by LENA DIAZ,
Had Devlin carried his dead fiancée’s picture with him all these years? What kind of love would make a man hold on to a memory that long? Emily couldn’t help but resent the young woman he’d loved so ferociously, who he still loved apparently, even though she knew it was wrong to be jealous of a dead woman. She couldn’t imagine the pain Devlin must have felt when Arianna was killed, must still feel, to be holding on to her memory for so long.
She shoved the picture beneath one of the stacks of papers. Dozens of faces stared up at her from the pages. But one face in particular caught her attention.
Devlin’s.
She started to reach for it and stopped. No. She didn’t want to know the gritty details. She didn’t want to know how many people he’d killed, the way he’d killed them, how good he was at his job. It sickened her to know he still, after everything that had happened, felt no shame, no regrets, and wanted to return to that lifestyle.
She shoved his profile page away and pulled others toward her. She needed to make a list, write down all the clues she and Devlin knew about the case, to see if any of these enforcers had a reason to hold a grudge against Devlin. She had a window of time based on Kennerly’s autopsy conclusions and could build a time line from that. If any of these enforcers were on a mission, far enough away that they couldn’t have killed the women in the basement, then she wouldn’t consider them as possible suspects.
Shoving back from the table, she crossed to the family room, looking for paper and a pen. She finally found what she needed in the adjoining kitchen and went back to the dining room.
A few minutes later, she had the beginning of a crude list with three columns—victims, suspects, clues. She’d filled it out from memory based on her work with Tuck and the other detectives, filling in the victim and clues column. Now to fill in the suspect column.
She started to pick up one of the dozens of profiles lying on the table, but her gaze wandered to Devlin’s again. Maybe if she read it quickly and satisfied her curiosity, she could get back to work and concentrate.
A short bio was at the top of the page beside his picture—name, birth date, information about his family. It listed skills, proficiency with weapons, details that had her stomach clenching and made her skim past them, until she reached the section halfway down.
Missions.
The font was small, as if to ensure all of the necessary information could be included. She flipped the page over and saw the entire back was filled with even more data about the missions he’d been assigned. An entire career of murdering people for hire, boiled down to a page and a half.
Maybe this was what she needed, the gruesome details of his life, to make her see him for what he really was, to end her ridiculous fascination with him, to make her, somehow, stop caring.
The very first mission had her hands shaking so hard the paper rattled in her grip. She set the paper down on the table, clasping her hands together in her lap as she read. He was only twenty-one, just wrapping up his junior year in college. Now she knew what that date meant on the back of Arianna’s picture. It was the date that Devlin had avenged her. Gage was his mentor on the mission, took him to Arianna’s killer, but Devlin was the one who pressed a gun to the man’s forehead and blew him away.
She pressed her hand to her throat and read the next entry, dated two years later. She was surprised by the amount of time that had passed. Perhaps he’d graduated college, settled his affairs, or even trained to become a full-fledged enforcer before taking on another mission. But when she read the cryptic summary, it wasn’t at all what she’d expected, or the next entry, or the one after that.
Israel: High-profile society member with suspected ties to terrorism, no legal recourse; monitored suspect; intercepted while boarding bus with explosives, forty-seven school-age children on board. Terminated mark. No civilian casualties.
Michigan: Intelligence indicated baby-food factory worker disgruntled, potential threat, no legal recourse; intercepted mailing “complimentary” cases of tainted baby food to new parents. Terminated mark. Thirty-seven cases of potassium-cyanide-laced baby food destroyed. No civilian casualties.
Emily’s eyes grew moist. The next entry had tears flowing down her face.
Columbia: Drug cartel kidnapping American citizens, holding for ransom, executed seven civilians prior to EXIT order. Reconnaissance; captured; held two months before escaping with all five hostages. Terminated marks (3). No civilian casualties. Enforcer’s injuries: Bullet wounds—right thigh, left forearm. Knife wounds—both hands, lower back. Impact—three broken ribs. Electrical burns—numerous.
Emily sat frozen, shock warring with horror inside her. Electrical burns? Devlin was tortured for two months, horrifically injured. And he still managed to escape and save all five hostages.
All those tattoos on his body were to cover his battle scars, so friends and family wouldn’t see the marks from the injuries he’d sustained. Shame washed through her for judging him so harshly. He was right when he’d said he wasn’t strictly an assassin. From what she’d read, he was a hero. If she understood those entries—no legal recourse—that meant law enforcement’s hands were tied by rules and laws. Nothing could be done to prevent the upcoming tragedies. Until Devlin was sent in. He’d saved countless lives. How could she condemn him now, knowing what he’d sacrificed, how he’d dedicated his life to saving lives?
She couldn’t.
“I decided to make us some coffee.” Devlin’s voice carried down the hall as he approached the dining room. “I figured it was still early enough that we could call it breakfast. I could make us toast or—” He stopped in the archway. His gaze shot all around the room, as if looking for some kind of threat. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
He set the mugs on the table and rushed to her. He crouched down beside her chair and brushed her tears off her cheeks. “Em, what’s wrong?” His eyes searched hers.
She turned her mouth into his palm and kissed him.
His eyes widened in surprise. “Em?”
“I’m so, so sorry.” She feathered her fingers down his face. “I’m sorry that I judged you, that I doubted you. You’re a good man, Devlin Buchanan.”
His brows furrowed in confusion. He looked at the table, as if he’d find his answers there. “What are you talking about?”
“You really don’t know, do you? You have no idea how special you are.”
This time he looked at her as if he thought she was insane. “I think you might need to lie down. You’re hallucinating or . . . or something. Come on. We can afford to spend a few more hours here. From what I saw when I searched the house, it’s just the one man who lives here, and he’s married to his career. He’s not the type to pop in at home for lunch. He probably eats at his desk and never takes a break.”
He stood and took her hand in his. “I’ll tuck you in and hopefully by the time you wake up I’ll have figured out who’s after us.”
When he started toward the hall, she tugged her hand out of his grasp. He stopped and looked at her in question.
“Hold me,” she whispered. “Please.”
He hesitated, obviously surprised by the sudden change in her, but he put his arms around her anyway and pulled her against his chest. Emily reveled in the feel of him, the clean masculine scent of him, the strength of his arms holding her close. Her mind, and her heart, were still reeling from her discoveries about what he’d done, the sacrifices he’d made, to save people who would probably never even know he was the one who’d saved them. It wasn’t like he could hang around and receive their praise. The nature of his job required—demanded—secrecy. Yet even without accolades he continued to risk his life to help so many people.
She snuggled more tightly against him and smoothed her hands up his chest, wishing she could just as easily smooth away the hurt and pain he’d suffered in the past. It just seemed natural to continue sliding her hands up and around the back of his neck, fitting her curves to his hardness.
The sudde
n tension in his body and the feel of his heart slamming in his chest sent a surge of excitement pulsing straight to her belly. One of his hands moved down her spine to rest on the upper curve of her bottom. Her breasts tightened almost painfully and heat pooled between her legs with a suddenness that was startling.
When she’d asked him to hold her, it was because of her longing to comfort the tortured man she’d read about in his dossier. But now, she was thinking of an entirely different kind of comfort. Rather than feel guilt or doubts, like she had the last time they’d held each other like this, all she felt was a sense of how incredibly right it was to be held in his arms. And a growing hunger for something more.
She gently eased out of his arms and took his hand in hers again. “I believe you were going to tuck me in?”
His gaze dropped to her lips and he cleared his throat. “Of course.”
He pulled her along with him down the hall. He didn’t take her to the master bedroom, for which she was grateful. She didn’t want to lie down on someone else’s dirty sheets. Instead, he took her to a guest room. But when he pulled back the covers and encouraged her to lie down, she shook her head.
“No, Dev. I don’t want you to hurt your shoulder. You’re the one who needs to lie down. I’ll do all the work.”
Uncertainty filled his eyes. “Emily, I don’t think—”
She pressed her hand against his lips. “No thinking. There’s time enough for that later. Sit.” She gently shoved him toward the bed. As if in a daze, he sat on the mattress facing her.
“This isn’t a good—”
“Nuh-uh. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She hurried to the master bedroom next door and made a beeline toward the closest nightstand. Sure enough, she found exactly what she’d expected—and hoped—to find. She opened the box and took out one of the foil packets. She was halfway to the door when she changed her mind and ran back to the nightstand. She pulled out one more packet, then shoved the box into the drawer and went back to the guest room.
Devlin was just starting to push himself up from the mattress when she stepped into the room.
“Don’t you dare. Sit down.” She gently pushed him back again. She produced the foil packets, setting them on the table next to the bed.
His breathing kicked up a notch as he stared at the packets.
Emily had been thinking about this moment for so long that she looked forward to the actual event both with excitement and relief. She knew there was no future for them. Even understanding better now why he’d done the things he’d done and what he’d done, their worlds were still too far apart. She would need time to sort through all the ramifications of what he did for a living, to decide if she could accept it. But she feared she might never truly be able to, and that would lead to fights, to unhappiness.
Knowing they didn’t have long made her almost frenzied as she slid out of her jeans, then whipped her T-shirt up over her head. It wasn’t until she reached behind her and unclasped her bra that she looked up and realized he still hadn’t moved. He was wearing all of his clothes, while she was wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties.
Her boldness died a quick death and the flush of embarrassment warmed her skin. She covered her breasts with her hands. Had she misjudged him? Could that kiss at the diner have been an act? Had all the little touches, looks, been to get her to go along with his plans?
She grabbed her T-shirt and jeans from the floor, intent on running into the bathroom and hiding until she could face him again. But when she tried to turn, the jeans and T-shirt were tugged out of her hands. She froze as Devlin’s strong arms closed around her, pulling her back against his chest. Except that she couldn’t really feel his chest because of the Kevlar vest beneath his shirt. She shivered in the air conditioning.
And then he started to move. His large, warm hands slid across her belly, rubbing slow, sensual circles that began to warm her from the inside out. He slid them down, down, and ran just the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties. But instead of continuing their downward slide, he changed direction and slid his hands up, up, up until he was cupping the undersides of her breasts. And then her breasts were filling his hands.
He shuddered against her and lowered his head, kissing the side of her neck. “Don’t move,” he whispered. He stepped back, but she knew he was still there. She heard the whisper of cloth, a pained grunt. She started to turn, to help him.
“No,” he whispered, his voice huskier, deeper than usual. “Don’t turn around.”
Not knowing what he would do next, where he would touch her, kicked up her excitement but made her frustrated at the same time. But then he was back, his warm skin branding her body from her shoulders to her calves. Every inch of him pressed against her, including several very impressive inches prodding against her bottom.
She started to take off her underwear, but again, he stopped her with a hoarsely whispered, “Let me.” His hands covered hers, but instead of sliding her underwear down her thighs by himself, they did it together, his hand guiding hers, forcing her to caress her own body as they bent together as one. His body followed hers, moving as she moved, his thighs pushing the backs of her thighs, lifting her back on top of him until by the time they pushed her panties all the way to her ankles she was sitting in his lap, completely cocooned within the circle of his legs, his arms, his mouth as he kissed her neck again.
Sitting there, her bottom on the tops of his thighs, crouched on the floor, she should have felt awkward. Instead, she felt surrounded, cherished, protected. He scooted back a little, his hands dropping from around her, the cool air conditioning whispering across her heated skin. She was about to ask him why he’d moved away when she heard the sound of a foil packet being ripped open and felt his hands brushing against her. He was putting the condom on. Was he going to take her like this? On the floor? From behind?
The answer was the slide of his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her, a slight shift of his hips. The feel of him, thick and hard, pressing against her sent a flash of heat straight to the center of her. She wanted him so much, wanted to feel him inside her, filling her. But he didn’t enter her. Instead, he leaned down and worshipped her neck with his lips, tasting her, kissing her.
His lips moved to her ear, his warm breath lifting tendrils of hair. “Are you sure about this, Em? You’re a cop. You’ll always be a cop. And I’m a—”
“Wonderful man,” she finished for him. “Don’t make me beg.”
He shuddered and fitted himself to her opening, wrapping his arm around her waist. And then, finally, he began to push inside her with exquisite slowness, stretching, filling her. She whimpered at the pleasure-pain of it. He was a large man in every way, and the angle of penetration allowed him to go so deep she wasn’t sure she could handle it. He pulled back and then pushed in more deeply. She tensed.
He immediately stopped. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m . . . incredible. You’re just . . . larger than I expected.”
He laughed against her neck. “Not too large, I hope.”
“I don’t . . . think so.”
He held her clasped to him, not moving, just filling her, warming her, stretching her. And then he slid one of his hands down her belly to the apex of her thighs. Gently, with exquisite tenderness, his fingers slid lower, to her most sensitive spot.
“Ooh,” she gasped as his fingers began to move with maddening slowness, stroking, pushing against her with just the right pressure.
“Dev . . . ah.” She jerked her head back against his chest, lost in the pleasure he was giving her. He expertly played her like a fine instrument, strumming her nerve endings, making the most beautiful music, building her up, up, close, so close.
And then he began to move inside her, sliding in deeper, deeper than she would have thought possible. It felt so good. So. Damn. Good.
“More,” she begged. “More.”
His fingers pressed down on her, hard, as he surged upward and
pulled her down on him at the same time.
She cried out as her entire body seemed to explode around him. He drove into her over and over until she was weeping with the pleasure of it, the beauty of it.
He drove up into her one last time, pushing her down on him, grinding against her. She half-turned and pulled him down for a kiss, thrusting her tongue inside his mouth. He groaned and pumped into her again and again. Suddenly, he tightened inside her, and then his entire body shuddered.
She drank in his shout of ecstasy and they both collapsed back against the side of the bed behind them.
A few minutes later, just as her heart had begun to settle down into a normal rhythm, she felt him hardening again inside her.
He stroked her hair back from the side of her neck and pressed a kiss on her too-warm flesh. “You’re a drug, Emily. I can’t get enough of you.”
She felt a moment of disappointment when he pulled out of her. But when he tugged her toward the bed and pressed her back on the mattress, she knew there was nothing to be disappointed about. He looked like he wanted to devour her. And she very much wanted to be devoured.
He turned away to grab another foil packet.
For that brief moment of separation, the doubts began to niggle at Emily. This was so unlike her, to make love to a man when she knew there couldn’t possibly be a future for the two of them together. But as he turned back toward her, the doubts dissipated. Now; she would think of only now, of this moment of sharing their bodies and souls with each other. And if this was the only time they could ever truly be together, she wanted it to be perfect for him. A memory he could carry with him when his world was bleak and scary and dark.
She reached down between them and wrapped her hand around the velvety-hard length of him. He gasped and closed his eyes, his teeth clenching as she gave him one long, slow stroke. Then another. And another. His eyes opened and he grabbed her hand.
“I need to be inside you, Emily,” he groaned, his voice ragged and raw. “Now.”
He captured her lips in his, fitted himself to her entrance, and surged inside of her.