Driven by Fire

by Anne Stuart

  He needed to get the hell out of New Orleans. The Committee branch was up and running, Bishop would be back from his goddamn honeymoon, and Peter Madsen could damned well reassign him. Right now Eastern Europe sounded just about right, someplace dark and depressing and cold. Just like his nonexistent heart.

  The wound in his arm was throbbing beneath her head and he welcomed it, proof that he was alive, proof that he could still hold her for a few hours longer. Once they left Calliveria everything would be back the way it was. For now he could hold her, let her tangled curls blow against his mouth, and drive on into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  By the time they reached the small private landing field, Parker had woken up, pulling away from Ryder and huddling in on herself. He was half tempted to haul her back, but his instincts had told him she’d reached her limit. All he had to do was tell her she was in shock, and there was a good chance she’d erupt from the unnatural quiet that surrounded her like armor, but there were times when shock and denial were old friends. He’d let her be for now—there would be time enough to knock her out of it once they reached New Orleans.

  He didn’t think he could sleep once they got on the plane, but he did, halfway into his scotch on the rocks. He woke when they were about to land, the lights of the Crescent City like a welcoming beacon, and he glanced over at Parker, still huddled in her single seat at the back of the spacious cabin, the one reserved for the nonexistent flight attendant. She still had that glazed expression on her face, and he suspected she hadn’t slept during the six-hour flight. The moment they touched down she began to unfasten her seat belt, but he glared at her and she leaned back, dropping her hands. The last thing he wanted was for her to end up flat on her face if the plane had to come to a sudden stop.

  The car was waiting for them, gassed up and with the keys over the visor. He tried to take Parker’s arm when they started down the short stairs but she pulled away, walking ahead of him, and he ground his teeth.

  A moment later he caught up with her, yanking her against him. “Sulk all you want,” he said, deliberately trying to goad her into a reaction, “but I’m not risking you running off into the night.”

  To his annoyance she didn’t try to break free. “Why would I do that?” she said in a listless voice. “I can’t very well walk to town, can I?”

  “You’re in shock,” he said, going for the big guns. “Who knows what you’d do.” He waited for her hot denials.

  “Maybe I am,” she said dully. “Can you drop me at a hotel?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t argue about that either, simply letting him settle her into the front seat of the car and fasten the seat belt around her. The sky was growing light in the east, and he usually loved that time of day. Right then he wanted the night to be eternal.

  What the hell was he going to do with her? She couldn’t go to a hotel—she had no luggage, no ID, nothing. Taking her to her father’s house was out of the question, given that Ryder’s next visit wasn’t going to be of the social kind, and while her intel jacket had the names of close friends and favorite relatives, he knew that showing up with her in this state would be something she’d never forgive. There was no choice but to take her back to the house on Magazine Street and hope she’d come out of her fugue state on her own.

  Part of him sympathized. He’d killed more people than he could remember—no, that was a lie. He remembered every one of them, up to and including the three men at Soledad’s compound. They haunted his dreams and even his waking hours, and he was trained for this kind of work. For an innocent like Parker the memory of Soledad going over that balcony would be a permanent scar.

  It didn’t matter that she would have died anyway. Should have been dead, except that the truly wicked never died easily—it was as if their very evil gave them the ability to withstand things that would kill an ordinary mortal. He should have realized that Soledad wouldn’t go that easily.

  Parker said nothing when he pulled into the underground garage on Magazine Street, though she made no effort to climb out of the car. He came around the side and opened the door for her, taking her arm, and she followed him docilely enough, still with that shuttered expression on her face, and he wanted to shake her. Instead, he led her into the house, nodding at the security camera as he led her up the three flights of stairs. The house was empty—Remy had his own apartment in the French Quarter and Jack had a house in the suburbs, of all things. Only Ryder lived in the house full time, Ryder and enough security and booby traps to outfit Fort Knox.

  When they reached the third floor she started toward the bedroom she’d used, his old bedroom, and then stopped, and he saw her absently rub her arm, the arm he’d hurt when she’d last been in the room.

  “Not there,” he said, moving her to the other side of the hall. The room he’d taken over was small, unfinished, and the only piece of furniture was the king-sized bed that fit his tall frame the best. She stood just inside the door, not even looking around her.

  “You can spend the night here,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take my old room.”

  She said nothing. Her face was unnaturally pale, and he could see the streaks of her earlier tears, though now her warm brown eyes were flat and expressionless. She’d get over most of it, he told himself. A good night’s sleep in a decent bed and she’d be ready to move on.

  He was almost out the door when she spoke. “Are you going to kill my brother?”

  He stopped, not turning to look at her. “If I have to. I don’t think it will be up to me. We already dumped the evidence from the phone, and the FBI will have a warrant out for him if he’s fool enough to return to this country. Otherwise someone will find him overseas.”

  “And kill him,” she said dully.

  “And kill him.”

  She lifted her head. “Could you stop them?”

  “Not even if I wanted to.”

  She nodded, as if she expected nothing less, and he took a step toward her, his frustration boiling over. “Look, you can hate me all you want. The fact of the matter is your brother is a vicious criminal who’s victimized women and children, and he deserves anything he gets, just as Soledad did. Don’t waste your sorrow on monsters like them—save a little for their victims and the ones who died because of them.”

  “I’m not mourning Soledad and Billy,” she said in a voice so soft he almost couldn’t hear it.

  “Then what are you mourning?”

  “Loss,” she said, turning her back on him and walking to the window. “The loss of my brother, loss of innocence, loss in the belief that I knew what I was doing. You.”

  “What about me?”

  She kept her face averted, her back straight. “I’m mourning the loss of you.”

  He moved so fast Jenny wasn’t prepared, spinning her around and pushing her up against the wall with none of his usual tenderness. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, open-mouthed and carnal, rough when he’d been sweet, and she felt her whole body come alive again, the blood surging through her veins, her heart pumping. She put her arms around his waist, pulling him against her, and she could feel he was hard, aching for her. She closed her eyes as feeling washed over her, need and sorrow and pure longing so hard and powerful she thought she might explode from it.

  He slid his hands down, caught the T-shirt and ripped it in half, the stretchy cotton shredding beneath his grip, and she caught her breath, shocked. He put his arms around her hips and lifted her up so that her breasts were at the level of his face, and he put his mouth on one and sucked, hard, using his teeth, as a shaft of white-hot longing went straight between her legs to the very center of her being. She wanted him there, needed him there, and she panted as he pulled her legs around his hips, her sex pressed against the hard rod of his erection, too many layers of clothes between them as he moved to her other breast, taking it in his mouth with a roughness that made her whimper in longing and need. A moment later he pulled away, and she went flying throu
gh the air, ending on her back on the huge bed, staring up at him in shock as he ripped off his clothes, then crouched over her like a predatory beast. “I don’t care if you’re afraid of me,” he growled. “I don’t care if you’ve been hurt. All I care about is fucking you as hard as you can take it. I’m going to make you come so hard you’ll feel like you’ve died and gone to hell. I’m going to fuck you so hard that no one will ever come close. You’ll never get me out of your mind, out of your body.”

  She stared at him out of wide eyes. “You said I fuck like a virgin,” she said.

  “I said a lot of things, and most of them were lies. There’s only one truth between you and me, and that’s sex. Take off your pants, or I swear to God I’ll rip them off you.”

  She reached down for the zipper, shucking out of them quickly, staring up into his wild wolf’s eyes. He put his hand between her legs, and she knew she was wet with longing, and she arched up as he slid a finger into her, then two, and she shattered so quickly, so unexpectedly that she cried out.

  And then he was lying on top of her, stretched over her, kissing her, his cock pressed between them, and she reached down to touch him, marveling at the feel of him. The skin was silky smooth around the iron-hard erection, and she let her fingertips trace the veins, the size of him.

  He kissed her mouth, slowly, deliberately, his tongue making lazy swirls inside her mouth, his teeth biting down on her lower lip, his hand sliding down her stomach to touch her once more, and she could feel the excitement building almost instantly, and she wanted him, so, so badly.

  “I need you,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I need you inside me.”

  “Then take me in your mouth.”

  She should have been shocked at his words. Instead, they sent a thrill of forbidden desire through her at the very thought, and she pushed at him until he rolled onto his back.

  He was beautiful, that part of him that was so unfamiliar to her. She reached out her tongue and ran it over the top, tasting the sticky, sweet fluid, and then she put her mouth over him, taking him inside her, sucking on him with a fierce delight. She wanted this, she wanted him, she wanted him to come in her mouth, she wanted him around her and over her and inside her. The feel of him inside her mouth was strange and hypnotic, and she moved up and down on him, trying to take more and more of him inside her, but he was too big, and she was going to choke and she didn’t care, she needed all of him.

  And then he plucked her off him, pulling her free, and she cried out in protest. “No!” she said. “I want more . . .”

  “I’ll give you more,” he said, and flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up to meet his as she felt the broad head of his cock at her slick entrance. He began to push inside, and the sensation was so powerful she began to contract around him, but he just kept pushing, so deep, so deep she could almost taste him, and she slammed her head down on the mattress, holding on as he pounded into her, each thrust pushing her further, until he reached between her legs and caught her clitoris between his fingers, pinching lightly, and she screamed as her body was flooded with sensation, and she was lost in it, drowning in it, dying in it.

  A moment later he followed her, shoving his cock in so deep that the tiny pinch of pain only added to her pleasure as she felt him flood her, and his arms came around her stomach, holding her against him, as his own climax joined hers.

  When he pulled out she almost cried, expecting him to move away from her, but instead he simply sank down on the bed and brought her with him, tucking her against his sweating, shaking body. She knew she should do something, say something, but she was beyond rational thought. All she wanted to do was bury herself against him, let go of all the sorrow and pain that had tied her in knots. She loved him. He was an ornery son of a bitch with a nasty tongue and she loved him, and it would do her no good at all. He’d saved her life, over and over again, he’d held her when she wept, he’d taunted her into fighting back, he’d treated her like an equal, and whether it made sense or not she felt tied to him, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. He was going to destroy her brother, and she had no choice but to watch him do it. Even destroying the cell phone couldn’t stop him.

  She couldn’t imagine a future with him. First off, he wouldn’t want one. And how could she live with a man who destroyed her baby brother, even if he richly deserved it. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was right now, and she pressed her face against his sweat-damp skin and gave up. For now it was the best she could do.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When she woke up the sun was high overhead and she was alone in the big bed. Of course she was. She managed to crawl out of bed—every muscle ached. The ride in the jeep wouldn’t have been enough, but he hadn’t let her alone that morning. They’d made love two more times, once in the shower, once over the side of the high bed, and when she’d gone to sleep after the final time he stayed with her, their bodies wrapped so closely together she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been alone. The bed felt cold and empty, her body felt drained. She took another shower, hoping it would give her some energy, and she found some of the new clothes still in the other room. She ignored the bed where he’d held her down and hurt her. What the fuck was her problem—Stockholm syndrome? She’d fallen in love with a man who’d tortured her, a man with a mean streak and a nasty tongue, and all her common sense didn’t make a bit of difference.

  She didn’t have time to think about that, about him, about her. She had to get word to her brother that he mustn’t—absolutely mustn’t—come home, or the man she loved would kill him. At least she had the dubious relief that Ryder didn’t give a shit about her. Yes, he’d spent a lot of time in bed with her, but she wasn’t fool enough to think it meant anything. If she disappeared he’d forget all about her, and that was exactly what she was intending to do, once she warned Billy.

  Ryder had said something to her, but in her sleep and sex-dazed mind she couldn’t remember. He’d probably ordered her to stay put, but that was the last thing she intended to do. He didn’t want her hanging around, mooning after him—he just didn’t want her to warn Billy.

  As for her, she didn’t know what to believe. If Billy could safely go to prison, she wouldn’t do anything to stop it, but that likelihood was almost nil. Ryder would kill him if he could, the other inmates would take their rage out on him, and Billy would never stand up to the rigors of prison.

  He was the only member of her family who still mattered, who still had a soul, and she couldn’t give him up so easily, not without concrete proof that he’d lied to her. She’d promised her mother she’d watch out for him, and letting Ryder get to him would be tantamount to breaking her mother’s trust. As long as there was a chance, no matter how unlikely, that Billy had been tricked and manipulated, then she had to save him. If she wanted him to stay alive, then she needed to get him to lay low, and there was only one person she could turn to for help.

  Her father.

  It was easier than she expected getting out of the Magazine Street house. She knew there were security cameras all over the place, but she knew the back stairs led to the garage. She wouldn’t steal a car, but the moment she got out on the street she could call a taxi and be gone before anyone even realized she’d left. It was the last and only thing she could do for her brother—dump the problem in her father’s lap, and then she could safely disappear.

  It went like clockwork. No one seemed to notice as she slipped down the stairs, there was no sign of Ryder or any of his fellow Committee members, and by the time they were likely to notice, she was gone, she’d be halfway to her father’s house outside the city. She could only hope he was there—if he was off somewhere she’d leave him a message and have done with it. She’d already risked her life and betrayed her principles for her baby brother’s sake. There wasn’t any more she was willing to do.

  When the taxi pulled up in front of her father’s ornate, slightly garish house,
a cross between Tara and the Parthenon, she could see the Bentley and the Cadillac in the wide, circular driveway, and she knew Fabrizio was home.

  She climbed out, overtipping the driver, and smoothed down her hair. She’d found another of the sundresses someone had bought her, and she’d dressed accordingly. Her father disapproved of women in pants, and she wasn’t interested in wasting time fighting with him. She simply needed to pass on the warning and leave. After that it was up to him.

  The door opened before she could knock, and Tonino, her eldest brother, stood there, massive and unwelcoming. “So the prodigal child has come home,” he said. “What new trouble are you bringing us?”

  “I think you bring home enough trouble as it is,” she said, pushing past him into the cool interior of the house. “Where’s Fabrizio?”

  “I don’t think he wants to see you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him. But I need to warn him about Billy.”

  “What about Billy?” Tonino demanded.

  “He screwed up, Tino,” she said, automatically using her ancient nickname for him, when she was six years old and he was her lordly teenage brother. “He’s part of the human-trafficking ring the police busted a couple of months ago, and they’ve got evidence against him.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Jenny took in a shocked breath. “Were you part of it too?”

  Tonino looked annoyed. “Of course not. That’s filthy money—we don’t do things like that. Besides, our organization is already in place. But you know Billy—he’s still a kid, young and arrogant, and thinks he knows everything. Our father is very unhappy with him.”

  “I need to see Fabrizio. To warn him.”

  Tonino shook his massive head. He was built like a bull—well over six feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds, he looked like the same man who’d played football for Tulane. “He’s with someone.”