Relentless

by Vanessa Dare

  It was one hell of a moment—even with Anna sound asleep. When she’d come out of the bathroom in her little pajama set, shit. I figured she’d worn it because it was plain, modest. She probably picked it to cover as much of herself as possible, just like the dress from the wedding reception, the skirt and blouse at the police station. It had done a good job, it wasn’t the least bit provocative, but I’d filled in the blanks by myself. Nothing she’d worn so far kept me from imagining what was beneath. Her breasts would be a handful, soft, heavy globes with pale pink tips. Her belly would be flat and firm, her legs long and lean. And in between…

  It was sexy as hell. She was sexy as hell.

  That wasn’t what destroyed me, though. Anna had never been held. What the fuck was that about? What person hadn’t been held? What kind of man was her husband? Parents? High school sweethearts? Girlfriends? Lovers? Anything? From my experience, everyone lied to get something. Why would she lie about this when being held was freely given by pretty much everyone? A hug between friends was a simple gift. Acquaintances even. When she came out of the bathroom and stood next to the bed, unsure, nervous—panicked even—it ripped to shreds any defense I had against her. Screw her job, her past. Her resume. I wanted to go out and beat the shit out of her ex. She hadn’t been lying. No fucking way.

  Her body, God, her body felt like heaven. Warm, supple, small. She was so small, her head tucked perfectly into my shoulder. Once settled, we didn’t say anything, just…lay there, together, listening to the big city quiet. Her scent, citrusy and light, floated over me like a cloud, mixed with the summer air through the open window. She lived on a quiet street, so the hectic sounds of the city were distant, lulled. Anna had fallen asleep within minutes, her deep, even breathing against my chest the giveaway. The tenseness left her body. Her fingers had stopped roaming over my belly so I just continued to caress her back.

  Eventually, I carefully slid from beneath her, pulled the sheet over her and watched as she curled into her pillow before finding my cell in my jeans pocket. I glanced at her one more time. Her hair was wild about her face, her mouth open, her breathing quiet. She wasn’t going to wake, but I closed the bedroom door behind me and went into her living room to make my call.

  “Got anything for me?” Peters asked. No preliminaries. It was late, even in Denver, but he wanted in. Wanted to help me figure out this mess. He had a soft spot for Anna, ever since she’d walked out of the police station last week. The guy didn’t believe her involved with Moretti or Carmichael—or any bad guys for that matter—with much more conviction than I felt. Either way, the more we dug, the more we wanted to know. She was a mystery he wanted to solve, maybe even to prove someone innocent for once. Beneath my jaded experiences, the evidence building against her, I wanted her to be innocent, too.

  “Military prep schools. She went to one for five years. Check yearbooks from the late nineties,” I told him, my voice quiet.

  “Military school? Anna Scott? Why the hell was she in a place like that?” Peters asked. I could hear the surprise in his voice.

  “I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure her father was an asshole,” I muttered. Since her mother supposedly died when she was really young, I wanted to track her dad down and beat the shit out of him for neglect. Who they hell didn’t hold their kids? Even my parents, who were never going to win Parents Of The Year awards because of their less than amicable divorce, never let any of my sisters or me doubt their love. There were plenty of hugs, even when, as a teenager, I wasn’t interested.

  No way was I sharing her secrets with Peters. What we did in bed, what she told me—me, the real me—wasn’t for Peters or anyone else. “She knows her weapons, saw my police issue and asked after it. Recognized it as a .38.”

  “A .38’s not the same thing as the .22 that killed Bobby Lane.”

  “No, but they teach more than just French at a fancy military prep school.”

  “You’re thinking she really does work for Frank Carmichael with that kind of background?” Peters asked, his voice laced with doubt. “That she was groomed for the job from what…eighth grade?”

  “I have no fucking clue, but it’s not looking good,” I replied, my voice low. “I asked her outright if she’d done some bad things and she admitted it.” I hadn’t turned on a light in her living room, but I could see well enough from the street lights through the large front window. I ran a hand over a plant, touched the cool leaves.

  “She admitted killing Bobby Lane?” Peters was stunned.

  “No, dammit. Not that. Just admitted she’d done some stuff.”

  “Maybe she stole a pack of gum when she was a kid and her conscience is finally catching up to her.”

  “Maybe that’s why she got shipped to military school. Too many youthful transgressions.” I walked across the room, paced, trying not to trip over the crap on the floor.

  “Well, a little tough love from military school seemed to have paid off. Her record—Anna Scott’s—what we have of it, is completely clean.”

  “She might not do the petty stuff anymore, but we haven’t ruled out Carmichael yet.” Even as I said the words, I was doubtful. I had to know for sure, though.

  “You’re there in New York with her. You’ve made contact, seen her place, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, looking at her space, how perfectly her it was. Now that I had a tiny little crack open into the doorway to her secrets, I could see why she chose to keep her apartment a total mess. She needed control and this was something she had complete dominion over. No one—not Daddy, not a drill sergeant or ex-husband—could dictate this. It was a small thing, but it screamed a hard-fought battle. The only person she’d probably ever let in was…me.

  “What’s your gut telling you?”

  My gut. Shit. I sighed. “My gut says she’s innocent.” I thought of her standing next to her bed, unsure of herself. “But there’s a lot stacked against her. Bobby Lane, false identity, Carmichael, military school, familiarity with guns. Look, we’re just making wild guesses here. Do the search, look at the yearbook photos because we know her name wasn’t Anna Scott back then.”

  “That’s going to take time. How many military schools do you think there are?” Peters wondered.

  “It would have to be coed, so that narrows down the field considerably. Start with the private ones. The most expensive. You said she had money hidden somewhere, so maybe Daddy’s got some, too. If he’s looking to rehabilitate a wayward daughter, he probably wouldn’t skimp.”

  “Right. I’ll get a pot of coffee going and get on it. Werbler’s on it, too.”

  I smiled, reminded that there really were some good guys out there. Anna had more people on her side than she knew. “Thanks. Text me when you learn more.”

  I sat down on the edge of her couch, elbows on my knees, and thought about how I was getting deeper and deeper into this shit. Into Anna. I was digging for the truth about her, even using Peters and Werbler to help. She’d shared some things about herself, maybe not intentionally, but she’d shared the truth. A tiny, tiny sliver, but definitely the truth. Then there was me.

  May God not strike me dead. The truth…the truth? Everything about me was a lie. The only thing that I shared with Anna that was truthful was my attraction to her. I couldn’t fake something like that. But would that be enough?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Anna

  I slowly woke, warm and comfortable. I’d slept amazingly well, dreamless in fact. Something was different, something felt different. Opening my eyes, I looked down. Nick’s arm was wrapped around my waist, my pajama shirt lifted enough so that his palm rested against my exposed skin. His hard length was fitted against my back. We were spooned together snugly. My pillow was Nick’s shoulder.

  This wasn’t right! I shouldn’t be molded to him, pressed against some almost-stranger like this. What did I know about Nick other than his kisses made my brain mush? His arms about me last night had knocked me out faster than any sleeping pill. And no
w—now! Being in his arms felt so right that it was wrong. I didn’t do these kinds of things. I didn’t do anything—this was completely over my head.

  Grabbing his wrist, I tried to lift his hand away from my bare belly, but Nick just pulled me in closer and I felt him hard against my back.

  “Shh,” he soothed, his fingers making the skin tingle just a few inches below my breasts. “I’ve got you.”

  “That’s the problem,” I muttered. “You shouldn’t be here like this.”

  Nick loosened his grip, but only a little. I was able to roll over to face him, both of us on our sides. He looked good in the morning. His eyes were sleepy and relaxed, his hair messy in a way only a guy could do; I had no doubt mine looked styled by a scarecrow. I didn’t even want to drop my gaze below his neck because I knew how appealing the view would be. I’d felt every inch of it just a moment ago.

  “Why not?” he asked, his brow creased with confusion.

  Nick didn’t have a problem looking his fill. His eyes took a lazy trip over my body.

  “Because…” I couldn’t think of a good reason to tell him. Why should I turn away from a hot man in my bed? I knew exactly why. Because I was terrible at sex. What if, once we started, Nick found me lacking? It would be crushing.

  God, you’re body’s so tight. Such a fuckable little piece you are. Too bad you’re frigid. Who wants to fuck a woman who just lies there? Doesn’t respond? If you can’t even get wet enough for me to stick my dick in, it’s actually a good thing. Wouldn’t want to get you pregnant with a brat anyway. You’ve got other places that will get me off. Open up—

  I could justify Todd’s cruel words with all of the other things I hated about him, pushed it all into a little vault I locked in the back corner of my mind. With Nick, though, I’d be devastated. I wasn’t sexy. I wasn’t alluring or any of those other words to describe ladies who knew what it took to get a guy revved up, and keep him that way. I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. I never cried. What was Nick doing to me? I had to—

  “Hey, don’t.” He ran a knuckle down my cheek, startling me from my thoughts.

  I looked up at him, his eyes dark, his face full of concern. I cleared my throat. “Don’t what?”

  “Think so much. This thing between us, I don’t have to think to know it’s real. I can just feel it.”

  He was right. Oh, how could he be right? This need I had for Nick just was. I didn’t have to question it, wonder why it had been so instantaneous, so immediate. It just was. And that petrified me. I had no control over these emotions, or my body, and I needed control over everything. Like I needed to breathe. It was the only way I could function. With Nick, I couldn’t keep up, couldn’t process everything that was coming at me. Last weekend’s insanity, his surprise appearance in New York, what he did for a living, and now, him in my bed. It was too much, too fast.

  “No.” I shook my head vehemently, as if that could keep the tears from falling. “I can’t handle this. Let me up.”

  He must have seen the panic on my face because he let me go. My body felt cold where I’d been pressed against him, goose bumps rising on my skin even though the room was warm. Once standing, I looked down at him in my bed, completely relaxed as if he belonged there. The sheet rode low on his hips, his lean body…stop!

  “I need to get dressed.” I ran my fingers through my wayward hair, tucked it back behind my ears. Flustered, I went to my dresser, pulled out random clothes without really even looking at them. “You need to get out of my bed.” When he just smiled at me, that wicked, enticing smile, I added, “Please.”

  I didn’t wait to see if he did. I closed the bathroom door behind me with trembling fingers, knowing my resolve was at war with my control. Control was obviously winning, but I couldn’t say for how long.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later I’d showered, straightened my hair, put on my usual eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss. After peeking to make sure he wasn’t in the bedroom, I tiptoed to my closet wearing my robe and found an outfit that I could actually wear. In my mad dash to escape, I’d picked up two shirts, both a little dressier than I’d wear working from home, and that was it. No shorts, no skirt, no underwear. The man was making me insane. Once dressed and finally ready to face Nick, I went to the kitchen in search of coffee.

  Nick looked up from my couch. He was—thankfully—fully dressed and had his phone in his hand. The way his heated male gaze raked over my body made me question the simple cotton skirt and blouse I wore. The skirt was gray, the blouse sleeveless with tiny buttons down the front. I had sandals to wear, but hadn’t found them yet in my mess. Why did just his eyes on me heat my skin and make me question everything I thought I’d known about men?

  Sure, they wanted one thing and Nick was no exception. But he seemed to want more, otherwise he would have taken me by now. He didn’t have to stop with a kiss and just hold me all night. He kept me questioning, wondering what would come next, what kinds of ways he’d make me feel, how much more I might ache. My nipples were hard constantly, the soft fabric of my bra a torture to the now sensitive tips.

  And that was just my body. I needed caffeine to analyze why I wasn’t running screaming from a guy who worked for the mob.

  “Um…coffee. Want some?” I asked. Was I ever going to act normally around Nick or was I doomed to sound like a thirteen-year-old with her first crush? Make that a thirty-year-old and that was me. Ugh.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I fiddled with the filters, dumping in the coffee grounds and water, then pushed the button, delaying the need to face Nick, to apologize. He hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’d done everything right. I bet I was the only woman who had ever fled from his bed. I was so stupid! So naïve and silly. He’d probably realized that and changed his mind about me. I couldn’t blame him if he had. No guy wanted a woman with issues, especially ones like mine.

  Other than standing in my kitchen like an idiot watching the dark brew slowly fill the pot, I had no other options but to face Nick. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I went to the doorway, leaned against it and watched him. His fingers flew over his phone, then once done, he stood and put it in his pocket. “Sorry. Work,” he said, causing me to remember what he really was, who he’d probably texted. Was he putting a hit out on someone? Ordering guns to be sent by UPS? Organizing a money laundering scheme?

  “Right.” I licked my lower lip, tilted my head back to look him in the eye. “Nick, I’m, um…I’m sorry about earlier.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  I shook my head. How could he understand? He didn’t even know what I’d been through. Everything about me was a lie. I’d told him the truth when asked, but I didn’t offer up who I really was. He hadn’t said he knew my old name, but how could he have known about David otherwise? “You can’t. Understand, that is. You can’t understand what makes me act so…so silly. I mean, look at you!”

  I pointed at him and he dropped his head to glance at himself, then back at me. Grinned. “Day-old clothes, no razor, and I could use a haircut.” He ran his hands through his mussed hair. “I didn’t realize I was such a catch.”

  It all made him even more appealing. He looked rumpled, as if he’d just come from someone’s bed—which he had. The scruff on his jaw and mussed hair totally did it for me. And there was the dimple again.

  “You’re not. I mean…you are.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, hoping it would slow my racing heart, my runaway brain. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  Nick quirked a brow. “We’re going with that line, are we?”

  I was such an idiot. “See, this is what I’m talking about. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to do this.” I pushed off the doorframe to move into the living room. “You’re so great, except for the whole bad-guy thing, but when you touch me and I feel things, I just don’t know how to respond.”

  “You don’t have to know.” He took a step closer, but I held my ground. “You just go
with it. See where it takes you. Us.”

  Shaking my head, I continued. “I don’t do ‘just go with it’. Ever. The idea of that freaks me out.”

  His dark gaze flicked over me. “You have to be in control, you mean.”

  I turned back to the kitchen, went to the cabinet, pulled down two mugs, stalling. “Exactly,” I finally said. “My apartment is a mess because I want it to be that way. I work for myself because I choose who I work for and when I work. I need that control.”

  “Okay, take a breath.”

  I’d started to pour coffee into a mug, but I shoved the pot back onto the coffeemaker and whirled on him. Spilled coffee sizzled on the warmer. “Stop telling me to breathe, dammit! I’ve been breathing just fine my whole life.”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair, perhaps employing his own stalling tactics. He didn’t look fazed. Completely unruffled by my nervous breakdown—or at least that’s what this little freak-out felt like. And wasn’t that annoying? He pushed my buttons, riled me up and made me feel out of control. I wanted to scream in frustration.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’ve been doing just fine on your own. But is that what you want?” He tilted his head. “To be just fine? It’s okay to be out of control sometimes, especially with someone you trust to keep you safe. Take last night. Once you realized you were safe in my arms, you conked out. Think you can trust me?”

  I looked at my granite countertop, slid my finger over a swirl in the hard surface. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I think…I think my body trusts you.”

  He groaned and I turned my head sideways to look at him. His eyes were so heated, so dark as to be almost black. His brow was furrowed as if he were in pain.