A cop. The guy was a cop.
Oh fuck.
It was the guy he’d had in his shooting gallery. The one he’d sent back to the asshole’s employer—Oliveira—to deliver the message about the drop-off. The drop-off that never happened because fucking de Santis was supposed to call the prick off. Yet it looked like Oliveira hadn’t gotten the message.
Lucas’s heart raced faster, the look of shock and fear on Grace’s vivid face hurting him like a sliver of glass sliding beneath his fingernails. A sharp, agonizing pain.
The SIG was in his hand before he’d had a chance to think about it and he was aiming at the guy dragging Grace out of the doors. One chance, that was all Lucas had, and it had to be a head shot, an instant kill. Easy. At least, it should be.
But this wasn’t his rifle, and as he raised his gun to aim his hand was fucking shaking like a leaf and his heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. He tried to make it, tried to will himself into that calm space where there was only the target, only the sound of his heartbeat in his ear. All his awareness focusing in on that sound, getting slower and slower, counting the beats. Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight … Except his heartbeat wasn’t getting any slower, because all he could see was her face. All he thought about was that if he fucked this up she would die. One shot and she was dead. His Gracie … dead on the floor …
It was going up now, his heart rate getting faster and faster, his hand shaking like an alcoholic going through withdrawal. Where the fuck was his detachment? Where was the ice? All he could feel was rage exploding through him. Rage at himself for not taking that prick out when he’d had him trussed up in his shooting gallery. Rage at the prick for taking her when none of this had anything to do with her. Rage at her for making it impossible to detach himself the way he should. The way he needed to able to so he could protect her.
Rage at her for making him care.
The gun in his hand shook and he was breathing so fast, like all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out and he was slowly suffocating.
One shot, that’s all he needed to make, and it was an easy one. The guy was right there. But shit, she looked so pale and there was blood on her beautiful skin, her little purse had fallen out of her hands, and Lucas could see the tremble in her fingers.
Gracie … His beautiful Gracie …
Then she gave the minutest shift of her head and looked right at him, and he thought that maybe she was simply looking into the crowd in front of him. But then her eyes widened, gold flaring bright in her gaze. She’d seen him. She knew he was there.
He couldn’t squeeze the trigger; he couldn’t fire. Not with her looking at him, making him feel like she had her hand around his heart and was holding it so tightly he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t risk her life on a shot he might not be able to make. No, he was going to have to let that asshole drag her out of the gallery and hope like fuck he could end the prick outside.
Fuck. Fuck.
Yet weirdly, the fear in her face began to ebb and she mouthed something at him, and it sure as hell looked like she was saying, It’s okay. Which wasn’t true, because it wasn’t okay. She was going to die because he couldn’t keep his fucking heart rate down.
Because he cared too much. That had always been his problem, hadn’t it?
He cared too fucking much.
Across the room, being dragged away by some asshole with a gun to her head, Grace smiled at him, breaking his heart into a million pieces.
Then came the muffled sound of a gunshot and everything went to hell.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
She’d felt him from across the crowded gallery, through the shock and the fear and the pain. She knew that prickle of awareness so well. It had been what had driven her from this gallery the very first day two weeks ago, when she’d spotted him staring at her from across the street. That day all she’d known was that someone had been watching her. Now she knew it meant that Lucas was here.
So she’d looked at the patch of shadow near the painting of him, her gaze unerringly drawn. He was there; she could see him. Feel him. Tall and dark and powerful, standing motionless with his arm extended, a gun in his hand.
She couldn’t make out his features because he was too far away, but that didn’t matter.
He was here. Despite everything, he’d come.
Something inside her had settled in that moment, the fear falling away from her, the pain too. His hand was shaking, she could see it tremble, and she knew that because of that he wouldn’t be able to make the shot.
But strangely, that didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that he’d come. That he’d seen the painting she’d done of him. That he’d seen the man she saw when she looked at him.
Her love on canvas.
And right now, knowing he was here, that he was with her, well … it seemed as good a place as any to end it.
Except just as she was bracing herself to pull away for the last time, because she’d be damned if she let this asshole choose when and where he was going to shoot her and if she was going to die she was going to die at least trying to escape, there was a sudden spray of red all over her and it sounded like the entire gallery of people began to scream. Then the arm around her fell away and so did the gun at her head, and abruptly she was standing by herself, covered in blood and shaking like a leaf. At first she thought she’d been shot and that the pain hadn’t hit yet, that this was death and she didn’t quite realize it.
Then a giant man appeared suddenly in front of her. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a black peacoat flung over the top, had a short black Mohawk and the strangest eyes she’d ever seen: one blue and one green. He was glaring ferociously at her as if this were somehow all her fault, which was slightly alarming considering he was holding a vicious-looking handgun in one hand.
“Are you okay?” he demanded in a deep, gravelly, and somehow familiar voice, completely ignoring the screaming chaos of people around them.
“Um…” she said stupidly.
“Fucking hell,” the man muttered, and stepped toward her, reaching out, running his hands over her in a completely impersonal way.
She felt cold and she knew she was probably going into shock. Why was there blood everywhere? Was it hers? Had she been shot or not?
Then the giant was abruptly jerked back as someone pulled him violently away by the collar of his coat. There was a brief altercation and Lucas was standing in front of her instead, his warm fingers gripping her upper arms so tightly it hurt, his eyes gone gas-flame blue. “Grace.” His voice was cracked and raw. “Grace, are you okay?” He gave her a little shake. “Fucking answer me!”
“Get her out of here,” the giant said in that deep, gravelly voice. “Jesus Christ, I knew you were in trouble, you dumb shit.” He didn’t seem to be speaking to her, but to Lucas. “You should have told me. Then we could have handled this situation a whole lot better and with a whole lot less fucking drama.”
Lucas didn’t appear to be listening; he’d begun running his hands over her the way the giant had done, only gentler, more careful. “Talk to me, Gracie,” he murmured. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” God, she sounded like a little girl.
“What a fucking mess,” the giant said. “Get moving, Luc, and get her somewhere safe. Jesus, how many times do I have to say it? Oh, and don’t take her on your fucking bike like that. Here’s the keys to my car.” He pulled some keys from the pockets of his jeans and held them out.
This time Lucas turned and met the other man’s weird eyes. He said nothing, just stared at him long and hard.
“Yeah,” the man said. “I get it. But no thanks required, bro.”
Lucas gave one short nod; then he grabbed the keys and, without a word, turned back to her and swept her up into his arms.
She blinked, wanting to protest that she could walk very well on her own, thank you very much, but then she tasted something metallic on her lips and she knew it was blood. Not her blood. A
nd she began to shake even harder as the full realization of what had happened began to sink in.
That cop had put a gun to her head. He’d been going to kill her. Yet he hadn’t. For some reason, he was dead and she was alive, and now she was in Lucas’s arms, being carried out of the gallery and into the freezing night outside.
It was very cold and her gown was sticking wetly to her and she didn’t want to think about why that might be. But Lucas’s body was hot and hard against her, the reassurance of his solidity holding the panic at bay.
He carried her over to a plain-looking black Toyota that had been parked haphazardly at the curb, unlocking it, then bundling her inside. Then he rounded the side of the car and got in, sticking the key in the ignition and turning up the heating full bore.
He didn’t say a word, reaching over for her seat belt and buckling her in before starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. She could hear sirens as they drove, a cop car or two flashing past in the night.
She wanted to ask where they were going, but she didn’t want to open her mouth and taste that blood again, so she stayed silent, shivering despite the rapid way the car heated up.
Every so often she stole a glance at Lucas. His face was hard and set, his knuckles on the steering wheel white. He looked like he was barely holding it together, which for some reason made her feel better.
They didn’t drive far.
Barely five minutes later they were driving down a small, narrow road and down into an underground car park. She tried to get out and walk herself, but Lucas wasn’t having any of it, picking her up and carrying her over to the elevator.
They went up to the top floor, into an unfamiliar apartment. This one was decorated much like the apartment in the old church, plain white walls and very little furniture. It felt colder than the one with the stained glass, emptier somehow. In summer it would probably be lovely, with skylights letting in the sun, but right now, in winter and at night, those skylights let in nothing but darkness.
Lucas carried her down the hall and into a bathroom. It was large and white tiled, with a massive shower. She blinked as he strode to the shower and turned it on before coming back to her. Then with gentle insistence he turned her around and took hold of the zipper at the back of her dress, beginning to pull it down.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was croaky. “I can undress myself very well, thanks.”
Lucas said nothing and he didn’t stop, unzipping her dress, then tugging it down so it pooled at her feet. His hands moved to the strapless bra she wore underneath, beginning to unhook it.
“Lucas,” she murmured softly as the fabric began to loosen.
“I just have to see you.” There was a raw note in his voice, almost desperate sounding. “I just have to see you to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay.”
“Let me, Gracie. Please.” He unhooked her bra without waiting for an answer, his fingers lightly brushing down her back, making her shiver.
So she let him. Let him touch her, let him ease down her panties, then kneel at her feet to take her shoes off. Then when she was naked, she let him take her to the shower stall and she thought he’d leave her then, but he didn’t. He kicked off his boots and, still fully clothed, got in with her.
“Okay,” she said shakily, putting her hands on his chest because she couldn’t bring herself to stop touching him, watching as the sweater he wore became wet, sticking to his sculpted torso. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
But he said nothing. Instead he pushed her gently against the white-tiled wall and kept his hands on either side of her head, looking down at her, his intense blue gaze running all over her while the water darkened his blond hair.
“You smiled at me,” he said, like an accusation. “You fucking smiled at me.”
She stared back at him, seeing the tension in the lines of his beautiful face. He was angry and scared, and it made her heart contract painfully in her chest. That was for her, wasn’t it? “Yes. I did.”
“Why? I couldn’t make the shot. I couldn’t save you and you fucking smiled at me.”
Ah, so that was what this was about.
The shock that had her in its grip began to ease, the cold ebbing away with it. The water going down the drain was red, but she didn’t look at it. She only looked at him, at his intense, gorgeous face. At the fear and anger and pain that burned in his eyes.
She reached out and touched him, stroked along one perfect cheekbone. “Why couldn’t you make the shot?”
“I couldn’t slow my fucking heart rate. It wouldn’t go down, no matter how much I tried, and my hand was shaking, and I tried, Gracie, I tried so fucking hard.…” He trailed off, the shower stall loud with the sound of his ragged breathing, his whole body vibrating with tension. He was visibly trying to get himself under control. “You nearly died.” He sounded hoarse now. “If I’d taken that shot and missed you would have been killed.” His lips peeled back in what was almost a snarl. “But you smiled at me. You were going to die and you fucking smiled.”
Her heart ached and ached, for the pain and fear she saw in his face. For the vulnerability he was showing her right here in this moment.
She spread her fingers out along his cheekbone, feeling his warm, wet skin. “I smiled because you got my invite. Because you came. Because I didn’t think you would and you did.”
“I don’t understand why that fucking matters.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “You understand.”
“No.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, she felt it against her fingers, and there was denial in his blue gaze. “I told you. You can’t care about me. You can’t. That shot? I couldn’t take it because my heart rate wouldn’t slow down. Because I couldn’t turn off all the fear. Couldn’t turn off all the anger. I cared too much, Gracie. And because of that, you nearly died.” He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t let that happen again. I can’t.”
There was so much desperation in his eyes it made her hurt for him. But the curious calm she’d felt back in the gallery when she’d first seen him in the shadows was returning, bringing with it a kind of deep certainty.
She reached up with her other hand, taking his face between her palms, holding him. “Did you see my painting?” She didn’t bother explaining which one she meant, but she didn’t have to. Emotion flared in his gaze; yes, he’d seen it.
“It’s of you,” she added quietly.
His denial was instant. “That’s not me.”
“Yes, it is. That’s the man I see when I look at you.”
He started to shake his head, started to pull away, but Grace wasn’t done.
That calm had her in its grip, that deep certainty. The knowledge that she was done with running and hiding. With being afraid of rejection and being vulnerable. With being scared of giving someone her soul and having it thrown back in her face.
She was done with being afraid, period.
She wanted Lucas Tate. She’d wanted him the moment she’d first met him. But shutting herself away wouldn’t get her what she wanted and neither would denial. Neither would pouring everything into her art and telling herself that her work was all she needed. Because if that had been enough she would have finished that goddamn painting two weeks ago.
It hadn’t been enough. She needed more than that. She always had.
She needed him, and that painting in the gallery was living proof.
So she held on to him, tightened her fingers so he couldn’t pull away, and she faced her fear. “Don’t you walk away from me,” she ordered. “Don’t you dare be a coward now.”
He could have pulled out of her grip so easily. He was so much stronger than she was. But he didn’t. He remained motionless, the water soaking his sweater and his jeans, sliding over his perfect golden skin.
“That painting,” Grace said fiercely, “is my heart.” He began to shake his head, but she wasn’t finished. “I know I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for you, but I’m done pr
etending that I don’t care. Done pretending that you don’t mean anything to me.” She was holding him so tightly now, staring into his eyes. “I love you, Lucas Tate. And that painting is everything that’s been missing from my life. All the pieces of me I’ve been holding back. It’s love and it’s passion and it’s tenderness. It’s vulnerability. My vulnerability. It’s the man I love. It’s you.”
* * *
He didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want her to say those things to him. But her fingers were holding on to him and he didn’t want to pull away. Her amber eyes were so bright, her hair wet and sticking to her elegantly shaped skull, the apricot gold darkened and licking like flames against her pale skin.
All the blood from the asshole who’d nearly killed her had washed away now, and apart from the bruise on her cheekbone, she was uninjured.
It should have made him calmer, but he wasn’t.
He felt frantic. Desperate. Outside himself.
Wolf’s sudden appearance made no sense at all and Lucas still didn’t know how his brother had managed to turn up precisely at the right time or why, but he had. Shooting the fake cop in the head without hesitation, leaving Grace standing there covered in blood but free.
Lucas didn’t know why he was standing there fully clothed in the shower stall either. He’d only meant to take her back to his SoHo apartment, the one that was officially his, show her the bathroom, and leave, let her wash off the blood on her own.
But once he’d touched her he hadn’t been able to stop, and before he knew it he was standing there in the shower, with her backed up against the white tile.
Wrong. It was wrong. He should be leaving her, not letting her touch him. Not letting her tell him that the painting she’d done of him in the gallery was her heart. Not letting her tell him that she loved him.
Because he knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew.
“You can’t love me,” he said in a voice he didn’t recognize as his. “I don’t want you to love me.”
“I don’t care.” The look on her face blazed. “And if that makes me selfish then too bad. I love you and I’m not taking it back.”
The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance Page 29