Face of Danger (35 page)

“I have to leave.”

She ignored the punch to her stomach. “
Why?
Is it because you’re not over… Jennifer?”

“It was,” he said. “I won’t lie, that’s what started it. But now if I stay…” He didn’t finish, just pushed by her, heading toward the closet. “I left some clothes in here and I need to get moving.”

“You need to move
on
,” she said, an ache wrapping around her. She hugged her arms and followed him, her heart kicking, her body shaking with how much this mattered. How much
he
mattered.

He was in the closet, retrieving clothes she’d stripped off him the night before.

“Do you hear me, Lang?”

“I hear you.” He stood up, a shirt in his hand. “I do need to move on.”

“But not out of town,” she cried softly. “You can’t run away from imagining her around every corner or remembering…. You have to get over that and on with life, Lang.”

“I have,” he insisted. “Really, I have. It’s just that—”

“That what? You’re scared of this? You’re scared of
me
.”

He crouched to grab a pair of khaki pants that were draped over the chaise in front of the three-way mirror. Khaki Dockers she hated on every other man but loved on him.
Loved
. Why wasn’t
she
scared of that?

“I’ve just been dead inside for so long,” he said, shaking them out and smoothing them to a Lang-like crease as crisp as the one he was putting into her heart.

She circled the chaise, got in front of the mirror to face him. “I don’t know what that means… for me,” she said. “Dead inside when? Past? Present? Future?”

“Until now.”

She waited for him to say more, but he just looked at her, the Hollywood chaise between them. And a whole country. Not to mention his ex-fiancée. Could she get past all these obstacles and make him understand?

“And you’re right,” he said on a disgusted sigh. “I’m scared to death of you.”

“Why? Because I’m like her? A little daring? A little reckless? Able to hatchet my way out of a jam and give the asshole what-for, as you would say?”

“That doesn’t scare me,” he said. “What scares me is how much I… could…” His voice trailed into silence.

“You could what?”
Care? Love you? Say it, damn you.

“Get hurt again. If something happened to you…” He swiped his hand through his hair, barely tousling the short locks. “I just… I couldn’t go through it again.”

That’s
what was holding him back? “I’m not going to get killed, Lang. And even if I did, haven’t you heard it’s better to have loved and lost than—”

“No.” He put a hand over her mouth. “No, it’s not.”

Silenced, she just stared at him, stepping back, away from his touch. “So you’ll walk away—three thousand fucking miles away—to protect yourself from the possibility of pain?” She let her voice rise in disbelief. “How is that living, Lang?”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just existing.”

She gave the chaise a shove with her knee. “Well, have fun with that, pal.” Goddamn it, her voice cracked. She had to get out of there. “I’ll miss you.”

He was over the chaise in a flash, seizing her by the shoulders before she took two steps. “Don’t.”

“
Don’t?
Don’t what? Don’t
cry
for you, Lang. I don’t—”

He pushed her toward the mirror, his jaw set, his grip tight, frustration rolling off him like heat waves. “I know, I know, you don’t cry. You don’t follow rules. You don’t take orders. You don’t let me control you. You don’t… care.” He bruised her mouth with a kiss.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She shoved him back but he didn’t budge, merely pressing her against the cold glass. “What do you think I’m trying to tell you? Last night wasn’t just sex to me. But it was for you. Just an escape from your… bad memories.” She spat the word and got jammed harder into the mirror in response.

Her own black memories washed over her. No.
No, don’t do this to me, Lang.

“You’re not an escape.”

“Shut up.” She tried to break free, but he trapped her
with his body, his legs, his mighty arms. “I’m a pastime, a distraction, a fun fantasy
fuck
. Didn’t I prove that in the bathtub last night? That’s all I am. I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“Stop it, Vivi.” He braced her with his leg. “What do you want me to say? I
love
you?”

Yes. Yes, I do.
The realization pressed her as hard as his body. Each breath strangled her, her throat so choked with pain she couldn’t breathe, her pulse galloping, her eyes… stinging. Oh, God in heaven, she was going to
cry
.

“How hard would that be?” she demanded. “Because I—”

He silenced her with a kiss she didn’t want but couldn’t escape. Fierce, furious, bubbling with words he couldn’t say and emotions he either didn’t want or couldn’t handle. His tongue ravaged her, sucking hers into his mouth, his torso smashed against her, his hands bracketing her against the mirror, his erection… growing harder.

I love you.
The words screamed in her brain, no whisper, no echo, no mild suggestion. They reverberated through her being, certain and real and right.
I love you, Colton.

She kissed the words into his mouth, flames of need licking up her thighs with the same vehemence of his tongue, his hands finding the most vulnerable places, his knees spreading hers apart. She wanted this. She wanted it even though she knew it was meaningless.

I love you.
She gasped too hard to speak, her breath stolen when he yanked the little skirt up over her hips.

A wave of a dark memory threatened—
a cheerleading skirt, another desperate male—
but she let lust crush the mental flashes, returning his kisses, fumbling with his belt.

He ripped at his fly, practically tearing the zipper out of the fabric, wrenching the pants open to release his swollen erection.

He jammed her against the mirror, her backside smashed against the glass. His hands under her arms, he slid her up the mirror. She wrapped her legs around him, the skirt bunched at her waist. He held her steady and used his hard-on to push her sliver of panties to the side.

The move made her dizzy. Crazy. Feral with need, but wild with shock. This was how he was going to say it?
This?

He rammed into her, no tenderness this time, no worry for her pain.

But there was little pain, just burning, hot, helpless need. She took every bit of him inside her, squeezing him with her walls, clinging to him.

Her head dropped, biting the litany of love into his shoulder.

I love you. I love you.

Her climax seized her, nothing slow and sweet, but lightning fast, relentless, a quake that twisted her body and shattered her. She came like a thunderclap, like nothing she’d ever known before, like it was the first time—and the last.

He followed in three mighty strokes, his face distorted, his grip relentless, his body out of control as he drove into her. Head back, eyes closed, he growled like a beast as he managed to drag his length out of her and spurt helplessly as she watched.

Like he couldn’t believe it himself, he looked up at her, astonishment and horror in his face as he slowly lowered her quivering body back to the floor with a surprising
amount of tenderness. Somehow, he managed to find the next breath, and release her death grip on his arms.

“Lang.” She mouthed his name, blinking against—moisture. A hot tear singed her cheek for the second time that day.

“I made you cry.” He didn’t sound proud, just shook his head.

“No, no you didn’t. He did.
He
did.”

He inched back. “Who did?”

“
Doctor
Ken Taylor.”

“Who?”

She lifted her finger to touch the tear, salt already trickling into her mouth. “The boy who raped me when I was sixteen.”

Breath whooshed out of him. “What?” He barely mouthed the word. “You were—oh, my God, Vivi. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He gripped her shoulders, then let go suddenly as if he might break her. “I got carried away. I got crazy. I wanted you to… just one more time… I…”

He released her completely, backing away.

“No,” she said, fighting for calm in her wild swirl of emotions. “This isn’t about you. You didn’t—”

“I did. Just then, I—”

“No,” she insisted. “If I wanted you to stop, you would have. I know that.”

“I would have. I would never hurt you. I would never…” He blew out another disgusted breath. “Not physically, and not intentionally.”

“I know.” She flattened her sweaty palms on the mirror behind her for stability and looked into his eyes. “And that is only one of the reasons why I love you,” she said simply.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered. “I… I can’t.” Pain wrecked his face. “I want to, Vivi, but I… can’t.”

“That’s a shame,” she said softly, the agony she expected lifting from her heart. “Because I can. Now, I can love and be loved. And that, Colton, is the real gift you gave me. After all these years, I finally want to love and be loved. By you. And you deserve love. You really do.”

“I…” He reached his hand as though he wanted to touch her, but he was already too far away. Already one foot out the door. Already escaping pain he might never feel. “I want to but…”

He swiped two hands through his hair, his eyes wet with tears.

“If you want to…” she said. “Then you can.”

“I can’t.” He zipped his pants, took a step away. “I want to, but I can’t.”

And then he walked out, leaving his clothes still in a pile on the chaise and Vivi still propped against the mirror.

She closed her eyes and didn’t move until she heard him leave and close the door with a resounding click. She let her body glide down the glass and sigh onto the floor.

Reaching to the chaise, she took his golf shirt and brought it to her face.

Then she finally,
finally
, cried.

V
ivi stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Until the icy spray washed away any remnant of salty tears.

No more crying, now.

When she turned off the faucet, she grabbed a towel, dried her face, and took a slow, head-clearing inhale. She had a job to do, a business to run, an adopted family that gave her all the love and support she’d ever need.

And she was going to take care of Souvanna. Escort her back to Laos, if that was what she wanted. Give her money. Show her love. Maybe she’d adopt her.

Buoyed by the idea, she headed downstairs, not surprised to find all evidence of Lang packed and gone. Even the kitchen was empty, the whole house unnaturally quiet now that the FBI agents had left.

The free world knew Cara Ferrari was in the hospital, so the chance of a Red Carpet Killer attacking was slim to none. Especially since Joellen had been moved up to Suspect Number One.

Only Stella remained, lying flat out on the tile floor, her expression utterly forlorn.

“I feel your pain, Stell,” Vivi said as she stepped over the little dog to head into the kitchen. She paused, crouching down to scratch Stella’s head. “Golf Guy has left the building.”

Stella heaved a sigh and turned away.

Something was different. The sliding door to the patio was open—that’s what it was. The shades, usually drawn so that most sunlight was absent, were pushed back and the sliders were fully open.

“Mercedes?” Vivi called, stepping out.

She stood stick straight in the sunshine, staring ahead. “It’s warm for March,” Mercedes said, without turning.

“Yes, it is.” Vivi took a few tentative steps forward, not wanting to break the spell but unable to stay back. “Are you all right?”

Mercedes nodded, then lifted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. “I wanted to try.”

“That’s good,” Vivi said encouragingly. “That’s a good step, Mercedes.”

She finally looked at Vivi, her eyes as bloodshot from crying as Vivi’s must have been a few hours ago. “They’re looking for Jo, aren’t they?”

Vivi swallowed. “Do you know where she is, Mercedes?”

Closing her mouth to a tight line, she turned back to the sun. “She’s a good girl.”

Really. “Then we need to find that out. The FBI needs to talk to her and find out—”
If she could possibly be the Red Carpet Killer.
“Things,” she finished lamely.

“She didn’t do it.” Mercedes crossed her arms. “She
did one really bad thing and you already know what that was.”

“Not so bad, in my opinion.”

Mercedes almost smiled. “You understand, then.”

“I was raped,” Vivi said simply, kind of amazed at how liberating the statement was. She might not be ready to tell her family, but if it helped Mercedes, then she wanted to share. “I know how it feels.”

“Will you protect her, then?” Mercedes asked. “The way you protected Cara? And me?”

“I don’t know how well I protected Cara, but I still don’t see any reason to drag you into this. And if the FBI wants to investigate the death of a farm worker—”

“That’s not what I mean.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen, and Vivi followed, curious when Mercedes picked up a file folder and held it out to Vivi.

Vivi took the folder, frowning as she opened it.

She scanned the words, her chest tightening at the picture of the dead movie star Adrienne Dwight. The first victim of the Red Carpet Killer. Under that, a clear plastic envelope, papers stashed inside. Receipts, lists, notes, computer printouts.

She untied the string on the back and opened the envelope, pulling out a piece of paper with swirling writing at the top, Middle Eastern symbols. Curious, Vivi examined it more closely, her gaze dropping to the bottom of the page.

Bhanjee Hair: Human, Artificial, Wigs Natural and Dyed.
Indian wigs. “She bought the wigs?”

Mercedes glanced at the page. “Actually, I ordered those for Cara to have here.”

But Joellen used them. Setting the paper down, she
pulled out the next. MapQuest directions printed off the Internet, two locations in the Hollywood Hills, a yellow highlighter used to color in the roads. Mulholland Drive was circled and one location marked with an X. The road where Adrienne Dwight’s life had ended.