Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  I’m not sure what he means. “It’s a court order. I would expect a judge to have signed it.”

  “In Charleston County, restraining orders are normally issued by magistrates and usually only after two incidences of harassment. Have you visited Sorlin before?” I shake my head. “Contacted him?”

  “No. I just showed up.”

  “Whoever sought the order had access, otherwise it’s unlikely they would have ever gotten near a judge. How did you know what room he was in?”

  “Lucinda. They’re old friends and she brings him lunch a couple times a month. She gave me his room number when she suggested I pay him a visit.”

  “When was that?”

  “More than a week ago.”

  “Did she know you went to see him today?”

  “No. She was off today and had left yesterday by the time I decided to go.” I’m starting to feel like he’s accusing Lucinda of setting me up. It’s ridiculous. “Lucinda didn’t sic a judge on me.”

  He nods, and takes a swig from the bottle. “Probably not. Let’s eat. I need a couple minutes to think.” I would prefer to figure it out first, then eat. But I’m grateful he’s helping, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “The pizza smells great.” I flip open the box, and there’s a slice missing. “What happened here?” He side-eyes me, but doesn’t respond. “Does Fazio’s make a special-shaped pie they sell at a discount? Or did a big rat walk away with a slice?”

  His lips twitch madly, as he tries to hold back a smile. “Don’t give me that shit. I left plenty. I was starving.”

  “Then let’s feed you before you waste away to nothing and I’m somehow blamed for it.” I hand him a plate with a slice of pizza.

  “Put another one on there,” he says, “I’m a growing boy.” Gabby was right. The man will probably eat anything that doesn’t move. I wonder what they’ll serve at the party to go along with his favorite coconut cake? The party. What if Gabby’s wrong and Smith doesn’t want me there? I told her I would go, but I could email her with an excuse. There’s still time to beg out.

  “Where’s the TV?” Smith asks.

  “The TV?”

  “The basketball playoffs begin tonight,” he explains sheepishly. “I’ll keep it on mute. I just want to keep track of the score.”

  “Right.” I’ve never met a single male who only keeps the TV on during a game to keep an eye on the score. They say it, but it always ends up with them yelling things at the TV from the couch. At least that’s the way it always went down at my house growing up. But I don’t mind watching the game. Like most Bostonians, I’m a huge sports fan.

  “Come on,” Smith begs shamelessly, flashing a dimpled grin that would melt the polar caps. He knows it, too. “I have a small wager on the game.”

  In the bedroom. Ugh. “Follow me.”

  On our way to find the TV, he peeks inside the oddly furnished living room. There are a couple of end tables and a coffee table in the room, along with a standing lamp, but nowhere to sit.

  “Where’s the sofa?”

  “I don’t have one. This house belongs to a professor at the University. She put her upholstered furniture in storage before she left town for the summer. The only items she kept in the house can be wiped off easily or cleaned when she returns.”

  “You should’ve told her you like to get off in the bathtub, so you won’t make anything dirty.”

  I glare at him over my shoulder to hide the embarrassment. I’ll never live it down. That’s what I get for telling him. “Do you want to watch the game, or give me decorating tips?”

  “What I want is to see if the Lakers are winning,” he says as we get to the bedroom. “Wait. Is that an air mattress?”

  “Yes. Mattresses are upholstered. They definitely can’t be wiped off.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me. She took the bed? But she left that ugly-ass rug? That’s made of fabric, too.”

  “The rug is mine, thank you very much.” I grab the remote from the bedside table and sit on the floor cross-legged with my food.

  “You sleep on that thing? I’m not sure it will hold my weight.”

  I do sleep on it, and I do other things on it too—while I fantasize about you. But today, I’m not liquored up and horny, so I have the presence of mind not to share any of it with him.

  “Weight capacity is not a problem, because you’re not sleeping on it. And you’re not lounging on it with that pizza, either. Sit your butt on my ugly-ass rug or go get yourself a kitchen chair.”

  “Pft. Why don’t you buy a mattress, so you’ll have something decent to sleep on?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be in Charleston long enough to justify the purchase.” The words stir uneasy feelings inside me. “What channel is the game on?”

  “Let me see the remote. I’ll find it.” He sits on the floor, back against the mattress, legs spanning the length of the rug, and scrolls through the channels so quickly it’s dizzying. “This is a nice TV. Nicer than mine. I’m surprised she didn’t store it with everything else.”

  “It’s mine. It was a gift,” I say without thinking.

  “A gift?” He peers at me with that probing gaze, still clutching the remote. “From who?”

  From Father Jesse. You know, the priest you think wants to fuck me. I am not having that discussion again. “From none of your business.”

  “Must be from a guy, then,” he mutters. “Boyfriend? Secret admirer? Daddy?” he ticks them off one after the other, pausing for a beat between each to see if I respond in some way. “Only a guy would give you a TV.”

  “There are differences between the gifts guys give and the ones women give?”

  “Yeah. Don’t change the subject. Where did the TV come from?”

  Nosy bastard. He’s not going to stop until I tell him. “It’s from Father Jesse at St. Magdalene’s, okay?”

  Smith takes a bite of pizza, chewing carefully. “The priest gave you an expensive television? Did I get that right?”

  “A parishioner brought to him, and he already had a TV. He didn’t need another one.”

  “So he gave it—to you.”

  “It’s really not that complicated. I volunteered to help the church create a new bulletin, and I’m sure the TV is a way to compensate me for my trouble. Surprised your boy Josh, who keeps track of me, didn’t report it.”

  “Mmhm,” he says. “Not too complicated at all.” He drains the beer bottle and stretches to place it on the wood floor at the edge of the rug. “Josh is a grown man. Served two tours in combat—I doubt he’d appreciate you calling him a boy in that disrespectful tone. But he’s on a more pressing assignment right now. I doubt you’ve seen him recently.”

  I hardly saw him before. “So who’s tailing me?”

  “Nobody was ever tailing you.”

  “Keeping an eye on me, then?”

  “That would be me.” He gets up and approaches the doorway.

  Disappointment settles into my bones like a late January chill, but it comes disguised as anger. “What? You pretend to hang out so you can spy on me?”

  “Calm your titties or that pizza will give you terrible heartburn. You want another slice or a beer while I’m up?”

  God, I’m an idiot, or delusional. While I realize there is little difference between Sinclair setting up surveillance, and actually doing the surveilling himself, to me, there’s a world of difference. “No. I want answers,” I call after him, but he doesn’t say a word in response until he returns and is sitting comfortably on the rug with a full plate.

  “I told you when I agreed to help you get to the bottom of the King story, that it would help me keep tabs on you, too.” He did say that. But I hoped his hanging around was about more—about wanting to be with me.

  “I know it’s gotten more complicated between us. And to be honest, most of the time I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. It’s why mixing business and pleasure is never a good thing. I like you,” he says, bringing a slice of pizza to his
mouth. “My life would be easier all around if I didn’t, but I do.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. Get the fuck out is my first inclination, but there’s the matter of the restraining order, still. And then there’s also the small fact that I put on my best panties and bra after my shower. That must mean I like him too, even if my life would be easier all around, if I didn’t. “Can we talk about the restraining order?”

  He nods solemnly, and the tenor of the room shifts. It’s still serious, but the baggage has been packed away.

  “I want you to think carefully about anyone you might have told about the visit to Sorlin. Even if you just mentioned it in passing.”

  “Other than you, Fiona is the only person.”

  “Fiona. Your friend from Boston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see anyone at the nursing home today who might have recognized you?”

  That’s such a tough question. How can I possibly be sure? “I didn’t see anyone that I knew while I was there, and I was careful not to wear Judge Sorlin out, or to ask him too many questions that might upset him. He was in a good mood when I left. A dietary aide came into the room when I was there, but she didn’t say a word to me. She just left him a couple graham crackers and some apple juice.”

  He looks at me with an alert gaze. “Do you remember her name?”

  I shake my head. “She was a petite brunette and wore a light blue scrub top with teddy bears on it.”

  “Well someone saw you and reported it. It might have been her,” he mutters mostly to himself. “Did you learn anything while you were there?”

  “Not really. His dementia appears to be somewhat advanced. He had a brief moment of clarity when I arrived, but he wasn’t lucid for long enough to tell me much about King beyond someone named Gigi who didn’t want an abortion. I’m not even sure the two are related.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “Gigi doesn’t want an abortion. Warren’s in a hell of a pickle now. So much promise. But in the next breath, he was asking if his wife was visiting today. She died ten years ago. Then he started calling me Noreen. That was his wife’s name.” Things deteriorated quickly after that, and I didn’t want to push him too hard. Nana would always get agitated when visitors asked too many questions. It made the rest of the day rough, and it sometimes required sedating her so she could calm down enough to sleep. I wasn’t going to do that to Judge Sorlin.

  Smith shakes his head. “I hope someone puts a bullet in my head before I get to that stage.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say. He’s a sweet, sweet man.”

  “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about me.” Smith gets up and makes himself comfortable in the center of my bed, his hands folded behind his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m tired of sitting on the floor,” he says rearranging the pillows behind him and making himself right at home. “Why don’t you come keep me company.”

  All that gorgeous muscle in my bed is so tempting, but he is a bad idea on steroids. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Too late.”

  “It’s not too late. Get off my bed.”

  “You think lying on your bed is what gives me ideas?” He snickers. “Or that I wouldn’t fuck you on the floor, or against that door, or the dresser or—”

  “Okay. You made your point.”

  “When’s the last time you had sex?” he asks, in a voice that’s not any different from the one he used to ask me if I wanted another slice of pizza. I turn and glare at his brazenness. “It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t require a calendar and a calculator—I hope.”

  “The alley,” I huff. “If you want to call it that.”

  He whips a decorative cushion from the bed at me. “Before that. Was it more than a month ago?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Six months? A year?” he asks, when I don’t respond.

  Longer. “Why is this germane to anything?”

  “You know as well as I do that we’re going to end up naked. Or at least you are. Maybe not tonight. But it’s in the cards.”

  I do know. Most of the time, I even want it to happen. Although I expect him to be naked too. I pick at my pizza, pulling off a green pepper that’s embedded in the melted cheese. But I’m a little afraid of him. There’s something about him—his intensity—his demanding nature—I don’t know for sure what it is, but it frightens me at times. Maybe I’m afraid of getting hurt. He’s the kind of man that could, and would, break my heart. I have no doubt about it.

  “Kate?”

  I turn to meet his eyes.

  “There are things worth sharing with me before it happens,” he says with a gentle warmth, thawing the protective layer around my heart just a drop more. I hope he doesn’t notice the thinning shell. “And we’ve got time right now—it’s halftime and I’m not going anywhere until the game’s over.” The last part is laced with a bit of sarcasm that lightens the mood and puts us both back on safer footing.

  “It’s been more than a year,” I mumble. Since before I left Boston.

  “You on any kind of birth control?”

  “No.” I’ve only used condoms.

  “Are you healthy?”

  “Yes. Do you want to know what I ate for breakfast?”

  “Not necessary. But you should be happy I’m asking these questions. And you should ask some of your own.”

  I just might do that. “When’s the last time you had sex?” I ask from the rug at the foot of the bed.

  “With my hand? That would be last night in the shower. Do you want to know what I was thinking about?”

  I feel my neck flush. “With a woman?”

  “The alley.”

  Now I’m curious. “Before that?”

  “A few days before we had supper at Miss Macy’s.”

  I swallow. “With a girlfriend?” Please don’t say yes.

  He maneuvers on the unstable mattress so that his head is at the foot of the bed, with his face close to mine. “No. If I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have been in that alley. I’m not a cheater.”

  I curl my hands into tight balls, thumbs caressing the ridges and bumps of the outer knuckles. He opened the door, so I might as well ask. “Have you ever shared a woman—with friends?”

  “At the same time?”

  I nod, holding my breath while I wait for him to answer.

  “No.” He leans closer, his lips grazing mine. “Although once or twice women have shared me.” I pull back, recoiling without even the pretense of subtlety.

  “Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to, princess. You’ll never hear me ask how many men have been in your bed before me.” He tugs on my arm. “Come back here. Finish that line of questioning, or ask whatever else you’re dying to know about me.”

  Smith is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. While he can be demanding and judgmental, he has an openness that is both seductive and scary at the same time. I have no doubt he’s experimented with things that would make me uncomfortable. One more than any other. “You’ve never shared a woman—sexually? Not even with JD?”

  “That would require our cocks to be in very close proximity to one another. Too close for either of our tastes.” He pulls me up onto the mattress, until we’re lying on our sides facing each other. “Is this something you’re asking for?” He brushes my cheek with his fingertip. “Because you don’t strike me as the type—"

  “No.” My voice is wobbly. “It’s not at all what I want.”

  We lay there quietly for a minute or two. Me, swatting away the thoughts creeping in to ruin the evening. Him, searching my face for answers. “One day you’ll tell me what this is all about,” he says, smoothing back my hair with his hand. “Doesn’t have to be tonight.”

  “No more questions?” I aim for the right amount of sarcasm to hide behind, but the words emerge shaky. I’m not fooling anyone.

  “Plenty more. I’m j
ust takin’ a break to taste you.” His lips are smooth and firm when his mouth crushes mine. There’s no gentle exploration tonight. He takes and takes until I’m breathless under him. Until I can’t remember ever being afraid.

  My impatient fingers rake into his muscled back, tilling the terrain, until the lush tendrils of desire wind their way through the fertile ground, enveloping us, until there’s no turning back.

  It’s then that his phone rings. A shrill alert dragging us from a shared weightless dream.

  Smith throws his head back with a primal growl and pulls the damn thing from his pants pocket.

  “Yeah?” He rolls off of me, taking all the warmth with him. “You are fucking kidding me.” He says a few more things, none of which I grasp completely because I’m too busy bemoaning what is clearly not going to be happening tonight. When he ends the call, his lips brush my forehead in a chaste reminder that we’re done here.

  “There was an attempted break in at Sayle Pharmaceuticals—it’s a Wilder property. I need to meet the police there. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I say it, and of course he needs to go, but I’m not feeling okay. I miss him already.

  “Don’t worry about the restraining order,” he reassures me. “We’ll get you a lawyer to make it go away if we need to.” I nod. “I want a raincheck for tonight,” he says, tying his sneakers.

  I respond with a sad excuse for a smile. A pathetic little tug of the lips, but he’s already at the doorway so it doesn’t really matter.

  “Kate.”

  My gaze flickers to his eyes. “Hmm?”

  “The break in is off the record.” His voice is hard and unforgiving.

  The break in is off the record. It’s a warning shot. Not delivered with the violence of an AR-15, more like birdshot, leaving a smattering of ugly, painful pox that last for weeks.

  A moment later the backdoor shuts firmly and he’s gone, leaving me to tend to my wounds.

  22

  Smith

  I spoke with Kate briefly this morning and something seemed off with her. She was cool and detached. Not like herself.