by Dee Davis
And then he moved, driving deep, then deeper still, and she rose to meet him, abandoning all doubt, giving herself over to the moment, to the man. They moved together, matching each other rhythm for rhythm, following choreography only they could know.
Higher and higher, faster and faster, until the world began to spin out of control, her mind splintering into shards of crystalline light, and there was nothing but the pleasure of the moment and the touch of his body against hers.
He lay back and let the warmth of her hands seep through him. The massage was meant to be impersonal, their roles as patient and therapist firmly reestablished. But under the surface, the intimacy remained, strung tight, connecting them intrinsically—soul to soul.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Her voice rolled through him, filling him with a sense of contentment, which considering the circumstances was probably ludicrous, but just at the moment felt right.
“I’m fine. More than fine actually. Just not used to the strenuous activity of late.” He suppressed a grin when she blushed, instead concentrating on the rise and fall of her breathing, her breasts straining against the thin material of her shirt.
His mouth watered, and against all odds, he felt his body begin to respond. She was one hell of a woman.
“Oh no you don’t.” She stepped back, her tone brooking no argument. The consummate physical therapist, but her eyes told a different story, and he smiled.
“There’s not a lot I can do about it.” He reached up to tug on her braid, pulling her against him for a quick kiss. “So I’d say unless you fancy another round, we probably ought to cease and desist with the massage for the moment.”
She moved away from him, her expression playful. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
He sat up, his gaze locking with hers. “What I want is you. But I think maybe I’d better give myself a little recuperation time.”
She bit the side of her lip, her face clouding with worry. “I didn’t mean to wear you out.”
“You didn’t.” He got off the bench, laughing. “At least not in the way you mean.”
She relaxed a little, the worry not completely leaving her eyes. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He reached her side, framing her face with his hands, both of them. “Neither was I. But I’m okay. Honest.” He leaned forward to kiss her, reveling in the feel of her mouth against his. “Nothing a hot shower won’t cure.”
She pushed the hair back from his face, her eyes searching his. “I don’t want to hurt you, John.”
He had the feeling that there was something more to her words, something beyond the physical. “I know that.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but a sharp rap at the door interrupted, and they sprang apart, acting for all the world like guilty teenagers.
“Brighton? You in there?”
John blew out a breath and exchanged a look with Katie, regret mixing with irritation. “D’Angelo.”
The door swung open, and the detective walked into the gym. “I just had a couple more things I wanted to discuss with you.” His smile included them both, and John was struck again with the thought that, had the circumstances been different, he might have actually liked the man.
“I’m all ears.” Which actually couldn’t be further from the truth, but best he could tell, antagonizing the police wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“Why don’t we sit down.” D’Angelo nodded toward a small sofa near the window.
John grabbed Katie’s hand, and made his way across the room, realizing for the first time just how tired he was. He felt her arm slip around him, and leaned against her gratefully, at the same time wishing he were the one that was supporting her and not the other way around.
Someday.
They sat on the sofa, and waited while the detective pulled up another chair. D’Angelo flipped open a notebook.
“Do you have something new, Detective?” Katie was watching him through narrowed eyes, her expression masked, but John got the feeling she was preparing for battle. “John’s just been through a workout and he’s exhausted.”
He reached over to put his hand on her knee. “I’m fine.” Their gazes met and held. “Really.”
She nodded imperceptibly and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa.
“So.” He turned to face D’Angelo. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s more about clearing things up actually.” The detective frowned, all business now. “What do you remember about Mexico?”
John shook his head, knowing his face was filled with regret. “Not a goddamned thing.”
“Not even before the shooting?”
“Nothing, Detective.”
D’Angelo stared down at his pad for a moment then looked up. “What about after the shooting? Do you have memories of that?”
“Some.” It was John’s turn to frown. “I remember waking up in the hospital.”
“In Mexico?” D’Angelo leaned forward.
“I think so.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember. “It’s all pretty vague. I was evidently in and out of consciousness a lot. There were nurses and doctors, of course, and I remember talking to a Mexican cop.”
“Diego Rodriguez.”
He opened his eyes. “That’s it. Nice guy. I remember he was trying to help find the bastards who did this.” Without meaning to, he rubbed his injured arm.
“Did you talk to him after you got back to the States?”
“No. I never heard from him again.” He fought against frustration, trying to understand where the detective was going with this. Katie covered his hand with hers, her touch centering. He focused on D’Angelo. “Why?”
“I called him today. I wanted to work out a few details timewise, and to understand what exactly happened to you out there.”
“I was carjacked.”
“Well, according to Rodriguez, that isn’t the case. At least in part.”
“You’re saying he wasn’t carjacked?” Katie sounded as bewildered as he felt.
D’Angelo shrugged. “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid. It seems they caught the boys who stole the car.”
“Kids?” Somehow that only made it worse. “You’re saying I was shot by kids?”
“No.” The detective shook his head. “I’m saying that two teenagers took the car and left you to die out there. But they didn’t shoot you. Someone else had that honor.”
“Someone who wasn’t interested in the car.” Katie’s entire posture had changed as she digested what he was saying.
John understood the words, but the sum of the parts wasn’t turning into a whole. He met D’Angelo’s guarded gaze. “So it wasn’t about the car.”
“Doesn’t look like it. The boys swear you were already down when they found you.”
“And Rodriguez believes them?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“And there’s a reason for that,” Katie mused. “Right, Detective?”
“Yeah.” D’Angelo looked at her with new interest, his gaze speculative. “There is. They might have a lead. The kids got a look at the shooter’s truck.”
John felt a prickle of fear race across his scalp. Maybe he didn’t want to know. “And . . .” He forced the word out, leaning forward, every nerve ending on the ready.
“It was abandoned about thirty miles from where you were shot. Registered to a dead man.”
“Convenient.” Disappointment washed through him. Disappointment and relief.
“Yeah, but Rodriguez is thorough, and it seems someone saw the truck and its occupants a couple of hours before the shooting. The old man didn’t see enough for a positive ID, but based on his description, Rodriguez has a hunch.” He paused, looking first at Katie and then at John. “If he’s right, Mr. Brighton, your shooting definitely wasn’t about your car.”
“Okay, you’ve lost me again.” John frowned, struggling to make sense of the detective’s words.
Katie’s hand tightened on his.
“I think he means someone was hired to kill you.”
The world tilted on its axis, everything spinning out of control, blackness looming large and welcoming, and John fought against the pull, his stomach tightening, threatening to expel everything inside him.
“John . . .” Katie’s voice came from a long way away. “John, are you all right?”
He could feel her hand on his face, and in an instant the world righted, his head clearing. “I’m okay.” It seemed he was always saying that. “I’m just having a little trouble processing this.”
“I didn’t mean to spring it on you. I honestly believed you already knew.” D’Angelo’s face swam into view, concerned, making him look almost approachable.
“How the hell would I have known?” John shook his head, regaining control, his eyes meeting D’Angelo’s.
“Because Rodriguez told the FBI. And it was his understanding that they were going to tell you.”
“Well, obviously it was a low priority.” He tried but couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “How long have they known?”
“The FBI or Rodriguez?”
“Both . . . all. Does it matter?” He met the detective’s gaze, trying to hang on to some semblance of sanity.
D’Angelo shrugged, his expression sympathetic. “I got the impression that the information wasn’t new.”
“Son of a bitch.” He’d gone through the full gamut of emotions in the last few moments, with incredulous topping the list. “So you’re telling me that the FBI has known about this a while, but somehow missed the relevance of sharing the information with me?” Anger was quickly replacing his shock. “Considering the killers didn’t finish what they started, it seems like a reasonable expectation to think that someone would have told me what the hell was going on.”
D’Angelo held up a hand. “I agree. And believe me, I wouldn’t have broken it to you this way if I’d have known.”
“You thought I was lying to you?”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been the first time a suspect lied to me, Mr. Brighton.”
“Shit. I don’t fucking believe this.” John ran a hand through his hair, fighting to keep his mind clear, to think. “What about the money? Maybe the first guys were after the money.”
“They wouldn’t have known about it.”
“Unless I was meeting them. God, this is like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. And with every turn it just gets worse.”
“I’ve got a call in to Roswell. I’m hoping maybe he’ll be able to shed more light on this.”
“But you don’t really believe he will, do you?” John had heard the doubt in his voice.
D’Angelo shrugged again, this time with fatalism. “The FBI aren’t noted for their willingness to share information. Even post Nine Eleven. It just isn’t the nature of the beast.”
John realized suddenly that Katie had grown quiet. He turned to look at her, surprised to see raw anger reflected in her eyes. “You all right?” It was absurdly nice to be asking someone else the question for a change.
She was silent for another moment, then her eyes cleared, and she smiled at him, a poor attempt to be positive. “I’m just furious that someone could have known about this and not told you. It doesn’t seem fair.”
Based on her expression, she’d been thinking a lot more brutal thoughts than that, but since they were most likely on his behalf, he didn’t want to press. He turned back to D’Angelo. “So you’re going to pursue this with the FBI?”
“Yeah. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“And you’re thinking that all of this might somehow tie into Miller’s death?”
D’Angelo blew out a breath, shaking his head. “I honestly don’t know. I guess I was hoping that you’d be able to give me some answers.”
“Detective D’Angelo,” Katie’s voice was low, her tone grave, “do you think that whoever is behind this—” She shot a look at John, her expression hard to read. “Whoever wanted him dead—do you think they’ll try again?”
The thought sent a mixture of rage and fear racing through him, an emotional roller coaster he was beginning to accept as the norm.
D’Angelo frowned, his expression grim. “I think it’s possible, but not probable. They haven’t tried again and it’s been six months. And in addition to that . . .” He trailed off, regret washing across his face.
“I can’t remember a damned thing. So you’re saying my injuries just might have saved my life?”
D’Angelo shrugged, at least having the grace to look chagrined. “Looks that way.”
“But they could still be out there.” Katie reached for his hand again, her own cold—clammy.
“Maybe,” D’Angelo said. “That’s why it’s really important that we try and figure out what’s going on here.”
“So I’m damned if I do and possibly damned if I don’t.” It was a nonstatement, but both Katie and D’Angelo nodded in agreement.
Son of a bitch.
Why was it every time he began to move forward, to step out of the damn darkness into the light, someone came along and yanked the fucking rug out from under him?
And this time, he wasn’t certain there was a floor.
“So where does this leave me?” John was still sitting on the sofa, staring down at his hands.
“I honestly don’t know.” And that was the key to everything. She hadn’t a clue. What the hell was Roswell playing at? He’d never mentioned anything about Mexico. Or the possibility that John had been targeted by a hit man.
He looked up and smiled. “It was a rhetorical question actually.”
If he only understood how not rhetorical it was. But now wasn’t the time to tell him. He needed her protection more than ever, and if that meant keeping her identity from him, then so be it. She was more than willing to pay the price.
“Look, maybe D’Angelo is wrong. I mean, we only have his conversation with Rodriguez. And it sounds like their witness is less than credible. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake.” She was babbling, but it was hard to order her thoughts. She needed to get out of here, to confront Roswell, but she didn’t like the idea of leaving John on his own.
“You know that isn’t the case.” His expression was bleak, and she wanted to pull him into her arms and keep him there, safe from all that was troubling him.
She plastered on a smile. “I don’t know anything. We don’t know anything.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Again he smiled, this one more of a shadow. “Look, the truth is, I’m obviously involved in something big. Whether I was a willing participant is still out for the jury, but I think that we can safely rule out coincidence now.”
She sighed. There really wasn’t any point in playing dumb. Even his physical therapist should be able to put two and two together. “I suppose you’re right. But I still don’t believe you’re guilty of anything. And someone trying to kill you seems to underscore that fact.”
“You’re being optimistic.” He reached for her hand. “And I appreciate it. But the truth is, we can’t really say that. The hit could have been ordered because I was involved in something up to my neck. There’s still the missing money to account for, and Miller’s payoff.”
She felt as if she were stuck in quicksand, every little bit of progress sucking her deeper and deeper into the mire. “Did you ever see the check?”
He nodded. “Yup. It was clearly my signature.”
“And you talked to Andy. What about the broker?”
“On vacation. I’m hoping to hear something soon. I left numbers. But the bottom line is, we’ve exhausted our options. Unless something else surfaces, I don’t know how we’re ever going to know what really happened.”
She forced a smile. “On the positive side, that means the police are stymied as well.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t much like knowing that I’m part of why they’re stuck. I’d much rather they realized I’m innocent of all this.” He leaned back against the cushions. “U
nfortunately, I don’t even believe that anymore. So I don’t see how I can expect them to see it that way.”
“Well, I believe in you.” The sentiment came from the bottom of her heart and she meant it. Really meant it.
His answering smile was almost cheerful. “It’s nice to know I have one fan.”
A fan with the power to find out more about what was going on.
“Are you going to be all right?” It was a stupid question. But she needed to hear him reassure her, even if he didn’t really mean it. “I’ve got a meeting at the hospital.”
“Go. I need some time to think anyway.” He squeezed her hand, releasing it. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you here, Katie.” His mouth still held the semblance of a smile, but his eyes were deadly serious.
She felt a tremor of guilt rumble through her. “It’s going to be okay. I swear. If I have to march over to the FBI and make it so myself.”
Which of course was exactly what she planned to do.
John stared at the little phoenix standing on his desk, wondering if he’d been happy before the shooting. He’d had everything. Or at least he’d believed he had. But somehow he couldn’t imagine that it had been a particularly satisfying life.
It was funny actually. He was the primary suspect in a murder, he quite possibly had a hit man chasing after him, he’d lost part of his brain, and he wasn’t sure anymore who he’d been before the shooting. But he’d never felt so alive.
Part of it was Katie, but part of it was just him. It was like he was seeing the world for the first time. Of course, if he couldn’t unravel the mess he was in, he might be viewing it from the confines of prison. Or worse still, six feet under.
He pushed away his morbid thoughts, picking up a bank statement, trying to find a pattern in the deposits and withdrawals from the account. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the withdrawals, but the deposits, transfers actually, seemed to be occurring at regular intervals, four or five times a month.