Sonny trudged up the steps to her apartment, in dire need of a long, hot shower. James’ words had made an indelible impression on her, and the ugly crime scene had left her feeling as though an invisible film of smut coated her entire body.
Like most little girls without daddies, Sonora Vasquez had grown up believing her father was a grand champion, a golden hero, or a fairy tale prince.
Practicality came with age, but as a child, she’d often used fantasy as an escape. Later she would realize that her father was probably like the rest of Anita’s loser boyfriends, a drug addict, an alcoholic, or a criminal. Even so, she’d imagined dozens of more palatable scenarios. Sometimes she dreamed he was a handsome Naval officer who’d never been aware of his daughter’s existence. Other times, she would pretend he was a firefighter, an international businessman, or a jet pilot.
To be confronted with the monster who’d been her biological father was difficult. To be forced to explain his deviancies to strangers, to have participated in them-that was horrific. Sonny’s heart ached for James, for the years he’d suffered under Arlen’s rule.
There was probably no hope of salvaging any kind of relationship with either of her half-brothers or with Ben. She’d met them under false pretenses, had lied to, manipulated, and used them to suit her purposes.
Sonny felt as though she’d been robbed of the brothers she’d never known, the father she’d rather not have known, and the man she’d never known she wanted, all in one fell swoop.
Not only that, her career, the stronghold of her world, was on the rocks. She’d wanted to work for the FBI her entire life. In her favorite fantasy, her father had been a secret agent. Leland Grant had filled that missing piece of her heart quite nicely.
It would be a shame if she had to turn in her resignation when this assignment wrapped.
She put the key in the lock and opened the door, discarding items of clothing in her usual haphazard fashion as she made her way to the bedroom, removing her gun holster once she was there and placing it in her underwear drawer.
She stayed in the shower too long, plagued by recollections of the day and memories from the past. She felt Ben’s strong hands on her body and Grant’s disappointed gaze on her face, Mitchell’s knuckles grazing her cheek and her stepfather’s sweaty palm covering her mouth.
No amount of water could wash away her shame.
After she dried off, she dragged on her oldest pair of sweats and curled up in the dark atop the bed, exhausted, knowing sleep was beyond her reach. When the doorbell rang, she sat up and stared into the hallway, listening to the sound of traffic on the busy street below her living room window and watching shadows move across the wall.
She got up and walked to the door without thinking, without blinking, without turning on any interior lights.
Of course it was Ben. Grant would have called first.
“Come in,” she murmured, making a shaky gesture with one hand.
He stepped inside and she closed the door behind him. They stood there in the stifling near-dark, neither of them saying a word.
“Wait here,” she said, leaving him standing there. In the bedroom, she flipped on the light switch and threw open her underwear drawer. There among bits of cotton and lace, the leather of her shoulder holster, and a deadly glint of steel, she found the only piece of jewelry ever given to her by a man. Clutching it to her chest, she returned to the living room, back to Ben.
Taking him by the hand, she placed the necklace in the middle of his upturned palm.
“I didn’t come for this,” he said, jerking his hand away as soon as he realized what she was doing. In the muted light coming in from the doorway, he looked much the same as the first time she’d seen him: disturbingly handsome and irresistibly troubled, the wounded soul every woman longed to heal.
“Keep it,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
After a moment’s hesitation, he shoved the necklace into the front pocket of his jeans. “I guess I’m lucky it hasn’t turned up at a crime scene with my fingerprints on it.”
Considering the events of the past day, the accusation rocked her back on her heels. “Are you implying that I’ve planted evidence?”
“Of course not,” he said, his eyes hard. “You’d never do anything unethical.”
The sarcasm was impossible to miss. She’d anticipated his anger, but she hadn’t expected his words to hurt so much. “I didn’t put Lisette’s hair in your bed, Ben.”
“No,” he agreed. “You did a lot of other things in my bed.”
So that’s how it was going to be. Fine. She clamped her mouth shut, determined to let him have his say. Sonny knew he hadn’t come here to profess his undying love, and she could take whatever insults he dished out.
“You were watching me from the beginning, weren’t you? You’d been following me. And Carly.”
She stared down at her bare feet, refusing to look at him.
“You stood by while my daughter threw herself into the ocean. She could have drowned.”
Her head shot up. “I didn’t know what she was doing until it was too late to stop her. I risked my life-”
“You needed an in,” he fired back. “You used her to get to me.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not why I went in after her.”
“Every move you made was calculated,” he countered. “You knew I’d be more interested if you played hard to get. After so many years of surf groupies throwing themselves at me, you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist your ‘don’t touch me there’ act. Somehow you knew I’d love it if you pretended you were afraid to fuck.”
“Ben-”
“Why were you watching me?” he interrupted, refusing to listen to any excuses. “How could I have been a suspect before Lisette went missing?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Darrius O’Shea left a suicide note recanting his confession. The details weren’t made available to the press.”
Shock and pain flashed in his eyes as he processed that information. Being a suspect in Lisette’s murder was bad, but being accused of killing his own wife was the ultimate insult. “I should have known what you were up to when you asked about Olivia,” he said in a low growl. “You weren’t jealous, or curious, or concerned. You weren’t mad about what happened with Lisette. You were just investigating.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Was everything you said a lie?”
It wasn’t easy, but she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Yes.”
His face darkened with fury. “I guess that figures. For a woman who’s terrified of cock, you couldn’t seem to get enough of mine.”
Resentment burned through her, heating her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ben. Getting close to you was part of my job.”
He dropped his gaze to her lips. “Yeah, and you’re so good at what you do. Did Grant get off on hearing about your undercover activities? I’ll bet you gave him a blow by blow.”
She drew back her arm and slapped him across the face. It was an instinctual act, pure fury, no fear, worlds apart from the times she’d lashed out at him before.
It still packed enough heat to snap his head to the side.
He touched his hand to his cheek then looked at his fingertips, almost as if he expected to see blood there. “What’s the matter, Summer? I thought you liked being a federal whore.”
“Sonny,” she whispered, her palm stinging from the impact.
He looked around the dark room in confusion.
“My real name isn’t Summer,” she explained. “It’s Sonny.”
For some reason, that admission drove him over the edge. In an unconscious imitation of the first time he tried to kiss her, he came forward, framing her chin with his hand and trapping her body against the wall. “I don’t give a damn what your real name is. Do you think I’d believe anything that comes out of your lying mouth?”
The instant he said “mouth,” she became aware of his hot gaze fo
cused there, his large hand cupping her chin, his thumb pressing into her cheek. His body was hard and unyielding against hers, his chest rising and falling with every furious breath.
This time, it was he who closed the distance between them, lowering his mouth to hers. His kiss was rough and angry, meant to punish, not to please, but she welcomed it. She relished it. Slipping her arms around his neck and her tongue into his mouth, she moaned, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and begging for more.
Groaning, he moved his hands down to her bottom and lifted her up, fitting his erection into the notch of her thighs and pressing her back to the wall. She gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist as he plundered her mouth, kissing her hotly, hungrily, endlessly, possessing her so thoroughly she wanted to weep with pleasure.
It was too much and not enough. She tilted her hips forward, stroking herself along the ridge of his erection. Between her legs, she was already hot and swollen, pulsing with sensation. He shoved his hands into her sweatpants, making a low growl of satisfaction when he found her naked bottom.
They were both wearing too many clothes. He stripped off her sweats, baring her from the waist down, and she tugged at his T-shirt, seeking heat against heat, skin against skin.
He tore his mouth from hers to yank his shirt over his head. “Tell me now if you don’t want this.”
In response, she removed her sweatshirt and tossed it aside.
His gaze raked over her nude form, lingered on the points of her breasts and the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. When he moistened his lips, she had to stifle the urge to put her hand between her legs, not to cover herself but to ease her ache.
Swallowing visibly, he jerked the buttons from the holes at the fly of his jeans, freeing his straining erection. While she watched, breathless with anticipation, he took a condom from his pocket and sheathed himself quickly.
“Tell me to stop,” he warned, positioning her against the wall again.
“No,” she said, all but begging him to come into her.
Still he waited, letting her feel the blunt tip of his erection at the cleft of her sex. “What do you want?”
She wrapped her legs around him. “You. In me.”
Stalling no more, he plunged forward, slamming her back into the wall and impaling her on his thick, hard length. She was so wet he penetrated her easily, burying himself deep. With a strangled groan, he slid his hand over her bottom, touching the place their bodies were joined, tracing her with his fingertips.
“You feel so…” He sucked in a sharp breath and gritted his teeth, biting back the words he wanted to say. Moving his hands to her hips, he held her in place for his thrusts, withdrawing as far as he dared and driving back into her, rocking her against the wall, filling her so completely she thought she’d never be empty again.
Why did he have to be so amazing? With Ben, even a fast bang against the wall was a transcendent experience. It should have been hard and angry and impersonal. It wasn’t. He was hard, all right, but sometime after they’d started kissing, he’d stopped being so angry, and the way he touched her was far from impersonal.
He paused, pinning her to the wall with the weight of his body and splaying his hands over her rib cage, framing her breasts. His roughened breath fanned her throat, sending shivers down her spine, and her nipples tingled with awareness.
The light coming in from the doorway fell upon both of them dispassionately, but the distorted glow from the street below her apartment painted streaks of color across her naked torso. Red hot brake lights washed over her skin.
She squirmed and tightened her legs around him, urging him on, so he dipped his head low and took the tip of her breast into his mouth, tugging gently. When she cried out, he picked up the rhythm, thrusting hard, his hands on her hips and his mouth on her breasts, assaulting her with the most exquisite friction and hot, delicious suction.
She was close, so close, but just before she exploded, he slowed, lifting his mouth from her breasts and tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue. “Are you going to tell me you love me again when you come?”
At first, the meaning of his words failed to register. She was so filled with him, caught up in sensation, teetering on the edge of climax, that she almost nodded, going along with anything he said. Love. Come. Yes.
Wait…what?
Her eyes flew open. His face was a handsome mask, devoid of emotion. Clearly, he was still angry with her, and intent on taking a measure of revenge by proving his mastery over her body. “You bastard,” she panted. “I was faking.”
He slid his hand between them, strumming his fingertips over her clitoris. “Like you’re faking now?”
“Yes,” she moaned, throwing her head back and biting down on her bottom lip, refusing to cry out his name as the orgasm rocketed through her. She gripped his shoulders, making crescents with her fingernails and feeling her inner muscles convulse around him as she came and came and came.
She was vaguely aware of him coming, too, pumping his hips and grinding into her, seeking the deepest possible penetration on his last, most powerful thrust. Then it was over, and he withdrew from her abruptly. Letting her slide down the wall, he stumbled away from her to dispose of the condom before she was steady on her feet.
Like a wet rag, she sank to the carpet amidst their discarded clothes.
He came back from the bathroom with his pants buttoned and his expression flat, appearing as cool and unruffled as if he’d just been discussing the weather forecast instead of fucking her against the wall.
Picking up his T-shirt and pulling it over his head, he said, “Give Grant my best,” as he walked out the door.
CHAPTER 18
When Ben got home, Carly and James were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch TV. If Carly’s hair hadn’t been mussed and James didn’t have a pillow over his lap, Ben still wouldn’t have bought it.
“Say good night, Carly,” he said on his way to the den.
“That’s what I was doing, Dad.”
“Do it with words this time.”
The den was a large room beyond the kitchen, in a dark, seldom-visited corner of the house. It was a miscellaneous space, part office, part storage room. Carly sometimes used the desk and computer for school projects, but she preferred her laptop and the comfort of her own room. The den also housed a collection of surfboards, trophies, and memorabilia. There were too many magazine articles and photo spreads to display, but Ben had framed a few classics, some of the most reckless moments of his life, caught forever, like death wishes frozen in time.
For all of those reasons, and more, the room was rarely used.
Nathan turned from the computer as Ben walked in. “Find out anything?”
Ben muttered a noncommittal reply and sank into the only other chair in the room, a black leather chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a psychiatrist’s office.
“Did she let you in?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Groaning, Ben lay back and threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes.
“You just had sex with her, didn’t you?” Nathan’s tone was scolding, and saturated with prurient interest. “How was it?”
Ben lifted his arm and quirked a puzzled brow.
“What?” Nathan asked innocently. “I’m gay, not dead.”
“I know,” he said, leaning back again. “It’s just that you’ve never asked about stuff like that before.”
Nathan pursed his lips together. “I wasn’t curious about the bimbos you couldn’t seem to get enough of in the nineties. And Olivia was your wife, so that was sort of off-limits, as far as casual discussion was concerned. But this is different. Special Agent Vasquez is pure intrigue.”
“Not anymore,” Ben lied.
“So dish details,” Nathan prodded, not believing him for a moment. “Did she handcuff you to the headboard?”
Ben gave him a wry smile. “You have a wild imagination.”
“And you are ruining my tawdry perception of heterosexual relations,” Nathan complained, smiling in return.
“No handcuffs,” he said shortly, “but it was good.” After finding out she’d been playing him from the beginning, Ben would have said she was as cold as ice. What they’d just done together proved the opposite was true.
If she’d been any hotter, they’d both have gone up in flames.
“What did you find out?” Ben asked, changing the subject.
Nathan turned to face the computer. “Ms. Vasquez has been on the FBI payroll for the past five years. She earned a degree in Criminal Justice and has attended the San Diego Police Academy, as well as the FBI Academy in Virginia.”
Ben grunted, unsurprised to discover that she was well educated and expertly trained.
“You know that other name you gave me, Everett Moore?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t exist, right?”
“Wrong. I had to bypass a few firewalls, but I found him in a criminal informational database for LA County Jail. About ten years ago he was doing time for rape. The underage victim is unlisted, of course.”
Ben felt a strange hollowness spread through his chest.
“He was stabbed to death by a guy named Rodrigo Garcia.”
“Garcia. Not Vasquez.”
Nathan nodded. “I poked around in his file, too. Garcia is a model inmate at Santee Lakes Correctional Facility. His father is deceased, some Mexican national named Ramón Garcia, but his mother lives in East San Diego. Her name is Anita Vasquez.”
Ben closed his eyes, hating her for lying to him about some things and telling the truth about others.
“Rodrigo Garcia has one sister, six years his junior. Sonora Mariela Vasquez.”
“Sonny,” he murmured, tasting the name on his lips.
Nathan turned to face him. “Hmm?”
“She goes by Sonny.”
His brother gaped at him incredulously. “You’re in love with her.”
“Please,” he scoffed, refusing to entertain such a ridiculous notion.
Crash Into Me Page 23