A Kiss of Revenge (Entangled Ignite)

by Natalie Damschroder

  And she was going to kill him.

  A woman in the corner of the room sobbed the way Reese should have been. “I was just in here!” she kept saying over and over. “He blinked and moved his head. I noted it and was going to look for Mrs. Treget to tell her the good news, but I couldn’t find her.” She gasped a few breaths, her fingers clutching the sleeve of whomever she was talking to. “I came back in here and a man bumped into me on his way out. I saw Mr. Treget, and his eyes…”

  The woman went incoherent, and Reese turned her attention back to Brian. “I need to go in,” she said quietly to Langstrom. The doctor opened her mouth to argue then, looking sad, nodded and let her go.

  Reese ignored the chaos in the room and made her way to Brian’s bed, taking his hand in the familiar way. Oddly, it didn’t feel different. She’d expect it to be limper or colder, but she guessed there hadn’t been time for that yet.

  His gown had been ripped open and there were still conduction pads on his chest where they must have tried to restart his heart. His mouth hung slack, but she kissed the corner anyway and whispered good-bye.

  It was all she had time for.

  “Mrs. Treget, please come with me.” A uniformed police officer took her elbow, not ungently, and ushered her down the hall to an empty room. She saw Griff heading in the opposite direction with another officer, and three more stood at various locations in the hall or entered Brian’s room.

  “You guys responded fast,” she commented warily, sitting on the stool he indicated.

  “We aren’t that far away, and it’s a slow day.” He hitched at his heavily weighted belt, making it jingle and rattle, and she wondered why he didn’t tighten it around his narrow hips. It looked as if it would fall off any second. He slipped a small pad from his shirt pocket and licked a stubby pencil, then held it poised over the pad. “Now, can you please tell me, in your own words, what transpired here today?”

  She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to focus on her immediate circumstances and not let her hate-fueled determination backfire. If she acted oddly that could raise their suspicions. “Sure, um, I arrived and found—”

  “At what time did you arrive, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t look. Late morning. Almost noon, maybe.”

  He scribbled on the pad. “Continue.”

  “I went to the floor he was on yesterday and learned he’d been moved—”

  “He was moved?”

  She sighed. This was going to take forever. “Yes. As I said, I learned he’d been moved to a private room because he was doing so well.” She described her visit, the hope of his amazing change, small as it was, and leaving the room to talk to Griff, then coming back to find Brian dead.

  “Who is this man you were with?” He kept his voice neutral, but his suspicions were obvious. The spouse was always the first suspect.

  She debated for a second about how much to say, then decided it was not in her best interests to lie. Not this time. “Griffin Chase is a private investigator.”

  The officer’s eyebrows went up. He didn’t get a chance to voice his next question before another man entered, this one in a suit, though he carried his jacket over his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Czwarki. That will do.”

  “Uh, yes, sir, I was just getting some preliminary—”

  “I understand. I can take it from here.”

  Czwarki nodded, tucked his notebook away, and left the room, hitching his sagging belt again. The new guy grabbed a chair, swung it around, and straddled it, draping his jacket over the end of the bed next to her as he did so.

  “I apologize. Officer Czwarki is preparing to take his test for detective, and he’s a bit overeager. I’m Detective Bangler.”

  She sighed. “I’m going to have to repeat it all again, aren’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so.” But his eyes held compassion, and he didn’t interrupt as she retold her activities this morning since arriving at the hospital. When she got to Griffin, she volunteered his profession, then stopped.

  “That’s where you came in,” she added.

  “And why did you hire Mr. Chase?”

  He wasn’t taking notes, which relieved her. He either had a tremendous memory, or he didn’t suspect her.

  She debated for a few seconds, but dammit, she was so tired of hiding everything. “I hired him because I believe our plane crash over a year ago was not an accident, and I wanted to find my husband’s killer.”

  Bangler only cocked one eyebrow. “You mean, attempted killer.”

  “No, because the same man succeeded today. Or someone he hired did.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  She shook her head, and he nodded.

  “I’ll require you to turn over any information you’ve gathered in the course of your informal investigation. In the meantime, I’m sorry for your loss. You’re free to go.”

  She hesitated. That was weird. “Am I a suspect?”

  He shrugged. “Officially, you’re not off the list. Unofficially, no, not directly. The nurse was definite that a man was in the room right before she discovered your husband, and described him as taller than you, darker than you, and wearing black. You could have hired him, and if you did, we’ll find out. But it seems unlikely, given the surgery he just underwent at your expense.”

  He knew an awful lot for someone who’d just arrived on the case. “What happens next?” she asked.

  “We’ll investigate the murder.” He said it with a hint of patronization and an air of dismissal.

  “And when you find the man?”

  “He’ll be prosecuted.” He ushered her out of the room ahead of him. She stood watching as he strode self-importantly down the hall to the officers at the nurse’s station. Okay, so maybe they’d get a fingerprint, or a sketch artist would help them connect the actual killer to some criminal in their database. And that would be that. He’d be tried, or plead out, and the investigation would be over. Despite the detective’s demand for her information, she doubted they’d work very hard to track down whomever had hired the killer—the real murderer.

  So it was still up to her. Yesterday, she’d been ready to drop everything. Then they’d come after her. Worse, they’d now finished what they started a year ago. Not only would they not stop until she was dead—there would be no justice for any of it.

  She couldn’t live with that. She couldn’t even try.

  First things first. She went to find Dr. Langstrom, who was in a small office with a stack of files.

  “Reese.” She stood, looking both sympathetic and disappointed. It was the first time she’d used Reese’s first name. “I’m so sorry.”

  Reese thanked her automatically. “I know they’ll do an autopsy and everything, but when they release the body, can the care facility take care of the arrangements? I left instructions with them, it’s all planned.”

  She nodded and patted her shoulder. “Certainly, dear. And when you’re ready, I’ll need you to sign a new release for use of the data we collected post-op. Since circumstances have changed.”

  Reese supposed she couldn’t blame the woman for considering her own interests, but if she’d been a typical widow, she’d be furious right about now. Luckily for Langstrom, she didn’t have enough anger to go around.

  Griff waited for her outside Brian’s room, which was now empty. “The coroner took him already.” He put his arm around her shoulders and started walking down the hall. “Are you okay?”

  “Okay enough. Did they question you, too?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Kind of. I happen to know Bangler from a job a few years back. We talked.”

  That explained how the detective had known so much.

  “What did he tell you? I mean…” Questions crowded her brain, but the strongest image was the needle sticking out of the IV. “Why didn’t they remove the needle immediately? If she saw the man coming out of the room, she might have been able to stop the poison or whatever from killing Brian.”r />
  “Maybe. She didn’t notice it right away, she said. She thought Brian had a cardiac arrest or an embolism or something. By the time they spotted the needle, they’d already called the death. Figured it was better to leave it at that point.”

  She choked back a sarcastic comment. Logically, she knew it was the right decision. But the survivors were rarely logical about a loved one’s death.

  “Where do you want to go?” Griff asked her.

  She wanted to go to a hotel and look at the information in the envelope he held, then find Big K and kill him. But she couldn’t tell Griff that. He’d insist on coming with her, and she didn’t want him involved in this part of her plan. Finding information was no crime. Using it the way she wanted to would be, and it was her crime alone.

  “I need some time. I’m just going to find a hotel and be alone for a while. Think about Brian. Okay?” She allowed a tear to come to her eye, though it was mostly due to the bright sun. The seething fury had turned into cold resolution. Probably she’d explode after the deed was done, all the pent-up feelings crashing out and making her a basket case, but right now, she was a machine.

  She had to be.

  “I’ll take you to a hotel.”

  “No, I have the rental car. I’ll be fine. I’ll tell you where I am.” She let him walk her to her car, and he didn’t bother to argue with her. She could feel the weight of his emotion, sense all he wanted to say and couldn’t. She looked up at him. The flare in his eyes was back, this time unguarded and unextinguished. Something in her answered it, swelled to fill her, threatening to push out the hatred and coldness. She slammed herself closed, the same way she did with electricity, and turned away.

  It hurt as much to leave Griff as it did that he let her.

  She didn’t go to a hotel. A few miles down the road, after driving far enough to be pretty sure he wasn’t following, she pulled into a crowded parking lot, parked in the middle where she wouldn’t be easily spotted, and pulled out the papers he had given her.

  Armen had been arrested for half a dozen white-collar crimes ranging from embezzlement to insider trading, as well as a few dirtier ones like drug trafficking and grand theft auto, which she noted was as the guy in charge rather than the actual thief. That fit with the slimy elegance he wore, as if trying to distance himself from the scum of his profession.

  She skimmed the rest of the information. He’d grown up in the projects, yada yada yada, gone to community college but had no money for further education, blah blah blah, turned back to the crime that had filled his neighborhood and his family life, yak yak yak. Nothing there helped her make a connection to Big K. The police records, other than the rap sheet, were dull reading. But they backed up what she’d found on his BlackBerry. His most recent probation records gave the same address that Alpha invoice had, on Nassauga Island.

  Her path ahead was clear. She’d go there tomorrow. She’d stay until she found Big K. And then she’d kill him.

  After he was dead, she’d figure out what to do next. Probably stay on the island. Because there was one major obstacle to her plan. The last bit of information she’d read before being smoked out of her house?

  The only way on or off Nassauga was to fly.

  …

  Reese kept that thought out of her head and focused on each immediate step as she did it. Find an ATM and withdraw all the cash she could. Gas up the car—the last time she’d use her debit card. Drive to the tiny port village that held the airport for the island flights, and find an efficiency room to rent—with cash so no one would know she was there.

  But once she closed the motel room door behind her, she couldn’t keep the knowledge at bay anymore. The very thought of getting into a plane—especially a small one—put her into a minor panic attack.

  At first, she lay on the bed, arms and legs splayed, panting and trying to remember deep breathing exercises. But lying still only allowed her brain to call up flashes of the accident, flashes worse than her dreams. Her nightmares always ended in brilliant white light, lightning hitting the plane. But in the real crash, that hadn’t been the end. She hadn’t lost consciousness, only the ability to move her body. She’d hung paralyzed in her seat belt, helpless, unable even to turn her head or close her eyes. Brian hadn’t been affected by the lightning bolt. He frantically worked the instruments, muttering to himself, yelling at her to pull some lever or push some button. She couldn’t do it, and she couldn’t tell him why. She could only hang, mute, immobile.

  “We’re losing altitude. I need to try to control the crash. Reese, please, that lever there.” He finally looked at her and realized something was wrong. “Reese?” He unbuckled his belt and reached over, feeling her pulse, then sagging in relief. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart, I’m bringing it down.” He’d half risen from his seat and struggled to move some lever on her side of the plane, then cursed. It was no more responsive than the one on his side.

  He didn’t rebuckle when he sat back down. He’d fought with the plane all the way in, and when they hit the ground, he’d gone through the windshield.

  A knock on the motel room door jolted Reese back to the present, where she found herself standing in the middle of the room. She’d gotten up off the bed to pace. Her left hand clutched the BlackBerry, while the right held Armen’s papers, crumpled into a twisted mess.

  The knock came again. She dropped the phone and papers on the desk and checked the peephole. Griffin. She closed her eyes in despair and considered not opening the door. But he’d have seen the peephole go dark. He wouldn’t leave as long as he knew she was in here.

  “How did you find me?” she demanded as soon as she opened the door, mostly to hide her despair and longing.

  “It’s my job, remember?” He stepped into the room and glanced around outside before closing and chaining the door. She backed away, her mind taking in his shaggy hair, the gray-blue T-shirt that matched his eyes, the darker blue button-down he wore over it with sleeves rolled up over his forearms, the perfect-fitting jeans. Her nostrils flared when she caught his scent, dark and musky with a hint of salt air. Her body went on full alert, trying to arch toward him, to move her closer. Fine hairs stood up, making tiny snaps as electrons and protons connected, electrifying the air around her. She struggled to think, to find a distraction from him, from the silent chant of “Free, you’re free!” in the back of her head.

  “You read Missirian’s file. You saw the island’s address.” Duh.

  “I knew where you were going before you did.” He prowled the room, checking the windows and the bathroom, then the dead bolt on the door.

  She circled the room in counterpoint to him, staying on the opposite side so she didn’t make a fool of herself. But he stopped next to the bed and beckoned with one finger.

  She didn’t have the power to say no.

  He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin, rocking her back and forth. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t cry.

  “I’m so sorry, Reese. About Brian.”

  She pushed her face harder into his chest, not caring that she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to. If she breathed, she’d cry. She didn’t want to cry in front of Griff. Didn’t want to share her grief over her husband’s death. No, she wanted more than that. More than comfort, or escape. And she couldn’t have it. Her arms tightened around him and her body pressed against his without her permission, and it felt so fucking good. He was hard and solid and big and broad, and she breathed in his scent again, and her body said, “He’s mine!” and her brain said, “You can’t do that to him, Reese, can’t take everything from him and then go kill a man.”

  She lifted her head, intending to pull away and say something, anything, to make him leave. But he was ready, his mouth covering hers immediately. He tasted of knowledge and determination, the kiss no tentative exploration. He wasn’t going to let her chase him away. Not now. So she stopped trying, gave in. And drowned in him.

  Their tongues danced and ta
ngled. She sucked his, wanting it deeper, and he groaned and pulled her tighter against him. He was hard, rock hard, against her pelvis. Her blood sped through her veins and her breathing turned to pants and she wanted to climb his body. Or climb into it.

  Tingles that weren’t borne of desire alerted her to an impending loss of control. She breathed deeply, calming her body before concentrating on sealing it off from nearby electricity.

  Griff pulled back, his hands holding her head. “Are you hurt anywhere? From the fire?”

  “No. Not outside.” She kissed him again, not wanting words between them, only sensation. Like the smooth skin of his arms and the iron muscles underneath.

  She shoved his shirt off his shoulders so she could dig her fingers into the grooves around his triceps, her hands up under the sleeves of his T-shirt. When she couldn’t go any higher, she dropped her hands to his waist and dragged the shirt up to his chest. Her palms rasped over his nipples and traced his pecs and down to his six-pack abs. Her fingertips outlined the muscles with her fingertips, the lightness of her touch making his stomach tighten even more. Hot against her palms, his skin grew damp. She pressed, stroking, and slid her hands around to his back, exploring every detail, climbing his spine, then flattening so her arms and hands met as much skin as possible. She could never get enough.

  He released her to rip off his shirt, then the T-shirt, and her mouth found his skin. Hot and salty. He tasted as good as he smelled, and she licked him, sucked on him, stroked and clutched and kissed everywhere she could reach—his chest, with nipples pebbled against her tongue, the centerline of his ridged abdomen, the hard jut of his hip just above the waistband of his jeans, where she bit and scraped her teeth so that he flinched away from her. She was dimly aware of her own shirt disappearing, of her body burning wherever his hands stroked. She yanked at his jeans, cursing at the button fly.

  “Got something against zippers?” she growled, making him chuckle. Until she gave up on the buttons and plunged her fingers into his briefs to wrap around him. She sighed with him and rose to kiss him again, this time their mouths more slack, more carnal and less urgent. His taste filled her, like a potion designed to inflame only her. To please only her.