Outside her door, Diego propped her against the wall as if she were a doll and made her wait while he checked the place out.
“Satisfied?” she asked when he returned. The scowl still darkened his features.
“Not nearly, but there are no bad guys waiting in your apartment.”
He’d wanted them both to stay at a hotel, worried that the Circle would continue to come after her, but Becca refused to be cowed. They had to be the ones responsible for running them off the road. Tony had threatened as much back at the prison, with all that talk of his friends watching his back. But what kind of message had they been trying to send? Don’t talk to Tony? Because Tony was already doing plenty of talking on his own, to the Fan.
“I’m going to give Tony a piece of my mind tomorrow.” She locked her door and stripped off her coat.
“You sure you have enough left to spare?” The growl in Diego’s voice raised Becca’s hackles.
She turned to square off with him. “More than enough for him and you.”
“It’s not your mind I want.”
She heated in an instant, her nipples pebbling beneath his heavy-lidded gaze. The way Diego looked at her—anger layered with concern and desire like some rich, complex dessert that promised to be a delectable treat—was hot enough to melt the armor around her heart.
She put her hand to his cheek, running the pad of her thumb across one of the dark smudges under his eyes. His exhale of breath ruffled her hair. She couldn’t resist soothing him further, pressing a kiss against the base of his neck, then moving upward to his throat. At his sharp intake of breath, a different need hit her. The need to comfort gave way to the need to feel his hot mouth on her chilled skin. She went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
“What are you doing?” he growled, not moving an inch.
Her lips curved against the edge of his jaw, then shifted to press another kiss to his lips. “Seducing you. I thought that was obvious.”
He lifted her against his body, tucking his head into the crook of her neck and holding her still in his arms for a long moment. A shudder rippled through him and seemed to bring him to life. With long strides, he walked her to the couch and set her down. By herself. She blinked up at him.
“What’s obvious is that you’re avoiding talking about what’s real again.” He crouched in front of her so they were at eye level. “I want the real Becca. The one who’s as into me as I’m into her. Not the Becca using sex as a way to distance herself from her feelings, or to try and forget about what happened tonight, or that I failed to protect you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Failed? I’d have been alone and unconscious if you hadn’t been there tonight to call the police and dissuade our attacker with your gun. I’d probably be dead.”
He paled beneath his olive skin. “Don’t say that.”
“Then stop saying I’m using sex. I’m simply tired of thinking. I want to feel.”
His eyes turned stormy. “Then stop saying what we had last summer was just fun.”
She put her palms on his beard-roughened cheeks. “I was wrong to say that. At the time, I was trying to push you away. You’re my partner.” In so many ways.
His brown eyes sparkled with interest, but he was still uncertain. Kneeling in front of her, he put a hand on either side of her on the couch. His thumbs brushed the outside of her thighs.
“I want you, Becca, but I can feel you holding back. If I take you to bed, I want all of you.”
That was asking a lot. She’d spent years keeping her heart safe. Was he asking for that, too? Or maybe he knew she was still keeping a part of her past from him. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”
He leaned closer. “But not everything I want to know.”
“What else is there?” She’d become mesmerized by the need in his eyes.
“That you have feelings for me, just as I do for you.”
“That’s emotional blackmail.” She wasn’t ready to give him her love. It was too great a risk. “Not fair, Sandoval. Especially since you already demolished my willpower.”
He gave a husky laugh. “You have plenty of willpower. Too much, if you ask me.”
There was only one thing keeping her from making the final leap, and that was the thought of ruining Diego’s future with the final secret. “One of us has to. You’re trying to rebuild your world. I’d only tear it down again.”
The edges of his mouth turned down in irritation. “Stop worrying about others and do what’s best for you. I’m man enough to handle my choices, whatever the consequences. I’ve made some pretty serious mistakes, if you’ll recall. Nobody’s perfect. Certainly not me. And I didn’t expect you to be, either.” He’d brought their faces closer together with each word until she was only a breath away. “It’s time you let go. Tell me how you feel.”
Let go. Of the past, of the truckload of guilt she carried with her, or of her hang-ups about them being together—hell, of everything.
* * *
Diego could see her mind working, turning over what he’d said.
Let go. He willed her to heed his advice and let him in. Fully. Because he was no longer content with rekindling an affair. He wanted more—whatever that more was.
It had to be her choice to admit she wanted him for reasons more than just adrenaline letdown or the need to feel alive. It might be his ego taking control, but he needed to know she felt something for him. So he hovered just a few inches away, inviting her to kiss him, aching with the need for her to surrender to him.
Finally, her gaze met his. “I care about you, Diego. So much it scares me.”
That was good enough for him. As if of one mind, they breached the gap and joined their mouths. With a whimper, her hands slid from his cheeks downward, the fingers skimming his torso in a light touch that had his heart hammering, trying to leap out of his chest. When her hands reached the waist of his jeans, he sucked in a breath, hopeful he was reading her signals correctly. Her heart was in her eyes when their gazes met. Suddenly, she seemed like a woman ready to give him everything. Again. Including her heart.
Even if she didn’t realize it, he could see in her eyes—and in her attempts to keep him free and clear of the past that tainted her—that she loved him.
The responsibility of accepting such a gift hit him like a battering ram in the chest. His own feelings swelled and filled him with desire for this resilient, giving woman. He didn’t know what he’d done that earned him this second chance, but he’d seize the opportunity with both hands.
Her fingers dipped beneath the edge of his shirt and spread across his chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on her questing hands, her hot, wet mouth, her citrus scent, her little moans of pleasure and impatience—she wreaked havoc on all his senses. He groaned, pulled her to her feet while mindful of her sore arm, then lifted her and carried her into the bedroom.
“You’re not too hurt?” He gently placed her on the bed, his gaze moving over her arm, and then to the bandage at her temple, a reminder of what he’d almost lost tonight.
She grinned wickedly, turning his concern to desire again. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
She tugged him down onto the bed, then rolled him to his back so she could straddle him. Reaching between them, she undid the button and zipper of his pants, then raised up enough to wriggle him out of his clothing. Happy to oblige, he lifted his hips. His erection bumped her hand and when she seized the opportunity to touch him, taking him in her hands, he nearly exploded with pleasure.
He groaned. “Slower. I want to enjoy you.”
She let go long enough to help him pull his pants and boxers from where they were caught at his ankles. He arched up to pull off his shirt, then almost shattered as she replaced her hands with her mouth, trailing kisses and licks back up his legs until she—thank you, Lord Jesus—found his hard-on. She locked on as Diego hissed out a breath.
* * *
The salty tang of Diego filled Becca’s nostrils as she nip
ped and sucked and nibbled his honey-toned skin. She lingered at his erection, enjoying the way he tried not to move under her ministrations. It became a challenge to make him lose control, and she’d always loved a good challenge. She pleasured him until he had her head in his hands and was trying to pull her up his body.
A growl vibrated deep in his chest. “You drive me crazy.”
She wanted to go crazy with him. So when he urgently tugged at her, she let him pull her up his body and then flip her to her back so he was in charge.
He made quick work of removing her clothes and tossing them on the floor. “Condom?”
“Side drawer.” She heard the triumphant smile in her voice and wondered at his power over her. Being with him, this way, had always been healing. Always good.
He grabbed a condom and was kissing her again within seconds. His hot palms teased her nipples, kneading them into tight beads, building the ache inside her, an ache that hadn’t been satisfied since she’d last been with him.
Returning her sweet torture, he licked and nipped his way up to her neck, seeming to savor every sweet spot until she was a melted, boneless mass. Her pulse leaped as he pressed his mouth to the sensitive curve of her throat. Then the world tilted when he filled her. He became her only axis, the only thing that kept her from spinning out of control entirely. She sighed with delight and locked her legs around his hips, digging her ankles into his behind.
God, this was good. This was right. Why had they wasted so much time?
“Querida,” he murmured against her lips as he slid into her again. Slowly, he tortured her. His reverent tone resonated throughout her, touching her soul.
His tongue danced with hers while the tempo of his thrusts increased to match, building her inner tension into a tight ball preparing to explode into a supernova. She bucked upward to meet him halfway, deepening their contact.
She wanted all of him. Too much wouldn’t be enough.
She locked her fingers in his hair and held on while he drank from her, pumped into her. One of his hands claimed a breast, his thumb flicking at her nipple. The contact, in sum with all the other parts, was enough to send her over the edge and she cried out his name. With a groan and final thrust, he followed her over the cliff.
Monday, 11:40 p.m.
Golden Oaks Hospice
The SSAM Fan loved a good story. Sometimes he had to embellish a bit, but it always came out great in the end. Something that would grab his viewer by the throat and shake him or her a bit, force some emotion.
Take Hank. Vietnam Vet. Father of two grown children and grandfather of three young kids—none of whom came to visit him in the outskirts of Chicago, though they lived only an hour away. Hank was a loner. By choice? To protect himself? Or because his family didn’t give a shit?
It was those pieces of Hank’s background that would make him interesting to the public. The good image of a good man. The pieces his family never saw.
The more his victim from the hospice was appreciated for the good he’d done, the more the sacrifice was worth it. And the more attention Mother would receive when Hank passed along.
From the doorway to the old man’s room, he watched Hank. The smell of something industrial strength designed to mask the smell of piss and other unpleasant bodily functions clearly didn’t do its job. To the Fan, it was part of the story.
He’d researched the man over the past few hours. Not only a war veteran, the man had been a prisoner of war. The poor, forgotten ex-POW had now been left to rot by his unappreciative family in what was, frankly, another type of cell. Another type of hell.
Thanks to Mother, Hank had been fed and bathed and tucked into bed for the night.
And would be tucked into a coffin by morning.
Also thanks to Mother leaving her key ring on the counter at home, he had a copy of the key to the rear door, the one right next to Hank’s room.
It wouldn’t take long. A pillow over the face, in Hank’s sedated state, would be no struggle at all. His blood rushed with anticipation. His chest rose and fell a little faster.
Tonight, Mother would receive the call. The staff knew to phone her when the end was near. Or had already been breached.
In the morning, he’d see Mother’s bright smile again, like sunshine breaking through the storm. Over breakfast, she’d talk as if she didn’t know what he’d done. Remember Hank? The nice gentleman you met with yesterday? I have sad news.
Except it wouldn’t be sad. He’d hear the thread of excitement underlying Mother’s words. The affirmation of her purpose. The same rush he’d get tonight. Mother was a caregiver, and knowing she’d helped another soul receive comfort before heading to the great beyond would invigorate her. It would be time to make arrangements. Contact the family. Help them rally beyond their grief and organize Hank’s memorial.
He held the pillow to Hank’s face. It didn’t take much effort. Only a twitch here and there and the old man faded away.
In the morning, the Fan would finish composing the story of the brave veteran, ex-POW, who’d died peacefully in his sleep, a cuddly kitten puzzle barely begun on his table.
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday, 7:12 a.m.
South Side, Chicago
Upon opening his emails as he waited for Mother’s morning tea to steep, the Fan was taken aback. He’d set up alerts that notified him when certain key words had been used somewhere on the internet. This alert led to Eve Reynolds’s slanderous blog. Her video, posted yesterday morning, had not only slammed Becca and Damian, but it had received numerous comments supporting her viewpoint against so-called vigilante justice. The cretins commenting had swallowed the story whole, without question.
As he read the comments, outrage burned so hot he could feel it creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Eve was an instrument of the devil, attacking Becca and Damian’s agency when they were working to better society. The Circle did bad things for all the wrong reasons, and deserved to be taken down. Hell, Tony himself would admit that.
But what really got his blood pumping was the subsequent video blog, dated early this morning. Eve had filmed herself again, this time asserting that the incident that led to Becca’s injury would never have happened had Becca followed proper channels of justice. She’d implied that Becca had gotten what she deserved.
Injury? He quickly scanned the internet for more details. Frustration stemmed from concern as he searched for updates on Becca’s health. There was nothing.
He felt sick. Had he been the one to put Becca at risk? The Circle had come after her, probably because she was tracking down his leads. If she’d viewed his gift from the wedding, she knew he’d talked to Tony, and she’d probably talked to Tony too by now. Eve’s blog had stirred the pot, but he knew any endangerment was ultimately because of him. Just as she’d been arrested when he’d killed James for her. He’d fixed that blunder with an anonymous tip to the police, throwing them off the trail, and he’d fix this too.
After a quick listen at Mother’s bathroom door, where he heard the shower running and her whistling—a sure sign that the call that had awakened him a couple hours ago had been from the hospice, informing her of Hank’s passing—he moved to the front porch for privacy. He called several hospitals, but nobody had Becca Haney listed as a patient—at least, nobody would admit it. It was possible she was under an assumed name. Perhaps there was a better way to inquire about her health. He dialed the number he’d memorized months ago.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Society for the Study of the Aberrant Mind. This is Catherine. How may I direct your call?”
Picturing the attractive woman who’d danced with Becca’s date at the wedding, he experienced another wave of anger. It seemed Becca was dealing with betrayal on every front. She didn’t deserve that. And certainly not from him, her partner. He’d make things right.
But the purpose of his call was to assure himself of Becca’s safety, so he shoved his anger below the surface and put on his polite voice. “Hell
o. I’d like to speak with Becca Haney, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“It’s regarding a case,” he said. “I’d rather remain anonymous.”
“I’m sorry, but she’s out of the office.”
Was she in the hospital? Was she injured that badly? He paced the porch. “Is there some way I can reach her?”
“I can take a message.”
“It’s urgent.”
“I can note that in the message.” Stupid, stubborn woman. “Or I can connect you to Diego Sandoval’s temporary voicemail.”
Sandoval was here? He was helping Becca?
“No, thank you.” He hung up and banged a fist into the frozen deck post in frustration.
Damn. Was she lying in a hospital somewhere, needing him? Was she so embarrassed by Eve’s rants that she was in hiding? Or were Catherine and Diego, yet again, getting in the way of Becca’s success by interfering?
His insides roiled with unexpressed feelings he had to wrestle into submission. After several calming breaths, he went back inside and poured Mother’s tea, then put two slices of sourdough into the toaster. When she came to the table, it looked as if he had everything under control—at least on the outside.
Inside, he was making plans. The woman responsible for attacking SSAM needed to pay for this. There was no reason for Eve to go on the attack. She had plenty of stories to chase down, yet she was determined to hurt Becca. But if there was one thing he knew, it was how to take care of the people he loved.
Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.
Metropolitan Correctional Center
With three cigarette cartons in tow, Becca and Diego returned to the prison to meet with Tony. He arched an eyebrow as Becca plunked one carton on the table, out of his reach.
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