"I was a dancer!" she snapped, fed up with his senseless questions, unjustified anger and accusations.
"A stripper." His lip curled as if he'd caught her in a lie.
"A ballerina! I was a ballerina. I'm not a stripper or a murderer or a drug dealer or anything else you just accused me of being, you moronic ass." Angry tears slipped down her cheeks as his hateful, snide questions tore through her. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he really been so different yesterday or was she just a blind idiot?
God, she was a blind idiot.
Maybe he was an angry, hateful person all the time. She wouldn't know. All she knew was that he whispered delightfully naughty things, smelled good, had gorgeous blue eyes, and an amazingly talented tongue and set of fingers.
Why had she let him touch her?
Lesson learned.
She'd never, ever make that mistake again.
"Right," he said, his disbelief obvious. "What's a ballerina doing in a place like that?"
"I just wanted to dance!" Her voice broke in the face of his contempt. "I haven't danced since he broke my leg, and I wanted… I needed… I didn't do anything wrong!" Embarrassment, hurt, and shame rushed through her.
"Who broke your leg?" he demanded, taking a step toward her as something else, darker and more feral than before, flared to life in his eyes.
She couldn't place that emotion and she didn't want to. "Stay away from me!" She stumbled away from him, backing into the wall on the opposite side of the destroyed door. Her leg trembled beneath her. She needed to get off of it soon. But there was no way in hell she'd let herself collapse in front of Tristan.
"What'd you do to make him break your leg, Lillian? Help your bosses ruin his life? Seduce him and then fuck him over? Almost kill him with that shit you're manufacturing?" He advanced toward her, ruthless in his pursuit.
"I didn't do anything!"
His cruelty lashed at her like a whip across her skin. Being accused of being a whore, a murderer, a drug dealer, a seductress…. None of that even came close to hurting as much as his familiar implication that she'd deserved to have her leg broken and her career and dreams ruined.
How many times had her fellow dancers and gossip sites speculated the same thing? That she'd done something to deserve what Marc had done to her? That she'd led him on until he lashed out? That he'd turned to heroin because of her? The rest of Tristan's angry, senseless questions and accusations were negligent, but that was unforgivable. He didn't know anything about her or her past, and had no right to blame her for Marc's attack.
He continued toward her, stopping only when he stood so close his breath washed across her face and his delicious scent surrounded her. Her body betrayed her, heat unfurling in her belly even as she cringed away from the feel of his hard thigh grazing her damaged leg.
"You're heartless, Lillian." He leaned forward and hissed the insult in her ear, his lips so close she felt them against her skin. "A good distraction, but a heartless bitch."
She lifted her arm and pointed toward the door. "Get out of my house," she demanded, her voice shaking as much as her hand. Her entire body shook. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wished to God she'd never met him.
"What's the matter, Lillian? Don't like to hear the truth about who you are? You sold your soul for Anton Vetrov. Does that bother you at all? Do you even fucking care who his family kills? Are you that fucking desper-"
"Get out of my house, you bastard!" Lillian watched in horror as her hand, seemingly disconnected from the rest of her body, shot out and slapped him across his face.
Her palm began to sting as soon as it connected with his cheek in a loud crack of sound. She jerked backward, her mouth falling open in shock.
Tristan appeared to move in slow motion. He lifted his hand to touch where she had slapped him. The ire in his eyes waned and then flashed brighter. For a long minute, deafening silence held firm as they stared at one another.
"Get. Out. Now," she whispered, snapping her mouth closed before she apologized for slapping him. It was the least of what he deserved for everything he'd just said to her.
He cast her one last contemptuous glance, his palm still over his reddened cheek but he did as she commanded, spinning away from her and nearly ripping the hinges from the battered door as he flung it open and disappeared into the night.
Hot tears poured down Lillian's cheeks. Her leg gave out beneath her.
She let it drag her to a heap in the floor as she shook and cried.
Chapter Seven
Lillian sat in the floor where she'd fallen when Tristan stormed out, tears drying on her cheeks. Outside, a car rolled into the driveway. Gravel popped beneath the tires. The flash of headlights shone in the living room window, sweeping across the darkened walls before the car stopped and the engine cut off. The light died.
A door slammed shut, followed by another. Soft footsteps echoed across the porch.
"Lillian?" Jennie called through the broken front door.
Lillian dashed at her cheeks and took a deep breath. She'd had no choice but to call Jen for help. She had nowhere else to go, and she couldn't stay here with her door destroyed. Pain radiated up and down her leg, protesting the awkward way it had bent when she'd collapsed. She couldn't even get herself up out of the floor.
God, she hated Tristan.
"Lily?" Jennie's voice rose. She tapped on the door.
"Come in," Lillian said, clearing her throat.
The door scraped against the floor, splinters of wood falling from it as Jen pushed her way inside. Her eyes widened when her gaze landed on Lillian.
"Oh, my god! Are you okay?" Jen asked, hurrying to her side.
Tony appeared in the doorway behind Jen, his dark eyes narrowed. Like his girlfriend, he hadn't changed in the last few months. His dark hair could use a cut, and he had a five o'clock shadow on his jaw. He was tall, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips like so many male dancers. And like most male dancers, the muscles in his arms and shoulders were clearly defined beneath the tight V-neck he wore.
"Lily?" Jen stepped in front of her, concern stamped across her face. "Are you okay?"
Lillian stared at her oldest friend for a long moment, drawing a blank on how to answer that question. She wasn't okay. Her leg hurt. Tristan's hateful accusations still rang in her ears. Tears threatened to fall again. She felt helpless, and that made her angry. But she didn't know how to say any of that to Jen and Tony. They'd think she'd lost her mind if she told them about Tristan.
How could she have been so stupid as to give in to him like she had? To practically sleep with a complete stranger in the middle of a dirty, dark nightclub?
"Lillian?" Jen knelt down beside her, her expression flickering between worry and fear. "Please answer me. Are you okay?"
Lillian pushed thoughts of Tristan away and nodded. "I'm fine," she said. Even she noticed how small and meek she sounded. Squaring her shoulders, she tried again. "I'm fine, Jen. I promise."
"What happened?" Tony asked. His gaze shifted to the door and then back to her.
"I don't-" She shook her head and glanced between her friends, silently pleading with the two of them not to push. She didn't want to talk about Tristan and his insane behavior. If she did, she'd start crying, and she'd suffered enough humiliation for one day. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, succinct and matter-of-fact.
Tony said nothing, looking instead to Jennie. For a minute, Jen looked like she might argue, but then she sighed.
"You aren't in danger, are you?" she asked.
"I'm not in danger," Lillian promised. If Tristan had wanted to hurt her, he would have already done so, but even angry, he'd walked away without touching her. Still… she had no intentions of sticking around until he came back. "But I do need a place to stay tonight." She blushed, mortified. "I can't… with the door broken… no one can come fix it until tomorrow. I don't…."
"Of course you're staying with us tonight," Jen said, waving off her awk
ward, disjointed attempt to ask for help.
Relief washed through Lillian in a big rush. Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes. She squeezed them closed and took a deep breath, determined not to cry. "Thank you," she said, opening her eyes to face Jen when the urge to sob passed.
Jennie smiled at her, a thousand questions lurking in her gaze. Thankfully, she didn't ask any of them. She just held out a hand to Lillian, not speaking.
"Someone's outside," Tony said.
Lillian froze in place. Her heart jumped into her throat, pounding erratically. Without another word, Tony stepped into the doorway, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to fight.
Lillian grasped Jen's hand, allowing her friend to pull her to her feet. Even though Jen held most of her weight, she still moaned in pain when her foot touched the floor. Her leg throbbed from her hip all the way down to her toes.
"Here," Jen said, slipping an arm around her waist. "Lean on me."
For once, Lillian didn't hesitate to take the help offered. She leaned against her best friend, grateful for her assistance.
"Can I help you?" Tony demanded from his spot by the door.
"I'm looking for a Lillian Maddox," an unfamiliar voice responded.
Lillian blew out a breath, allowing herself to relax. Whoever the man was, he wasn't Tristan.
Thank God.
"And you are?" Tony asked, a cocky edge to his tone.
Lillian couldn't hear her visitor's response, but his answer seemed to satisfy Tony.
"She's inside," he said, stepping out of the way.
An older man ducked through the door, his girth filling the entire doorway. As soon as he straightened, Lillian noticed the badge and gun clipped to his belt. Tristan had sent the police after her? Seriously?
A wave of anger shot through her. She glared at the cop, pissed off and hurting. "I didn't do anything wrong, dammit!"
"Of course you didn't, Ms. Maddox." The officer held up his beefy hands as if to ward her off and shot her an apologetic, almost grandfatherly smile. "My name is Brett Warner, with Seattle P.D. Special Agent Jason Ames of the DEA sent me to check on you."
"Do… what?" Lillian gaped at him.
Who the hell was Special Agent Jason Ames of the DEA? And how did he know she needed help?
Instead of clarifying, Warner frowned toward the front door. "I assume Agent Riley did that?"
"Agent Riley?"
"Special Agent Tristan Riley?"
Special Agent Tristan Riley?
Tristan was a DEA agent?
His accusations rang in her ears.
Her heart hammered as things clicked into place with a sickening jolt. Tristan wasn't crazy. He was a freaking DEA agent! Another bolt of fury shot through her on the heels of that realization.
"That stupid, egotistical…." She spun toward the front door, though she didn't have a plan beyond hunting Tristan down and killing him. Her leg crumbled beneath her as soon as she moved, dragging her back to the floor. "Shit!" she screamed, a sharp pain shooting through her.
Had anyone asked, she wouldn't have been able to tell them if she was screaming from the pain or from pure frustration. Wisely, no one said anything.
Tristan stood outside Jason's office, his gaze fixed on the wall. Anger coursed through him, pulsing so hard he ached to hit something. Anything. Lillian's tear-stained face refused to dislodge itself from his mind. It'd hovered there during his drive downtown, haunting him. Which only served to piss him off more. He wasn't the one working for the fucking Vetrov family. He wasn't a murderer.
So why did he feel like the bad guy?
She'd been bait. A pretty face in a crowd of addicts. And like an idiot, Tristan had fallen for her act, believed she'd found her way inside by mistake. He'd gravitated to her the minute he saw her, and the whole damn time, she'd known who he was. She'd positioned herself so he'd find her, and he had. As soon as he'd realized she didn't belong there, he'd swooped in like the fucking cop he was to save her.
Except she hadn't been an innocent bystander. She wasn't the damsel in distress.
She'd been a test. One he'd failed.
The Vetrov family knew he wasn't just some guy who'd stumbled into their damn storage room now. They'd had two damn days to move their lab. And he'd let it happen. The only thing he should feel guilty about was the girl who'd died because he'd been stupid enough to fall for Lillian's act. Not the shit he'd said to Lillian. Not the damn tears she'd shed.
A teenager had died because he'd fallen into a trap like a fucking rookie.
The urge to hit something intensified, crashing through him until he felt caged.
"Tristan, get in here!" Jason bellowed through his closed door.
His receptionist, Janet, jerked it open and hurried out, avoiding Tristan's gaze. He ducked in behind her, pulling the door closed. His hands were in tight fists at his side. A muscle in his cheek jumped where he clenched his jaw so hard. He was on the verge of losing it, big time.
Jason sat behind his desk, glaring daggers. "Did you touch her?" he asked, gripping the desk as if to keep himself in his seat.
"What?" Tristan narrowed his eyes on his friend and boss. "Don't be stupid."
"Answer the question, Tristan. Did you touch her?"
Tristan swore, crossing his arms over his chest. "Have I ever hit a woman?"
"Just answer the damn question."
"No! I didn't fucking touch her." He scowled, pissed that Jason could even ask him that question. He had never, and would never, put his hands on a woman, no matter if they were murderers or not. "What the hell, Jase? You know me better than that."
"Why is she on her way to the emergency room?"
"What?" Tristan's eyes widened.
"I sent Warner to check on her when I couldn't find you. What the hell happened?"
Tristan sank down into a chair across from Jason, scrubbed his hands down his face, and then blew out a deep breath. What had happened? An eighteen-year-old girl had died because he'd been too busy with Lillian, exactly as she'd planned.
"I don't know," he said instead, unable to say those words out loud with guilt burning like fire in his chest.
"You don't know?" Jason arched a brow. "You kicked in her fucking door, man."
Tristan just looked at his boss, not even attempting to deny it or offer an excuse. He didn't have one that would satisfy Jason, and he wasn't going to pretend he did. He'd fucked up. Again.
"You're lucky I don't fire you, or better yet," Jason said, glaring at the stack of files littering his desk, "put your ass on desk duty for the next year. What were you thinking?"
"I believe I was thinking that she's a drug dealing murderer," Tristan answered, rage boiling through him at the thought. Something a whole lot like regret whispered on its heels. "She works for the fucking Vetrov family. She's lucky I didn't drag her ass to jail where she belongs."
Jason leaned forward to shuffle through the files on his desk before plucking one out. He flung it across the desk onto Tristan's lap. "She doesn't work for Anton, you idiot."
Tristan's gaze moved back and forth between Jason and the file on his lap, his brow wrinkled.
"Lillian Maddox isn't a criminal. She was a world-renowned ballerina, for crying out loud. Her father retired for Portland P.D. five years ago. He's now the mayor of Bend, Oregon. And, if you're lucky, when he finds out you kicked in his daughter's door because you were pissed off and thinking with your dick, he won't demand your balls on a platter. Jesus Christ." Jason slapped his hand down on the desk. "Do you realize you could have blown the entire investigation? Did that thought even occur to you when you decided to confront her before we knew the full story? I warned you to stay away! What in the fuck did you do?"
Tristan stared at the file in his hands, ignoring Jason's demand for answers. He barely even heard them; his mind was still working through the revelation that Lillian didn't work for the Vetrov family.
What the hell?
He flipped open the folder on his lap
. Lillian stared out at him from a newspaper clipping, a flowing white gown draping her body. She stood on her toes, with her back arched and her arms in the air. The joyous look on her face took his breath away. She looked like she had that first night while they'd danced, as if the happiness she felt shimmered in the air around her.
Her furious denials and tear-stained face drifted through his mind.
She hadn't been lying. She really didn't work for the Vetrov family.
"Christ," he swore, inhaling sharply as the truth hit him like a fist. All the things he'd said to her, the way he'd raged at her, calling her a heartless bitch….
"What happened, Tristan?" Jason asked again, his disapproval coming through loud and clear.
With his hands clenched into fists around the file, Tristan told Jason the grim truth. He'd accused her of being a drug dealer, a murderer, and a stripper. Raged at her like she was subhuman, worthy of nothing but his disgust and hatred. The more he talked, the worst he felt.
What the hell had he done? Christ, what was wrong with him?
"I implied she deserved to have her leg broken," he admitted, his stomach roiling. He didn't know much about ballet or ballerinas, but he had a feeling breaking a leg like that would end a career faster than getting pregnant could. No wonder she'd slapped him.
"You did what?" Jason shouted, rising out of his chair. He narrowed his blue eyes on Tristan, clenching his fists. "When did you become such a fucking asshole?"
"What the fuck was I supposed to think?" Tristan asked. He'd come here expecting Jason to fire him, but hell if that made it any easier, especially now that he knew the full extent of what he'd done. Lillian hadn't done any of the shit he'd accused her of doing.
That fact should have relieved him, but it didn't. He felt exactly like the asshole Jason had named him. And that pissed him off. He didn't need Jason to tell him he'd messed up. Every time Lillian's tear-stained face flashed through his mind, he knew he'd screwed up. Big time. He'd jumped to conclusions because doing so was easier than dealing with the truth, wasn't it?
Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) Page 7