Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (12 page)

“We’ll finish going over the list later,” he stated, voice flat.

She didn’t reply, didn’t acknowledge him. She couldn’t.

Only when she heard him retreat from the room did she turn around.

And face the fact that once again she was alone.

Chapter Thirteen

Blood. So much blood.

No. Gavin, no.

The blood. Hot, wet. Crawling up her nose, gagging her.

Oh, Jesus.

Greer jerked awake. With a harsh gasp she clapped her hands to her head. As if her palms could contain the agony stabbing into her skull and the bloodstained memories trying to gush out.

She tried not to move, to remain as still as a statue. Maybe the sickening throbbing would ebb. Maybe it would go away just as the terror-filled images she’d woken to dissipated like smoke up a chimney. She tried to grab them, tried to retain
something
from the nightmare, but they evaporated, leaving behind clammy horror on her skin like a souvenir. Finally, she gave up trying to remember; it only amplified the pounding in her head.

A whimper escaped her, followed by another.

“Greer?” The door to her room creaked open, and she pried her lids apart to find Raphael in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

She parted her lips to answer—or tried to. A low moan emerged instead.

One moment he hovered in the entrance to the bedroom, and in the next he crouched beside the mattress, fingers smoothing across her forehead, his big palm settling over her belly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and she grasped a hold of the soothing calm in his voice as if he were a lifeboat in a storm-ridden sea. “Is it the baby?”

“No,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut as another vicious knife of pain speared her brain. “My head.”

His touch disappeared, but moments later the click of the wall switch in the en suite bathroom and the rush of running water reached her ears. Absurd relief coursed through her as strong and loud as the water streaming from the sink faucet. For a brief moment she thought he’d left her as he’d done in the living room earlier. Stupid—so stupid to be thankful he’d stayed with her. Or worse. Stupid to become dependent on his presence and comfort. First the bout of morning sickness. Now the headache. Soon she would yearn for him to be there through the entire pregnancy when he’d made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.

She groaned, crushed her palms harder against her head.

“Sit up for a second.” The order accompanied a gentle nudge under her shoulders, and she rose, careful as if her head would tumble off if she moved too fast. The bed dipped behind her, and when Raphael eased her back, his strong chest cushioned her head and cheek instead of the soft give of the pillow. She stiffened as several sensations slammed into her at once. The warmth from his naked skin penetrating the cold left behind by night sweats. The unique scent she associated with him wrapping around her like a pair of embracing arms. The press of his hard thigh against her hip like an anchor in a sea of pain, fear, and sickness.

Silently, he draped a cold cloth over her forehead, and she groaned with pleasure. And when he removed her hands and replaced them with his, rolling his fingertips over her temples, she went limp. He continued applying the light pressure, and the combination of his gentle ministrations and the cooling relief of the cloth started to force the pounding ache into a slow retreat. “Can you take anything?” he murmured.

“The doctor gave me a prescription, but I didn’t get it filled,” she mumbled. “Don’t want to chance it with the baby.”

“Is the headache because of the baby?”

A heaviness settled in her limbs, and she shifted a little on her hip, snuggling closer to his heat, his scent.
Just for a moment
, she promised herself as she curled her fingers over his thigh, the gray cloth of his sweatpants soft against her palm.
I’ll allow myself just a moment to lie here before I move and he leaves
.

“Greer?”

“Hmm.”

“Is the headache due to the baby?”

She yawned. “No.” The world drifted behind her closed lids, swayed, then settled. “The murder.”

…

This time when Greer woke, nothing greeted her.

No dreams. No pain. No sickness.

Blessed nothingness.

She sighed, curled onto her side, and burrowed deeper into her pillow…and encountered rock-hard abs instead of downy softness. She jerked up, heart pounding in her chest like a runaway train seconds from derailment.

Shock sucker punched her as she stared down at a sleeping Raphael.

What the hell?

As if the question twisted the key in the lock in her head, memories flooded back. The god-awful headache. Raphael rushing to her rescue. Again. Comforting her, soothing her. Holding her.

Her belly flip-flopped and the somersault had nothing to do with morning sickness. And everything to do with the man lying in her bed.

With his back propped against the wooden headboard, his ridiculously-long-for-a-man lashes hiding his too-razor-sharp gaze, his full lips slightly parted, and his big body relaxed, he appeared younger, that hard edge somewhat dulled by sleep. Like a slumbering giant.

“How’s your head?” The question came seconds before the thick fan of lashes lifted, revealing the piercing stare that never seemed to rest.

“Better.” She cleared her throat. “Much better. How long have I been asleep?”

He sat up and stretched, yawning loudly and widely. Underneath all that golden skin, his muscles did a sexy slow dance. She dragged her too-fascinated eyes away.

“I’m not sure. An hour maybe? After that last orgasm, you kind of crashed.”

Her gaze whipped back to him as her jaw dropped. “What?” she gasped.

“You don’t remember?” He pressed a hand to his chest, his eyebrows arrowed down over his wounded gaze. “I’m crushed.”

“You’re—you’re—” she sputtered.

“A wishful thinker,” he supplied, a corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk. “Don’t worry, princess, I didn’t storm the battlements while you were sleeping.” His voice lowered as he leaned forward until their foreheads almost brushed, and the tip of his nose bumped hers. “I’m guilty of a lot of things, but molesting unconscious women isn’t one of them.”

“Why do you throw out verbal bombs like that?” she murmured. “Like the zip code crack and now I’m calling you a rapist?”

“Just keeping us honest.”

“I’ve never given you any indication that I cared about what side of town you come from. Or that I believe you’re anything but honorable. I wouldn’t be in your home if I didn’t.”

He didn’t reply, and the silence seemed to expand until it filled the room almost beyond capacity. Even in the shadowed room his eyes burned into hers. She wanted to glance away from the intensity in the scrutiny that was at complete odds with his closed expression. Just as she was ready to…what? Retract what she said? Explain it? God, she didn’t know. But as she parted her lips, he bounded from the bed and left the room with a “Be right back” tossed over his shoulder. Another flash of those sexy tattoos, wide back, slim hips bared by the low-riding sweats, and tight ass, and then he was gone.

She exhaled a deep breath—one she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. God, the man didn’t only endanger her heart but her lungs, too…

Whoa. Wait.
Endanger her heart. Where the hell had that thought come from? No, her heart wasn’t in jeopardy. Not at all. After this was over, she would walk away—she and her baby—and Raphael wouldn’t so much as stretch out one of those wide, long-fingered hands to stop her. She’d interrupted his life with her announcement of an unplanned pregnancy and crazy stalker. Yes, they’d had sex—the hottest, wildest sex of her life—but he didn’t
want
her. Not where it counted.

In spite of the stern lecture she’d administered herself, her belly executed a slow, sinuous somersault.

“Here.”

She started, blinked before focusing on the mug of steaming liquid in front of her face. Hell, she hadn’t even heard him reenter the room. She accepted the cup with a subdued “thanks,” unwilling to meet his all-seeing-all-knowing gaze in case he detected the thoughts tumbling around in her skull.

“You didn’t mention feeling sick, so I figured we’d head it off.” Raphael reclaimed his spot on her bed and wedged his shoulders up against the headboard. He nodded toward the drink. “More ginger tea.”

She’d swallowed her first sip of the tea she was fast becoming addicted to when he crossed his arms and leveled one of his cut-the-bullshit stares on her.

“What did you mean the headache was because of the murder?”

Did I say that?
She rewound the time before she’d fallen asleep in her head but couldn’t pinpoint the memory of her revealing that bit of information.

“I have no memory of what happened the night Gavin was killed. The last thing I remember is you dropping me off.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “I know. We covered that.”

“Lately I’ve been having nightmares. I can never remember them clearly but…” She shivered, clutched the mug tighter. “In them I’m scared. Terrified. And the headaches usually follow. The doctors said my memory might come back in trickles or all of a sudden or even not at all. I think the dreams are my memories returning.”

Raphael swore softly. “Did a dream trigger the migraine that landed you in the hospital the other night?”

“Yes.”

He frowned, his eyes narrowed as he rubbed a knuckle over his unpierced eyebrow. “Who knows about this?”

“The dreams and possible return of my memory?” He nodded. “Just Ethan and Noah. And now you. Why?”

“Nothing. Just thinking,” he replied, but his frown remained in place, and he continued stroking his eyebrow.

“Why do you do that?”

He glanced at her, pausing mid-stroke. “Do what?”

“This.” She mimicked the gesture. “I noticed you tend to do it when you’re thinking.” Heat surged up her chest and flooded her face. She wouldn’t be surprised if her cheeks resembled a tomato.
Awesome. Now he knows I pay waaaay too much attention to his habits
. She lifted the tea and sipped long and deep, hoping the large mug hid her face.

She waited, expecting a mocking smirk or raised eyebrow right before a heavy, telling silence. He did none of them. Instead he studied her, the scrutiny hooded, long, and intense. She fought not to squirm, not to dodge the weight of it. Even when he lowered his arm and cupped her chin. Go figure. Her chin had never been an erogenous zone. But that was BR: Before Raphael.

“Habit. It’s a scar. A souvenir from dodging a beer bottle my father threw at my head when he was drunk.” He swept the pad of his thumb over the small sickle-shaped scar on her chin. “How’d you get this?”

Shock slammed into her. He uttered the nonchalant confession as if conveying the time of day.
Oh my God
. Without conscious permission, her arm lifted, and her fingers brushed the dark arch over his eye. They detected the small, hard ridge bisecting his brow. She firmed her lips into a straight line. Either that or surrender to the impulse to kiss the old wound that had to be a reminder of a painful, terrifying moment in his life—no matter how dispassionate he seemed about it now.

“Princess?” He grazed another caress across her chin. “What about this?”

“Old playground injury,” she whispered, then grasped his hand, slowly tugged it away from her face. “What about these?” she asked, brushing her thumb over the faded, thin pale lines marring his knuckles.

A ghost of a smile played with his lips. “Let’s just say I wasn’t always the upstanding citizen you see before you now.” When she snorted, he shrugged. “I had my fair share of fights in high school. What happened here?” He didn’t remove his hand from her hold, but raised the other and pressed it to her collarbone over a scar she’d long forgotten about.

“Scratch from the one and only dog I was allowed to have. A cute midnight-black poodle I named Georgey.” She huffed out a humorless chuckle. “Georgey didn’t last long in the Addison house though. Too loud and messy.”

God, she hadn’t thought of the puppy in a long time. The three months she’d owned him had been some of the happiest in her childhood. Energetic, enthusiastic, and cheerful, he’d always been glad to see her when she came home from school. Until the day she’d arrived and silence had welcomed her. Without telling her, her mother had given the dog away; his incessant yaps had worn on her nerves. And besides, Celeste had added with a dismissive wave of her hand, at thirteen, Greer was too old for a dog. She’d never asked for one—or anything else—from her parents again.

She shook her head as if she could toss the somber recollection out of her head.

“What happened here?” She pointed to a two-inch thin line right above his abdomen.

“Knife wound.”

“Are you kid—” Worry rushed through her.
Jesus, what kind of life had he led?
The pain… She rubbed the flat, shiny patch of skin, almost as if she could soothe away the hurt it must’ve once caused.

“Actually it was a tragic accident involving my sister’s Barbie, my Matchbox car, and a small fire.” He shrugged. “But the knife wound sounded way cooler.”

She gaped at him, trapped somewhere between laughing and kicking him off the bed. Hard.

“I know, I know”—he patted her thigh—“I’m an asshole. Where’d this one come from?” He skimmed a finger over the flat, nearly imperceptible mark above her knee. The injury was a very old one, but she remembered it as if it’d happened seventeen minutes ago instead of years. She stroked the scar. “Hey.” He covered her hand with his, stilling her movement. “Give.”

If he’d tried to cajole her, or offer pretty words of assurance, she would’ve resisted and kept the truth locked up inside. She didn’t want pity or sympathy; she wasn’t broken or damaged. But the simple, low demand to “give” contained a promise of safety for whatever she revealed. No judgment, no condemnation. Just acceptance.

“When I was nine, I ran away from home. I didn’t make it far, just to the end of the block before the housekeeper—the
housekeeper
”—she emitted a brittle laugh—“came after me. But by the time she found me, I had tripped and cut my knee on a piece of glass. I had to go to the emergency room for stitches, and she was fired.”

“Why were you running away?”

She paused, removed her hand from under his, and clasped her fingers together in her lap. “Because that afternoon my mother had come from a meeting with my fourth-grade teacher who’d told her I was dyslexic. I was afraid of my father’s reaction, so I decided to run away rather than face it.”