studied him, and he could almost hear the wheels in her sharp mind turning. "You know who he is."
Julian had been trying to decide all afternoon what he should tell her. Her life was in danger in ways she couldn't possibly imagine, and letting her in on the truth, or part of it, might make a difference. But she was also a reporter, and there was no way to know for certain that she wouldn't print everything he told her. And although she hadn't yet printed anything she knew about him—his name, for example—he wasn't sure she'd be able to resist writing an article about Burien if Julian gave her the big picture. Besides, he hadn't been authorized to tell her anything. She shouldn't even know who he was.
"This is strictly on a need-to-know basis and off the record, got it? If you print anything I tell you, you'll be aiding and abetting murderers."
"Got it." She set the wineglass back on the table. "Off the record."
"His name is John Richard Wyatt, age twenty-two." Julian took Wyatt's mug shot out of his pocket, put it on the table. "He's got a long list of priors, and it's getting longer. He was involved with the shooting you witnessed, probably as an accomplice.
"The man I believe pulled the trigger is already dead, face blown off point-blank with a forty-four Magnum, no doubt as punishment for leaving witnesses. We found his body last weekend, together with a set of rims, and linked the body through prints to the basement apartment. He was still wearing that leather jacket."
He saw her eyes widen—a reaction she quickly suppressed—and he wondered if he should tone it down. He didn't suppose journalists talked about crime in the same casual, gory detail that law enforcement professionals did. Or did they?
Her gaze dropped to the mug shot. Her arms crossed over her chest as if she were hugging herself—an unconscious, defensive gesture that wrenched something in his chest.
"He looks like a kid."
"The 'kid' is a sociopath."
She pushed the mug shot away as if she suddenly couldn't stand to look at it. "Any chance you're going to tell me exactly what this is all about? What was going on in that apartment? Why did they—whoever 'they' are—murder her?"
Julian picked up the mug shot, tucked it out of sight. "Isn't what I've told you enough, Tessa? Do you need to hear more to understand that your life is in grave danger?"
"Can't you even tell me her name?" A sheen of tears glittered in her eyes.
He knelt face-to-face beside her, caught a tear with his thumb. "You're trying to make sense out of something senseless, Tessa. Knowing her name won't make this any easier. Take my word for it."
"I-I watched her die, Julian. I can't explain…" She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to force back her tears, turned her face away from him.
"Maria Conchita Ruiz. She was sixteen."
Maria Conchita Ruiz.
Tessa ran the girl's name through her mind again and again, her brain screaming that sixteen was far too young to die. And she realized Julian was right. Knowing the girl's name only sharpened the edge of her regret.
"¡Porfavor, senor, ayudeme! jAyudeme! ¡Me van a matar!"
Someone knocked on Tessa's door, making her gasp, sending her to her feet. "That can't be the pizza. I would have to buzz them in."
"Easy, Tessa." Julian ran a hand down the length of her arm, pulled his gun from his shoulder harness. "Someone was probably coming in at the same time and let them in. People in Denver are naive and sloppy about security. I'll get it. You stay out of sight."
Heart thudding, she grabbed her purse, fished out her .22, and backed deeper into the kitchen, watching as Julian looked out the peephole.
She told herself she was safe and remembered how quickly and smoothly he had taken out the targets at the shooting range. She'd never seen anyone move that fast or with such precision. If Wyatt came around tonight it would be he, not Tessa, who was in danger. She forced her fear aside, but couldn't stop her relieved sigh when Julian holstered his gun, shot her a grin, and opened the door.
"It's twenty-fifty-three," a young man's voice said. "We take checks with ID."
She saw Julian pull his wallet from his back jeans pocket and pull out a few bills.
"Thanks," the kid said. "Dude, is that, like, a real gun?"
Julian answered, his deep voice tinged with humor. "Yeah, dude, it is."
They ate their pizza at the table, Tessa insisting on using real dishes, even if they were eating fast food. Julian seemed to be trying to keep the conversation light, asking her questions about her job, about other investigations she'd worked on, about Tom.
"From what I could tell this morning, the guy is a jerk," he said, refilling her wineglass.
'Tom, a jerk?" Tessa, feeling more relaxed, couldn't help but laugh. "He just takes the responsibility of journalism very seriously—but, yes, he is a total jerk."
By the time their plates were in the sink and they'd moved to the living room, Tessa was feeling more peaceful than she had in days. The wine had spread like a summer sunset through her veins, leaving her feeling tranquil and lazy.
"Why'd you decide to go into journalism?" Julian asked her. He'd removed his harness, draped it over a nearby chair, and sat on the floor beside the couch, his weight resting on one arm, one knee bent, his black T-shirt stretching distractingly across his chest. His dark blue eyes watched her, his gaze warming her as much as the wine.
She stretched her legs, reclining against a pile of pillows on the couch. "No more questions about me. You know everything about me. You know things about me no one else knows, stuff I wish you didn't know. You can probably answer that question yourself."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were measuring her. "I'd say it has to do with a need to fight for the underdog, to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves. With your background you naturally identify with the underdog. And I think you need the acknowledgment, the public recognition. It proves to you that you escaped, that you're no longer Tessa Bates."
Tessa felt her face flush. "I do not need—!"
He raised a dark eyebrow. "Did I cut too close to the bone?"
In fact, he had. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. "Enough about me. You've asked your twenty questions. Now it's my turn."
"Fair enough."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
"Are you married, divorced, sing—?"
"Never married. Never will be."
"Aha." His answer didn't surprise her, but for some reason it did take her mood down a notch. "Kids?"
"Not as far as I know."
"What is 'Darcangelo'?"
"My last name." He was biting back a grin.
"No! I mean what ethnicity." She grabbed a pillow off the couch, hit him with it.
He fended off her attack with his forearm. "I'm half Italian."
"Which half?" The words were out before Tessa could stop them.
Was she flirting with him? She never flirted with men.
His lips curved in a slow, sexy smile that made her heart trip. "From the waist down."
She felt her breath catch, felt her face burn, found herself chasing her own scattered thoughts. "Why did you become a cop?"
He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the split second of contact like a static burst against her skin. "I like busting bad guys."
Coming from anyone else, this might have seemed a wisecrack. But Tessa could tell he meant it. "That's what matters to you—patrolling Gotham and getting bad guys off the streets?"
"Something like that."
He was too close, his body seeming to radiate heat. He hadn't really touched her, but she was already at the melting point, her body thrumming with blatant, undeniable longing. She'd never felt this way, not even when Scott, spouting poetry he hadn't really meant, had peeled off her clothes and taken her virginity in his dorm room.
Tessa picked up her wineglass, took a sip, tried to remember what they were talking about. His job. "That sounds dangerous to me—and l
onely."
"Speaking of lonely, why isn't there a man in your life? A beautiful, smart woman like you with a successful career—I would have imagined you'd be married by now."
She almost choked, suddenly wishing they were talking about the weather. But then, why not come right out with it? He already knew so much about her.
She set her wine aside. "The women in my family don't have much luck with men. My grandma married my grandpa— really bad luck for her. My mom… Well, you know about my mother."
"She had a baby at fourteen. Yeah, I know. It must have been tough for both of you."
Tessa had been trying not to think about it, but their conversation made that impossible. "She called today. Bless her heart! I haven't spoken with her since I left, and then she calls out of the blue, tells me she's working at the Denny's in Aurora."
"Are you going to get together with her?"
Tessa shook her head, shrugged. "I don't know. It's complicated."
He gave a slight frown. "She's your mother."
"That's the problem." Tessa's words sounded cold, even to her own ears. "Do you stay in touch with your mother?"
"I never knew my mother." His voice and his face were expressionless.
She stared at him, astonished. "You never knew your mother? Did she give you up for adoption or die when you were born?"
"No."
For a moment they sat in silence.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. 'That was rude of me."
He acted like he hadn't heard her. "So your mother made a mistake, and you're ashamed of her. What does that have to do with your reason for avoiding men?"
"Now who's being rude?" Tessa glared at him. "I don't avoid men. I'm just careful. The last thing I want is to end up like her or like my grandmother—alone with a baby or married to an abusive drunk. Besides, the idea of having sex with a man is loads better than the reality."
He came face-to-face with her in one smooth motion. "Sure about that, are you?"
Pulse racing, Tessa found herself looking at his mouth, wondering if he would kiss her, wishing he would kiss her, hoping to God he would kiss her. "Pretty sure."
One of his hands slid into her hair, cradling the back of her skull, angling her head so that her mouth was aligned with his. "I'll take that as a challenge."
And then he did kiss her.
Slowly.
He brushed his lips over hers once, twice, three times, sending shudders through her. Then with a low groan, he slipped his other arm around her and drew her against his hard chest. But still he didn't kiss her full on, tasting first her upper lip, then her lower lip, then the corners of her mouth again and again, until her lips tingled and ached and she was shaking with need.
She shouldn't be doing this. She didn't want to be used, didn't want to be a notch in yet another man's bedpost. She didn't want to make another stupid, heartbreaking mistake. She'd been careful all these years not to fall into bed with men who wanted nothing but sex, men like Julian. But then she'd never really met a man like Julian, and it had been so long since she'd let a man touch her, so long since she'd allowed herself to feel.
He pulled back and looked down at her, his lips wet, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark. "How am I doing so far, honey?"
He didn't give her time to answer, but kissed her—hard.
Oh, God, yes!
He thrust deep with his tongue, plundered her mouth with stunning thoroughness, finding her most sensitive places, sucking and nibbling her lips, tilting her head to take the kiss deeper, cutting off her breath, consuming her. She moaned, kissed him back, her fingers clenching in his hair, her body deliciously aware, liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
He fisted his hand in her hair, forced her head back, and kissed the exposed skin of her throat, nipping the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, sucking on her earlobe, pressing his lips against her pulse. The stubble of his beard grazed her skin, the slight pain a source of pleasure.
"More?" He whispered the word against her throat, his voice rough, his breathing every bit as ragged as hers.
"Oh, God, Julian!"
Julian took that as a yes, ignoring the voice in his mind that told him this was wrong, listening instead to her little whimpers and moans, to the response of her body and the answering tension in his own. He didn't want to think about who wanted picket fences and who didn't. He didn't want to think about his damned job. He didn't want to think about Burien.
The only thing he wanted to think about was Tessa.
With a groan, he drew her off the sofa and pulled her to the carpet beneath him, kissing her harder, his brain buzzing with raw, urgent lust. She arched against him, the soft, feminine feel of her making every muscle in his body tense, his cock already straining hard as steel against his jeans. He'd meant to take it slow and easy, but he wasn't taking it slow now.
Still kissing her, he reached with one hand, pushed her shirt up, and jerked her bra down, baring two of the most beautiful breasts he'd ever seen—full and creamy white, their light pink nipples puckered with arousal.
"Jesus!" He ducked down, greeted each rosy peak with an impatient flick of his tongue, then closed his lips over her right nipple and tasted her.
She gasped, then moaned, a sensuous, feminine sound, her fingers sliding up his neck to fist in his hair. "Oh, Julian, yes!"
Driven by her pleas and moans and his own blistering need, he tugged on her nipple with his lips, flicked it, sucked it, cupping her other breast greedily, his thumb tracing circles on the petal-soft tip.
God, she was sensitive! She reacted to each stroke of his tongue, each tug of his lips, as if his mouth were caressing her entire body, her breath coming in gasps and shudders, her hips lifting off the carpet, the musky scent of her response driving him damned close to the edge.
He shifted his mouth to her other nipple and sucked hard, his hand skimming down the silky, hot skin of her belly. He made fast work of her zipper, then slid his hand beneath her panties, his fingers threading through her damp curls. He didn't waste time, but parted her puffy lips and thrust first one finger, then two into her slippery heat, taking care to graze her clitoris as he drove deep and then withdrew.
She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs parting to give him better access. "Oh! Oh, God, Julian!"
"You're on the brink. I can feel it." He brushed his lips over a tight, wet nipple, his hand busy stroking her inside and out. "After you come, I'm going to rip those jeans off your body, wrap your legs around my waist, and fuck you the way you've wanted me to since we met."
"You… arrogant… oh!" she panted, her head turning from side to side, her eyes squeezed shut, her skin glowing pink. "Oh, oh, God, yes!"
Then her breath broke, and she came, arching off the floor, her inner muscles clenching tightly, making him nearly explode at the thought of his cock replacing his fingers.
He rode through it with her, kept his rhythm steady, his mouth on her breasts, her throat, her lips, as the quaking inside her slowly subsided—and the fire inside him flared.
Suddenly her hands were tugging at his T-shirt, pulling it out of his jeans, her hands sliding hungrily over the skin of his belly and chest. "I need to touch you! I want to touch you!"
"Jesus, honey, fine by me." He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, then reached down to help her with his zipper, hunger for her raging in his veins.
Almost painfully hard, his cock sprang free.
Then a voice crackled over his radio. "Suspect sighted. Code Black."
Chapter 14
Still shaken by the force of her climax, Tessa found herself being hauled to her feet, her mind reeling from pleasure to alarm in the span of a single heartbeat. "Wh-what—?"
"Quiet!" Julian zipped his jeans, pulled on his shirt, and strapped on his harness, his hair hanging loose around his shoulders. Then he held the radio to his mouth. "Copy that. Welcome wagon ready. Over. Where's your gun, Tessa?"
She pointed toward the
kitchen, tugging her bra and shirt back into place over her still-aching breasts. And then she heard it—the sound of someone moving outside her door.
Her mouth went dry, adrenaline kicking her already-racing pulse up a couple notches.
Julian hurried into the kitchen, moving almost silently, returning in a blink with her revolver. "Get to your room, lock the door behind you, and take cover behind the bed. Don't come out till I tell you to, understood?"
She nodded and took the revolver from him, suddenly sickly afraid not for herself, but for him. She touched a hand to his arm. "Be safe!"
His gaze met hers, something like surprise in his eyes. Then the look vanished, and he motioned with a jerk of his head. "Go!"
She hurried into her bedroom, shut and locked the door, then ran to the other side of her bed and knelt down, trying to listen over the hammering of her own heart.
She heard her door open, heard Julian swear, heard the thud of footfalls racing down the hallway. Then a door slammed, and she knew someone had reached the stairs. From the stairwell— or was it from outside?—she heard more shouting, men's angry voices. A few minutes later there came the approach of sirens, distant wails that grew louder until it came to a stop just outside.
And then… nothing.
She waited in the dark of her bedroom for what seemed an eternity, listening. Had Julian chased him down the back stairs and caught up with him outside? Was Julian cuffing him and putting him in a squad car? Had the creep run off down the street? Was Julian safe? Was it all finally over? God, she hoped it was over!
The silence grew unendurable, her apprehension overwhelming. She stood, tiptoed over to her door, opened it a crack, and saw nothing but the cheery light from her living room. She stepped into the hallway, gripping the revolver tightly in her sweaty hand, her senses heightened. Pressing herself up against the wall, she glanced round the corner. Her front door stood slightly ajar, but she was alone.
She hurried to the door and looked out to find the hallway empty. Then her gaze fell on a flyer that someone had stuck to her door—and her stomach dropped to the floor.