His Every Desire (6 page)

The only contact Tracy had with that terrifying life was a monthly phone call made to Aleisha on a prepaid cell phone that she replaced every few months.

Officially Tracy Grainger no longer existed.

When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman who only barely resembled the person she had once been.

And she liked it.

Her hair had grown out and instead of the short, tousled cap of curls she’d had, it was now long, and thick with barely a wave in it. She’d stopped dying it as well, and all the blonde locks were gone, leaving the deep, mink brown hair that Vincent had hated.

And weight. That was the best part. She had put on thirty pounds. She no longer looked like the razor-thin model Vincent had wined and dined and fooled.

Any time she’d put on more than three pounds, she had been barred from the kitchen. He’d put locks on the door, and the servants had known better than to allow her in. The few times it had happened, the servant had been thrown out on his ass.

And one had gotten a busted jaw for it. Of course, Vincent had the sick little fantasy in his head that she had been flirting with the poor kid.

But over the past two years, she’d gorged on burgers and French fries. She barely even looked the same anymore. Her angular face had softened and her mouth looked lush in the curves of her face, instead of the wide, mobile mouth that the fashion world claimed was unique.

No, she didn’t look the same, didn’t feel the same.

She was happy, completely happy.

Well, almost.

There was just one flaw.

For a while, part of her had waited for Joel to show up. Logically, she had understood he wasn’t going to come.

She didn’t know where he was. She could have asked. Aleisha would have found out, tracked him down. But she hadn’t.

Joel was the kind, that if he wanted to find her, he would. He would have tracked her down and no fake ID, or new social security number could have stopped him.

But he’d never come—and she wasn’t going to live her life according to how a man wanted her to look, or how she might think he’d want her to look. And she liked how she looked.

Tracy felt like a woman again, instead of a punching bag, or a rag doll. But she still looked behind her everywhere she went.

Part of her looked for Vincent. No amount of reassurance from Aleisha could still that voice inside her head.

Vincent was lying in a coma in Salle Memorial. The minute he stirred, Aleisha would call her.

“I’m safe,” she murmured, wondering if she’d ever believe that.

And there was a part of her, she knew, that still waited for Joel.

As of now…that was going to stop. She pulled into the small town with a smile on her face. The little town by the Ohio River was as far away from her old life as she could get. Pretty, quaint, friendly.

The mansion in Shreveport, Maine hadn’t been home for Vincent. It had been a place for private business, it had been Tracy’s prison, but it hadn’t been home. Vincent liked big, expensive cities—not pretty little small towns like this.

And it sure as hell hadn’t been quaint and friendly. Or home.

This was home. It was already home. She felt it in her bones before she even climbed out of the car.

She breathed in the crisp fall air as it drifted over the river. Man, it was lovely here. It almost hurt her eyes just to stare at the sun setting over the river, the sky painted a million shades of gold, pink and red. Small wisps of clouds dotted the western horizon and as the sun hit them, they gleamed like they’d been dipped in gold.

Behind her, the small house she had finally dared to buy waited. She’d been scared to death to buy anything larger than a pair of shoes or a new shirt.

God, how long had it been since she’d been able buy even that—clothes, shoes—without worrying?

And now she had a house.

She had a career. Not a job. A career.

Although she had always loved to write, it had been something she’d been forced to give up a long time ago. Vincent hadn’t tolerated it. The few times she had tried, he’d deleted files—and once he had beaten her bloody. Then he had calmly picked up her computer and thrown it out the window.

When she’d tried to buy another one, he’d beaten her with a belt and locked her in her rooms for a week.

Clenching her hand into a fist, she shoved those dark memories from her mind.

That wasn’t part of her life now.

Her life now was as a writer. One whose name was gaining popularity…and a contract in New York.

The online publisher who had released her books for the past seventeen months had moved into print and was on its way to the big-time. A publisher from a major press in New York had read one of her books and offered her a contract.

While she still had a decent amount of her mother’s money, the nest egg in the bank was growing pretty fat just from her new income alone. It wasn’t as much as she’d made when she’d been modeling, but it was more than she’d had to call her own in a long time.

She played the reclusive author entirely too well. Partly out of a need for privacy, but more…she was still too afraid of Vincent to risk so much as putting her face on the internet.

Besides, the people wanted her books. They didn’t need to see what she looked like.

Suddenly depressed, she turned away from the glorious glow of the sunrise and walked back into her small house, shoulders slumped, head low.

And totally unaware of the eyes that watched her.

* * * * *

Her dreams were restless.

Tormented.

The pain that she hadn’t had to deal with for two years came back to haunt her, the metal of a belt buckle biting into her skin, the hard slap of a fist pounding into her flesh, the hot, salty splash of blood on her tongue as he busted her mouth again.

When she woke to the muffled sound of her own screams at three a.m., she lay there, curled up in a tight ball, afraid to move until the sun started to creep over the horizon some three and half hours later. Crawling from bed, she stumbled into the shower, grabbing one of the towels from a box as she went.

Turning the spray up as hot as she could stand it, she climbed into the stall and stood under it, feeling that hot needles pounding into her skin. Bracing her hands against the wall, she leaned her head forward, water sluicing over her skull to drip down her face and off her chin.

She was shaking.

Fuck, she could actually see her body quivering. She was cold to the bone, so cold she ached with it, even though her flesh was pink from the heat of the water pouring over it.

“You’re not going to keep haunting me like this,” she muttered grimly. “You’re not.”

She grabbed the shampoo and dumped some of the pale pearlescent liquid into her palm, scrubbing it into her hair, soaping the long brunette tresses. It hung halfway down her back now. Slowly a smile spread across her face as she smoothed her hair down over her breasts.

Long, dark hair, and round curves instead of the near anorexic body she’d sported since she was eighteen and had been discovered by a modeling agency. She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and then turned her back to the spray, staring down at her body.

Her breasts were just a little fuller now, thanks to the weight she’d put on. Fuller, just a little less perky than they had once been—damn, she was glad she’d refused that damn breast implant surgery Vincent had demanded she have. She’d gotten his fist in her gut over that.

“Stop it, Tracy… Emery. Stop it. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over.”

Slicking her hands over her flesh, she rubbed in the simple, vanilla scented soap. Brushing her fingers over her nipples, she shivered at the small sensation that went through her.

Closing her eyes, she pushed Vincent Grainger’s face out of her mind, summoning Joel’s image as she circled her fingers over the hard little bud of her clit, shivering as pleasure streaked through her.

She liked touching herself—it wasn’t as sweet as Joel’s hands on her, but at least she knew how to feel pleasure, not just pain. Sliding her fingers over her breasts, she cupped them, tugging on her nipples until the aching spread down to her belly, and lower.

The slick folds of her sex were getting wetter and it had nothing to do with the shower. Pumping two fingers in and out of her pussy, she moaned as the tightening increased, until she could hardly breathe from the sensations coursing through her.

But her hands on her body just weren’t enough.

Joel…where are you!

With a groan of frustration, she reached for the massaging shower head and tugged it down. Aiming the hot spray to her sensitive folds, she screamed, short and hard, as the hot, rapacious feelings spread.

She screamed as she climaxed under the spray of water and her knees gave out. Slumping to the floor of the shower stall, she leaned her head back against the wall, a wobbly smile on her mouth.

“Hmmm…oh, yeah, that was nice,” she murmured.

A few minutes later, knees still a little wobbly, she climbed from the shower and dried a circle on the moisture fogged mirror, staring at her reflection with somber eyes.

“Tracy died,” she whispered to herself. “She just now died. Tracy didn’t know how to have pleasure, how to do anything but hate, and hide, and hurt. She’s dead now. You are Emery.”

Slowly, her mouth curled into a smile and she closed her eyes, tipping her face back. “Emery…”

And Emery wanted Joel.

* * * * *

The apartment was almost a mirror image of the one he’d grown up in. A little newer. It didn’t stink of Mom’s cigarette smoke or her alcohol.

But it had the same bland beige walls, the same threadbare carpet.

Walking through the door, Joel glanced at the two feds outside the door.

“Any idea how long I’m going to be stuck here?” he asked. He had been given a reprieve. He didn’t feel he deserved it, but he had taken the deal. The feds would grant early, conditional parole if he helped them put away the crime lords. His parole required that he cooperate with the federal government and he had to testify. He had. Grainger was the only one left, and he was still a damned vegetable from what he had heard. Now he was itching to go after Tracy.

He wasn’t staying. But he had to make them think he was.

The DA moved in behind him, smiling a polite, professional smile. “That depends on Grainger’s recovery. Relax. It’s almost over now. Once he’s considered fit to indict and stand trial, you’ll be home free.”

A cynical smile edged up the corners of his mouth.

Home free.

He had sent three crime bosses to prison. They needed his cooperation to get a fourth one in there. He was now a convicted felon and although his debt to society was considered paid, that rap would follow him the rest of his life. And he’d deal with his own guilt for as long as he lived.

Home free.

Sighing, he shoved that aside. Tracy—he had to concentrate on Tracy.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled as the DA moved into his line of sight. “I’m a little curious—one of the people we’d love to question, we’ve never been able to find. I heard you had a relationship with her. Tracy Grainger, Vincent’s wife?”

Joel cut his eyes to the DA. Lifting one brow, he said flatly, “Ms. Grainger is one thing I will not discuss. Period.”

Mike Chaumers’ face went cold. “It doesn’t work that way. I have to know the details. Because if I’ve heard rumors, the defense will have heard them, too. I need to know what was between you two. So I can figure out a way around it. I also want to know where she is. We need her on the stand.”

Joel smiled coolly. “I don’t know where she is. And I don’t know what rumors you’re talking about.”

Chaumers narrowed his eyes. “Don’t dick around with me, Lockhart. I know what Grainger did with her—practically handed her to you on a silver platter.”

Arching a black brow, Joel asked softly, “Have proof? Are there pictures? A movie? Eyewitnesses?”

The DA said nothing, just glared at Joel angrily. Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Joel turned his attention back to the window and stared out at the gray vista of the parking lot. “Then, like I said, I don’t know what rumors.”

A hand came down on Joel’s shoulder, and Chaumers swung him around. “You’re supposed to be cooperating with us, buddy. You want me to throw you back in jail? I can do that—for a very long time.”

Joel dropped his eyes to the hand lying on his shoulder and then slowly looked back at the attorney.

Chaumers paled and slowly backed away until he bumped into the two feds who had stepped into the room.

“Is there a problem here?” A new voice spoke up, but Joel never took his eyes away from Chaumers to look at third fed, Agent Casey Dowling.

It was Mike who slowly turned to look at the petite black lady. Only then did Joel look at her. She was having a stare-down with Mike though. Turning away from them, Joel went back to staring out the window.

He was a little sorry that he’d have to leave Dowling empty-handed. He liked her.

She had a serious grudge against Grainger.

But she had enough to put that fuck in jail without him.

“What’s the problem here, Mike?”

“No problem.”

“Then why did it sound like you were telling Mr. Lockhart he was going back to prison? He kept his end of the bargain. We’ve got three big, nasty fish off the streets, thanks to him. And one left to go—what’s the problem?”

Mike hesitated a little. “We need the wife. Lockhart knows where she is. He’s been holding back information.”

“We don’t need the wife. And she disappeared. Nobody has been able to find her.”

Joel closed his eyes, tuning Dowling’s voice out. He couldn’t listen to that again. Tracy had done what he’d told her to do. That’s all—nothing had happened to her.

Damn it, Carly said she was safe—

She is safe, baby…

The cold settled in but this time it came almost like a comforting hug as Carly wrapped her presence around him. She’s safe, honey.

Where is she? he wanted to demand. He wanted to leave right now. Hell, he could get out of there. Three federal agents and one DA. Dowling was the weak link. Grab her, get her gun—but she was also the soft spot for him, because he couldn’t hurt her.