Death Angel (37 page)

Unless she really was meant to die here—unless her death would be the avenue by which Rafael was finally put away for good.

Blindly she stared out the window at the street, with its endless stream of pedestrians. She wasn’t afraid of death, but she was afraid of not being good enough to go back to the place where Alban was. She had tried hard to become a more worthwhile human being, to work for what she had in life, to stop using her looks and sex to get what she wanted, but only eight months had passed. Eight months, stacked against fifteen years, was bound to be on the light end of the scale. If she died now, had she gotten enough attagirl points to make a difference?

Maybe her death, a final death, was the true test. A greater love hath no man, and all that. If it came down to it, and her death was what it took to bring Rafael down, then she would do it. Somehow she’d get the courage to do it.

But oh, she didn’t want to leave Simon. Despite their history, what was between them felt new and tremulous, barely explored. And despite his history, despite telling herself that he was the bad choice to end all bad choices, she wanted to place her hands along his beard-roughened jaw, look into the dark opal colors of his eyes, and watch tenderness bloom where before there had been only emptiness.

She wanted the time to get to know him, really know him. She wanted more than the superficial knowledge he’d given her during their question-and-answer session at the IHOP. She wanted to tell him silly jokes and make him laugh, she wanted to share meals with him, she wanted to be with him as he changed from a man who sutured his own wounds to someone who could let others help him.

He was so alone. If she died, what would happen to him? Would he stay on the path he’d chosen, or would he return to his old ways? She didn’t believe she was so unique that he could never find anyone else he could love, but the question was: Would he? Would he try? Or would he wall himself off even more solidly than he had been before? She knew the answer to that, because she had seen how completely he shut down all the overtures she’d made during their afternoon together, refusing even to tell her his name. He hadn’t wanted her to kiss him, either; she remembered how he’d frozen, at first, as if about to push her away. But he hadn’t; something in him had craved being held, being kissed, and when he had started kissing her in return she had felt as if she’d never before been kissed so deeply, so hungrily.

If she hadn’t seen him at the truck stop, if he hadn’t gone to her place to reassure her, if he hadn’t kissed her, she would have always thought of him with the pain and regret she hadn’t been able to shake, but she wouldn’t long for him. Thoughts of him wouldn’t make her regret doing what she knew she should do.

After finishing her soup, she left the diner and took a bus across town to the Holiday Inn where she was staying. The route went fairly close; she had to walk only a couple of short blocks. She got into the squeaky elevator alone, and rode up to her floor. A housekeeping cart was parked at the end of the hallway, and from the open door she could hear the drone of a vacuum cleaner.

Inserting her key card, she opened the door and froze, holding it open.

“Don’t scream.” Simon loomed in front of her, his expression enigmatic.

She swallowed the sound just in time as he pulled her against him and closed the door, putting the chain in place and then turning the deadbolt. “What are you doing here?” he growled in a very annoyed tone.

“This is my room. I was about to ask you the same question,” Andie said, gulping, dropping her purse on the floor and throwing her arms around his neck. Tears stung her eyes and she almost burst out crying, but she blinked them back. If she hadn’t been thinking about him just then, thinking how much she wanted to see him, she could have restrained herself, but the relief at hearing his voice and feeling the muscled hardness of his body against her was too intense, her longing too close to the surface. She might die soon, and she wanted to have him again before she did. Going up on tiptoe, she pressed her mouth to his, moaning a little at his taste and the well-remembered softness of his lips.

He had hesitated before when she kissed him, but he didn’t hesitate this time. His arms tightened around her and he swung her around, half-carrying her and half-pushing her past the bathroom and into the main part of the room—

—where the bed was.

He broke the kiss long enough to lean down and catch the bedspread, whipping it completely off the bed and to the floor, then he took her down across the bed with him.

His kisses held the same heat, the same hunger, that she remembered. He covered her with his heavy weight, pressing her into the mattress, and Andie coiled her legs around him, sliding her thighs up his hips to cradle him between them. Slowly he began rocking his erection against her even as he levered his torso up enough that he could begin taking her coat off. “You’d better be sure about this,” he murmured, his gaze meeting hers. “There’s no going back.”

The intensity in his narrowed eyes shook her, burned her. She framed his face with her hands, just as she had imagined doing, and took the leap. “I love you, Simon.” She wanted to say it at least once, in case she didn’t have another chance to tell him. She wanted him to know that he was loved, that he was cherished, that he wasn’t alone.

He faltered then, his arms abruptly wobbling and refusing to support his weight. He sank down on her, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. “You don’t have to say that,” he muttered, something in his tone so humble it broke her heart.

“It’s true. When you wouldn’t take me with you, I fell apart. I cried for hours.” She stroked his hair, her hands tender. “I could barely think, I hurt so much, and I had to convince Rafael I was upset because I’d realized he didn’t love me, and that you’d said I was too much trouble and didn’t touch me at all.”

His head jerked up a little and he stared at her, nose to nose. “You mean he bought it?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course. I have a talent for lying,” she said, her mouth twitching a little with amusement.

“Damn. I knew you were good, but that’s world-class.”

“Thank you.” She laughed, raising her head for a quick taste of those soft lips again. She felt them curve in a smile, and her heart squeezed.

Gently he nipped her chin, stroked his hand down to grip her thigh and pull it higher. “Let’s get out of some clothes. I really, really need to fuck you for a while.”

“How long is a while?” She began unbuttoning her blouse, but abandoned the effort to work at his buttons, because she’d much rather feel his skin than her own. “Want to go for a personal best?”

“You mean more than four hours?” He shook his head, smiling. “I can’t. Not this time. Let’s shoot for twenty minutes.”

“Slacker. I know you can do better than that.” She didn’t need twenty minutes, she thought, her hips lifting and rubbing against him, seeking the hard ridge of his erection. Five minutes would do it. All her internal muscles clenched as she suddenly remembered how it felt when he entered her, pushing deep. His penis was thick enough to make her feel stretched, even then; how would it feel now, when she had been celibate for months? It was as if her sex drive had dried up, because she hadn’t even thought about sex since the accident—until he showed up in her kitchen, and she realized it hadn’t dried up, it had just been dormant because she was preoccupied with other things.

She got his shirt unbuttoned and pulled it free of his pants. The broad span of his chest, the light sprinkling of hair, enticed her and she spread her hands over it so that the hair tickled her palms and her fingers found the small flat coins of his nipples, centered with tiny nubs that hardened as she stroked them. His cheekbones darkened with color as he braced himself over her, letting her play.

Enough of that. She really, really liked his chest, but what she wanted most was in his pants. Abandoning his nipples, she went for his belt buckle, all but ripping it open. “Watch out for the zipper—” he managed, then rescued his erection from her dangerous eagerness to set it free. She was suddenly frenzied, batting at his hands in an effort to get to him.

“Move,” she muttered. “Let me have it.”

“Slow down. You can have it—Shit. Wait a minute.”

“No. Hurry.”

“Get your clothes off, too.”

He rolled to the side and impatiently she surged to her knees, tugging and tearing at her clothes and tossing them aside. As soon as she had her jeans and underwear off she tossed them aside and straddled him, concentrating on something that was far more rewarding.

“I love you, Simon,” she said as she grasped his penis and guided it between her legs. She used his name deliberately, reinforcing that she loved him, the man, not just the sex. White-hot anticipation tightened her stomach muscles. She sank down, just enough for the swollen head to push against her opening. The heavy pressure burned as her flesh gave, opened, molded around him. It hurt, but she didn’t care. She pushed some more, hungry for more, then tantalized herself by lifting slightly.

A growl rumbled in his throat and he grasped her hips, pulling her downward with a quick jerk that pushed him all the way inside her. His head arched back, his eyes closing as he savored that moment of penetration, then he relaxed his grip and his body and a beautiful smile curved his mouth as he said, “There. Go for it, sweetheart. It’s all yours.”

31

“WHY DID YOU COME HERE?” HE ASKED.

“How did you find me?” she countered.

They were lying naked amid the tangle of sheets and pillows, drowsy and relaxed and finally able to concentrate on something other than getting as close as possible to each other. He was still holding her close against his side, her head cradled on his shoulder, as if he couldn’t yet bear not to touch her.

They were both new to this, to the sense of utter joy in someone else. Andie couldn’t stop touching him, either, astonished at how fast things had changed between them, that she was now free to touch him and kiss him, bury her face against his neck and inhale the wonderful heat and scent of his skin. She kept having little episodes of unreality: she was actually here with him? Her body had joyously accepted his presence, but her mind hadn’t quite caught up yet to this sudden change. The man she had gone in terror of for so many months was now her lover. Not just her lover, but her love. However ill-advised it was, she loved him. They didn’t have the comfort of having known each other for years, dating, learning all the details and quirks of personality and tastes. Instead, every time they’d met, the contact had been intense and fraught with emotions neither one of them had any experience in handling. She was as much a novice as he in this business of loving, so all of this was difficult to take in.

To begin with, she felt giddy. Drunk. Drunk on him, on sex, on relief and joy and pain all rolled together. When he touched her, she felt cherished—she, Andie Butts/Drea Rousseau—who had never been cherished before in her life, who had never been loved, never been valued. The full realization that he valued her, that he was concerned with her pleasure, her comfort, her well-being, was almost more than she could take in.

Just as disconcerting was the depth and strength with which she cherished him. She would do anything to protect him, to care for him and smooth life’s bumps out of his path. If she felt this way about him, she could only imagine how this emotion would feel turned around toward her, in a man whose middle name was “intense” and whose every instinct was that of a predator. How would he react if he knew she intended to put her life in danger? Not very well, she was afraid. No man would, not even an average Joe, and he wasn’t average by any measure she could imagine.

She would have to tell him why she was here. She wouldn’t deceive him. This new, wonderful thing between them deserved better than that, but not right now. For right now, if he thought the time had come for questions and answers, then she wanted her own questions answered first, to prevent him from distracting her after he got his answers.

She tilted her head back on his shoulder, looking up at his face as she sifted through the possibilities. “Even if you have a tracer on my Explorer, that would track me only as far as the airport parking lot,” she said, thinking aloud. “You wouldn’t know what airline I used or what flight I took to where. I suppose if you’re a good enough hacker—”

“I am,” he interjected, without any hint of ego or bragging, simply stating a fact.

“You could eventually find out, but that would take time unless, by sheer luck, you found me in the first couple of databases you hacked. But then, after you found I’d come to New York, you’d have to find out where I’m staying. Considering how many hotels and motels are in this area, and that you have no idea what name I’d use to check in, there is literally no way, using a computer, that you could find me so fast.”

He didn’t say anything, his expression one of interest as he watched her think through the situation.