Nightfall (11 page)

She was escaping from him. Richard knew it. She was in her room, dressing, humming something beneath her breath, and he could smell her perfume as it slithered down the hallway. The scent surprised him.

Diana had always favored something light, flowery, innocent. It had been part of her allure, the innocence, and the chancre underneath.

Cassidy Roarke favored something richer, muskier, defiantly sexual. It suited her about as well as innocence had suited Diana. A lie, but then, he was used to the lies of women, from their lips, from their bodies, from the very scent they wore.

He'd kept away from her, afraid of what he might do. The darkness was closer now, hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness, and he was afraid of what might happen if he gave in to it. As long as he held himself remote, no emotions, just cold intellect, then he would win. He would accomplish what he so desperately needed to accomplish, and face his execution with the same cool equanimity.

He found himself wondering whether he might have made a very great mistake in choosing Cassidy Roarke. She was getting beneath his skin, disturbing him, drawing him back into the land of the living, when he was already making plans to leave it as gracefully as possible.

But he really hadn't had any choice in the matter. He'd taken one look at the silver-framed photograph and known, with an instinct that was almost unnatural. It was too late for second thoughts, for guilt, for worrying about the consequences. He would do what he had to do.

He didn't want her going out with Mark. He didn't want her smiling at his friend, her green eyes sparkling, that wariness that infused her entire body whenever she was around him vanishing.

Of course, he went out of his way to put that wariness in her eyes. He was doing everything he could to terrify her. And he was about to up the ante.

He followed the scent of her lying perfume, aroused by it even as he distrusted it. Sean and Mabry were out someplace, and he didn't expect them to return for hours. It wouldn't matter if they did. He had no qualms about having an audience.

She was in the kitchen, and he stood in the shadows, watching her, as he had so often, waiting until she realized he was there.

She was dressed in something long and flowery, and her red hair was loose on her shoulders. She hadn't put her shoes on yet, and she was on her toes, reaching up, and he could see the long, strong line of her body, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. She was a woman, lush and full, and he wanted to fill his hands with her. It had been so very long since he had touched a woman.

He didn't move, didn't make a sound, but she turned, staring at him, for a moment all her carefully nurtured fear and fascination visible to him. And then she pulled her defenses back about her like a cloak, and she tilted her head back. He could see the nervous pulse ticking at the base of her throat, and he wanted to put his mouth on it.

"You decided to go out with him after all," he said, no accusation, no emotion in his voice.

She flinched anyway. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" she countered.

The dress was cut too low. He could see the swell of her breasts above the neckline, see the nervous rapidity of her breathing. He allowed himself a small smile.

"It depends on how fascinated you are with risk."

Her face was pale in the murky light of the kitchen. "What risk are you talking about? You're not suggesting Mark is the one who…"

"Killed my wife? Not for a moment. Mark doesn't have a violent, bloody bone in his entire body."

"Then where's the danger?"

Stubborn, she was, and determinedly brave. He should take pity on her. But he couldn't afford to.

"From me," he said gently.

She backed away from him then, coming up against the old-fashioned counter. And because she retreated, he advanced, unable to resist the temptation. If she was going out with Mark Bellingham, he wanted her to go with his taste on her mouth, his touch on her flesh, his heat on her cold fear.

He put his hands on her shoulders, lightly, hesitating for a moment before letting them settle. She felt curiously fragile beneath his touch, and he knew it wouldn't take much strength to crush those bones. He was very strong, he knew it, he used it.

He let his thumbs brush against the hollow beneath her collarbone, and he felt her tremble. Her lids were lowered, as if she was afraid to let him see the sheer panic in her expression. He didn't need to see it or know it. He could sense it, breathe it, smell it. And he knew that mixed with that panic was unwilling fascination.

He bent down, and put his lips against hers. He could taste the toothpaste and lipstick, he could taste the desire. He increased the pressure, gently, and her mouth opened beneath his, unwillingly.

He moved his hands down her arms, capturing her wrists and putting them around his neck, pulling her body up against his. He wanted to groan with the pleasure of it, but his control was absolute, and he made no sound whatsoever as he slowly took her mouth.

The first tremor that swept over her body was fear. The second was something else, as he felt her nipples harden against his chest in the warmth of the dark kitchen, felt the reluctant softening of her mouth. She made a sound, a quiet one, of protest and surrender, and he slid his tongue against hers, pushing her, forcing her to accept him. Or to run. He needed an answer, even as he felt his body harden against hers, even as he felt the call of her, a siren lure, enticing him, calling him to drown in the scented richness of her flesh, to drown and forget the nightmare that haunted his every moment.

He was angry. Angry that she'd reached him again. He'd stalked her, intent on testing her, seeing how far he could push her. And instead she'd pushed back, crawling inside his skin, so that it was his hands that were trembling, his body that was shaking.

She smelled like sex and lies. She tasted like love and truth. He threaded his hands through her thick mane of flame-colored hair, reveling in the texture, and slanted his mouth across hers. He'd never liked kissing much before.

He liked kissing Cassidy Roarke. Liked feeling the passion rise in her, liked feeling the surrender racing just beneath the surface of her heated flesh. He could have her. He could slide his hands down that low neckline and cup her breasts, taste her nipples. He could push her down on the old linoleum floor of the kitchen and pull her dress out of the way, he could fuck her, hard, and she wouldn't protest. She would cry, and she would come.

And then she would run away. Too soon, too soon.

He released her, suddenly, abruptly, taking a safe step away from her, trying to distance himself from the taste, the heat, the scent of her. She looked up at him, her eyes dark with shock and remorse, and he was glad he was so skilled at shielding his expressions. She would be able to glean nothing of his reaction to her.

And then her eyelids fluttered closed, and she groaned, a soft, despairing sound that would have torn at softer hearts than his.

He could play it out, toy with her, push her. He was tempted to. The need that spiked through his body was strong and fierce, and he needed her, needed her.

But he needed more than the blessed forgetfulness of sex in her warm, lush body. He needed her heart and soul as well.

"Sorry," he said lightly, the prosaic word defusing the situation.

Almost. Her eyes flew open again, and she stared at him. "Sorry?" she echoed, almost as if she didn't understand the meaning of the word.

"I must have been overcome by my baser urges." His voice was cool, ironic, and he could see the flush stain her pale cheeks.

And then her eyes met his, unflinching. "I don't think you allow anything to overcome you. You know exactly what you're doing, and you know why, and there's nothing simple or base about it. Is there?"

He allowed himself the luxury of a faint smile. "I don't usually underestimate you," he said.

"You aren't answering me. You did that on purpose, didn't you? To rattle me. To see what kind of reaction you could get from me. You like playing with people, teasing them, frightening them…"

"Do I frighten you, Cassidy?" he interrupted her.

"Yes."

He had to give her credit for her honesty. He wanted to frighten her. He wanted to scare her half to death, and he wanted her to want him anyway. Be willing to do anything for him. "Do you think I'm going to take a butcher knife to you?"

"Did you take a butcher knife to your pregnant wife?"

"Sooner or later I'll answer that question. And I don't think you're going to like what I say."

"Then don't tell me."

"Stop asking."

She bit her lip, biting back the words she no doubt wanted to fling at his head. Her lips were still damp and reddened from his mouth, and he wanted her again, more powerfully than before. "What do you want from me?" she asked with a trace of desperation.

He let his glance slide down her strong, lush body, slowly, then raised his eyes to hers. "What makes you think I want something from you?"

"I'm not a total idiot, even if I act like one on occasions."

"I haven't seen you act like an idiot recently."

"Try five minutes ago. Kissing you in the kitchen was not a particularly smart move."

"Should you have kissed me in the bedroom?" he countered smoothly. "And actually, I didn't notice you doing any of the kissing. Granted, you didn't slap my face and screech 'how dare you?' like an outraged virgin, but I wasn't aware of any enthusiastic participation." It was a lie. He'd felt her response, in a thousand tiny, yearning ways. But she wouldn't know that.

The color on her cheeks deepened. "What do you want from me?" she persisted.

For such a tall, womanly creature she suddenly reminded him of a child. A defiant tomboy, facing her worst nightmare, with fists clenched, trembling, determined not to show it. Maybe that's exactly what he was. The thing every woman feared. A spiritual vampire, ready to drain her of everything for his own survival.

He reached out a hand, waiting to see whether she'd try to duck. She held her ground, but he could see the muscle clench at the base of her jaw, as his long fingers brushed the side of her cheek. "Maybe just a taste of innocence," he murmured.

"I'm not innocent."

He wanted to laugh. "Compared to me you are."

"Compared to you, anyone is."

"Perhaps." He let his fingers play across her lips, and they were soft, faintly clinging. "Perhaps I want to bring you down to my level. Corrupt you, destroy you, and then murder you." He spoke the words lightly, softly, and it took a moment for her eyes to grow cold with fear, for her mouth to tighten, for her to take a step away from him.

"I don't believe you," she said.

"Then what do you believe?"

She wasn't ready for that question. She shook her head, blindly, and pushed away from the counter, moving past him, careful not to touch him. But the long, flowing skirts brushed against his legs, and the scent of her lingered in the air, and the taste of her clung to his mouth. And he stood alone in the darkened kitchen for a very long time, remembering.

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"I need your help."

Cassidy looked up from the transcripts she was reading. Sean stood in the doorway, dressed in his favorite Irish wool suit, the one he wore for funerals and weddings. He looked glum, and Cass felt a clutching of nervousness in the pit of her stomach.

"Anything."

Sean grinned. "Don't be so rash, darling. Your da would have your soul if he could, and well you know it."

She considered it. She'd once thought so, flung those very words at him when she'd escaped from his overwhelming presence. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe I'm stronger now."

"Strong enough to stand up to me? It's a good thing—you're going to need your strength."

"What do you need me to do?" She was resigned.

"Bellingham's set up a meeting with the prosecutor, to see if we can work something out. Fabiani's insisting on having General Scott present as well, and Richard says he won't come unless you come with him."

"He doesn't need me to hold his hand," she snapped.

Sean shrugged. "You've been here, how long? A week? You should know that Richard is one very stubborn man. If he says he won't come to the meeting without you, then he won't come. And Fabiani says he won't even consider delays unless Tiernan's there."

"But why Scott?"

"He's a powerful man, politically. He can get what he needs, even from a state's attorney. If he wants to be at the meeting, to make sure things go according to his agenda, then no one's going to be able to stop him."

"You can't stand up to him?"

Sean reacted to the gentle barb as she expected. "Of course," he said, affronted. "The day some retired relic of the industrial-military complex can get the better of me will be the day they put me out to pasture. I'm interested in Scott. He won't talk to me about the book, but the man has secrets, I know it."

"You surely don't think he killed his daughter and grandchildren?" Cass demanded, horrified.

"No."

"He didn't strike me as the kind of man who kept secrets. He seemed to be the sort who put everything on the table, and dared you to accept it or not."

"And when did you meet General Scott?" Sean asked mildly.

She considered lying, then dismissed the notion. She was a lousy liar, always getting caught. "Didn't I mention it?" she said airily. "I ran into him in the park a few days ago."

"Ran into him?" Sean closed the door behind him. "Scott and his wife have a condo on the West Side. Why would he just happen to run across you in the park, and how in hell would he even know who you are?"

So much for airiness. "I believe he followed me."

"I believe it, too." Sean's voice was grim. "What did he want from you?"

"He wanted to warn me."

Sean's reaction was a bark of laughter. "That you were consorting with a convicted murderer? That was hardly news. Did he tell you Richard would kill you?"

"Among other things."