by Paula Graves
How much clearer did he have to make his intentions before she’d stop wishing for things she couldn’t have?
“Never mind.” She turned back toward the window, the mist softening the mountains coming from her eyes rather than the lowering gray sky.
“I wanted to see you.” The admission came out hoarse. Raw.
She blinked, tears spilling over her lower lashes. She brushed them away with her fingertips. “Who was stopping you?”
“I stopped myself. I thought it would be better.”
“For whom?”
There was a long silence, so long she was tempted to turn to look at him. She managed to stay still, to keep looking at the mountains. No more tears fell. She wouldn’t let them.
“For you.” His voice was closer when he finally spoke. Inches away, not feet.
She closed her eyes, wondering how close she would find him if she turned around. Once again, she willed herself to remain still. She’d made her intentions clear during her two-week vigil at the prison. If he regretted turning her away, if he wanted to change his decision, he had to do the work.
She was done.
“I didn’t have that right, did I?” His voice softened until it felt like a caress. “You have a right to make your own choice. It’s not like my track record of decisions is anything to emulate.”
“I liked the decision you made to take a stand against El Cambio,” she admitted. “Would have been nice to know about it a lot sooner, but you can’t have everything.”
“The danger for me isn’t over. Probably won’t be as long as El Cambio exists. They took a hit losing Cabrera and his men, but there are others like him. There will always be others like him.”
“I know. I knew that when I hung around the prison for two weeks hoping you’d be brave enough to talk to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She almost gripped the window sill in order to keep from turning to look at him. “You didn’t come here looking for me. If you hadn’t walked in to find me here, would you be saying any of this?”
“Not this soon, I guess.” He touched her, a light brush of fingertips along the curve of her shoulder. It felt like fire, even through her clothing. She tried not to tremble, but her control over her body went only so far.
His hand closed over her shoulder, the grip almost tight enough to hurt. His voice came out in a raspy half whisper. “I missed you. I thought I wouldn’t, not after a few days. I went so many years without seeing you that I’d almost convinced myself I forgot you. But I never did.” His breath burned against her cheek as he bent to speak in her ear. “I never will. This is probably a terrible idea, and I should probably tell you to run away from me as fast and as far as you can, but I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t want you to go. I want you with me. I missed you so much when I was at McCreary that I thought I’d shatter.”
A shudder of raw need snaked through her, and her resolve crumbled. Whirling to face him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into the curve of his neck, basking in his heat and his strength as he crushed her closer to him. “I missed you, too.”
He kissed her temple, her forehead, and finally her lips. What started as a tender caress caught fire and blazed to an inferno that left her gasping for breath and trembling on the verge of complete surrender.
He tore his mouth from hers, cradling her face between his palms. “This is crazy, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Probably.”
His lips curved. “I find I don’t care.”
She grinned back at him. “I find I don’t, either.”
He kissed her again. She felt his body vibrating with the strain of maintaining control. She wished she had half his self-control, because her helpless response to his touch was embarrassing.
“Did Quinn mention anything about the company policy toward office relationships?” he murmured against her mouth.
She struggled to think. Had Quinn even mentioned any rules? Hell, right now, she wasn’t sure she even remembered who Quinn was. That was how completely rattled she was by Sinclair’s kisses. “I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can quit if he gives us any trouble.” Sinclair kissed her again, tugging her closer.
“My only relationship policy is, don’t bring your dirty laundry to work, no sex on company furniture and don’t let it affect your work.” Quinn’s voice sent a quiver of shock through Ava’s already rattled nerves.
She jerked away from Sinclair and looked at the man standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the door frame. He held a few sheets of paper stapled together in one hand.
Pushing away from the door, he crossed to his desk and set the papers in front of the chair she’d vacated earlier. “Your contract, Ms. Trent. If you still intend to sign it.” Without another word, he left the office, closing the door behind him.
“Do you intend to sign it?” Sinclair reached for her again, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek.
She looked at the papers on the desk, then back at him. “No sex on the company furniture?”
A slow smile curved Sinclair’s beautiful lips. “Does the floor count as furniture?”
She smiled at him, her heart galloping like a thoroughbred in her chest. Brushing her lips against his as she eased herself from his grasp, she crossed to the desk and picked up the papers. Plucking a pen from the holder on Quinn’s desk, she slanted a look at Sinclair over her shoulder. “Eight years ago, about three hours into our acquaintance, I called my mother and told her I thought I’d met the man I was going to love for the rest of my life.”
His dark eyes shined back at her, full of emotion that only underscored the growing certainty that she was making the right decision, not just about the job but the rest of her life. “What did she say to that?”
“She said I should take my time before I jumped into anything.” She clicked the button of the pen and signed the papers, happiness bubbling up in her chest until it erupted in a helpless smile. “I think eight years is enough time, don’t you?”
He crossed the space between them and tugged her into his arms, pressing his forehead to hers. “I do,” he agreed, his mouth brushing hers. “I really do.”
* * * * *
Award-winning author Paula Graves’s new miniseries, THE GATES, is just getting started.
Look for CRYBABY FALLS, on sale next month, wherever Harlequin Intrigue books are sold!
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Chapter One
The clanging of the halyards against the masts of the sailboats docked at the pier echoed across the water, sounding like a death-knell chorus.
“He wants revenge against you for tricking him, and he’s gonna get it if you don’t watch yourself.”
Kacie Manning’s back tingled with the warning, as if someone had already placed a target there. She peered at the man three feet away from her. His face was obscured by a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead and a bandana hiding his mouth and chin.
“Would you be willing to go to the police and tell them what you just told me? He can’t make threats like that from prison.”
The figure hugging the shadows hunched his shoulders. “I’m not getting on his bad side. The man’s a straight-up psychopath. If the warden pays him a visit, Dan’s gonn
a know who talked.”
Kacie hugged herself, dipping her hands into the sleeves of her baggy sweater to ward off the chill of the night...and his words. “How’s Dan going to get the word out on the street? The prison monitors his communication.”
The man whistled between his teeth, and the bandana puffed out from his face. “I thought you knew Daniel Walker. You wrote a book about him, didn’t you?”
“You know that, or we wouldn’t be here.”
“Then you should know what he’s capable of, Kacie. He ain’t just a psycho. He’s a crafty psycho.”
Goose bumps raced across her flesh, and she rubbed her arms. This ex-con obviously knew Daniel Walker well. Not everyone did—his own family sure hadn’t. “Did he actually confess to the murders?”
“No way.” He scratched at his chin beneath the bandana. “He’s too smart for that. He still wants to keep on pretending. He started talking to me about karma one day before my parole. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but then he explained it’s like revenge, comeuppance. And he told me you were gonna get yours.”
“Why are you telling me this? Why are you warning me?”
“I dunno.” He shuffled a step closer, careful to keep his face in the darkness. “You’re a pretty little gal, Kacie. I saw you once or twice when you came to the big house to interview Walker.”
She tried to swallow, but her dry throat wouldn’t allow it.
He’d seen her at Walla Walla? Maybe Walker had sent him to take care of his business. She shuffled back a few steps. “That still doesn’t explain why you’d risk Walker’s anger to warn me.”
“You remind me of my sister a little bit.” His eyes glittered in the dark. “Besides, I ain’t risking nothing. It’s not like you’re going to go running to Walker telling him someone from the state pen warned you about him, right?”
“Of course not.”
A squeaking noise to her right made her grit her teeth. She jerked her head to the side and spotted a shopping cart rumbling around the corner, with a ramshackle man in rags steering it.
The parolee across from her swore and spit from beneath his bandana.
The homeless man trundled toward them, one wheel of his cart squealing and wobbling over the cement walkway.
Kacie held her breath as he drew next to them.
“Can you spare some change?” His hand was already protruding from the dirt-encrusted sleeve of his jacket.
Her informant had ducked back into the shadows, but his voice lashed out at the transient from the anonymity of the darkness. “Move it along, buddy.”
The homeless man must’ve heard something in the other man’s voice because he thrust his cart in front of him and picked up his ambling pace without a word or backward glance.
The transient had enough street smarts to recognize a dangerous man when he heard one. What was her problem? Could she even trust an ex-con wearing a bandana across his lower face?
She scooped in a breath of salty air. “Like I was saying, I have no reason to tell Walker anything.”
“You sure he didn’t charm the pants off you? Make you wet?” The man chuckled low in his throat.
Kacie clenched her jaw where a muscle jumped wildly. He was just trying to make her uncomfortable, push her buttons.
She snorted. “Did you read my book?”
“I don’t read no books, but I heard about it. You tried and convicted the guy all over again and kicked him for good measure.”
“Then you should know his smooth talk didn’t work on me.”
“You’re a good actress, Kacie.”
She flinched. She wished he’d stop using her name. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances.
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cuz Walker thought he had you eating out of the palm of his hand during all those interviews you two did together.”
“Oh well.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“That’s why he was so pissed off. It’s not just that you wrote a book that made him look bad. It’s that he thought he had you.”
“He thought wrong.” And she’d done nothing in the interviews that would’ve made him think otherwise. She’d come into the project suspecting an innocent man had been convicted of murdering his wife and children. Several interviews later, she knew she was dealing with a sociopath, a guilty sociopath.
“Yeah, he had you all wrong.” He adjusted his cap with a hand sporting a tattoo of a cross on the back. “That’s why he wants to kill you.”
The wind whistled in from across the bay and blew right through her. She huddled into her sweater further. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She dug into her pocket for a hundred-dollar bill, creased it and held it out to him.
Stepping back, he sucked in a breath. “I ain’t no snitch. I didn’t tell you for money.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She crumpled the bill in her fist and shoved it back in her pocket. “I appreciate the warning, that’s all.”
“Sure, sure. I told you. You remind me of my sister.”
He pivoted, melting into the shadow of the building.
Kacie took one step away and cranked her head over her shoulder. “What were you in for?”
The voice came from the darkness like disembodied evil. “Killing my sister.”
Kacie’s hand flew to her mouth and she stumbled toward the weak light spilling from the ticket booth for the submarine. Her heart hammered so hard she wouldn’t have been able to hear footsteps even if they were coming straight toward her.
This time she didn’t care if she gave him the satisfaction of knowing he’d shocked her.... He had. She broke into a jog, heading for the lights at the more popular end of the wharf—not that teeming crowds met her here, either. Late on a Sunday night, Fisherman’s Wharf wasn’t exactly crackling with tourists and street performers. The fishermen had hauled in their catches many hours before and would be ready to go out in a few more. The hipsters and club hoppers were ducking in and out of bars in other areas of the city—other areas where the air didn’t reek of fish and resound with the clanging of masts.
Her footsteps carried her past the darkened and shuttered restaurants, past the homeless people huddled on benches or in doorways. She kept glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see the masked face of the sister-killing parolee. He’d probably just been trying to yank her chain. Was there anyone in prison who didn’t lie?
If San Francisco were the type of city where you could hail a taxi on the street, she’d do it. No point in standing on a dark corner placing a call and waiting for one to show up.
Her legs moved faster. A few die-hard T-shirt shops still hoped for the odd tourist on a late-night souvenir run. The lights spilling from their windows tempered her pulse rate.
When she hit the street that led to her hotel, her breathing almost returned to normal.
A hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf wouldn’t have been her first choice, but Ryan Brody was staying there, so it was good enough for her.
He had at least two brothers living in the city, so she couldn’t figure out why he didn’t stay with one of them. Maybe there was a rift in the family.
Her lips stretched into a humorless smile. If that was the case, it couldn’t happen to a better bunch.
Brody. The name filled her with unspeakable rage.
Kacie let out a pent-up breath as she hiked up the sidewalk to her hotel. A few more people, other than the transients who owned the night, crisscrossed the street and wandered into the shops still selling their wares.
Kacie greeted the bellhop as she stepped through the doors of the hotel. “Is the hotel pool still open?”
“It’s open twenty-four hours, ma’am.”
“Thanks.”
When she got to her room, she fired up her laptop. She planned to find out the identity of her talkative ex-con. As the computer booted up, she shed her clothes and wriggled into a bikini. Then she grabbed the hotel-issued terry-clo
th robe and threw it over the back of a chair.
She leaned over the laptop, her hands hovering above the keyboard. What was the murder of a sister called? Fratricide? Or was it something different for a sister?
She tapped the keyboard. He’d been imprisoned at Walla Walla, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d committed his crime in Washington.
She twisted her stiff neck from side to side and then shoved the computer away. She could do this the next morning before she met with Ryan Brody. Right now, she needed a little relaxation.
She slipped her arms into the robe and knotted the sash around her waist. Twisting her hair around her hand, she headed for the bathroom. Her toiletry bag hung on a hook on the back of the door, and she dug inside one of the pockets until her fingers tripped across a hair clasp.
She secured her hair, dropped her key card in her pocket and pulled her door securely closed behind her.
The vacant indoor pool beckoned. She shrugged out of the robe and draped it over a chair. She jerked her head toward some splashing coming from the hot tub. Three teenage boys rose from the bubbling water in unison, steam floating off their bodies.
They better not be heading toward the pool. She sat on the edge and lowered herself into the lukewarm water. She kicked off the wall, and the water enveloped her as she sliced through it, her arms windmilling and her flutter kick just breaking the surface.
In, out, in, out. Her regulated breathing calmed her and cleared her brain of all the ugliness she dealt with on a daily basis—all the ugliness yet to come.
She finished her laps and, placing her hands flat on the deck, hoisted herself out of the pool.
One glance at the hot tub and a trail of water leading to the door told her the boys had left. She made a beeline for the sauna. She pulled one of the heavy doors open and poked her head inside where the dry heat blasted her. It was blissfully empty inside. She spread her towel out on one of the wooden benches and stretched out on her back, crossing her arms beneath her head.