Dark Waters (2013)

by Anderson, Toni

  What was happening to her? She hadn’t felt this gritty sort of lust since she was sixteen. She crossed her arms over her traitorous breasts. Crap. Why was she feeling it now? A woman with her history? Hiding out from killers? With a man who’d spent twenty years in prison?

  She sure could pick ’em.

  He took a step toward her and she backed up, tripping. He froze.

  “Anna.” Even the way he said her name was sexy, and she didn’t think he did it on purpose. He frowned fiercely. “You don’t need to worry. Relax, I’m not going to attack you.”

  The words brought a vivid memory to life. She swayed on her feet and he reached out to catch her. The rapid beat of her heart and jagged timbre of her breath reminded her about the power of flashbacks, and though they’d faded over time, they never completely disappeared. His hands were big and comforting on her shoulders.

  “What is it?” He sounded confused as he led her to the sofa.

  No wonder.

  Where was the smart capable woman she’d grown into? Where was the heart of steel that had gotten her through every day? Acting like the idiot girl she’d once been was humiliating, pathetic, and she didn’t want to be pathetic anymore.

  “I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

  She could tell he knew she was lying. He thought he knew everything about her. She saw the exact moment he figured out he was wrong.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She didn’t like the edge of desperation that tightened her vocal cords.

  He clenched his jaw, relenting even though she’d pushed him for his secrets. His bangs fell in his eyes and he dragged his hair back with impatient fingers. “Where are those scissors? This hair is driving me bug-ass crazy.”

  Changing the subject and letting her breathe. A warmth filled her that had nothing to do with lust or fear. He was a good man. No wonder her father had loved him.

  He went and pulled out his overnight kit—in a plastic bag of supplies she’d bought from the airport. Then he brandished an electric razor. “I could go bald.”

  “Don’t you dare.” He was joking. She hoped.

  He grabbed the scissors instead and walked into the bathroom, picked up a blond lock of hair, and snipped. “Why not?” He snipped again.

  Anna shook her head. “Give me the scissors.”

  He held them out of her reach. “I don’t know about that. Last time anyone cut my hair…” His voice halted as his brain caught up with the memory.

  “Gina?” Anna hated the expression of grief and loss that moved over his features. This man deserved peace, not to be dragged into a situation with people who had no qualms about killing. He had too much to lose—but so did she. Her only other option was to go to the cops and she didn’t trust them.

  She took the scissors out of his hands and circled him awkwardly.

  He sat on the toilet lid. Caught her wrist. “You ever done this before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just don’t hit an artery, we’ll be fine.” His humor was unexpected and her tension eased.

  He released her and she edged closer, trying not to touch him with her body as she picked up that first lock of hair. It was soft and slid between her fingers like a ribbon of silk. She snipped. Tentatively to begin with, she took a good three inches off the length until it was short and spiky on top. He looked silly with the sides still long and she smothered a laugh.

  Brent eyed her narrowly. “You won’t be laughing when it’s your turn.” His eyebrow quirked.

  “Over my dead body.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

  She touched her hair. The idea of cutting it off made her feel physically ill. “It would feel like a loss of identity.” She sucked in a breath as his eyes slowly met hers. She read the understanding in their depths, and shame welled up inside her. Prison had stripped him of his identity. It had stripped her father of his identity too. She hadn’t had a clue how difficult it must have been until now—she’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself.

  “I’ll wear a hat to start with, but I will cut it or dye it if you think I need to.” She held his gaze for another moment before he closed his eyes with a nod.

  Such a sign of trust that she felt a little shift in the region of her chest. Her hips brushed his side, intimately familiar in this small space. She held rigid for a moment and then got over herself. She wanted to do a good job, didn’t want him to look stupid or be humiliated. He’d been there many times, and Anna was damned if a simple haircut would take him there again.

  When she was done he scrubbed his hands over his head and neck, getting rid of stray hairs. “Not bad for your first time.”

  It was seductively ruffled, darker at the roots but still with those sun-bleached tips—he could have walked straight off a modeling job.

  “We’re not going to be able to walk around unnoticed,” she realized suddenly.

  He grinned and she banged her elbow on the wall. “Because I’m such a handsome fuc—” he cut himself off. “Devil,” he finished with a grimace.

  He was kidding and trying to watch his language. A double whammy. Warm feelings bombarded her, leaving her feeling helpless. But she was serious. He was too big and too gorgeous to pass by unnoticed. “You need to wear a wig.”

  “No fu-rickin’ way.” He stood and bumped into her.

  Her knees hit the edge of the tub and crumpled.

  “Whoa.” He steadied and turned her so her back was to the wall.

  Every particle of oxygen disappeared from the tiny room. His eyes glowed. The heat of his hands on her arms was a searing brand that sizzled along her nerves like a solar flare. Her lips parted and his gaze dropped to her mouth. She trembled as he moved closer. The whole world seemed to hold suspended in time. Brent’s eyes darkened and his nostrils flared. His hand tightened for a split second before he dipped his head and kissed her, softly. The wall at her back stopped her from falling over in shock.

  His lips were warm and firm. The kiss a cross between Prince Charming reverence and Indiana Jones adventure. He didn’t close the gap or invade her space. Just stroked his lips over hers while gently holding her upright. No full frontal assault. No hello-happy-to-meet-you erection jammed against her stomach.

  It was a beautiful kiss. Sweet. Possibly the most perfect moment of her life.

  He pulled back, looking as stunned as she felt. Her heart pounded as they stared into one another’s eyes.

  Oh.

  God.

  She touched her mouth.

  She’d kissed him. A man just as dark and tortured as her father had ever been. Worse, she had the awful feeling she could do a lot more to Brent Carver if she let herself.

  It wasn’t fear of physical assault that scared her anymore. It was the emotional pull she felt toward him, the knowledge that she could fall for him and she didn’t want to. Love was an emotion she didn’t trust, and although sex was a million miles from love, she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t risk dropping her armor just to satisfy a physical urge. Because something about this man spoke to her on a level she hadn’t even known existed until he’d kissed her.

  “Let me go,” she whispered.

  He released her and his face went white. “Anna, I’m sorry—”

  But she wasn’t listening. She raced out of the bathroom, into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  He let her go.

  CHAPTER 9

  Brent and Anna sat outside Davis’s redbrick apartment building in the sedan he’d rented. A nearby YMCA and a midsize supermarket provided enough general traffic that no one noticed them sitting there waiting. He and Anna had spent the morning scoping out the office building where Davis had worked, and then they’d visited the site of his death. Brent had stood staring at the tracks, feeling ill as the trains had rushed headlong through the tunnels, passengers streaming on and off at the stop, going about their normal lives, unaware that a man had died there just a few short days ago. Anna had been very qui
et, contemplative, ever since.

  In the afternoon they’d stopped by the hospital but there were too many cops to even risk getting close to Jack Panetti and, according to Jack’s secretary, the guy was still in a coma. They’d each checked their e-mail in an Internet café downtown. His agent was still driving him bat-shit about this exhibition. He’d told him he’d be there. The guy would just have to trust him. After a few hours’ rest at the hotel, where both he and Anna had retired to separate rooms, they were back in enforced confinement, staking out Davis’s building. He cracked his window, swapping the plastic new car smell for the taint of exhaust fumes. He was hyperaware of the thud of his heart. Of the flow of traffic. Of the quiet tick of Anna’s wristwatch in the thick, strained silence. His stomach growled. Breakfast had been a rapid affair of festering indigestion and they’d skipped lunch, too raw to even think about food.

  This was why he didn’t do people.

  Kissing Anna? He was such a damn fool. A woman so wrong for him on so many levels it wasn’t even funny. So what if she’d tasted right? They weren’t compatible in any way except the horizontal.

  And now he was thinking about them in bed together and his jeans were so tight he was sure every drop of blood had diverted south. If it were just sex, it wouldn’t be a problem. He could definitely do uncomplicated sex, but everything about Anna screamed complication.

  It was obvious she had issues. He’d seen it in her eyes last night when she’d stumbled away from him in a panic and pretended to be dizzy. Hell, he’d recognized the lies before they’d even left her tongue. But he’d let her get away with the “I don’t want to talk about it” bullshit because she’d looked fragile enough to break.

  Something bad had happened to her at some point, but he hadn’t pushed. He desperately wanted to know everything there was to know about Anna Silver, the same way he’d craved her letters when he’d been stuck in that hellhole. But he understood the need for privacy—hell, he craved privacy. It wasn’t his business. But more than curiosity burned along his nerves.

  Which left the concept of “just sex” six hundred feet up in the air.

  It was dark. Streetlights glowed on the charcoal tarmac. Red brick turned into burnt orange. The temperature had ramped up and a storm was building. It was hot, humid, and oppressive, and reminded him so much of prison he was half choking on city smog and memories.

  He hated the city. Could feel the walls touching the edges of his soul.

  He slid a glance at her profile. Sweet. Beautiful. Not for the likes him. He’d destroy her, the same way he’d destroyed Gina. It was never going to happen.

  Although, the idea Anna might be genuinely interested in him was laughable. He wasn’t just an ex-con, he was a lifer, a murderer. Sure, women liked the outer package. He’d have to be blind not to notice the way women looked at him. But he knew better than anyone that beauty came from within. And he sure as hell wasn’t beautiful on the inside. He was a dark mess of seething anger and pressurized fear.

  The anger he’d harnessed. The fear he buried deep so he wouldn’t get destroyed.

  A car drove by and pulled up around the corner. They both tensed and then relaxed again as a mom and two kids trailed out. No one else appeared to be watching the complex, but Brent believed in being extra careful where Anna was concerned. Usually he pushed people away, but they were stuck in this mess together until they found whatever it was Davis had sent her, and he couldn’t afford to piss her off. She was prickly enough to go off on her own, and he’d never forgive himself if she got hurt. Memories of Gina tried to rush him again, but he refused to let them in. Maybe if he could keep Anna safe, it would grant him a little redemption for failing Gina so terribly.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Not yet.”

  She pushed open her door and he rolled his eyes. No patience. It had taken him five years in hell to learn patience, and it was a gift he took from his time in prison. Another had been Davis.

  He followed her across the street. Checked out the surroundings without being too obvious about it. She walked up to the door and unlocked it. Her old man had given her a key to his apartment because that was how he was—trusting and open.

  Brent shook his head. Why couldn’t she see her father had been telling the truth all these years?

  They checked the mailbox, which was empty.

  Anna led the way to the elevator and they rode up to the fourth floor in silence. She was wearing black pants and a black button-up shirt that dipped into a low vee at the front. Cat burgling clothes, she’d told him when she’d bought them in the hotel boutique earlier that day. They were tightly fitted, and the sweat on Brent’s brow was from more than the brewing storm. She’d morphed from schoolma’am into sexpot, and both looked good on that tight little body.

  Fuck.

  He was torturing himself.

  They walked down the characterless corridor to a wooden door that needed a fresh coat of varnish. Anna’s hands shook as she put the key in the lock. He wanted to help her, steady her hand, but the idea of touching her was a bad one and he intended not to do it again—ever.

  He liked his life. He was happy. OK, maybe happy was a bit too upbeat for him, but he was fine. Better than fine. He scanned the corridor and then looked at Anna’s profile as she caught her bottom lip in her teeth.

  Those full lips bare of makeup did terrible things to his libido. But the woman herself didn’t mesh with his need for peace and quiet, because from whatever angle you looked at it, Anna was complicated. She gave off strong don’t touch me vibes that he not only respected, he was grateful for. Except for that damn kiss…

  She finally got the key into the lock and opened the door. The place smelled stale and musty. They stepped inside, and Brent longed to open a window but that might give them away.

  “Don’t switch on the main light,” he warned as he closed the drapes. Using the light from the open doorway he found a desk lamp and turned it on. Closed the door and bolted it from the inside. Every muscle in his body contracted. He rarely locked his doors at home. Even the thought had him strung tighter than razor wire on prison walls. He distracted himself by looking around the small cramped space. There was no stack of mail waiting for their perusal.

  “It’s not much bigger than the cell we shared,” he commented. The inside of his skin itched. He’d have gone insane living here. He needed to see the vast stretch of ocean just to breathe.

  There was a small TV set in the corner, a sagging orange couch. A cheap wooden coffee table, polished until it gleamed. Magazines stacked in neat piles on the shelf beneath it—travel magazines and photography. Davis had been interested in both while in prison, and had sworn he would pursue these two loves when he got out.

  It hadn’t happened.

  His best friend might have left jail, but he’d recreated it here in this one-bedroom fleapit.

  “This place is a hellhole,” he said.

  Anna looked at him with eyes as dark as a winter forest.

  Brent picked up a battered paperback off the shelf. “I offered to buy him a house, but he wouldn’t let me. It would have been a good investment.” Anguish tormented him. “I flew him out for a visit every summer.” Davis hadn’t ever wanted to go anywhere else. A garrote tightened around his throat. He’d let him down. The man he owed everything and he’d let him down.

  Anna picked up a jacket that had been draped over the end of the sofa, and stroked the material. “He never liked charity.”

  So why would he steal? Brent wanted to scream, but clamped down on it. She didn’t want to hear it. But why would a man who wouldn’t accept help from anyone steal other people’s money?

  He wouldn’t.

  Brent knew—Brent had always known that Davis was innocent, although he’d have been lying if he said he hadn’t been grateful for the man’s company in prison. The warden had been content to leave them be—two model prisoners who were actually doing well in a system that wasn’t designed for lifers m
ixed in with the general prison population.

  Davis had been punishing himself by living here. Brent’s gut tightened. Because of Anna. Because of what she’d been through after his arrest. Photographs of her were everywhere—some he recognized from the cage, others were new.

  He looked up as she started opening drawers in the desk. A box he recognized sat next to a laptop. An old shoe box that Davis had painted vibrant red using Brent’s supplies, in a quiet rebellion against institutional green. Brent walked up beside her, brushing her shoulder as he leaned forward. They both jumped, but he bent over his task and removed the lid. She froze as they stared down into a neatly stacked pile of letters, tied with a length of brown string. The prison address was printed in neat schoolgirl handwriting on the front of the envelopes.

  “He kept them all this time?” She reached out an unsteady finger and then pulled back.

  “I told you they were his lifeline in prison.” He picked one up and opened it. Grinned as the memories drifted over him like snowflakes. “Your first Avril Lavigne concert. I remember it well. Did you wear heavy eye makeup and skinny jeans?”

  “Maybe.” She hooked her hands into her back pockets, frowning. “I sent him the CD.”

  “I know.” His tone was droll.

  “You don’t like Avril Lavigne?” She sounded shocked by the idea.

  “Let’s just say it was better for everyone when Avril had a little accident in the break room.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I sent him her second CD when that came out too.”

  He grimaced. “What can I say? Prison is no place for a woman.” Her lips pressed together as he put the letter back. He doubted the information they were after was in that box.

  He stared around the place in disgust. “I had no idea he was living like this.”

  Big eyes met his. “I visited a few times, but we’d meet in the city or at the art gallery for lunch. I don’t remember the last time I came to the apartment.” Guilt made her voice fade away.

  Brent set his jaw. He knew Davis and Anna’s relationship hadn’t been easy after the man had gotten out, but frankly he’d have been surprised if it had been. Prison changed a person. People moved on. He, on the other hand, was a gutless wonder for not taking care of the man he’d called friend. Too chicken to leave his little beach hideaway. Christ, he’d thought he couldn’t hate himself more than he already did. He was wrong. “I’m going to search around, see if he hid some notes about what was going on at work. You check the laptop.”