Shattered Vows

by Maggie Price

  “Even though the professor was a no-show, I’d say the poker game was a success.” She smiled while he reholstered the Glock. “We found out he has a girlfriend, Kandy, who works at Chappell’s. And that he hangs out there.”

  “You got that information, Tory. All on your own.”

  The edge in his voice had her looking up from unbuttoning her coat. He had moved from the door and now stood only inches away. She was used to the way he watched her, but this was different. Deeper and intense. Much the same way he’d gazed at her while he sat across the poker table from her.

  She slid off her coat, folded it over one arm. “I guess our next order of business is a visit to Chappell’s. I’ll go change clothes and we can start working on a plan.”

  As she turned, he shifted, blocking her. “That’s second on the agenda.”

  The softening of his tone had her hesitating. “Even though the club is the only lead we’ve got to finding Heath?”

  “Even though,” he said, stepping closer.

  The scent of his intensely masculine aftershave had whispers of awareness stirring her senses. “I can’t imagine what would be more important than that.”

  He settled his hands on her shoulders. “I wanted to tell you what I think about that dress.”

  Just like that, the flame that had never been quite extinguished between them flared. Standing motionless, she felt her heart hitch while his gaze skimmed down to her toes, then up.

  “Bran—”

  “I’ve had my hands on every inch of you,” he murmured. “Still, I’m not sure I knew you were built like that.”

  She saw the desire in his intense blue eyes, felt the raw echo of it sound through her.

  “Uh…Carrie and I decided a man-eater dress would help coax more information out of the male poker players than a flannel shirt and baggy jeans.”

  “Man-eater.” He lifted a hand to stroke the dark wig. “It worked. You got a response from every male in the room. Including me. This,” he traced a finger over the little fake mole beside her mouth, “has been driving me crazy all night.”

  Her pulse stuttered, began to race. “It’s not real. You know that.”

  “Doesn’t seem to matter.” He ran his knuckles down her cheek. “Nothing seems to matter but my getting my hands on you.”

  How easily his voice took on an intimate tone, she thought, feeling her blood pound as need sprang free inside her, primal and raw. She knew she should move. Should shrug off his touch. But she didn’t. Couldn’t, not while the brush of his hands sent waves of anticipation straight to her core.

  “Every man in that suite was thinking about taking you to bed. About what he’d do to you after he got you there. About how it would feel to have you move beneath him in the dark. To make love to you.” He lowered his mouth toward hers, inch by inch. “I didn’t have to imagine.” His breath feathered across her skin. “I know.”

  “That’s…in the past.”

  He traced his lips over her jaw, knowing just where to make her tremble. “The future, too.”

  A deep, depthless yearning slashed its way into her heart despite the locks she’d placed there. The coat slid off her arm to the floor. “This isn’t a good idea,” she said, even as her hands gripped his shoulders for balance. The feel of his lips skimming across her flesh sent everything inside her into a mindless rush—her heart, her blood, her head. “It’s not smart.”

  “I don’t give a damn about smart.” His mouth seared a heated path down her neck to her shoulder. “Do you?”

  Her throat had gone dry and she couldn’t seem to order herself to breathe. “I…don’t know…what I give a damn about. I can’t think. I need time to think.”

  “Feel.” He dragged her closer, pressing his arousal against her belly. “Just feel.”

  When his mouth closed over hers, heat speared upward, spreading like wildfire as teeth scraped, tongues touched. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she arched against him, reveling in the feel of his lean, athletic body, straining center to center, core to core with hers.

  It seemed that everything around her went dim, colors blurred and the world went out of focus. Like some fatal drug, his taste had her pulse pounding, her blood churning fast and her mind spinning away from the last vestiges of sanity.

  His hands streaked up her ribs, the heels pressing the sides of her breasts until she wanted to scream for his full possession.

  He feasted on her mouth, her throat while he tugged at the low, snug bodice.

  The glittery red material slithered off one shoulder and down her arm. Desire clawed at her as his fingers slid beneath the low, silky black bra to knead, torment her already aching nipple.

  His mouth returned to hers, coaxing, enticing and relentless.

  She couldn’t breathe for wanting this. For wanting him.

  That wanting surrounded her like a thick fog, closing in on her. Trapping her. In the next heartbeat she realized she had no control over the raging need. The incinerating desire. No control over anything.

  The sliver of panic jabbing through her belly had her tearing her mouth from his. She fought for air, for some remnant of sanity. For a way to protect her heart that yearned, yet found it impossible to fully blank out the past hurt. So much hurt.

  “If…we do this…it’s just sex,” she managed. Hearing the breathy weakness in her voice, she fought to strengthen it. “Nothing more.”

  He went still, lifted his head. “It would be more,” he said, his eyes glinting down at her with heat, hunger and need. “A hell of a lot more. You know that.”

  “I don’t want it to be more,” she countered, even as her body strained and vibrated against his like a plucked string. “You left. Walked away.”

  “I walked,” he agreed. “And for three months I thought that was what I wanted. To give you up. Put an end to things.” He slid his hand from her breast, wrapped his arm around her waist. “That kiss the other night told me I was wrong. Tonight only confirms that.” His other hand cupped the side of her throat, and she knew he felt her pulse pounding against his palm. “What’s between us isn’t over. You know that. You feel it.”

  She stiffened her spine and met his gaze head-on while she struggled to cling to the fine edge of reason. “How I feel doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t.”

  Pushing out of his embrace she stepped back, giving herself time to take a steadying breath. Then another. “Being with you can’t be anything more for me than just sex. I won’t let it be more. It’ll just be two people scratching a particular itch.”

  His eyes darkened and she could almost feel the fury, the hurt, her words sparked inside him. “There’s a hell of a lot more between us than just scratching itches.”

  “A lot of hurt and pain, at least for me,” she said, feeling more control now that he was no longer touching her. “Right now, while your blood’s running hot, you don’t want to think about the problems that drove you away. It’s easier to remember what we do to each other in bed.”

  “I’m remembering a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “Not the arguments. Or our differences of opinion that had us debating almost every subject. Try thinking back to all that.”

  “Dammit, I’m remembering how it sliced me apart to leave. How it felt when you almost got killed and I realized how close I’d come to losing you forever.”

  She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn’t let herself lower her defenses. It would hurt too much if he decided to walk away again. She wasn’t willing to risk her heart twice.

  “You have lost me, Bran.”

  His mouth thinned as he took a step toward her. “That’s hardly the message I just got from you.”

  “What you got was all physical. Lust and heat. You touch me, and my mind goes blank. I can’t think. Can barely breathe. It’s always been that way for me.” She flexed her fingers, curled them into her palms. She felt like a jumble of nerve ends and sparks. “I’m not sure I’ll ever s
top wanting you in that way.”

  “But only in bed? That’s all the feelings you have for me now?”

  She slicked her tongue over her swollen lips and tasted him all over again. Her emotions, worn thin over the past months, were now reeling. In truth, she had no idea how she felt. All she knew was she had to protect her heart.

  “We’re not living in this house together because of how we feel about each other,” she said, evading his question. “The facts are, I trust you to find Heath and take him down. Until then, I’ll trust you with my safety. But nowhere else. I watched you walk away once. That was enough pain to last a lifetime. I won’t ever trust you enough not to do that again.”

  “I was hurting too, Tory. I wanted a wife who would turn to me. Need me.”

  “You wanted another Patience. That’s not me. I handle on my own whatever comes along. That’s what I do. I have to handle things because—”

  “—you don’t want to be like your mother,” he finished.

  “I can’t be like her. Ever.” She stared into his eyes that had darkened to the hue of a stormy sea and felt regret knot in the pit of her stomach. And because that regret reached up to her heart, she cupped her palm against his cheek. “This just goes to prove what a lousy match we make.”

  Muttering a curse, he strode to the window, shoved back the curtain and stared into the night. The rigid set of his shoulders bespoke the tension inside him, like a live wire dancing with dangerous electricity.

  With an unsteady hand, she retrieved her coat from the floor. When she straightened, he turned, his face now as calm as carved stone.

  “Speaking from experience, if we’d had sex tonight, I’m sure it would have been great.” He raised a shoulder. “But you made your point, sweetheart. And I’m suddenly out of the mood to scratch that itch.”

  She winced inwardly at his words, but said nothing. After all, he was just tossing back what she’d said to him.

  He slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Turns out you were right.”

  “About?”

  “The first thing on our agenda should have been planning a trip to Chappell’s.” His voice held the brusque precision of a cop reporting an official incident. “How about you go put on something a little…warmer, then meet me in the kitchen? We’ll talk there.”

  “Fine.” All business, she thought as she turned. Her fingers clenched on the coat. It was harder, much harder than she ever had thought possible to fight the need for him.

  Still, she forced herself to walk away on trembling legs. Because they had such diverse basic needs—and no future together—it would be best for both of them, and far less painful, to keep things all business.

  From the way she had responded to his touch, his kiss, she wasn’t sure how long she could do that.

  Chapter 10

  The following night Bran swung open the door of Chappell’s and followed Tory inside. The club was dimly lit with a sharp wash of blue light illuminating a small stage where several musicians were in the process of setting up. Round wood-topped tables rimmed the edge of a crescent-shaped dance floor. Thickly upholstered booths lined the walls.

  An island bar dominated the middle of the room; the illuminated, mirrored column that stabbed through its center looked like a glistening icicle. Around the bar sat long-legged stools, most occupied. Bran noted that the customers’ dress ran the gamut from work shirts and jeans to dark suits and ties. Chappell’s clearly drew a cultural mix, from blue-collar workers to businessmen to yuppie-looking couples in date-mode.

  With any luck, one of tonight’s customers was a man known as the professor. Considering the club’s dim, hazy light, he figured they’d have to get close in order to spot the crow tattooed on the web of the man’s right hand.

  He purposely stayed a few steps behind Tory while they edged their way past tables, booths and milling customers. Several waitresses were in view, but none matched the description Danny had given of the professor’s girlfriend, Kandy. Bran’s discreet check of the club’s employees had pegged her real name as Kandace Krutchfield.

  When he came abreast of the booth where Nate sat, flirting with a slim-faced woman whose blond mane spilled over her shoulders, he kept his expression unreadable. Nate’s “date” was C.O. Jones, a sergeant assigned to the department’s Intel Unit. If they did spot the professor tonight, Nate and C.O. planned to tail the man when he left the club.

  Although Bran would prefer pulling the professor in for questioning, he knew now wasn’t the right time. Just because the guy and Heath had identical tattoos didn’t prove they knew each other. If the cops questioned the professor and had no charge to hold him on, chances were he’d go underground, and their one possible lead to Heath would drop off the radar screen, just as the bastard’s girlfriend, Leah Quest, had done after she strolled out of that department-store dressing room in disguise.

  A few steps ahead of him, Tory continued threading her way toward the bar while slipping off her cropped fox jacket. The sensuality in her movements had him thinking of full moons and sultry sex. At the edge of his vision he saw several men look her way. As she had the previous night at the poker game, she wore a disguise. A different one.

  Tonight’s wig was once more black, but short and spiky, making her eyes seem huge and her cheekbones sculpted. Her miniskirt was the color of India ink with a slit that soared up one endless thigh. Chandelier earrings dusted the shoulders of a tight scoop-neck black tank top that outlined the trim curve of her breasts and showed enough cleavage to get a man’s blood stirring. Her wide, full mouth was painted blood-lust red.

  After hanging her jacket on the back of one of the long-legged bar stools, she slid onto its padded seat. The black skirt hitched up her thighs. One more inch, he thought dourly, and he could haul her in on an indecent exposure charge.

  While she snagged her compact out of the jacket’s pocket, he pulled off his coat, settled on the stool beside hers and ordered drinks from a harried bartender. Snagging a pretzel from a bowl, he shifted his gaze to the lighted mirrored column in the bar’s center and did a double-take at his own reflection. He doubted he would ever get used to seeing himself in the fake beard and mustache that made his face seem thinner. Almost hollow.

  The mirror beamed back the images of several male patrons sitting behind him who still had their eyes glued to Tory. He was determined to keep his mind and his eyes on the people around them. Hoped to spot a certain blond waitress and her boyfriend.

  Bran figured keeping his attention on the case ensured he would avoid a replay of last night when his blood had burned for the woman perched on the stool beside his. Burned so hotly that he’d had to get his hands on her.

  And when he did, what a kick in the ego that had been. To have his wife tell him she wanted him only for bouts of hot-blooded sex. That she didn’t trust him. Would never again trust him.

  He wished he could blame Tory for twisting the knife so expertly, but she’d been right. He had solemnly vowed to take her for better, for worse. Instead, when the going got rocky he’d walked. Now she had no reason to believe in him. Would never trust him with her heart again. Without that, their marriage didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. And that, he thought, was that.

  After her pronouncement he had managed to block the need for her that had boiled inside him while they sat in the kitchen and planned this visit to Chappell’s. But later that need had surfaced when he’d heard the muted sounds of her getting ready for bed in the room adjoining his. And again in the middle of the night when he’d awakened to the safe house’s deep silence, thinking of her, imagining her beside him. Wanting her.

  And over time that wanting had heated his temper to a white-hot fury. Dammit, if Tory’s claim was on-target that they’d based everything between them on sex, why was he so seriously ticked off? At her. At himself. At their entire damn situation.

  The bartender delivered the two Scotches Bran had ordered.

  He dug a bill out of the pocket of
his slacks, tossed it on the bar, then waved the guy a signal to keep the change.

  Tory checked her reflection in the compact’s mirror, then snapped it shut. “Light’s too dim near the bar to get a good picture,” she said under her breath.

  “Just our luck.”

  She raised her glass, angled it toward him. “How about a toast?”

  “Sure.” Picking up his glass, he shifted on his stool to face her. His gaze moved to the edge of her mouth where she’d again affixed the sassy little fake mole. His fingers tightened on his glass. Had she included the beauty mark in tonight’s ensemble because he’d told her it had driven him crazy?

  Well, he had news. He wasn’t going to let the fake mole get to him again. He wasn’t going to let her get to him. From now on he would do his damnedest to keep his emotions in check. Shove his feelings—whatever the hell they were—for his estranged wife to some remote corner inside him. He would get his personal life sorted out after they took down Heath.

  He touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to quick endings,” he said, just as the musicians began a sound check. The shadow that passed over her eyes registered in his brain at the same instant a blond waitress appeared out of a door beside the stage.

  His gaze flicked to the tall, dark-haired man behind her. Mentally, he ran through the description Danny had given of the professor, and decided they had a match.

  With adrenaline charging his system, he glanced at Tory. The edge that had settled in her eyes told him she’d also spotted the couple.

  Leaning in, he helped himself to another pretzel. “That’s got to be Kandy,” he murmured against Tory’s ear. Damning the straight-up-sexy-scent of her that invaded his lungs, he added, “The guy behind her fits Danny’s description of the professor.”

  Tory gave him a slow smile as if he’d whispered something suggestive. “To a T.”