Beneath the Surface (26 page)

CHAPTER

33

N
ikko waited for the bedroom door to close and not a second longer before laying into Asher. “Now it makes perfect sense.”

Asher’s hackles rose. “What’s that?”

He was fairly certain the only thing keeping the fighter’s fist from flying at his face right now was their friendship forged over fourteen years of blood, sweat, and tears. But that bond would only carry either one of them so far, or cut the other so much slack before this shit turned real, and Del Toro was pushing that line, stepping up on him like this. The accusation in his voice abraded Asher’s already frayed nerves. He’d had a pretty intense forty-eight hours with, like, zero sleep, and he was in no mood for the shit he knew was about to hit the fan. But Del Toro was too pissed to care. They didn’t call him “The Bull” for nothing, and he was seeing red.

“It makes perfect sense why you put up such a fight when I told you I wanted to take Quinn with us. You’re fucking her . . . I can’t goddamn believe it!”

The ex-marine turned MMA fighter took another step closer but Asher held his ground. He’d go toe-to-toe with the CFA heavyweight champion if need be, because over his dead body was Quinn leaving with them.

“I trusted you to take care of her, and this is how you treat our friendship? By taking advantage of a vulnerable woman in need of your protection?”

All right, that’s it.
“Fuck you, Del Toro.” He shoved the fighter out of his face, fully expecting him to come back swinging. “It’s not like that, and if you ever accuse me of doing something like that again, you and I are not friends anymore. I’m not letting Quinn go because I
can’t
let her go. I’m in fucking love with her, man . . .”

Nikko’s snort of laughter was anything but amused. In fact, it was downright nasty. “Please . . . you’re in love with something, all right, but it isn’t her shining personality. I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re trying to kid, but you forget . . . I know her.”

Asher’s fist flew into Nikko’s jaw. When it connected, pain exploded in his hand. It was like hitting a damn brick wall. He used his momentum to shove his friend back because the only advantage he had was surprise, and once Del Toro retaliated, he knew he was going to get his ass handed to him, but he didn’t fucking care. He wasn’t going to stand here and let Nikko insult Quinn, even if Asher would have been the first to agree with him a week and a half ago.

“You don’t fucking know her,” he growled. “That woman you met at the wedding isn’t the real Quinn. I’ll say it one last time, asshole. I’m. In. Love. With. Quinn. I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

Perhaps it was the gasping trio who appeared in the doorway that gave Nikko pause, or maybe he felt like a dick for not believing Asher the first time, but that retaliatory haymaker Asher was expecting to pile into his gut didn’t come. Del Toro did shove him back, though, and with enough force that his ass would have met the floor if he wasn’t so good on his feet.

Quinn stared at him, utterly shocked. Violet grinned bigger than the Cheshire cat, and Raven watched them, enthralled, like she couldn’t believe someone was dumb enough to face off with her father outside of the cage.

Yep, that was him. Stupid fucker right over here . . .

Leave it to the kid to break the mounting tension in the room. “You’re in love with my aunt Quinn? Holy crap!”

“Why does everybody act like that’s so damn surprising?” he grouched under his breath.

“Because it is,” Nikko said. “And by the look on her face, I’d say she’s just as shocked as we are.”

“She knows, I told her yesterday,” Asher grumbled as he made his way to the minibar, grabbed out a bottle of vodka for himself, and tossed Nikko a Jack Daniel’s. The miniature bottle of booze sailed through the room and Nikko snatched it out of the air with speed that proved why he was the top contender in his weight class. The guy was fast, and had a brick jaw, because Asher hadn’t pulled his punch and was a hell of a fighter himself.

“It just . . . sounds a lot more meaningful in English,” she confessed.

He arched his brow at Quinn and twisted off the mini cap. “Really? I wouldn’t know.” He tipped the little bottle of Absolut back and didn’t put it down until it was empty.

Quinn stepped away from her sister and moved toward him with slow, determined steps, her eyes 100 percent fixed on him, and it lit up his veins like a fucking Christmas tree. He could feel everyone else’s eyes on him too, but they faded to a distant awareness in light of Quinn’s nearing presence. She stopped in front of him, slipped her arms around his neck, and said loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “I love you too, Asher Tate.” And then she kissed him. Honest to God, it took every bit of strength he possessed to keep it PG-13. He wished they didn’t have an audience, because the emotion swelling inside his chest was just as consuming as her kiss.

He knew what she was doing, taking a stand for him—for them. She was letting Nikko know, in no uncertain terms, that they were together, and not to interfere, which was exactly what her overprotective brother-in-law would do. Not that Asher blamed him. He understood Nikko’s unreasonable sense of responsibility. Hell, he shouldered more than his share—carrying around that much guilt and blame for people who had trusted you with their lives yet had died would fuck anyone up.

Asher had his own issues. He sure as shit wasn’t going to fault Nikko for his—nor would he just step aside and let the guy take his heart and soul away. When Nikko awkwardly cleared his throat, Asher reluctantly released Quinn. He gave her a lopsided grin and said, “You’re right, it does pack a stronger punch in English.”

Quinn smiled against his lips and gave him one last kiss before stepping back to address her brother-in-law. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, Nikko, but I want to stay with Asher. Now that I have my files, hopefully I can finish my story and this will all be over soon.”

Asher certainly hoped so, but something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy. Whoever was posing as Collin Anderson wouldn’t stop until Quinn was dead.

He wouldn’t be climbing any trees for a while, but he wasn’t about to let a bullet wound in the leg stop him from finishing this mission. What didn’t kill you only made you stronger . . . The persistent throbbing in his thigh might be keeping him grounded, but he was far from being out of the game. And he was pissed. No longer was he concerned with making this look like an accident. If the fallout for Tate’s death blew his way, then he’d just deal with it when the time came. There were other places he could point the blame, bigger fish to fry than him. Perhaps when this was over he’d take an extended vacation. Maybe Mexico . . . someplace his services and expertise would be in high demand without dealing with all the bureaucratic bullshit.

His top objective right now was to get Quinn and that evidence before she went public with a story that would ruin not only his life, but the organization he worked for as well. Not that he particularly gave a shit about the company, but it was the media spotlight he wanted to avoid—kinda hard to hold on to anonymity with your face plastered across CNN.

It was becoming increasingly apparent the only way he was getting to Quinn was through Tate. He’d been staring at an empty house for the last few hours, and was starting to get nervous that he’d run off with her, when a truck came down the driveway and parked up by the front door. The driver’s door flew open and out stepped the bastard. But where was Quinn?

His pulse ticked in time with the throbbing in his thigh. His breath froze in his lungs as he waited for her to make an appearance. Was she waiting in the car? From where he watched, he couldn’t see that half of the cab. Tate headed for the house without looking back, and he moved through the trees to better his view.

Fuck, she wasn’t here . . . Lucky for Tate, or he’d put a bullet in him right where he stood. But where was Quinn Summers? Tate would never leave her alone and unprotected. So if he was here, then where in the hell was he hiding her? That was a question he intended to get answered, right before he put an end to this cat-and-mouse bullshit.

He waited for Tate to unlock the front door and step inside before making his way through the woods toward the house. His steps were a little slowed, his gait uneven, but that didn’t matter. His trigger finger still worked just fine. Before he pulled his Glock from his waistband, he rolled his balaclava over his face. Stepping out from the cover of the trees, he quickly cut across the yard to the front door. He was taking a chance that Tate hadn’t reactivated the security system, but without risk there wasn’t any reward.

The sun was starting to drop in the sky. It wouldn’t be long before dusk was upon them. Though he preferred the cover of night, he wasn’t sure how much time he had to wait. The longer he dallied, the greater risk he ran of losing the element of surprise. And with Tate, he knew he was going to need every advantage he could get.

He mounted the porch steps, cautious to avoid the creaking of loose floorboards, and slowly opened the front door. When the alarm didn’t sound, he released a breath he’d been holding and silently slipped inside. A quick survey of the living room and kitchen told him Tate must be upstairs. His suspicion was confirmed when the floorboards squeaked above his head. He crossed the living room and pressed his back against the wall near the staircase. With Glock in hand, he waited for the bastard to come down.

His pulse ticked with anticipation. Finally . . . this would soon be over. A fine sheen of sweat rose behind his neck, trickling between his shoulder blades. The moisture trapped between his skin and flak jacket was a distracting annoyance.

Footsteps grew closer. The hesitancy in the pattern told him Tate realized he wasn’t alone. The click of a cocking gun confirmed it. His steps were slow and cautious, but the occasional groan of a weak floorboard in the stairs gave away his position. Silence.

Tension spiked in the room, as tactile as flesh and bone. Excitement warred with a niggling of fear. He knew Tate wasn’t a man to underestimate, and his element of surprise was quickly vanishing. He needed to act—now.

Holstering his Glock, because he’d need both hands, he stepped away from the wall and grabbed Tate’s arms, forcing them up. The gun went off, discharging over his head. The ear-ringing pop rendered him momentarily deaf. He grabbed Tate’s wrist and twisted sharply as he turned, sending him over his shoulder, but not before the bastard drove his knee into his side. He felt his ribs snap beneath the impact; air exploded from his lungs.

Fuck!

Tate landed on his back. He lunged for the gun still held tightly in Tate’s hand. With a firm grip on Tate’s wrist, he slammed it onto the hardwood floor—one, twice, three times before the gun clattered across the floor. A fist plowed into his jaw. Pain exploded in his head, stars burst behind his eyes.
Motherfucker . . .

He reached behind his back and pulled out his Glock, cocking the gun while Tate was still beneath him. He knew it was only a matter of time, though. The bastard was calculating and recalculating his options. He could see it in the fury of his eyes that held no fear, only venomous rage. Admirable . . . for a man about to die.

“Where is she?” he demanded, slowly rising to his feet to put some distance between him and the bastard before he could strike again. When Tate didn’t answer, he pointed the Glock at his heart and demanded again. “Where the fuck is Quinn?”

Surprise momentarily flared in his eyes, and then nothing—all trace of emotion vanished. He should have known this wasn’t going to be easy.

“Is that bitch really worth dying for, Asher? I’m going to find her one way or another.”

That steely glare would have sent a shiver of trepidation through him if he hadn’t been standing over that fucker with the barrel of his gun pointed at his chest.

“Fuck you . . .”

Not the response he was hoping for, but one he expected nonetheless. “No, fuck you.” And with that final parting comment, he pulled the trigger and put two rounds into Tate’s chest.

Turning away, he headed for the door and holstered his Glock, frustration robbing him of his postkill high. He should have known the bastard wouldn’t talk. But getting him out of the way was more important than getting his answers. Tonight was a game changer, and he was going to have to adjust his strategy accordingly. Finding Quinn now would be near impossible. If he was going to get his hands on her, she was going to have to come to him—and she would, with the proper motivation . . .

CHAPTER

34

T
he moment Nikko and her sister left, Quinn went to work. The island separating the kitchen and living room area was covered with papers and printed articles. She had her interviews pulled up on the laptop and was going over each one with a meticulous eye, cross-referencing and highlighting comments, making notes, and digging through others.

Asher watched her from the couch, his gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. It was past midnight. Dark circles under her eyes and the fine lines of exhaustion drawn on her beautiful face spurred him into action. If she wasn’t going to acknowledge her limits and take care of herself, then he was going to do it for her.

“Quinn, it’s after midnight . . .” he told her, giving her the chance to step away from this on her own.

Her violet eyes didn’t even dart up to him as she stared at the screen—scowled was more accurate. “I know what time it is, Asher.” Her tone was tense—clipped.

“Then you know it’s time to give it a rest for tonight.” His tone was equally firm. He was about two minutes from tossing her over his shoulder and putting her to bed.

“I can’t. Not until I find it . . .”

“Find what?” He rose from the couch and dragged his hand through his hair in frustration.

“The name of the military team that escorted us into Haiti. I can’t remember it and I know I have it written somewhere in my notes. I’ve been searching over an hour and I can’t find it.”

She was still staring at the screen when he walked over. It wasn’t until he closed the lid on the laptop that her gaze snapped up to his, and it wasn’t a happy one.

“I was reading that,” she snapped.

“And it will still be here in the morning. You’ve waited this long for your interviews; one more day isn’t going to matter. If you aren’t going to take care of yourself, then I’m going to do it for you.” Despite her protests, he picked her up and cradled her against his chest as he carried her into the bathroom. When he put her down she no longer looked angry, just defeated, and that hit him in the gut like a sucker punch.

Cupping her face in his hands, he met her tired eyes and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll find it tomorrow. You just need a break and a fresh approach in the morning.” He kissed her forehead because he didn’t trust his mouth on any other part of her. Quinn didn’t need to be seduced; she needed to be taken care of.

He started filling the Jacuzzi and spotted her toiletry bag on the counter near the sink. “Stay here.”

He didn’t trust her not to leave and head back out to the kitchen. Quinn was a stubborn woman with a single-minded determination that he both loved and hated. He walked over to her bag and unzipped it, looking for the bottle of lavender oil she kept on the rim of the tub in his bathroom. There were a lot of feminine toiletries amongst the oil, but the one that gave him pause was her packet of birth control pills. They hadn’t discussed contraception, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to discover she had that base covered.

When he came back over with the lavender oil and added a few drops to the water, she was wearing the faintest hint of a grateful smile. The earthy aroma rose in the steam, filling the room and his senses with the scent his olfactory system had learned to associate with Quinn, and, just like Pavlov’s dog, his body reacted—instantly growing hard for her.

He didn’t say anything as he slowly began to undress her. As much as he could, he kept his gaze averted, because this was not about him or how much he wanted her, and he knew the sight of her naked body would undo any and all of his altruistic intentions.

Quinn’s needs were more important than his own, and the protective instinct he felt toward her went far beyond just keeping her out of the hands of a killer. He wanted to take care of her, cherish her. Because he knew this woman’s love was the rarest, most precious gift he would ever possess. And he didn’t deserve it . . . not after all the lives he’d taken, the mistakes he’d made. But yet, for some miraculous reason, she saw beyond that darkness of his past and she’d given herself to him anyway.

She stood almost frozen and beautifully statuesque, wearing nothing but her bra and panties. Her breaths quickened. He could see the flutter of her pulse in the little divot at the base of her throat and rolled his lips between his teeth to keep from kissing her there. He moved behind her, away from the temptation, but this view was no easier to behold.

When his fingers brushed the column of her spine to slip beneath her bra strap, he heard the slight catch of her breath. The sound rolled through him, sending a rush of heat heading south. He hesitated a moment before unfastening the clasp, struggling to get control of the lust burning through his veins. It only seemed to build; the sexual tension humming between them was off the charts.

When his fingers unhooked her clasp, she released a breath that skated over his flesh like a caress. It was sex to his ears, and his own air left his lungs on a tortured groan. He slowly ran his hands up her back, thumbs applying gentle pressure up her spine and fanning out over the knots of tension in her slender shoulders. As he worked his way up, he slipped his fingers beneath the pale pink elastic straps and slid them off as his palms slowly glided down her arms.

When his hands reached hers, he laced their fingers together to keep from reaching up and cupping her breasts. Quinn tipped her head back, resting it against his chest, and closed her eyes as she exhaled a slow, wanton sigh. The only thing left on was a matching pale pink scrap of lace between her legs.

Unable to resist, he looked down over her shoulder and uttered a deep, masculine groan. Her breasts were beautifully full, with a natural gentle slope to dusky-pink pebbled nipples that made his mouth water. She pressed into him, the top of her bottom nestled against the base of his erection.

“Touch me . . .” Her voice was a soft, throaty plea.

She didn’t understand he was fighting like hell not to do just that. With his fingers laced between hers, he lifted her arms up behind his neck. Her small, slender fingers untangled from his and slipped into his hair. He slowly dragged the backs of his hands down the insides of her arms, grazing the outer swells of her breasts. Her nipples pebbled tighter, as if begging for his caress.

The temptation was gutting his control. One hand covered her breast as the other skated down the flat plane of her stomach. When his fingers dipped beneath the lace covering and found her silky folds wet with desire, he couldn’t resist dipping a finger inside her. She gasped, her blunt nails scoring his scalp as her fingers knotted into his hair. She was so tight; her little glove gripped his offering and greedily refused to let go. His cock jerked against her bottom, wanting so badly to be inside her. She felt so fucking incredible. So wet, so tight . . . he wanted to feel her wrapped around his cock with no barrier between them, just her silky heat squeezing his steel shaft, milking his release.

He’d never been bare before, and he wanted to experience the intimacy of it with Quinn. His lips fell to the soft skin of her throat, his tongue tracing the battering of her pulse, nipping and sucking at the pale flesh. “Quinn . . .” His voice was barely more than a throaty rasp. The tension in the base of his spine coiled tighter as the pressure in his balls became an ache that skewed the line between pain and pleasure.

Fuck, he could come just touching her . . . Never before in his life did a woman have this kind of effect on him, this overpowering control over him.

“I want you, Quinn. So bad it hurts.”

“Then take me . . .” Her plea was so needy, it rocked his very soul.

“I want to feel just you . . . nothing else but you.” He wasn’t sure if she hesitated to answer out of surprise or uncertainty. Did she understand what he was asking her? “I swear I’m safe. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

She nodded. “I know you wouldn’t. It’s okay. I’m safe too.”

His heart slammed inside his chest, his hands shaking with the urgency to get inside her as he slipped her panties off and made quick work of shucking his shirt and freeing himself from his jeans. When he gripped his shaft to guide himself between her parted thighs, his cock was already weeping with anticipation. He slipped inside her silky folds, felt the stretch of her flesh yielding to his, and he almost came right then and there.

“Oh, fuck, Quinn . . .” he groaned against her throat as he wrapped her hair into his fist and gripped her tighter. His free hand slipped between her legs and found the bead of her sex, trapping the bud against his cock. She gasped and moaned his name as he began to thrust inside her. Her grip around his neck tightened as her back arched against his chest. The pressure building inside his cock was unbearable. He was going to come. So was she. He could feel
everything
—the tightening of her glove, the early tremors building inside her, the rush of wetness bathing his cock . . . It was amazing.

The moment she came, he exploded. The jolt of cum jetting against her core was euphoric. Her broken cry was drowned out by his harsh bark of rapture and he gripped her tightly, unable to do more than hold on for the ride as she milked him with each sweet spasm.

By the time the final shudders left her body, Quinn was boneless in his arms. He adjusted his grip on her and reached over to turn off the water, then helped her step into the oversize whirlpool tub. He finished stepping out of his jeans and climbed into the steaming bath, settling in behind her. She leaned back against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder as he reached over and turned on the jets. Water rushed around them and the contented sigh that escaped her lips resonated deep inside him.

Neither of them spoke as he held her, his arms wrapped around Quinn’s slender frame as they basked in their postorgasmic bliss. Sometimes there were just no words—except maybe for the four simple ones he whispered as his lips brushed against her temple.

“I love you, Quinn . . .”