Fatal Secrets (27 page)

“I have a very comfortable bed.” She glanced at her watch. “Not even midnight. My alarm goes off at six-thirty, I think maybe we can sacrifice thirty or forty minutes of shut-eye. You’re already pretty hot-looking, you don’t need much beauty sleep.”

Dean enjoyed this rare playful side of Sonia Knight.

He kissed her, then picked her up like a bride. “Direct me to your chambers.”

Her eyes brightened, and a curve of a smile had him wanting to take her away from everything and into a private world where he could discover her deepest thoughts and dreams, and fulfill her most intimate fantasies.

She pointed down the short hall, her finger waving lazily to the right, then lifted her head to kiss him.

He followed her direction and pushed open the door on the right, carrying her across the threshold. Her bedside lamp was on low, casting long shadows across her lacy white bedspread. The lazy movement of her ceiling fan overhead cut swatches in the dim light, but something was interfering with the perfectly symmetrical blades.

They both looked up at the same time. Sonia stifled a scream and Dean put her down as he reached for his gun that wasn’t there.

But a gun wouldn’t have done any good.

Hanging by a thin string from the edge of a fan blade was Greg Vega’s missing tongue.

Sonia watched the FBI Evidence Response Team process her house as she sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Dean’s car. Dean had insisted on his people taking jurisdiction, and she didn’t blame him—the FBI would give priority to her case, not just because it was related to an ongoing federal investigation, but because she was a federal agent targeted by a killer.

Her house. Her case
.

She hated feeling like a victim again, and worked on battling the fear that came with the invasion of her sanctuary.

Her cell phone rang. She answered immediately when she saw Duke Rogan’s caller I.D. “You’re on your way?” she asked.

“Left the hospital five minutes ago. Had no trouble getting Riley released. Sean is tailing us, making sure no one is following, and one of your brother’s friends is playing tag team with Sean. I’ll get them to the safe house in Lake Tahoe without trouble, I promise.”

A huge weight lifted off her shoulders. As long as her family was safe, Sonia could focus on finding Greg Vega’s killer. Already her fight was returning.

“Thanks, Duke.”

“What about you?’

She knew what he meant. “It’s my job.”

“It’s not your job to get killed.”

“I have no intention of getting killed. I will find and arrest this prick. He picked the wrong person to fuck with.”

Dean slid into the driver’s seat, keeping his door open. Tension filled the car, his body so tight she could feel his anger. She wrapped up the conversation with Duke and told Dean, “Duke Rogan has my family and is heading for Tahoe.”

He said, “The agents I had sitting on the house swear no one entered. But they didn’t arrive until six-fifteen this evening.”

“You think the killer broke in before then?”

“Hell if I know. There’s evidence of a picked lock at the kitchen door. It’s partly hidden from the street. But ERT hasn’t been able to pick up any footprints in the backyard to suggest the killer hopped a fence out of sight. The only activity in the house was when your lights went on at eight p.m.”

“They’re on a timer.”

“ERT is finishing up here. They’ll confirm the tongue belongs to Vega—”

“Like there’s a doubt.”

“We still need confirmation. They’ve printed the place, searched extensively for any other surprises, but so far nothing. The UNSUB wore gloves, left nothing obvious behind. They’re pulling trace evidence and fibers to see what they can find.” He caught her eye. “I told Brian Stone, the team leader, everything.”

Sonia blushed and averted her eyes. She was embarrassed. Not because she and Dean had had sex in her living
room, but because it was no longer a private, intimate moment. “I’m sorry.”

Dean grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly, so tightly she had to face him. He said, “Don’t apologize. I’m not sorry. I really hope you aren’t, either.”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

He relaxed. “I had to tell him the truth so they don’t pursue a false lead. Stone is discreet. He’s a former Marine, our head firearms instructor, and he directs our SWAT team.”

“Why is he here with ERT?”

“Half our agents are ERT certified. We pull them for their expertise, and Stone understands psychological warfare.”

“The killer hung the tongue to scare me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.”

“But they broke into your house to do it. Your bedroom. Where you should feel the safest. They want to wear you down, break you, so you make a mistake.”

“Then they’re going to be waiting a long time. I’m not broken over this. Pissed off, a little upset, feeling damn guilty I didn’t see the danger Vega was in. But not broken.”

He reached up and caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes and willed her body to relax.

“When can I check into the hotel? I’m beat and”—she looked through the windshield as three agents emerged from her house—“I really hate watching my house being invaded by your people. Or anyone.”

“Ten minutes, okay? And you’re not going to any hotel. You’re coming home with me.”

He jumped out of the car and shut the door. If he thought she was going to argue about it, he was wrong.

*    *    *

Dean watched Sonia sleep.

It was barely dawn, but Dean could only sleep a few hours before his internal clock woke him at five-thirty Friday morning.

He’d brought Sonia back to his sublet apartment. The FBI agent he was renting from was due back after the Fourth of July, four weeks from now, and Dean had expected to have his case against Xavier Jones wrapped up long before then.

Things had changed. Not only was Jones dead and the entire case spinning out of control, but he didn’t want to leave. Specifically, he didn’t want to leave Sonia.

Sonia had fallen asleep on the way to Dean’s apartment. She’d barely woken up as Dean led her up the four flights of stairs and into bed. She’d brought an overnight bag and barely managed to brush her teeth and pull on a tank top before collapsing into bed. Dean laid next to her and went out as soon as he heard her evenly breathing.

She was still asleep, but she’d kicked off the covers and lay sprawled on her stomach, taking up over half the bed. She had just as much energy while sleeping as she did awake, but once she’d settled in this position an hour ago, she hadn’t moved.

Light crept through the half-closed blinds and cast long, bright orange shadows across her near-naked body. Dean stirred below his waist as his gaze moved up Sonia’s lean body. He wasn’t going to wake her for sex, but he hoped she woke up on her own before they had to rush to leave.

Dean noticed a tattoo on Sonia’s upper arm. It wasn’t cute or feminine, but crude and rough. He leaned forward,
his chest tightening when he realized the mark wasn’t a tattoo. Three stars had been burned into her skin. He gently touched them, wishing he could take away the pain she’d suffered. Then he saw a faded scar on her shoulder blade, partly concealed by her tank top. He pushed the material aside, revealing a dark puckered double circle.

Sonia stiffened, and he realized he’d woken her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know they’re ugly, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

He rolled her over to her back and brushed her hair away from her face. “Who did that to you?”

“Which marks? The circles when I was thirteen, or the stars when I was twenty-four?” She pushed him aside, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled off her tank top. The circles appeared more like a rounded infinity symbol, four inches long and two inches wide. Long, faint scars crisscrossed her back. Dean could scarcely breathe, rage swelling in proportions he’d never felt before.

She stood, crossed to the bathroom, and shut the door.

Dean swore under his breath. He’d never considered that Sonia had been abused as a child beyond what her father had done …

Charlie Cammarata branded her? And he hadn’t been thrown into jail? Dean hoped he’d never meet the bastard again, because he didn’t know if he could stop his fist from connecting with Cammarata’s jaw.

He should have realized she’d be sensitive about the scars, but at the same time she’d been so matter-of-fact
about her past, he didn’t think. He wouldn’t hurt Sonia for anything. He hoped she knew that.

When the shower turned on, Dean rose and considered joining Sonia. He’d show her that the marks didn’t affect how he felt about her. But thinking about what she had suffered, that her former partner had been involved in her trauma, further enraged him. He didn’t want Sonia to think his anger was at all directed toward her, nor did he want her to think that he felt sorry for her. Sonia would not tolerate pity, and he didn’t want to give her any excuse to walk out.

Instead, Dean walked down the hall to the kitchen to make coffee. A fluffy white cat improbably named Mouse rubbed his lean body against Dean’s legs and meowed loudly. He reached down to scratch Agent Elliott’s cat, who instantly began to purr. The deep rumble was surprisingly soothing and Dean began to relax.

“Maybe I should get a cat,” he mumbled.

Sonia heard Dean walk away from the bathroom door. She almost wished she’d invited him in, but the embarrassment of her overreacting to Dean touching her scars had her hesitating. She owed him an explanation. First, she’d shower.

Sonia stepped into the icy water to wake up, then turned on the hot water. As the shower warmed, she washed. She shouldn’t have been so snippy with Dean about the brand. But even though she thought she’d put what happened behind her, it still hurt to talk about it.

She turned off the water, wrapped a towel around her body, and brushed her hair back into a wet ponytail. When she stepped from the bathroom, she smelled rich coffee in the air, and the white cat meowed a good morning at her. She absently scratched him behind the
ears, then pulled fresh jeans and a black ICE T-shirt from her overnight bag. She didn’t have much variety in her work attire, but she was always comfortable.

She stepped from the bedroom into the main living area. Dean sat at the small table drinking black coffee and reading the newspaper. He wore nothing but boxers and looked like a Greek god, muscles clearly defined even at rest.

He glanced up when she walked in and smiled sheepishly. “I’m usually a better cook, but I haven’t had time to stock up.” He gestured to a box of cereal and milk on the table. He was eating an apple. “I have more of these, plus bananas, oranges, strawberries, melon.”

“Sounds like heaven to me.” She sat down after pouring herself a cup of coffee, added a generous amount of milk to the cup, and sipped. A man who cooks, even if it was just putting out cereal and fruit, was a keeper in her book. She had apples at home. They were squishy and in the bottom of the refrigerator drawer, which looked none too clean.

“I’m sorry,” they said simultaneously.

Dean said, “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s just … I put it behind me. I probably didn’t deal with it well, didn’t want to think about it after the internal affairs investigation and everything that happened ten years ago. I never talk about it. I told Riley after it happened, and he’s the only one who knows. Other than Kane, of course.”

“Kane,” Dean said flatly.

Did he sound jealous?

“Kane saved my life. He’s like a brother to me.”

She paused, wondering what to say and how to say it.

“Sonia.” Dean took her hand. She looked at him, saw the respect in his eyes. No pity, not anger. Just raw affection and honesty. Dean was rock solid. “You don’t owe me an explanation. But I want you to know that nothing you say to me will affect how I think of you.”

Her chin quivered, and she swallowed and forced herself to toughen up.

“I should start from the beginning, but it’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Sonia would never forget the night the men came to the village.

“My father was a missionary who traveled from village to village throughout Central and South America teaching the people how to grow crops, how to preserve food. I didn’t see him much until my mother died and he returned to Argentina. I was four. He took me with him on his missions, and for nine years we lived in more villages than I can remember. We stayed four to six weeks before moving on. I didn’t remember anything from my early childhood, this was the only life I knew. And I liked helping people. I became good at figuring out different languages and dialects. I learned about farming and basic medicine.

“My father was cold. From my earliest memories, he never hugged me or talked to me.”

Dean said, “He didn’t talk to you?”

She explained. “He didn’t have a conversation with me. You know,
How was your day? Did you meet anyone today?
It was all work.
Translate for me. Get out to the field and show them how to pull the vegetables without destroying them
. I did everything he asked, hoping to find favor—hoping he’d love me. He left for weeks at a time. Left me wherever we were. He told me he had
business back in Argentina and he would come back for me. Once he left me in a village for ten months. I thought he was dead. I worked three times as hard as anyone because they didn’t like me. I was too white, too urban, too … I don’t know.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten. That time. I began to wish he’d never come back, then I’d feel so guilty that I didn’t like my own father. I thought he was a good man—someone who helped others—but he hated me. I didn’t acknowledge it then, maybe I didn’t even understand. I thought he blamed me for my mother’s death. He leaves for a mission and six months later returns and she’s dead.”