Deadly Lies (37 page)

Max’s eyes fluttered closed. “Over.”

“For him.” It hurt to see the pain on his face. The only remaining member of his family had been a psychotic bastard who’d
tried to kill him. “Not for you though,
Max. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me? The doctors patched you up, and you’re going to be fine. For you, everything’s
just beginning.”

Max woke up in a cold sweat, his body shuddering and Samantha’s name on his lips.

“Shh… it’s okay.” Her whisper came to him in the darkness, and it took him a moment to understand….

Not in the hospital.
After nearly seven days, he’d finally been released. He hadn’t gone back to Frank’s place—he couldn’t stand the thought of
that—and Samantha hadn’t wanted him to be alone.

Her place.
Her scent surrounded him, her soft bed cushioned him, and the feather-light weight of her hand pressed against his chest.
“It’s just a dream,” she told him. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

He’d been back at that river. Quinlan had been there, firing his gun, and Max hadn’t been able to get to Samantha. Her body
had floated to the surface. And he’d lost her.

He rolled, wrapping his arms around her and holding tight.

“Max, no, your stitches!”

Screw them. The pain just made him realize that he was alive. She was alive. And he’d be damned if he lost his chance with
her.

His lips found hers in the darkness, and he kissed her with a desperate desire that fired his blood. A need only she could
satisfy. She’d slipped past his guard, gotten under his skin, and he knew he’d never be the same without her.

But her hands were pushing against him, not holding him close, and the ache ripped through him.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” her husky whisper filled his ears.

“Not having you will hurt a lot more.” Didn’t she understand? Lust tightened his body. His cock was already hard and swollen,
but the need for her was so much more. A hollow ache inside his chest.

Need her. Flesh to flesh. Want her. All that she is. Everything.

Her hands pushed him, and Max found himself flat on his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, the words drifting in the dark, and a rough laugh built in his chest.

“You won’t.” Unless she left.

The sheets rustled, the cool air hit his legs, and then warm flesh was above him as she straddled his hips. Samantha was careful
not to jostle his healing leg or to touch the wounds on his stomach.

She stared down at him, and in the faint moonlight, he could see the darkness of her eyes.

No panties. Her legs were spread, and his cock pushed against the hot core of her body. His hand slipped between them, found
the center of her need, and his fingers stroked her. Max wanted her to be as ready, as desperate, as he was.

She arched against him, and a soft moan slipped past her lips.
Not good enough.

His thumb pressed harder. Her hips pushed back against him. Max found the tight opening of her body and thrust two fingers
inside. Proof of her arousal coated his fingers.

His fingers worked her body. Max touched her the way he knew she liked. Building the arousal. Pushing her to
the edge. Her sex clamped around his fingers. The delicate muscles squeezed in a strong grip, and he wanted her around his
cock. Wanted to be driving deep into her. So deep that she’d never be free of him. So deep that she’d know, always, that she
was…

Mine.

“Max!” Need choked in the word, and then her fingers were on his cock, soft and delicate, touching and stroking, and he had
to clench his back teeth.

She guided his cock, positioning it right at the entrance to her body. So wet and warm. Nothing between them, nothing—

Condom.
“Samantha—”

“I’m safe,” she managed, tossing back her hair.

So was he. And if she wanted skin to skin…

She eased down and took him inside her body.

And it was heaven. Hell. So good he lost his breath. So tight that he nearly came at the first hot glide of her body. He forgot
the pain and only knew her.

Max worked the rhythm with her, lifting his hips up to meet her, holding tight, and keeping his eyes on her.

Samantha.
The woman he’d nearly died for. The woman he would have killed for.

Her moans filled the air. His fingers dug too deeply into her hips, but he couldn’t stop.
Need her too much.

Her nails bit into his shoulders. Her sex rippled around him, and then she was coming, whispering his name and arching above
him.

Beautiful.

Her climax shivered around his cock, and he exploded into her as a wave of hot pleasure pulsed through his body. Max wrapped
his arms around her and held her close.

Because he wasn’t letting her go. No matter what nightmares might come—for him, for her—he wasn’t letting her go.

When the passion eased, she slid down to his side. Her hand lay over his chest, right over his heart. And he didn’t speak
because he knew what tomorrow would bring: the face-off with his stepbrother. The last round of questions. The future.

After a while her breathing eased, and he knew she slept beside him. But he didn’t sleep because he didn’t want to see her
die again in his nightmares. So he held her in the darkness and wondered how a woman who fought killers could love one.

The next morning, Max walked with Samantha down the long, winding hallway. The clank of metal bars sounded behind them. He
knew that sound well. For years, it had haunted his dreams.
The sound of freedom being ripped away.

But this time, it wasn’t his freedom. It was his stepbrother’s.

Samantha’s delicate fingers tightened around his. He was limping a bit, thanks to the bullet wound Quinlan had put in his
thigh.

Then Monica Davenport was there, stepping forward with Ramirez by her side. They motioned toward the small conference room
they’d been given. An empty table waited.

“You understand what’s happening here today?” Monica murmured.

He rolled his shoulder and felt the pull of stitches. Last night, he hadn’t even given a thought to his injuries. Sex
and Samantha had made him forget. “Yeah, Quinlan’s about to lie his ass off to try and cut down his prison term.”
Or to make me look guilty.
Samantha had already told him about Quinlan’s accusations.

Monica’s gaze was assessing. “I’ve asked the DA to wait outside a bit. I want you to have the chance to talk to your brother
first.”

His brows climbed. “What good will that do?”

“I think you can make him confess. To everything.” She offered a small, brittle smile. Ramirez watched them with guarded eyes.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Max asked. Samantha’s hand held tight to his.

“No, I’m not.”

“The guy wants me
dead
. He’s not gonna want to confess!”

“Your brother always wanted his father’s attention, didn’t he?” Monica mused. “The only son, at least for a long time, the
one who never quite measured up.”

Piss-poor excuse for a son
… Frank’s voice echoed in his mind. Max swallowed.

“The killings weren’t about money. We looked at it all wrong. The money—that’s just the surface,” Monica said, with a wave
of her hand. “He took the golden boys—the rich boys with doting dads—and he made the fathers prove how much they loved their
sons.”

Max shook his head. “That’s fucked up.”

“That’s Quinlan.” Finally Ramirez spoke. “He could have taken the money and run after the first two snatches, but instead
he got to where the money couldn’t compete with the pleasure he took from slicing open his victims.”

“And himself.” Monica reached for a file on the table. “I’ve got doctors’ records—”

“Aren’t those supposed to be confidential?” Max demanded. Beside him, Samantha leaned forward and peered at the files.

“About as confidential as your manslaughter conviction,” Ramirez murmured, locking his gaze on Max.

“Screw off.” Max wasn’t in the mood for any agent bullshit.

“What do the records say?” Samantha wanted to know.

“That at age fourteen, Quinlan Malone was admitted to St. John’s Hospital because he had lacerations on his upper chest.”
Monica raised a black brow. “He said he fell onto a fence, but the attending physician suspected otherwise and referred Frank
Malone to a psychiatrist.” Monica closed the folder and her gaze returned to Max. “Seems your stepbrother liked to injure
himself.”

Sliced off his own finger.

“Self-injuries like that can be triggered by depression, anxiety, an emotional stressor, or—”

“Frank met my mom when Quinlan was fourteen,” Max gritted out from between clenched teeth.

Monica nodded. “Do you know why Nathan Donnelley was employed by your father?”

“He was my dad’s doctor.”

“Actually,” now Monica’s gaze turned to Samantha, “he wasn’t.”

Max glanced back at Samantha.

A little shrug lifted Samantha’s shoulders. “I hacked into his computer and found some old files. When
Donnelly started working with Malone, he was there to take care of Quinlan.” She paused, then said, “Frank was tired of the
doctors at St. John’s asking questions.”

Max swallowed and felt the punch in his gut. “He’s sick. Quinlan needs help.” And it twisted his heart that he hadn’t seen
it sooner.
Could I have stopped this? Stopped him? Saved those—

“If you believe that,” Monica interjected smoothly, “if you really think he needs help, then we need you to help us. Get a
confession out of him, and we’ll make sure he gets psych treatments during his incarceration.”

“For how long?” His temples pounded. “How long’s he gonna be locked up?”

She didn’t answer, but he already knew.
Forever.

Ramirez glanced down at his watch. “They’ll be here soon.”

Max turned his head and gazed down into Samantha’s eyes. He just wanted her, and, fucking miracle, she seemed to want him.
Even with what his brother had done to her, she wanted
him.

He would do anything to keep her by his side. Anything to keep her in his life. He bent and brushed his lips across hers.

“I’ll talk to Quinlan.” He released his hold on Samantha. “For all the damn good it will do.”

Max didn’t rise when Quinlan was led into the conference room.

Quinlan smirked at him. “Knew you’d be coming by, sooner or later.”

“You
can’t
talk to him.” The tall, thin man in the suit next to Quinlan—the guy had to be his lawyer—shook
his head. “This is highly irregular. We need to get the DA in here. You need to—”

“We need to talk,” Max said, putting his hands flat on the table.

Quinlan laughed. “Yeah, yeah, we do.” He jerked his thumb at the lawyer. “Get out of here.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened. “Don’t you see what’s happening here?” He waved toward the mirror. “They’re watching you. Recording
everything you say. It’s just a—”

“When I want your opinion,” Quinlan muttered, “I’ll damn well tell you.”

The lawyer’s face slackened with surprise.

“Now get the hell out.”

“You’re making a mistake!” The man shook his head. “Fine. Your damn funeral, kid.” Then he shoved past the two guards who’d
brought Quinlan in.

Quinlan shuffled forward. A guard leaned down and cuffed one of Quinlan’s hands to the side of the table.

“You good?” The guard asked Max.

Max nodded.
Not really.

The guards left them alone. Probably the SSD’s order. Max didn’t speak at first. He just stared at Quinlan. His stepbrother
was paler, and the orange prison garb was too bright.

“Don’t!” Quinlan snapped. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

But part of Max did. And the other part wanted to jump across the table and rip the asshole in half. His palms pressed harder
into the table. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

Quinlan leaned back as far as the cuffs would let him. “Don’t you mean your agent whore has some questions?”
He smirked. “I knew she was an FBI bitch the whole time. Kevin told me when she came into The Core, asking all her questions.”
His jaw hardened. “I warned you not to get the cops, but you were screwing her—”

“I’ve been thinking about you.” Max bit back the rage as he cut through Quinlan’s words. “The SSD called me in today. Said
if I got you to confess, they’d give you therapy.”

“I don’t need fucking therapy! I’m not sick!”

“I don’t give a shit if you are or not.”

Quinlan blinked.

“I don’t give a damn if they open up the cell, shove your ass in, and never pull you back out.”

Quinlan shook his head. “No, you don’t—”

Max’s fists slammed into the table. “You killed Frank.”

“The asshole needed to be put down.”

“And then…” Max leaned forward. “You made your worst mistake. You came after
her
.”

Quinlan stilled.

“You’re lucky she was the one with the gun, because I would have blown your head off and never hesitated.” Disgust had his
jaw tightening. “Therapy? They think you need
therapy?
Nothing’s gonna fix you. You’re broken, twisted. Hell, we never expected you to amount to much anyway. Dropped out of college,
couldn’t hold a job, and shit, now everyone knows that you’re just a fucking psycho—”

“
Shut up!
” Quinlan was on his feet, the table jerking toward him as he yanked his arms up and the cuffs stretched taut. “Just shut
the hell up! You sound
just like him!
Never fucking good enough! No matter what I did.
But I showed him! I showed every damn one! It was
me.
I did it. I planned it fucking all. I was king, I was
God
, I could do whatever I wanted—”

“And you wanted to kill.” Softer, sadder, because Max had gotten what the agents needed. And he’d known just what to say.

He’d said what Frank would have told his son. So easy, really.

“I wanted to show those bastards that life wasn’t perfect! Daddy couldn’t always bail their asses out!” Quinlan’s face reddened.

Couldn’t or
wouldn’t
?