Unlawful Contact (27 page)

“But I don’t have pearls, and I don’t buzz.”

She propped herself up on his hard chest, kissed a wine red nipple, whispered, “No, but you have fingers and killer lips and the most amazing tongue—and you rotate just fine. Besides, I love it when you come. Your muscles get so hard and tense, and then you shake apart, and your head goes back and you say my name like it’s a prayer.
‘Sophie!’
No vibrator does that. I’d take you over rotating pearls any day, Marc Hunter.”

He chuckled, and then she realized he’d been joking. He turned onto his side, drawing her with him. “As long as I’m your favorite sex toy, I’m satisfied.”

“Then rest easy. You’re the best.”

She started to drift, her mind edging toward dreams, then she realized that he was still wide awake, his hand still caressing her back. She opened her eyes, glanced up, saw him staring off into the darkness, lines of worry on his face. She didn’t have to ask why.

“We’ll find her, Hunt. We’ll find her.”

“I hope so.”

S
OPHIE WOKE EARLY
the next morning, took a shower, and then made breakfast. This time she made eggs Benedict. She was trying to make something new every day, giving him a chance to enjoy as many different things as she could. And her efforts were rewarded every time by stunned surprise—“
French toast?
”—followed by his devouring every bite as if it were his last meal. And, of course, there was always the terrible possibility that it would be.

But the kitchen was running low on supplies. They’d made good use of the wealth of steak and salmon the Rawlingses kept on hand. But someone needed to make a run to the store, particularly given that Sophie wanted to make a Thanksgiving-style dinner tonight, complete with turkey and all the trimmings. Who cared if it was February? They only had until Thursday—just two days away. Somehow they had to live their entire lives in those two short days. And then…

She heard a toilet flush, and a few minute later Hunt shuffled down the hallway, looking sleepy and sexy, wearing nothing but stubble and black briefs. She pressed a kiss against his whiskery jaw. “Good morning.”

“That’s what I like—to wake up and find my woman barefoot in the kitchen.” He grinned, wrapped his arms around her, rubbed his whiskers on her face. “What you making?”

“Eggs Benedict. I’m just finishing the hollandaise now.”

“Eggs Benedict? Oh, man!”

Sophie ate her meal slowly, entertained by the way Hunt breathed his, groaning over every bite as if he were in the midst of a culinary orgy. “Someone needs to go to the grocery store today. Maybe we can do it like we did at the pharmacy and at Macy’s, where you park down the street and I go in and shop.”

He met her gaze over his cup of coffee, a sexy grin on his face. “Let’s do it the way we did it outside Macy’s. I liked that.”

Sophie leaned forward, unable to suppress a smile. “I just bet you did.”

While Hunt took a shower, Sophie logged into her e-mail account, deleted all offers to enlarge her penis, and started sorting through her messages. There was an e-mail from Ken Harburg expressing his concern and telling her that he knew in his heart she was innocent. There was also an e-mail from David and one from Kat, two from Tessa, and one from Julian. Dreading opening the ones from Tess and Julian, she opened David’s message first.

Hey, sis. I’m told you went into hiding or something. I don’t know if you’ll get this e-mail, but I want you to know that I’m working hard to finish the semester early so I can come out there and be with you during your trial—that’s if these bullshit charges aren’t dropped by then. I love you and miss you. Please let me know you’re all right.

She wrote a quick response, asking him to put vet school first and telling him not to worry, that she was fine but being very careful. Then she read Kat’s message.

I thought you should know that Tom and Glynnis have been at each other nonstop since you were suspended. Glynnis wants him to back off the CORA request you made to DOC until your case is sorted out. He thinks she’s trying to make nice with their director, but we all think she’s doing it to undermine you. Now she’s accusing him of being insubordinate—which, of course, he is—and has asked the board to replace him. I know he won’t tell you this, but I wanted you to know. I hope you’re safe.
Mitakuye Oyasin. Hágoónee’,
Kat.

Sophie had no idea what those last words meant—she assumed they were Navajo—but she knew what would happen if Tom lost his job. She’d find herself unemployed.

Was there any part of her life that was normal?

Poor Tom! How could Glynnis possibly persuade the board to get rid of the editor who’d single-handedly turned the
Denver Independent
into a competitive, hard-hitting newspaper? He had more national awards than any journalist she knew, including a Pulitzer. No, Glynnis would never get away with it.

Sophie took a deep breath, replied to Kat, thanking her for keeping her informed and asking her to pass on a hello to Tom and the rest of the I-Team. Then she took a deep breath—and opened the e-mails from Tessa. Both were apologies and pleas for her to call and to come stay with them.

I’m sorry I got so angry on the phone, Sophie. I just want you to be safe. Julian thinks you’re caught up in something and that maybe this guy who held you hostage is using you or hurting you in some way. I don’t know if you’ll get this e-mail or if you’ll be able to reply openly, but please let us help you! Please call my cell phone, night or day, and Julian will be on his way, armed to the teeth, to get you.

Unsure what to say, Sophie told Tessa not to worry, assured her that she had every right to be angry, and promised to call as soon as she could.

Last of all, she opened Julian’s message. The screen seemed to freeze for a moment, and she thought her computer had crashed. She was about to reboot when the program started to work again.

I asked DOC to give me a copy of the report you requested. They say no such report exists and that no complaints were made against guards at Denver Juvenile during that period. Where in the hell are you, Sophie? Is he with you? I know something is wrong. Please trust me.

Sophie answered him.

I do trust you—with my life. Look up Charlotte Martin and Kristina Brody, both at Denver Juvenile at that time, both dead from overdosing on fefe. Check the heroin lab tests. I believe it will be the same as that found in my car. DOC is LYING to you. That report will save lives.

Starting with mine, she thought as she hit Send.

Maybe she shouldn’t have given him that much information. She didn’t want to send him out to Endicott. But at the same time, he had a greater chance of getting that report from the inside than she did from her bolt-hole here in Cherry Creek. What did it matter who caught the bad guys as long as the bad guys were caught?

A new message hit her inbox—this one from Tom. She opened it, read through it, her heart starting to pound. “Hunt was right. He was right!”

She jumped up and ran toward the bathroom, threw open the door, and stepped into the steam. “Hunt, I just got—
oh, God
!”

Hunt had turned on her, his face that of a stranger, the .45 in his hands—and pointed straight at her.

H
EART SLAMMING
, M
ARC
stared down the barrel of the Glock at…
“Sophie?”

Oh, God! Jesus! Shit!

She stood frozen in place, her eyes wide, the blood drained from her face. “I-I’m so sorry! It’s okay. I’ll…just…go.”

Then she walked backward out of the bathroom and closed the door.

He lowered the gun, feeling dizzy, his mind reeling, his stomach churning.

Shit! Jesus Christ!

What in the hell had happened? What the fuck had he just done?

Horrified, he dropped the gun onto the floor, sagged against the wet tile, his legs barely strong enough to hold him up, his heart a jackhammer, his breathing ragged.

He’d been rinsing soap off his skin…and he’d…he’d heard…

I’d fuck that ass. You boys wanna fuck that ass?

Why you fightin’, Hunter? Afraid it’ll hurt? Afraid you’ll like it?

He’ll like it. Get him! Hold him! Why the fuck can’t you hold him?

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to silence the voices, past all mixed up with present—mixed up, fucked up, confused.

God, he’d just gone postal on Sophie. He’d pointed a Glock at her head, his finger on the trigger, the chamber loaded with a hollow-point round. One easy tug on the trigger, just five pounds of pressure, and he would have…

Christ!

He would have blown her head
clean goddamned off
.

He leaned against the wall and sucked air into his lungs, water sluicing over his body for endless minute after endless minute, until the shower ran cold. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed and his breathing returned to normal, echoes of the past dying away. Feeling as if he were made of lead, muscles stiff from the cold, he reached down and turned off the water, then stepped out of the tub and dried off.

Jesus, what was he going to say to her? How was he going to explain this?

Wearing only a damp towel, he opened the bathroom door and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him, her arms hugged around herself. Her gaze met his, her eyes filled with worry and wariness. She reached for him, held out one slender hand—a lifeline.

He took it, let her pull him in.

God, you’re pathetic, Hunter.

“Your fingers are ice-cold!” She drew him to the bed beside her and pulled a blanket up around his shoulders. “You must be freezing.”

Freezing? No, he felt numb.

How was he going to tell her?

Try words, dumbshit, starting with…

“I’m sorry, Sophie. Christ, I’m so sorry!”

Her voice was soft, her hand warm. “It’s okay. You surprised me, that’s all.”

He felt an absurd impulse to laugh. She had no clue. “No, it’s not okay. I pointed a loaded weapon at your head.”

“Well”—she shrugged, obviously reaching—“you’ve pointed it at me before.”

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at her.

Leave it to Sophie to say something like that.

“That was different.” It had been so very different. He’d been in control of himself during the prison break, not lost in his own head. “I wouldn’t have hurt you then. This time I…I might have—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “But you didn’t.”

He drew a breath. No, he hadn’t—but that wasn’t the point.

“So, are you going to tell me what just happened, or are we going to pretend like nothing’s wrong?” She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “I know something happened to you, Hunt. I know something’s tearing you up inside. You try not to show it, but I know it’s there. I’ve known it since the night you broke into my apartment, maybe even since the night at the cabin when I saw your scars.”

But Marc had just shut the door on those ghosts and
no way in hell
did he want to open it again. “You’re an expert on prisons, Sophie. You know the score. It’s a violent place.”

He stood, crossed the room, and grabbed a pair of briefs from the basket of clean laundry, her gaze boring into his back as he began to dress. Then he heard the bed creak, heard her soft footfalls, and felt her behind him.

“Yeah, I know what happens in prisons.” She ran her hand over the scar on his bare back, her touch branding him. “But I don’t know what happened to
you
. Tell me, Hunt. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

He hated the compassion in her voice, hated how broken it made him feel on the inside, hated that fact that some part of him
wanted
to tell her. He turned and glared down at her, letting anger close around him like a wall. “So you want the sordid details, is that it? Fodder for another award-winning exposé?”

That was out of line, dumbass.

She stiffened at the insult, but she didn’t back down, her voice soft, her blue eyes warm with concern. “I care about you, Hunt. Whatever hurts you hurts me. Let me help you.”

Didn’t she get it? No, of course, she didn’t.

“Sophie, I…Christ!” He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth to keep himself from shouting in her face.
“I don’t think I can do this!”

Sophie watched Hunt fight with himself, wishing there were some way to make it easier for him. She pressed her hand against his chest, felt the hammering of his heart beneath her palm. “I’m right here. With you. Help me understand what’s going on inside you. Please.”

He opened his eyes, looked away, a muscle clenching in his jaw. Then he walked past her and lay back on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat, emotionless. “I was a target. From the day I walked through the door, I was a target.”

Sophie sat down on the edge of the bed beside him and waited for him to say more.

“The inmates had read the papers and knew I’d been a drug agent, and more than a few of them were doing time thanks to me. The first week I was there, five of them—gang members whose meth ring I’d busted up—decided it was payback time. They caught me outside the gym, tried to shove a shank into my jugular. If I hadn’t been watching for it, they probably would’ve killed me. As it was, they managed to cut my chest pretty badly before I took them down.”

His first week here, he put five guys in the infirmary.

Sophie glanced at the scar next to his right nipple, remembering what Officer Green had told her. Now she knew the whole story—and it sickened her. “Shouldn’t you have been placed in protective isolation?”

That was standard operating procedure whenever someone from law enforcement landed behind bars—total separation from other inmates.

Hunt sat up, shrugged. “Somehow that part of my orders was never implemented.”

“Didn’t the guards try to stop them?”

“Shit, no.” Hunt gave a snort, stood, took a few restless steps across the room, then stopped, staring out into the empty hallway. “From their point of view, I was a traitor, a cop-killer. They didn’t give a goddamn what happened to me, as long as it was painful. Most of the time they made a half-assed effort to intervene, but sometimes they watched and laughed. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’d been sentenced to execution by inmate.”

Sophie could hear the anger in his voice, felt her temper spike. “That’s not justice.”

But he didn’t seem to hear her. “I thought for awhile that breaking a few heads that first week would be enough to keep the bulldogs in check. If you bitch up, they break you. If you fight, they back off. For awhile it seemed to work. It gave me the respect I needed to start building some connections. But some people just don’t know when to stop.”

She listened, her stomach in knots, as Hunt described how twice more men he’d arrested had tried to kill him, once in the mess hall by striking him in the back of the skull with a sock weighted with rocks and once in the yard by trying to gut him after blinding him with a handful of sand. She couldn’t imagine facing that kind of violence, couldn’t imagine having to fight again and again just to stay alive. How could any human being live that way?

“Each time I gave worse than I got. I’d spend a few days in the infirmary, then get sent up to D-Seg—disciplinary segregation. Pretty soon I had the kind of reputation every prisoner wants. Stay clear of Hunter. He’ll kick your ass if you fuck with him. Weaker prisoners—young guys, guys who’d already been ripped, new guys who didn’t know how to fight—hovered around me, offered me everything you can imagine in exchange for protection. I could have had my cock sucked morning, noon, and night if I’d been into that. I watched out for them, but I didn’t make them pay for it—at least not like that.”

Sophie tried to comprehend what he’d just told her, the horrific world he described so foreign to her despite her years of reporting. “So the violent inmates left you alone?”

“Not all of them. Eventually, DOC brass transferred me to maximum security. There was a group of prisoners—all lifers—who got off on turning out other prisoners. Gang rape. They decided it was time someone took me down a notch. They started watching me, talking shit, calling me a pretty boy and a punk. I told them to fuck themselves.”

Marc barely recognized his own voice as he spoke, the words seeming to come from someone else, the story part of someone else’s life. Not his life. Not his. “The first time it happened, they caught me by surprise. I saw three of them standing outside the showers, watching me, looking me over like I was a piece of meat. I turned my back on them. They seemed to like that even more. They cheered and whistled and talked about my ass. I ignored them, trying to get through my shower as fast as I could. But I wasn’t fast enough.”

Not fast enough by half, were you, Hunter?

“It wasn’t your fault. There’s no way you could have—”

“It’s not what you think. They didn’t succeed.” Marc fought to say the word. “They didn’t…rape me. Oh, they tried. They tried again and again. They must have tried at least a dozen times before I broke out. Stalking me became their hobby. A few times a year, they’d corner me, most often in the shower. That was their MO. The guys called them the shower hawks. I’d fight them off, inflict some damage, get cut up, then spend a few days in the infirmary before getting sent up to D-Seg again.”

Marc closed his eyes, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. “Over time it got worse, more violent, until…”

I’d fuck that ass. You boys wanna fuck that ass?

“Last summer, they orchestrated some kind of distraction for the guards while I was in the shower and came after me hard—three of them. They had weapons, and they wanted blood.” Marc felt his body start to shake. Nauseated, he stepped backward until his back touched the wall, then he slid down to the floor. “I fought hard…broke one bastard’s nose…split another one’s lip. I tried not to slip on the wet floor, maneuvering my way around them toward the hallway. I didn’t know the fourth guy was waiting just beyond the door—not until I felt the shank sink into my back.”

He could feel it as if it were yesterday—searing pain, the unbearable pressure in his chest of a collapsed lung, the cold horror of knowing he’d finally lost.

“My lung collapsed. There was blood…everywhere. I tried to stand, tried to fight, but…” He closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the wall. “They slammed me down onto the tile. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to twist away, got out a few kicks, but…”

Why you fightin’, Hunter? Afraid it’ll hurt? Afraid you’ll like it?

He’ll like it. Get him! Hold him! Why the fuck can’t you hold him?

“One of the guards, a decent man who sometimes did favors for me, heard the ruckus and stopped it. If he hadn’t…
Jesus
!” Marc felt his gorge rise, swallowed hard. “The last thing I remember…is lying facedown on the tile and watching my own blood wash down the drain. I thought it was over.”

He heard Sophie’s breath catch and realized she was crying. He opened his eyes, watched her leave the bed and walk toward him, tears streaming down her pretty face. Without a word, she knelt beside him and cradled his head against her breast, offering him comfort, her fingers sliding through his hair, her lips hot against his forehead.

What had he done to deserve her? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He wrapped an arm around her waist and let himself go, sinking into her, taking everything she offered—softness, solace, salvation.

Sophie held Hunt, kissed him, feeling sick with rage and grief for him, trying to take in the nightmare he’d just described. She’d known from his scars that he’d been in at least a few fights, but she hadn’t imagined anything so brutal or constant. She could only guess at the loneliness he’d felt, the anger, the despair, the fear, always keeping his guard up, always watching his back, having no way out, no escape, no choice but to fight.

She kissed him again, wanting somehow to erase those six terrible years, wanting to drive away the brutality, fear, and pain. Her lips traced a line down his temple across his clean-shaven jaw to his mouth. He responded, kissing her back, his lips soft and warm, his arm drawing tighter around her waist. Soon, they lay stretched out on the bed, Sophie kissing his scars while Hunt slowly peeled off her clothes, his hands seeking her most sensitive places, making them both burn. And when at last he settled himself between her thighs and nudged himself inside her, there was no more anguish, no more pain, no more cruelty. There was only the two of them—Hunt and Sophie.

T
HEY LAY ON
the bed, holding one another, legs tangled, bodies replete, neither of them feeling like moving as morning stretched toward noon.

Marc ran his fingertips down the column of her spine. “I can’t go back there, Sophie.”

Her voice was soft and tinged with sadness. “I know.”

S
OPHIE WATCHED AS
Hunt read through the scanned reports she’d gotten via e-mail—the reports she’d been trying to tell him about when he’d been in the shower. Tom had acquired the chemical tests on the four separate samples of heroin—how he didn’t say, but then Tom had secret sources everywhere—and they were all identical.