by J. K. Beck
He bit back a curse. She was Luke's, and she was innocent, and he would not be the man who took that from her.
"Serge?" she said, the press of her hand turning his blood to molten lava. "Will he be okay?" Her lips curved into a little pout, and tears filled her eyes. He turned and pulled her close, pressing her head to his shoulder and forcing himself to steady. To keep his hands where they belonged, and to offer only the proper sort of encouragement.
"He'll be fine. He's been in tighter scrapes."
21
She pulled back and blinked blue eyes so pale they had almost no color at all. "It's because of me," she said, in that singsong voice. "Me, me, me. Shouldn't have told him. Naughty girl, telling secrets." She pulled away from him and moved to a black leather armchair, curling herself up so small she looked like a child. Her suffering moved him. Beauty. Innocence.
She was everything he was not. Everything Luke was not. And yet the horrors of their world had spilled over on her.
Not for the first time, he felt a pang of regret that Luke had turned her at all. Serge had been there, of course, on that snowy night in France. He had witnessed what Lucius had done to her father, to her household. Hell, he'd participated. And, yes, he understood why Luke brought the girl over. His friend had looked upon Tasha and seen his beloved Livia. He'd seen the dying girl and believed he could quell his nightmares by snatching her from the arms of death. From that night on, she'd become Luke's responsibility. His talisman, even. But Serge couldn't help but wonder if Luke truly saw redemption when he looked upon her sweet face. Or did he instead see guilt.
Perhaps, Serge thought, his friend saw both.
"Watching me," she sang. "Pretty, pretty me, and you're a naughty boy for looking."
He released a breath that was almost a laugh. There were many times he looked at her with naughty thoughts. Now was not one of them. "I was thinking of Luke." At the mention of his name, she frowned. "His eyes don't touch me like that." She stood, arms out, naked beneath the soft film of her gown. "He does not let me see the way his pulse burns for me, even as yours now does. It's a secret," she said. "A naughty little secret."
She stepped toward him, her head tilted to the side as if he were a mystery to her.
"It does burn, yes?" Her whispered words tickled his ear, the lavender scent of her hair wreaking havoc with his self-control. "Does your blood throb with desire? Do you want what you cannot have?" Her eyes dipped down, and he was certain she could tell that his cock had sprung to attention and was now straining against the tight confines of his jeans.
"Naughty boys," she murmured, her voice low and singsong. "Naughty boys want their toys, and pretty girls have them."
"Tasha." His voice was hoarse, but firm. "Sit down." He wouldn't do this. Not to her. She didn't understand. Didn't have a clue, really, what she was playing at. Her mind was a child's. Innocent.
And above all else, she was under Luke's protection.
Serge had done a lot of regrettable things in his long life, and he was certain that he would rack up more in the future, but never would he stoop so low as to count fucking his best friend's addle-brained ward among them.
"Don't want to sit. Want to play." She slid her hand down over her belly, over the mound between her thighs, and the only thought in his head at the moment was that Luke had damn well, damn well, better value their friendship, because keeping his hands firmly in his pockets was costing Serge all his willpower. Every last drop. "Don't you want to play with me, Sergius?"
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, his body so tight and hot he could barely force the words out. "I need to get some work done." He made to move past her, 22
felt her fingers close over his arm. "Let go, Tasha. I need to get out of here." Talk about an understatement.
"But I do know," she said, sidling closer, her gown brushing against him, her soft thighs pushing close. "He showed me," she added, easing around in front of him, then cupping her palm over his frustrated, desperate cock. "He showed me how to play." Warning bells sounded like Klaxons in his head, and he stepped back, gripping her shoulders and looking firmly into her face. "Who?" he demanded. "Who showed you?"
"Judge not," she giggled. "Lest ye be judged."
"Judge not?" he repeated, not understanding. But as he looked at her and saw that glint of sexuality spark in her eyes, he knew. He knew what had happened to her. More than that, he knew what Luke had done. And why.
"Braddock," he said, the name like a curse on his lips. The judge had always been oily, and for decades there had been rumors of bribery and blackmail. If Serge was understanding Tasha right, Braddock had gotten his hands on her--and had gotten himself killed for his trouble. Luke might have been unwilling to give Serge details during their last phone conversation, but that didn't mean Serge didn't have sources of his own within the PEC. He'd found out easily enough that Luke had been taken into custody for Braddock's murder. Now he knew why.
The only surprise was that those incompetent RAC fools had been able to take down Lucius Dragos. Even now, Serge thought, they were probably lifting a pint and reliving their glorious victory.
It wasn't over, though. Whatever Luke's endgame, Serge was confident they hadn't reached it.
Still, Braddock was dead. And that was a damn good start.
He looked down at Tasha, unable to conceal his fury. "What did the bastard do to you?"
"Do you want me to show you?" she asked, pressing herself up close, her body swaying dreamily from side to side. "I promise to only share the part that felt nice. So nice. All soft and sweet." She scowled and shook her head, her brow creasing. "But not the part that hurt. That's the secret part. Not for sharing. And I don't like it. I don't like it when it burns. No pain, " she added, the vixen shriveling to reveal a terrified child.
"Please, no pain. Not again."
She fisted her hands in his shirt and looked up at him with wild, terrified eyes. As she whimpered in his arms, he understood what Luke had done. Oh, yes. He understood. He only regretted that he hadn't been there to help.
"Tasha," he said, wishing he could extinguish the fear in her eyes. "You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore."
"No more pain ..."
"No."
"Only pleasure ..."
"That's right."
"I can make it stop," she whispered, her dreamlike voice working on him like a trance. She lifted herself onto her toes, her hands still lost in his shirt. Her lips brushed lightly over his. "I know things. I know things about making the hurt go away. About turning pain into pretty, pretty pleasure." She tilted her head back, and he saw the raw 23
need in her eyes. "Do you want me to show you?"
"Tasha." He ground out her name, his hands closing over hers, pushing her away.
"Don't."
"Don't what?" She moved closer, the gossamer gown caressing curves that he wanted to touch.
A lump formed in Serge's throat and he tried to swallow. He would not bed his friend's ward. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
And yet as she moved ever closer--as his body tightened with need and the daemon raged in his blood--he feared that no matter how hard he fought, in the end, he would betray his friend.
24
Chapter 4
"Sara!" Emily Tsung's heels clattered on the smooth marble floor. "Hold up a second."
Sara Constantine paused outside of Department 103 of the Los Angeles County Criminal Justice Center, moving aside to avoid the flood of humanity spilling from the courtroom. After all, in only twenty-seven minutes, Judge Kelly would reconvene the hearing on the defendant's Motion to Suppress. And folks had to hurry if they wanted to beat the lines at the coffee stand in the lobby.
Not Sara. She was off to the library. The stale coffee she'd downed before the hearing would have to suffice.
"Come on," she said as Emily drew closer. "I've got three cases to pull and Shepardize. You want to talk, you have to help."
"Don't bother." That from Dan Cummings, the
defendant's attorney who had waylaid her not moments before by arguing New York case law not cited in his brief. Hardly binding authority, but definitely persuasive to a court that had yet to rule on a similar issue.
"Nice try, Dan," she said. "But I have this burning desire to fully understand the law cited in my cases."
"Not what I meant." His blue eyes twinkled. If the man hadn't been an attorney, he could have easily worked in Hollywood. Or radio. He had a voice that would make most girls melt.
He opened his briefcase and removed three anorexic printouts, then handed them to her. "I like to win on the merits, not because your eyes fell out reading three dozen New York cases that cite my authority without adding a damn thing to the jurisprudential landscape. It's a policy argument, Sara. And may the best man win." She flipped through the pages and saw that he was true to his word. Dan or his paralegal had Shepardized all the cases, meaning they'd pulled the list of every other written opinion out there in legal-land that cited Dan's authority. And according to the report, none of those cases relied on Dan's New York case law for anything remotely pertaining to this motion.
"Thanks," she said. "This is decent of you."
"I'm a decent guy," he said with a grin. "Remember that the next time I ask you out for coffee."
"I'll keep it in mind," she said, wryly. "Now excuse me while I go figure out how to beat the pants off you when we reconvene."
"Put that way, I'm not sure I'd mind that much."
She grinned. "Keep wishing."
"By the way," he said. "Congratulations. The Stemmons conviction was a hell of a thing. Didn't think anyone could manage to put that son of a bitch away."
"Why Dan," she said. "Your inner prosecutor is showing." He chuckled. "Don't tell anyone." He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder. 25
"Seriously. Congrats."
"Thanks. That means a lot to me." She opened her mouth to say more, then stopped herself, not inclined to reveal tidbits of her personal history to opposing counsel, no matter how nice a guy he might be. But the truth was, in putting away Xavier Stemmons, she'd scored one more victory in the name of her father. The man who had murdered her dad may have walked free on a technicality, but because of Sara, one more murderer was behind bars. And at the end of the day, wasn't that why she'd become a prosecutor? To balance the scales? To put away the monsters?
To find, at the heart of it all, some semblance of justice?
She told none of that to Dan, but something in his face made her think that he understood. "The DA is lucky to have you," he said. "Truly." Sara managed a thank-you as he moved on, and when she met Emily's eyes, her friend was smiling. "What?"
"Not only is he right--that you're kick-ass, I mean--but you have got yourself one very hot man there if you want him."
Sara shifted the strap of her briefcase on her shoulder and headed down the hall, with Emily falling in step beside her. "I don't think Dan is exactly my type." An image of dark hair, a surprisingly sexy scar, and intense amber eyes flashed in her head. No, Dan really wasn't her type at all ...
"No, I guess he's not."
Something in Emily's voice made Sara stop and stare at her friend. "Spill," she said, shifting into cross-examination mode. "What do you think you know?"
"Think? Honey, I have eyewitnesses."
"Is that a fact?"
"From what I hear, your type is tall. At least six foot four. Deeply sexy. And looks beyond hot in jeans and a starched white shirt."
Sara licked her lips. Hot really didn't do the man justice.
"Score one for me," Emily said, not missing a trick. "So come on. I got that far on my own. Tell me the rest."
"Nothing more to tell," Sara said, putting on what her mother used to call her innocent angel face.
"That is such bullshit. My secretary saw you walking down Broadway with him. Actually, hanging all over him, I believe was the way she phrased it to me. And, gee, isn't your condo on Broadway?"
"Objection, Your Honor. Circumstantial evidence."
"I'm your best friend," Emily protested. "And I haven't gotten laid in over four months. Toss me a bone here and share the dirty details." Sara laughed. "Get me drunk one day, and maybe. But my mother taught me that a lady doesn't kiss and tell."
"So there was kissing. Anything else?"
Sara waved the papers. "You gonna help me or not?"
"Can't. I have a hearing in Van Nuys. So I get to brave the traffic on the 101. Color me totally joyful." Emily pointed at the papers. "I don't care if Dan is cute. You kick his butt, you hear?"
"Absolutely."
"And you're not off the hook about the mystery man." 26
"I pretty much figured that out all on my own."
Sara watched Emily disappear down the hallway, then settled on a bench and pulled out Dan's cases. She had just under twenty minutes to study the law, find an opposing argument, and figure out the best way to articulate it. Plenty of time. She was good at thinking on her feet. Always had been. And the law came easy to her, both the advocacy and analytical arms of the beast. She'd spent law school buried in books, arguing the impact of obscure passages with her professors. Hours would pass when she thought of nothing other than Blackacre or Whiteacre or the fruit of the poisonous tree. So why was it that now, when she needed to be back in court in mere minutes, she couldn't even focus on three simple cases?
Luke.
Well, there was a big, fat duh. Of course he was the reason she couldn't focus. He was the reason she'd spent all of yesterday glowing, though everyone around the office assumed her sparkle and pop came from Wednesday's victory in the Stemmons matter. Only Sara had known the truth--that her mind had been more on sex than on the fact that a serial killer was finally behind bars. A sweet victory, yes. But not as sweet as Luke's lips on her breasts.
One day of mooning around was enough, though, and she'd spent the entire morning methodically forcing the man out of her mind so she could concentrate on this hearing. But obviously she still had some serious mind-over-matter issues, because one word from Emily, and every sweet, sexy, erotic moment came rushing back, like an IMAX movie in her mind.
She shivered, the typed words on the page swimming in front of her as she remembered the way he'd pulled her to him in the bar. One moment he was beside her, casually nursing a Scotch. The next moment, she was tasting the Glenfiddich that still clung to his lips.
For an instant, she'd been shocked, her mind screaming at her to pull back and let the bastard feel the sting of her palm against his cheek. But the next moment, all thoughts of retribution faded against the desperate, fervent urge building within her. She wanted him. She'd never met him. Didn't know him. But damned if she didn't have to have him. Right there. Right then.
The power of her need had confused her as much as it had excited her. She wrote it off to alcohol and victory, a potent combination. She'd nailed her first high-profile felony, after all. For months, she'd lived and breathed the law and the evidence, burying herself in blood and horror and the fucked-up brain of a psychopath. A devil. Exactly the kind of criminal who had drawn her to the law in the first place. The kind of man who, since she'd been eight years old, she'd wanted to put behind bars. No, not wanted. Needed.
Was it any wonder that once it was over she wanted to revel in her victory?
Wanted to ease the tension that had built up during the long nights lost in the law and the horrible, gut-wrenching evidence?
Wanted to lose herself in passion and pleasure?
And she had. So help her, she really had.
They'd left the bar before they caused a scene, stumbling arm in arm onto the sidewalk. She'd taken him back to her condo then, not only because it was close, but because she had a doorman. Security cameras. She was in lust, yes, but she wasn't stupid. 27
She wanted him to see that people knew her. That they'd remember him. More than that, she'd wanted some tiny illusion of control. Because the real truth was that every ounce of control had drained away at the moment h
is lips first touched hers, her body responding in a way it never had before.
She was no stranger to sex, but so often lately it had been more of an aerobic workout than a mind-numbing, body-tingling experience. Not so with Luke. Her body had practically glowed under his touch, and she'd wanted more. So much more. And he'd delivered.
They'd stumbled to her condo together, groping, touching, kissing. The heat between them so intense Sara feared she'd melt, and the fact that they arrived at her building without her slamming him against a parked car and demanding he take her right then was a supreme testament to her self-control.
In the elevator, though, all bets were off.
He pulled her close, his erection pressing against her thigh and leaving no doubt that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. His growl of frustration shot straight through her, making her sex tingle. She was wet, so wet, and security cameras be damned, she couldn't wait any longer to feel his hands on her. She'd taken his hand, slid it along her thigh, hiking her skirt up as they went, then pressed his palm over the soft satin of her panties.
He'd made a low noise in his throat, his hand cupping to stroke her, his clever fingers pulling aside the band of her panties, finding her slick and wet. He'd thrust inside her, and she'd come in his hand, her quivering body drawing him in as the orgasm ripped through her, shattering her so that she had no choice but to cling to him or else burst into a thousand pieces.
It had been one hell of a start to a long, sweet night. A night she desperately wanted to repeat. A night that, surprisingly, hadn't been solely about sex. They'd lain together, calm and quiet, and she'd told him about the Stemmons conviction. More than that, she'd told him about the case itself. How it had become personal, almost as if it had been her and Stemmons in the ring, each blow designed to do maximum damage. The words had spilled out, and had she stopped to think about it, she would have been mortified that she was revealing so much to a stranger. Except he hadn't seemed like a stranger. Not then. He'd seemed like Luke, and though she knew it was silly, she felt as though she'd known him forever.