by Anne Stuart
“Does she know why?”
Their eyes met. It had never been discussed, yet James had little doubt that Martin knew as much as anyone about Win’s death. If James had been Win’s oldest protégé, Martin had been his dearest.
There’d been a time when James had been jealous of Martin. Martin had been and done what Win wanted. He’d been groomed to take Win’s place, to take Win’s daughter, when it became clear that James would never lose himself completely to Win’s causes.
But in the end he had lost himself. He was nothing but a soulless shell. And Martin had survived.
“No,” James said after a moment. “She doesn’t know.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“You think I’m crazy? Why the hell would I tell her?”
“Because you have a perverse sense of honor. I know you, James. They may call you Dr. Death, but deep inside you’re still human. You probably need confession and absolution.”
“I haven’t been a Catholic in thirty years.”
“And Annie’s not the Holy Mother. That doesn’t mean you won’t do something stupid and self-sacrificing.”
“It would mean her death.”
“Yeah, well, you could probably find some justification in that. You iced Mary Margaret, didn’t you? Have you slept with Annie yet?”
He’d almost forgotten how cool and clinical Martin could be. It was one of the things he despised most about him. It was one of the things he most needed from him.
“No.”
“Why not? You know perfectly well the best way to bind someone to you is to fuck her. Make her emotionally and physically dependent on you. You aren’t the type to let sentiment get in your way—you do what needs to be done. Why haven’t you slept with her?”
James glanced over at her. She was standing at the sink, staring out through the grimy window, her back straight and strong, her hair tangled from sleep. He wasn’t about to explain to Martin that he wanted her too much.
“Maybe I was saving her for you,” he said lazily. “I thought you’d probably show up sooner or later. You usually do.”
“Just like a bad penny. Hey, I’m not picky. I don’t mind your leftovers, if you don’t mind mine. She’s not into Mary Margaret’s kinky games, but she’s actually quite … endearing in bed. I’d take her back in a flash if she wanted it.”
Endearing. The phrase was damnably evocative. James forced himself to smile. “Maybe you should take care of it, then. She’s used to you—it would make things easier.”
Martin shook his head. “Not that I wouldn’t mind. She’s the one who broke off our relationship, not me. But I don’t scare her the way you do. You’ve always had a powerful effect on people when you choose to exert it. If you want her too overwhelmed to question orders, you’re gonna have to be the one to do her.” He laughed, half to himself. “Would you listen to us? It sounds like we’re talking about some unpleasant chore. Trust me, I wish I could justify taking over. But in this case, keeping the two of you alive is the first priority, and you stand a better chance of that if you’re the one.”
“I think I can handle it,” James said in a cool voice.
“You just need to handle her right,” Martin continued, ignoring the warning signals. “She’s amazingly timid about sex. Got all these hang-ups, neuroses. You gotta do her in the dark with her nightgown on, so help me, God. Otherwise she freezes up, and nothing can loosen her. I blame Win for it. I think he must have had some Wagnerian governess brainwash her.”
“Are you finished settling the fate of the world yet?” Annie had turned from the sink, calling out over the sound of the radio.
“We’re getting there,” Martin said cheerfully. “Make us some breakfast, would you?”
The look she cast Martin was laced with pure irritation, a fact which pleased James. But that pleasure worried him. He didn’t like the fact that Annie had slept with Martin again. Didn’t like the image of the two of them, in the dark, under the covers. Didn’t like it so much that he was having a hard time trusting the only man in the department he could count on.
“Listen, I’ll make myself scarce and you take care of it. Whaddya need—a couple of hours? More? Less?”
James looked at his hand. It wasn’t curled into a fist—it was resting loosely on his thigh. It was amazing how instinct always kicked in. “It depends,” he murmured. “Why are you in such a goddamned hurry? Do you want to watch?”
Martin grinned. “Not through your windows, buddy. She’s like a time bomb waiting to go off, and there’s only one way to defuse her. If you don’t do it, I will.”
“Be my guest.”
“Nope. It’s you she wants, in case you haven’t figured that out yet. And I want what’s best for you. She makes you vulnerable. If you’re vulnerable, then the whole damned house of cards may collapse. As soon as you get this taken care of, then you’ll be more in control.”
“You think I’m not in control?” he murmured in a lazy voice.
“You’re always in control, man. But this is the biggest mess we’ve ever been in. I just think we should cover all our bases.”
“That’s one way to put it. I could always kill her.”
“Yeah,” Martin agreed calmly. “And it might come to that. But you don’t really want to, do you?”
“Maybe that’s exactly why I should do it.”
Martin shook his head. “She knows stuff, James. I’m willing to bet you. Stuff she doesn’t know she knows. You silence her now and we’ll never find out. And if we don’t, we’re dead men.”
“We already are.”
“Speak for yourself. I have a lot of plans for my future.”
James looked at his old friend. Martin was almost ten years younger, the product of the kind of Ivy League background Win had concocted for James. Princeton, Yale Law School, a good family. Perhaps it was just as much of a lie as James’s past. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the knowledge, the bond between them.
“You know, you’d make a hell of a pimp,” James said dryly. “You missed your calling.”
“Not necessarily,” Martin said. He rose, and James watched him, instinctively prepared for any sudden moves. Martin wouldn’t make them, but old habits died hard. James wouldn’t have trusted his mother if she were still alive. “I’ll make myself scarce. You know what you’re going to do next?”
“I have an idea. Win was in Northern Ireland right before he died. It seems as good a place as any to start looking. He must have had a reason for being there.”
Martin’s grin was faint. “What do you think about that? How long has it been?”
“I don’t have any problems with it,” he said evenly. “I’ve been back any number of times.”
“On clear-cut jobs. This is different. You know that. And you’ll have Annie with you.”
“You think I can’t handle it, Martin?” he said in his softest voice.
Martin looked momentarily unnerved, which pleased James. “You can handle just about anything. I’ll be back later.”
Annie had switched off the radio, eyeing the two of them suspiciously. “Have you finished your little conspiracy?” she demanded.
Before Win died she wouldn’t have demanded a thing. Even Martin looked startled at her tone of voice, and he cast an amused, commiserating glance at James.
“All finished, Annie,” Martin said smoothly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ve got some things to do.”
“Can I go with you? I feel claustrophobic.”
“No.” James’s voice was cool and implacable. He waited for her protest, but she said nothing, merely glaring at him as Martin let himself out of the trailer.
She followed him to the door, and James half expected her to try to dart out after him. He tensed, ready to leap and stop her, but she simply closed the door behind him and began fastening the locks. She was clumsy but determined, and he watched her out of hooded eyes, fascinated.
It took her almost five minutes. When she was fini
shed, she turned and faced him, and there was no missing the faint look of triumph in her eyes. “I figured I’d better know how to do that for myself. I don’t like being dependent.”
“No?” he said softly.
“I spent twenty-seven years that way. It was enough.”
“I don’t know if right now is the time to start developing a life of your own,” he murmured.
“Too late.”
“Too late,” he echoed, watching her.
“What were you and Martin talking about? Why did he suddenly disappear?” She was just out of reach, but he knew he could move quickly. He watched her, idly, and wondered how he ought to take her. Fast, so she couldn’t object. So she didn’t even know what hit her?
Or a slow seduction that left her a weak-limbed puddle in the bed.
Though right now he couldn’t begin to imagine Annie Sutherland as weak.
“So did you two decide what we’re going to do next?” she asked.
“In a manner of speaking. We were discussing who was going to take you to bed.”
“Sure you were, James,” she scoffed. “Who lost? You?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Exactly.” She turned away from him, heading into the kitchen. “I hope Martin’s gone food shopping. There’s nothing to eat but re-fried beans, and I’m really not in the mood, no matter how much salsa music is on the radio. I want—”
She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He could move very swiftly, silently when he wanted to, and this time he wanted to. He put his arms around her, his hands on her breasts, and pulled her against him, tight.
It shut her up immediately. She stood very still, and he could feel the faint tremor that washed over her body. She wasn’t nearly as tough as she wanted to be. As she wanted him to believe.
He cupped her breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples. They hardened, as his cock hardened against her, and he told himself Martin was right. The sooner he did it, the sooner he’d stop thinking about it. He couldn’t afford to waste even a fraction of his attention on the softness of Annie Sutherland’s skin, the warmth of her breath, the sweet, musky scent of her that was driving him crazy.
He slid one hand down her stomach, over the loose-fitting running shorts and between her legs, pressing up against her, imagining the heat and dampness, the need. She made a strangled cry of protest, but then no other sound. She simply let him hold her tightly against him as his hand rode between her legs.
Martin was right, he thought absently. She was shivering now, so damned ready to explode he almost came thinking about it. He thought about shoving her shorts down, bending her over the kitchen counter and taking her from the back. Without having to look at her face, without having to kiss her. Without having to acknowledge this was anything but a straight fuck, something they both needed.
He shoved his hand down inside her loose pants. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and she was wet. He knew she would be.
She fought him for a moment, but he ignored her struggles. He was much, much stronger than she was, and he wasn’t interested in her protests, in denial or shyness or whatever. He slid his fingers deep into her, using his thumb, and he made her come.
The sound she made was low, desperate, and lost. She was a fierce knot of reaction in his grasp, and he held her, prolonging it, touching her, pushing at her, feeling the wave after wave of response that hit her.
“Stop,” she gasped, but he wouldn’t stop. She was shaking apart, and he wouldn’t let her go, let her rest. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her. He needed something beyond complete surrender, beyond the powerful climaxes he was wringing from her. He wanted to drain the fight, the life from her. He wanted her soul.
He took it. Sliding his fingers deep inside her, listening to her choking cry, he took everything from her.
She was weeping. He knew that as he felt her tormented body collapse in his arms. He was supporting her—her legs had no strength, and all she could do was sob quietly.
He released her. Pulled his hand from her shorts, set her against the counter, and stepped back. For a moment he reached for his zipper and then stopped.
She had her face on the counter. The sobs were softer now but no less shattering. And he realized it might be kinder if he simply leaned over, kissed her behind her ear, and killed her. Kinder for both of them.
He turned and left the kitchen area of the tiny trailer. Left her alone, broken, weeping. He flicked on the television to CNN and threw himself back onto the sagging love seat. And only when he turned up the sound did he allow himself to breathe.
He had no idea how long she’d lie there and cry. How long he could stand to listen to it. He’d heard many women cry over the years. Women mourning their children, cut down by sniper fire. Women whining that he didn’t love them. Women dying, and afraid.
He didn’t let women’s tears bother him.
But Annie’s did. And he hoped to God she’d stop.
It wasn’t until a momentary lull on the television that he noticed the silence. He looked up, and she was standing in the kitchen, staring at him, her face pale, shocky, tear-streaked. He hadn’t kissed her, he thought, with a mixture of despair and relief. He hadn’t made the mistake of kissing her.
And then he noticed the gun she was holding.
Chapter Twelve
“Are you going to shoot me, Annie? Isn’t that a little extreme?”
She knew how to fire a gun. Her father had despised guns, but he’d made certain his daughter knew how to use one, and James’s gun was not dissimilar from the 9mm weapon she had practiced on. He could move fast, she’d seen him to do it, but not faster than a bullet.
“No,” she said, setting the gun down on the countertop with great care, close enough that she could pick it up quickly. “As long as you don’t touch me again.”
His gaze was steady, unreadable, but he made no effort to move, to take the gun out of her reach. “Then you’d better shoot me, Annie,” he said, turning his gaze back to the television.
She wanted to. She wanted to pick up the gun and wipe that cool, enigmatic expression from his face. Just once she wanted to see whether he could feel anything.
During the long days after her father’s death he’d been there, a solid, secure presence, looking after the details she’d been too distraught to deal with, an invisible strength for her to turn to. But not once during all that time, even when they lowered Win’s walnut and brass coffin into the ground at Arlington, did he betray any emotion.
She shivered, remembering that cold spring day. A bitter rain had been falling, a fitting cap to the week, and James had stood beside her in a dark raincoat, holding a black umbrella over her head. She’d watched the coffin being lowered with a sense of numb horror that had haunted her dreams ever since.
“I want to be cremated.”
That got his attention. He stared at her, then leaned over and killed the sound on the TV. “You aren’t going to die,” he said.
“Everyone’s going to die sooner or later. The way things have been going lately, I suspect it’s going to be sooner.”
“I’m not going to let anyone kill you.”
“Martin said you’re good, but you’re not perfect.” Her knees were still weak from what he’d done to her in the kitchen. She was wet between her legs, angry and vulnerable. She moved from behind the counter, away from the gun, wondering if she’d regret it.
“What made you think of that?” He leaned back, looking at her.
“I hated Win’s funeral.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”
“He insisted on a full burial. I hated it. When I die, I want to be burned and my ashes put in a tiny little box. You can keep me on your mantel.”
She’d managed to shake him. Something crossed his face, something oddly akin to horror, swiftly followed by anger.
“Fine,” he snapped. “Though I might prefer to keep you in some Tupperware.”
“No plastic,” she sai
d, pushing him. He didn’t strike her as a man capable of feeling horror. But she hadn’t mistaken his reaction. “I’ll settle for an empty tequila bottle. One without the worm. I imagine you’ll have no trouble finding one of those.”
“You can be a real bitch, you know that, Annie?” he said calmly enough.
The notion startled her. “No,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I hadn’t known that.” She wanted to get away from him, but there was nowhere in the enclosed space where she could escape. The one place she didn’t intend to go was the bed. She sat down in the cracked vinyl chair. “I don’t think Win would recognize me nowadays.”
“You’d probably piss the hell out of him.”
“Why?” She was shocked.
“Because he did his damnedest to make you who he wanted you to be. Intelligent, well behaved, conservatively dressed. A model daughter and the perfect wife for whoever he chose for you.”
“Not such a perfect wife, and he didn’t choose Martin,” she snapped. “And what’s wrong with that description?”
“It’s not you. It’s who he made you. And you let him do it. You let him drain all the life and individuality from you, until you didn’t have a thought or an emotion to call your own. The model young Republican with just enough liberal notions to make you politically correct.”
“At least I have emotions.”
“They weren’t yours.”
“They are now. Including a really intense hatred of you, James,” she said in an icy voice.
He smiled. Slow, disbelieving, and so infuriating that she wished the gun was still in reach. “Annie,” he said softly, “if you want to believe that you go right ahead.”
She glared at him. “Are you egocentric enough to assume I still have a crush on you? I got over that years ago, James. All I want from you is the name of my father’s killer. And the reason.”
“That’s all? You don’t want revenge?”
“I assumed you’d take care of that part,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, did you? We find out who executed your father, and then you get to leave the dirty work up to me. You can go back to your safe little life and your drab clothes with clean hands and a satisfied conscience. Is that it?”