My Everything (16 page)

Ben didn’t hesitate. The fabric came apart like Velcro beneath his fingers and he realized Grace wasn’t wearing a bra or panties.

Ben reached between them to free himself. He lifted her with ease and she wrapped her long legs around his waist as he backed her against the wall and plunged his length into her. He rested his forehead against hers and stopped, panting as if he’d just sprinted four hundred yards

Grace looked up at him, her brown eyes questioning, wondering.

“You,” he said after a moment of silence, “are more than I deserve.” Then he pulled out almost all the way and thrust deep inside her again.

She held on tight.

Ben savored the smooth heat of her body, the way she clutched at his shoulders. His voice was rough. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

Grace tightened her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. When she nipped at his skin, Ben took that for a yes. He growled and got a good grip on her bottom, fucking her as if his life depended upon it. Grace’s heart pounded against his chest, her breath came in short, rapid pants. He felt her skin grow slick with sweat beneath the pads of his fingers. Crying out his name, she came with exquisite little tremors all along his length. He rode her through her orgasm, his own control slipping away.

Grace lifted her head and her lips brushed his ear. She whispered, “I love you.”

The brick walls Ben had built around himself over the years crumbled to dust in an instant. He reached up to cradle her head with one hand. “I love you, Grace.”

He shattered with a primitive growl.

Ben held her close. He did love Grace. And he suddenly realized he was no longer afraid. He couldn’t control everything. Sometimes things just happened. Like Grace. Ten years ago, she happened, but he had put the brakes on their relationship. Here she was, happening to him all over again. This time the brakes were off and his car was speeding down a steep hill, careening out of control. And Ben didn’t give a damn.

For a long
time, Angel heard nothing. No screaming. No cursing. No banging doors. No stomping feet. She couldn’t imagine why. Maybe he’d planned to leave her in that closet all night. Maybe he’d planned to leave her there forever because he was finished with her. But she didn’t think so.

If he’d hurt Ben, he wouldn’t have sounded so pissed off. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have bothered to come back at all. He would have simply left her there to die. Angel choked back a sob. She had to hold on. She had to stay calm for her family, not just for herself. And she had to keep her fingers crossed that Ben was all right and she’d have a chance to warn him.

The back door opened with a bang. Angel jerked at the sudden sound. She forced herself to keep her head down. She could hear him on the back porch. His breathing sounded loud and ragged, and it carried to where she hid on the roof. He stomped through the weedy backyard, cursing. He must have found the cellar door she’d opened because she heard wood splintering and more cursing.

She thought she heard a gate open into the alley and for a few moments the yard was silent. Then she heard him return and if the cursing was any indication, he was furious. He stomped up the porch steps and disappeared. Angel prayed to God he would believe she was long gone. She could hear muffled sounds now coming from inside the house.

Angel broke out in a sweat again and she was tempted to bolt, but she held still. Her life depended upon absolute silence.

Roger searched every
closet, every cabinet, under every piece of crappy yard-sale furniture in the house despite the fact that he knew it was pointless. The little witch was gone. Long gone. Shit. Shit. Shit. How the hell did someone who weighed maybe a hundred ten pounds on a good day knock down a door?

It was beyond belief. This entire day was beyond belief.

To think, he’d wasted nearly an hour sitting on the bed, feeling guilty, arguing with himself. Spent an hour trying to convince himself he should and could kill the girl to send a message to McCall. To think the part of him that said she was just a kid had almost won the argument.

Roger flipped open another cabinet door and stuck his head inside. Of course she wasn’t in there. He stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen.

What the hell was he doing? Why was he wasting valuable time? He had to get out of the house. McCall’s sister must have gone straight to the cops. He had to leave right now. He was damn lucky they weren’t already pounding on the door.

In a panic, Roger ran to the bedroom and grabbed all the clothes and toiletries in reach. He paused, dropping his possessions back onto the floor. Did any of this stuff really matter? The cops would find the place anyway. What difference did it make if he left a few clothes behind? He needed to get the hell out of Los Angeles, that’s what he needed to do.

He threw on his jacket and checked the pockets for the car keys. They weren’t there. He searched frantically for them. Christ! Where were they? Where were they? He ran back to the kitchen to check every drawer and cabinet, but the keys weren’t there.

Had he left them in the bathroom? Roger wove his way down the hall, his balance off, the floor seeming to roll beneath his feet. He spotted the keys where he’d left them, sitting on the back of the toilet. His hands were shaking so badly he shut the toilet lid before he picked them up, afraid he’d drop them into the bowl. With a glance in the mirror, he grabbed for the first aid kit. His face was still oozing blood. He’d have to get the laceration stitched.

Goddamn it.

His eye had swollen shut, and it burned like fire. How the hell was he supposed to get through airport security and hop a plane with stitches in his cheek and an eye patch? He might as well walk into the airport with a parrot on his shoulder. He’d stand out like a sore thumb and every cop in southern California would be on to him.

No, he’d have to go home, back to the garage in Bakersfield, the place he used as a bedroom, and make a visit to the free clinic. He’d have to wait to leave the country until his face healed; hole up for a while. Maybe fly out of San Francisco instead of LAX. Oakland might be even better.

Yeah, right, maybe he could pass for a Raiders fan.

On second thought, he could drive. Maybe drive over to Arizona and cross into Mexico there. That would be the smartest thing to do, drive across the border from Arizona. Nobody looked at you twice if you drove into Mexico. The border guards only cared when you returned.

Roger burst through the back door. He didn’t bother to keep quiet as he clambered into the sedan and started it up. He flipped on the headlights and careened backward down the drive. Roger’s heart pounded in his ears, and he swore he could hear the sound of a witch cackling. He twisted and shot a glance over his shoulder into the backseat, but it was empty. At least he hoped it was empty. The demons had been quiet for a long time, as long as he’d been focused on revenge. He didn’t want to see or hear them again. He was terrified of them.

Things had gone so smoothly, up until the moment at the hotel when that she-cat clawed him. Now he’d have to come up with a new plan on the fly. He didn’t know if he could do that. It had taken him a year to set this plan in motion.

Roger smacked the steering wheel. Hell! Today was not a good day.

From the safety
of her perch on the roof, Angel blew out a long slow breath. Judging by the way her captor drove off, she was certain he wouldn’t return. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the still hazy stars suspended in an equally hazy night sky. Silent tears of relief slid down her cheeks, sliding into her ears and her long, tangled brown locks. She ignored them.

None of it mattered, not the dirt, not the discomfort, not the dark, not the bad neighborhood. Not even the fear of discovery she’d experienced just moments ago. All those things were meaningless.

She had the license number of the car. That was the only thing that mattered.

When he’d turned on the headlights and backed out, she’d lifted her head. Between the car’s taillights and the dull street lamp, there was just enough light to read the license plate. She’d quickly committed it to memory. Ben would be able to track him down. She had the means to keep her big brother alive.

Someone pounded on
the door. Grace hurried to untangle herself from Ben’s arms. She sprinted for the bathroom. Tom’s voice came through loud and clear. Ben quickly zipped his zipper and straightened his clothing. He headed to the door, prepared to dare anyone to criticize what he and Grace had just done. Tom strode in along with two detectives.

“I’ve got news,” he said, “And you’d better sit down.” Tom glanced around. “Why are there buttons all over?”

“Just tell me,” said Ben. “I don’t need to sit down.”

“You might,” insisted Tom. “Brace yourself. We’ve identified Grace’s attacker. He’s Julie’s brother.”

Ben’s mouth fell open. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Roger Smithson. Twelve years ago, he tried to bludgeon his parents to death. That’s why his prints are in the system. He was diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia. His parents declined to file charges, so he was in and out of state hospitals until three years ago. He was released into his parents’ custody. I have his description, his last known address and last known place of employment. The last time he paid into Social Security was one year ago. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t worked since then, at least not under his real name and Social Security number. I assume you know how to contact Paul and Susan? The only thing I remember is that they left San Jose shortly after Julie’s death. I’m guessing they won’t be too hard to track down.”

Ben felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Roger Smithson.

Julie had told him her brother was studying on the East Coast, working on some very complicated doctoral thesis. That’s why he hadn’t come to the wedding. She’d said he was too involved in his research project. There was always a reason they’d never managed to meet, always a plausible excuse. She’d described her brother as a sort of anti-social, reclusive academic.

Ben had believed her. Quite frankly, he’d never given it much thought. Why should he? Julie was his wife. Of course he’d trusted her. It would never have occurred to him to do a background check on the woman he loved.