by Black, Incy
The best burger in Europe turned to rock in his stomach. Bleak November, this outdoor venue, fast food rather than haute cuisine, he wasn’t normally this uncouth. His goal had been to rattle Angel so she’d let slip a few details about her brother. Instead, he caused her pain.
He could be a bastard, but he was never deliberately cruel. That was the only thing that separated him from the scum he hunted and put down.
He raked a furrow through his hair and shot a glance at the woman standing at the river’s edge, drowning in the depths of his coat. Her spine might be straight, her shoulders back, her head high, but if there was one word to define her, it was: alone.
And the last time he’d left a woman anxious and alone, she’d gone and killed herself.
He hadn’t recognized Diana’s breaking point. He hadn’t known Angel Treherne long enough to even know if she had one. As tough and controlled as she appeared on the outside, he’d have put money on Angel to win in a fight against Genghis Khan himself. But watching her now? There was a whole lot of soft and hurting behind that icy facade she channeled.
Palpitations cracking his chest, inexplicably, he felt the strongest urge to rush over to Angel and pull her close, not to tease and ignite as ordered, but to wrap tight and keep safe.
Bollocks to that. Those bullets he’d taken must have impacted more than just flesh and bone, and damaged something major—like his arsehole mind.
When he got home, he’d be checking the ingredients of those damn painkillers Zac McAllister had supplied to tide him over while his body healed—because brothers-in-arms did that, helped each other out.
He dropped his gaze to the debris-strewn tabletop. Messy, that’s what his life had become. He did not get emotionally involved. He did not commit. Not when it came to women. Sure, on his climb to the top, he took pit stops. Lots of them—but after Diana, only ever with those who believed in forever even less than he did.
His gaze drifted back to the subject of his current disquiet.
Angel!
He shot to his feet, his eyes scanning urgently. Oh, Christ. Where the hell was she? She’d been standing right there. He’d only taken his eyes off her for a moment.
“Hey, Berwick. I’m done here. Coming?” Her voice came from the left. She was leaning over the stone balustrade, already halfway up the steep flight of granite stairs leading up from the riverbank.
The throw of light from the tall, Victorian-era street lights was subdued, but she could not have missed his glare. Yet, still she turned and continued her climb, her hip movement slightly exaggerated, almost deliberately provocative.
Jesus. When I get my hands on her, she’s getting the spanking of her life… His heart still in what felt like full seizure, he scrambled together the ruins of their half-finished meal, tossed the thick paper and polystyrene in a trash can, and jogged after her.
He caught up and clasped her hand tight. And not just to stop her from disappearing again. For a split second there, with her anguished “I can’t” still fresh in his mind, he’d thought she’d quietly slipped into the dark waters of the Thames. God-Jesus-God-Fuck…
He cast a wary glance at her profile. Well, she’d sure recovered fast. He knew that expression. He’d seen it settle across her face often enough during their psych sessions. Her lips subtly pursed, a mild frown furrowing her brow. Concern warring with exasperation.
“Just get it off your chest, Doc,” he growled, knowing he was about to get another sodding mind-raking.
“I saw the look on your face when you turned and spotted me standing on the steps. Relief, abject fury, the barrier you hastily threw up to mask both. You hadn’t realized I’d left the riverbank, and you feared the worst, didn’t you? I’m sorry I inadvertently put you through that… When was the last time you looked at a women and didn’t see Diana, Will?”
He’d never told Angel about Diana. But, of course, the circumstances of her death were recorded in his Service file, though not the fact that she’d been having an affair—that, he’d shared with no one.
He released her hand. “Diana’s dead. How about we respect that and give her some peace by not talking about her?”
“You couldn’t have known. People suffering the depth of depression it takes to no longer want to exist are extremely adept at hiding it. You could have been in the same room as Diana, rather than being overseas as you were, and, unless she’d chosen to confide in you, you wouldn’t have known she had suicide on her mind.”
He went with ignoring her. It was that or pick her up and toss her into the Thames flowing idly by, fifteen feet below.
Her hand sneaked back into his. It would have been rude to cast it aside. Though he could have done without the gentle squeeze she gave his fingers.
“My point, Will?” she continued softly. “Diana’s death was not your fault. You’re not God or some other deity. You’re not a mind-reading superhero. Sometimes it’s just not possible to protect a person from themselves.”
Sour coated his tongue. He tightened his hand around hers, not for strength or comfort, but because he couldn’t bear for her to feel his fingers tremble. “That’s an interesting point of view for a psychotherapist to hold.”
“I’m off the clock. I was trying to be one of those ‘friends’ you’re so convinced I need.”
“Well, you can damn well stop trying. And it’s bad manners to discuss one’s ex. Let’s change the subject.”
“You didn’t kill her, Will—”
No, he hadn’t. His crime had been more heinous. He hadn’t forgiven and, therefore, saved her. “I asked you nicely, Angel. Now I’m telling you: Drop. The. Subject.”
Her sigh was deep enough to threaten the structural integrity of the cast-iron street lamps lighting their way. “Fine. Have it your own way. Heaven forbid that the great Will Berwick would give himself a break by admitting he’s less than perfect.”
Not very professional of her, to his way of thinking. Nor friendly.
For the remaining twenty minutes it took to walk her home—her tucking ever closer so he’d had to release her hand and drape an arm around her—he couldn’t escape the nasty suspicion that Angel was up to something. That he’d best ready himself for another shock. Not unlike the one she’d given him last night when she’d unexpectedly staged that astounding floorshow of hers.
Those long, long, long legs. Naked, ivory-colored breasts, high and firm, bouncing to the naughty sway of her hips. Her sweet behind like a juicy peach, gift-wrapped in leather— Christ, he’d damn near erupted in his pants.
If that wild thing he’d watched perform so outrageously was the true Angel Treherne, he was a dead man…
But not yet a stupid one. He’d keep his guard high.
On reaching her front door, she stepped close, very close, and fitted her hips to his. Her palms slowly smoothed upward across his chest to link behind his neck as she hummed a cute purr.
His inner alarm shrieked. Just how far would she take this little game?
“Code to unlock the door,” he ground out, his arms full of lush curves.
She breathed a string of digits, interspersing each one with a nuzzle, a lick, a kiss to his throat.
Chrrrrrrist…far from an Ice Queen, the Doc burned hot. Volcanic hot.
He released her hip and punched in the code. The door snicked open, a wedge of soft, ambient light spilled out.
“Will,” she breathed, her eyes at half-mast, her lips parted invitingly.
“Angel,” he returned softly, trying not to laugh. Yup, the cheeky madam was trying to snow him, but not tonight, darling. He played only when he called the shots. No matter how difficult she planned on making it for him to walk away.
Dipping his head, he angled in on her lips, aware she was watching. Waiting. He felt her breath hitch and grinned to himself. At the last possible moment, he bypassed her mouth and planted a brotherly peck on her cheek. “Night, Angel.”
Moving like lightning, he slipped his pea coat from her shoulders and
retreated to the pavement. “Terrific performance, Beautiful,” he called back over his shoulder. “Almost as impressive as the one you put on last night. Great moves by the way. Delicious arse. You can count on me giving you a call.”
Sauntering away as if he had not one care in the world, he may have imagined her low, throaty growl, but not the furious slam of her front door.
Chapter Five
Bloody Butters and his stupid initiative to drive down costs by merging job roles. She was a therapist, not an HR professional. Not that Butters seemed to appreciate the difference.
At her desk, profiling and writing her opinion of the resumes and letters of application from James Bond wannabes—all of which she’d have to photocopy and circulate to the Team Leaders of the twelve units operating out of the Cube—Angel squinted out of one eye while pressing the heel of her hand against the other. God, she spent more time here in her office than she did at home.
Once Rhys was safe, she was taking back her life. No more stupid resumes. No more truculent agents resentful of her attempts to help them. Certainly no more stressing or wistful mooning over a man too rude to call her as he’d promised.
Day three since her spectacular crash-and-burn, and Berwick still hadn’t telephoned. Day forty-six since Rhys had last made contact. And the waiting, the uncertainty, the having no control was suffocating her.
Her bike. Italy. The sun on her back. No history. A new her. She’d work bars and restaurants, vineyards and olive groves, even swab down car windshields at traffic lights, to be free.
A sweet fantasy to which she often turned when she couldn’t breathe…
And embarrassingly pitiful.
Sick of herself, Angel picked up a pencil and skimmed yet another resume.
“It’s after midnight, Doc. Anyone ever tell you you work too hard?”
The pencil flew from her fingers, skidded across the surface of her desk, and dropped. Cursing under her breath, she stretched down and scooped it off the floor. “Anyone ever tell you it’s polite to knock, Berwick?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
Liar. The gleam in his eyes told her she’d given him precisely the reaction he’d been looking for.
Without invitation, he crossed the room and hitched a hip on her desk. Not opposite her, right beside her. Close enough for her to count each spike of his unfairly thick, long eyelashes, had she been so inclined. Which she wasn’t. Nuh-uh.
Her eyes drifted to the pull of his T-shirt across his chest— Nope, not at all curious about the contours defined beneath the stretch of navy cotton.
Great throat. She should know. Three nights ago, her lips had explored it, the experience delicious— Nope, not interested. Not one bit.
Strong chin. Two-day stubble, maybe three? Hot as hell? Nuh-uh. And against regulations, like the length of his hair. Crow-wing dark, thick, messy, the back curling at his collar, the front falling in his eyes. Sleepy green eyes, rich and warm and inviting…when he wasn’t pissed.
Christ, not interested? She was overheating. She had to stop staring.
Berwick’s lips twitched—the too knowing bastard—then he casually picked up a random resume he’d be getting a copy of in the morning anyway and started perusing the notes she’d written in the margin.
Fantastic hands. Wide, fingers long…
“Bloody hell, that’s a little harsh isn’t it? Evasive, over-confident, egotistical, likely prone to sexual aggression to suppress gender confusion. You ever even meet this guy?” he asked.
She yanked the paper from his hand. “He’s a she. And you can wait until tomorrow before giving your opinion on my assessments.”
Berwick grimaced. Clearly, the prospect of having to go through around fifty applications did not appeal to him. “So how many of these poor bastards did you nix?”
“Eighty percent of them. Those who wouldn’t, under any circumstance, refuse an order.” She set aside the papers she just snatched back and busied herself building a neat stack of files to hide from him the fact that she found his close proximity damned unnerving.
“Sounds to me like you’re promoting insubordination.”
“Which, from what I hear, doesn’t appear to have done your career prospects any harm,” she retorted tartly, looking up.
His smile was lethal. “True. It took a certain lady therapist to do that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you’re not fishing for an apology. You’re the one who’s resistant to offers of help. For that alone, had I’d been around when you first applied to the Service, I would have vetoed your application.”
Oh, he did not like that. His shoulders locked, his eyes darkened to the color of jade. “For your information, Doc, I didn’t apply. I was invited to join.”
“Yes, by Jack Ballentyne, former leader of a Black Ops unit until he quit, and one of the most unstable men I’ve ever read about.”
For some reason, he found her crabby snap-back amusing, because he laughed.
“Jack’s fine now. Lowry, his wife, keeps him in check. Though he remains a scary bastard, I admit. And you don’t get to judge a man you’ve never met. He was one of the best damn officers I ever served under… I also consider him a very close, personal friend.”
Pink hit her cheeks. “Oh.”
“So the Snow Queen can blush. Interesting.”
Not really, and she didn’t much like his fractious tone. “It’s late. I’m tired. What is it you want, Berwick?”
He lifted himself from her desk, crossed to her battered leather sofa, and took up its length with a full recline, his crossed ankles jutting out over the arm.
Christ, he’d never done that before. She usually had a battle on her hands just to get him to stop pseudo-casually leaning against the wall in her office and take a seat.
“I believe I find myself in need of some urgent counseling, Doc,” he started.
Something she’d believe he’d admit to when hell froze over. She swiveled her chair to better face him. “Go on.”
Berwick interlinked his fingers across his chest and lowered his eyelids. “Well, with my mother being one of the most notorious madams to ever grace the bed sheets of London, I’m sure you can appreciate that I’m somewhat of an expert when it comes to the wiles a certain type of woman will use to lure a man into her bed—”
Don’t react…don’t react…don’t react. You’ve heard worse implied about your character.
“And your skills, sweetheart, suck.”
The sound of a sharp crack resonated her office. Shit. She’d snapped her pencil in half.
Berwick, turning his head, opened one eye, looked at in her hands, and smirked.
She shot a glance at the door he’d left open. Though past midnight, the Cube operated twenty-four hours a day. Anyone could be out in the corridor eavesdropping. “You need to leave.”
“No thanks. I’m not finished yet.”
With Berwick going all immovable-force on her, this was going to get messy. She really needed that damn door shut but didn’t trust her legs to carry her across the room.
“A question, Doc: What wouldn’t you do to save your brother?”
Grit lined her throat, her stomach churned. Berwick wasn’t stupid. After she’d thrown herself at him the other night, he had to harbor at least some suspicion that she’d do anything for Rhys. Anything… And she’d worry about how cheap and sordid that made her feel in a different lifetime—as in never.
Taking advantage of the fact that both his eyes were now open again and he was watching, waiting for her to respond, she set the broken pieces of wood and graphite aside and raised her left hand.
She pointed to the blue-white scar that ran in a three-inch crescent from the base of her thumb across the plump Mount of Venus of her palm. “See this? Rhys has one just like it. A blood oath he and I swore after our parents were murdered. To never, never betray or abandon one another. Hurt like hell; the cut was deep. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Berwick?”
He’d risen from the sofa for a closer look and seemed fixated by her scar. Then, his hand around her wrist—surprisingly tender—he folded her fingers over the mutilation and gently set her now fisted hand on the desk.
She may have imagined the regret flitting his eyes, but there was no mistaking the utter revulsion pulling the skin tight across his too-perfect face.
“What kind of barbarian does that to his little sister, Angel?” he asked softly.
“You were not there. You do not get to judge.” If her vocal cords strained any tauter, they’d sever.
“Yes, I do. As a man who’s seen aberrant, seen foul, and witnessed savage, I know when someone needs sectioning.”
Her stomach cramped, nausea swilled her chest. “He was fourteen years old.”
“Yes. A man-boy who plunged a knife into Gray so many times the floor ran slick red with blood. Christ, to this day, the pathologists remain uncertain as to the exact number of times Rhys struck, the damage—”
“You know nothing.”
“I know everything, having tracked down and spoken with a man who was there that night, and who still carries on his soul the scar of the horrific bloodbath he found that night… Where’s Rhys, Angel?”
“Please leave.”
“No. You can’t save him, Angel. What was it you told me? That sometimes you just can’t protect a person from themselves. Well, it strikes me that Rhys is wired wrong, and we all need saving from him.”
She felt submerged. As if someone had playfully dunked her underwater, not realizing they’d held her there too long, that she couldn’t breathe. Panicking, she flailed and broke to the surface, all sense of proportion and caution lost. “Get. Out.”
“Easy there, Doc. Having read the report on what happened that night and the description of the physical condition in which Gray was found, I’m a little twitchy being around a Treherne who’s lost control.”
She must have pushed to her feet because she felt his hand on her shoulder, firmly pressing her down, back into her chair. “Fuck you, Berwick. Fuck you.”