by Black, Incy
He was a good twenty yards away, his back to her and moving a little stiffly, before she was able to gulp in sufficient air to call out, “Hunting down and killing Rhys isn’t the answer, Berwick.”
His response? A raised arm. A brief wave. He kept right on going.
Good God—she was trapped in a déjà vu loop.
“Berwick?” she called.
He’ll come back, she told herself. Not even he could be so cavalier as to just dump her and then willingly walk into the shit storm that no doubt awaited him back at the cemetery, with worse to come when he then got back to the Cube.
She waited… Watched… Waited some more. Any moment now, he’d reappear around the bend in the path, that confident, easy lope of his bringing him back. He needed her help to find Rhys. It would just take him a few moments alone to realize it.
Her gaze drifted to the sky, its flat, gray surface cracked by the high winter-naked branches of the overhanging trees. Branches whose outer tips shook in the light breeze as if jeering at her absurdity.
He’d never admit to needing help.
Conceding defeat, she raced after him.
“Will, wait,” she half shouted when she glimpsed him ahead. “Damn it, stop.” She could have sworn she heard him groan as he turned.
“For God’s sake, woman. Do you really want to find yourself back in a cell? Because that’s the direction you’re heading.”
Her vocal cords knotted. Outside of her brother, she never made alliances. This would be a first. “I know Rhys better than anyone. What will you give me in return if I agree to help you track him down?”
“Depends on what you want,” he answered cautiously.
“A chance. For Rhys.”
“I already gave you both a chance. Look how that worked out, me knocked on my arse by a woman who now refuses to go away, and Rhys on a shooting rampage.”
She could hear faint cries in the distance. Agents were closing in. “Please, Will. When we find Rhys, I’ll speak to him. Convince him to trust you.” She swallowed. “As long as you personally guarantee his life.”
His irises flattened to camouflage green. She braced to stare down the side of Will with which she’d never been able to connect—the man who killed for a living.
“Don’t make the mistake of expecting too much of me, Angel,” he ground out, his lips barely moving. “I’d hate to disappoint you.”
He took his own sweet goddamn time considering her proposition. Then, he pulled a phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Her heart pitched and burrowed deeper into her chest. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?
He cut her a sharp look. “Breathe, Angel, because I’m sure as hell not carrying you out of here unconscious.”
He punched a button and raised the phone to his ear. “Zac, status update now.” He listened, his head down, one hand clasping the back of his neck. The word “fuck” littered his otherwise silent side of the conversation. Then: “Okay, I need you to run interference for a few hours. When questioned, tell them I lost the girl, but I’m following up a lead, and that I’ll report in before midnight, at the latest.”
More listening to what Zac had to report. Which annoyingly, she wasn’t a party to. She watched Will tip his head backward, his eyes again perusing the sky.
“I don’t give one shit that you know I’ve got Angel, nor a second one that my arse is on the line,” he retorted, his tone short.
She couldn’t hear the muted feed of Zac’s rant, but the change in Will’s facial expression from a dismissive yeah-yeah-heard-it-all-before to scalpel sharp and brutal, stalled her breathing.
“My decisions and behavior have not one goddamn thing to do with Diana, guilt, or, for that matter, your sanctimonious arse,” Will returned his tone as flat as an iced pond. “So do yourself a favor and back the fuck off.”
Then he grimaced and eased his cell phone a few inches from his ear as he waited for Zac to run out of steam. “I’m fairly certain you calling your superior officer devious, a stain, and an A-hole is a sackable offense, too, mate,” Will said, now grinning, and disconnected the call.
“Rhys got away,” he told her turning off the device and disappearing it into his trouser pocket. “And with Butters very, very dead, shit is hitting the fan big time.
He scuffed his already untidy hair—her fault—into a worse rebellion. “You saw a man get his head blown off, Sunshine. You going to be okay?”
How the hell did she know? She hadn’t had time to process the violence yet, any more than she’d had time to process her Will-induced orgasm. Neither of which she wanted to dwell on—ever. Denial might be considered unhealthy by her profession, but hell, it worked for her. “Don’t call me Sunshine, especially not to mock me. That’s what my dad called me, and I’d prefer that the memory remain pristine.”
“I wasn’t mocking you, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But it’s sad that sunniness must once have been a part of you, and you’ve allowed Cymion Gray to steal it away,” he said softly, locking her in one of his hard stares.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, sticking her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t notice the trembling.
“Good, because if you’re determined to stick with me, I’ve got a few conditions. One: though I’ll likely need therapy by the time this is all over, I don’t want to hear any psychobabble from you. Stay out of my head. Two: you do exactly what I order at all times, no argument.”
She bit her lip. This wasn’t just a leap of faith she was taking; it was a lemming dive. “Anything else? And stop counting off; it’s…irritating.”
“Isn’t it just?” he said dryly, referencing, she suspected, her listing of his crimes. “Three: if you do find yourself struggling with what’s happened, tell me.”
She’d rather join a religious order that showed faith by hammering nails into their heads.
“Four, five, and six to probably fifty, I’m still working on, but you should accept that my list of conditions is likely to grow.”
She felt inclined to “sieg heil” him, but the shouts and calls of operatives crashing through the brush were getting ever closer, so she kept her response to a nod.
Which he matched with a curt one of his own. “Now, about what occurred earlier. I liked it, and I know you loved it. Spending time together, day and night, lots of stress, lots of tension, I can’t rule out the possibility we won’t go for a full fuck.”
The walls of the little compartment into which she locked “the incident” rocked as if hit by an earthquake registering ten on the Richter scale.
She dared, dared one hint of color to hit her cheeks.
“But,” Berwick continued, apparently oblivious to the risk of her boot introducing itself to his primary limb. “To reassure you, I’m going to leave it to you to initiate any action. But word of warning, Angel. Should we fuck, don’t read into it any form of commitment on my part. When this is over, we’re over. You need to understand that up front.”
She deftly shored up the damaged compartment and forced a tight little smile. De-bollocking him wouldn’t suffice; he needed a clout to the head, preferably with an axe handle. Hell would freeze over before Will Berwick saw any further action with her.
“Okay, start moving that way.” He pointed to a barely there path behind her. “Quietly. Give it a couple hundred yards then start sprinting. I want to put as much distance between us and that lot back there, as possible. Thank God, it’ll be dark soon. We’ll need the cover.”
As she spun around and set off, she heard him mutter something about hoping he’d made the right call. That he wasn’t just allowing his dick to lead him into trouble.
Bloody charming.
…
His skin pricked as Angel swiveled in a slow circle, absorbing his private space. Screw hiding in plain sight. Bringing her back to his place had been a seriously bad idea.
Sure, she’d already seen the ground floor: the corridor, his bedroom, the bathroom, but she
hadn’t seen up here. Where he lived.
And Angel didn’t just do first-glance impressions and politely move on. Oh, no, she zeroed in on every angle of his existence. Scrutinizing. Assessing. No doubt filing away her observations for later dissection.
Bollocks.
Her preliminary visual toss of his home complete, she faced him straight on. One look at her arching eyebrows, and he damn near picked her up and carted her to his front doorstep. “Stay out of my head,” he warned sharply, jabbing his forefinger to reinforce his point.
So what if he’d hung non-matching antique chandeliers at varying heights? He liked the visual disruption. And each one of those beauties had needed rescuing from abandonment and decay. And his assortment of punch bags and state-of-the-art exercise machines kept him fit.
And though he lived a little lawless, why shouldn’t he have a fondness for books? And he had no problem living surrounded by wooden tea chests. He’d get around to emptying them eventually; he’d been busy the last seven years.
Hard to explain away his predilection for fresh-cut flowers, though.
Picking up the blue, finely spun glass vase stuffed with plum and cream rippled blooms, he carried it through to the kitchen and set it down in the sink. “Make yourself at home,” he grunted sarcastically, when he noticed she’d followed him.
“Why so uncomfortable, Will?”
He yanked open the fridge door, dug inside for a couple of beers, popped the tops, and plonked one on the side for her. His own, he held against his forehead. The chilled glass a useful reminder of his need to stay sharp with Angel Treherne in his home.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never brought a woman back here before?”
Actually, he hadn’t. Friends he trusted, sure, but he made damn certain his liaisons took place elsewhere. He had a deep fondness for the ancient sail-makers’ loft he’d bought to escape all reminders of Diana, and he had no plans on sharing it.
“I need to report in,” he informed her. “You’ll be safe here. No one would credit even me as dumb enough to hide you so close. Just stay away from the windows.”
Which earned him a scathing I’m-not-that-stupid-but-you-are-to-think-so look. “Stick to a narrow swathe down the center,” he muttered, for the first time regretting the double rows of high arched windows lining the longer lengths of his loft.
He sucked back a mouthful of beer and swallowed. “You’re already acquainted with my bedroom, so take it. I’ll use one of the spares. Dig around the kitchen for food if you get hungry. Not sure when I’ll be back.”
“But…um…you…um…will be back?”
The doubt and anxiety in her eyes, the nipped lip, her fingers playing a silent concerto across the front of her thighs, her body in full cringe that she’d had to ask—her quick switch from warrior to hesitant, maybe even a bit sweet Angel, caught him by surprise.
A sharp nod would have to suffice as an answer. God knows what she’d read into it if his voice came out thick and gruff.
Another hasty swig of beer helped clear the constriction in his throat. “Taking a shower before I leave. Make yourself comfortable… But no prying.”
A deep pink skimmed the planes of her cheeks. Might have been guilt. Might have been irritation at his tone. But he had a nasty suspicion it was the word “shower.” Damned complex woman. One thing was for sure, his dick could protest all it liked, but sex was most definitely off the menu. He didn’t need the additional hassle. And Angel Treherne was hassle with a capital H.
…
Angel heard the front door slam and expelled her first proper breath since stepping across the threshold into Will’s home.
He hadn’t even said good-bye.
Spying the vase of flowers in the sink—Will was such an odd man—she retrieved it and carried it back to the living area.
Will’s no-prying comment had stung. Looking, noting, assessing, surmising, she wasn’t even aware she was doing it half the time.
Cymion Gray had left her one hell of a personality defect.
She’d let that monster into the house with a skip and a carefree giggle at his smile. Nice man, she’d thought while inviting him in. Her parents would be so proud of her gracious hosting skills.
Will’s warning not to pry nagging at her, she anchored herself in one spot while she surveyed her surroundings. Was Will even aware that he’d set little traps to keep the curious at bay? Pull out one book, and the scattered floor-to-shoulder height stacks would tumble, likely breaking your wrist. The tea chests, some empty, most full, were a trip hazard. Even the way he’d outfitted half the loft to resemble a gym, right down to the buff-colored, shallow canvas mats on the wooden floorboards in that area, was a warning to those stupid enough to take him on.
But then there were the flowers, the chandeliers, the rich mix of silk and velvet throws in jewel hues draping the back and arms of his boat-sized sofa. Damn man was a complex of conflicting information and contrasts: defensive, aggressive, practical, sensual, minimalist, wildly decadent. How many sides were there to this man?
Picking a path across the loft, she stopped in front of one of the hanging punch bags and ran her palm down the leathery length, the solid hardness oddly reassuring. She shoved; the bag swayed—barely. How very like Will.
She nipped her lip. She couldn’t afford to think about him. He was a temporary ally, that’s all. No more drawing associations between him and every goddamned object she encountered—stupid punching bag—and certainly no revisiting “the incident” in the woods.
Fantasizing “what ifs” would only lead to disappointment—hers.
Not wanting Will to return to a dark home—because, really, no one should have to do that—she crossed to an antique desk and turned on the desk lamp. A partially open drawer, a red file, from what she could see, tagged Di—. She tugged. In full, the label read “Diana Nightingale—Investigation, Autopsy Report, Coroner’s Verdict.” Dare she? Absolutely. But would she? No. He wouldn’t want her to, and, for some reason, that mattered.
Taking care not to fully shut the drawer—he was bound to notice a single thing out of place even by a millimeter—she turned and headed downstairs to the bedrooms, Berwick’s home being as upside down as the man himself.
Lying in his bed, eyes sealed tight shut, her fists clenched, she tried to ignore the light musky scent wafting around her—very male, very Will.
She wasn’t safe here. Not from herself.
Not the way her pulse throbbed. Not the way her breasts ached. Not the way a tingling heat teased her intimately. Not the way the irresistible urgency of a release called to her. Not from naughty thoughts involving Will Berwick.
She kept her hands pinned to her side. No touching. Not in his bed.
Agitated, she flipped all four feather-down pillows, giving each a firm thumping before settling back down.
Rhys. Why had she not even once challenged the assumption that it was he who’d shot Butters? What was Rhys doing with a rifle? Was BT11 a form of artificial adrenaline rather than a flu vaccine?
Why would Rhys lie? But then, why would Will?
Heaving a huff, she attacked the pillows again. Will—Rhys—Will—Rhys—Will—Rhys. Who to trust? She would have been better off scarpering when she had the opportunity.
She set her mind to the life in Italy. The sun on her back, no Rhys, no Will Berwick, no resentful truculence from those she was trying to help—yup, washing car windshields had much to recommend it.
Chapter Eleven
Will hesitated outside the door to his bedroom. If Angel was asleep, he didn’t want to wake her. She’d badger him with questions he wasn’t sure he could fence, not with her all tousled and warm in his bed. Not with the memory of her coming, her muscles gripping, her face exquisite with bliss, her flying free, indelibly stamped on his mind.
Not without joining her.
He’d warned her to stay out of his head. Trouble was, his mind, usually disciplined and focused, appeared to have invited her in.
A goddamn distraction he did not need.
He’d been hard pushed to care about the irate dressing-down the panel of uniforms and dark suits had leveled at him back at the Cube.
Because of her.
Those dove-gray eyes of hers shadowed with anxiety. Not for herself. Not for him and his fast-moving-toward-crash-and-burn career. No chance. For her brother—the bastard didn’t deserve her.
Jaw locked, his feet firmly planted in the corridor, he edged open the bedroom door. Just to reassure himself she hadn’t taken flight.
And an invisible sledgehammer slammed his chest.
She wasn’t a neat sleeper. She was a sprawler. A diagonal sprawler.
That confirmed it. They’d never be compatible. There wasn’t a bed big enough to accommodate them both. He liked to sprawl, too. Besides, she’d left the side table light on. He preferred the full cloak of utter darkness.
Turning away, he left the door ajar, reasoning he’d hear her if she tried to escape.
“Will?”
Shit. Reversing two steps, he stuck his head around the edge of the doorjamb. “Yeah?”
Tousled, definitely tousled. Damned woman had too much hair—he couldn’t fathom what on earth had possessed him to recommend she dye and cut it.
And her shoulders, flawless, naked, beautifully turned to fit the cup of a man’s palm.
She levered herself up onto her elbows, the sheet pulling taut to reveal mounds and lengths, and curves, and naughty dips, all beckoning slow and tantalizing exploration.
He bit the inside of his cheek and scowled.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing unexpected. A rant, a few ravings about disappointment and incompetence, blah, blah, blah. Go back to sleep.”
“Then why the face like black thunder? Did they suspend you?”
Did her voice have to sound so damned husky? “Yup. Protocol. But, because they need me, the suspension’s been suspended.”
Now she looked adorably confused in that standoffish way of hers. He tightened his grip on the outer side of the doorjamb, hoping to God he’d kept his groan on the inside.