Deadly Lies (5 page)

He tried to smile, a hard feat when his heart shoved against his ribs and tension ate at his gut. “I think you just had a
bad dream. We all have them.”

Her skin was cool beneath his hands, and her muscles were tense. Samantha blinked at him, then
narrowed her eyes a bit. “We all have them.” Her echo was toneless.

His right hand rose and cupped her shoulder. “Want to talk about it?” It was so hard to keep his voice light and calm.
Want to tell me why you dream about begging someone not to kill you?

“I don’t remember anything.” Her lips twisted. “I never remember my nightmares.” A pause. “That’s a good thing, right?”

He stared down at her, noting the soft curves of her cheeks and the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Her jaw was set, that slightly pointed chin up, and her thick hair was a tousled mane around her face.

Sexy.

She’d been that way from the beginning.

But now, there was something different. A tension around her full lips. Shadows in her eyes.

And her nails dug into his shoulders. Not with passion this time. With fear.

“For a minute there, you seemed to stop breathing.” As far as he was concerned, that qualified as being way past just a nightmare.
“You looked like you were fighting to get air.”

Silence. One beat of time. Two, then… “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you were here.” Her lips curved but the shadows never
left her eyes. Her fingers skimmed over his chest. “I’m glad you could give me mouth to mouth.”

She was shutting him out. His jaw clenched.

“Let me freshen up a bit, and then…” She kissed him. A light, biting nip. “You can make me forget all about my bad dream.”
Samantha eased away from him. She rose
and walked toward the bathroom, completely naked, with her head held up high and her hips swaying.

He watched her, keeping silent. His damn cock was up, but with her around, there was no real way to stop the lust.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

The sound of rushing water filtered through the room.

And he realized that his hands were clenched into fists.
That’s what she looks like when she lies.

Sam stared at the image in the mirror. Her hands were wrapped around the faucet, holding on too tightly. The better to stop
the trembling in her fingers.

It had been six weeks since she’d had a flashback, and yes, that’s what it was. No nightmare. No freaking bad dream.

A flashback.

She was supposed to be
better.

Max had seen her when she was weak. No, no, he shouldn’t have seen her like that. She was with him for sex and pleasure. To
push the ghosts away.

She wasn’t there so that he could see her get tangled in the past.

“
You looked like you were fighting to get air.
”

Dammit. Just… dammit.

Sam grabbed a handful of water and splashed it on her face. But the warm water didn’t thaw the ice in her cheeks.

She couldn’t do this, couldn’t let the past come back and control her. Luke would be watching her every move. All the agents
would. She had to hold things together.

A knock rattled at the door. “Samantha? Are you okay?”

“Fine!” She called and stared back into the mirror.
Liar, liar.

The knob rattled. Max was trying to get in, but the attempt wouldn’t do him much good. She’d locked the door. “Give me just
a minute!”

Get out. Run.
The tension had her body tight again. She couldn’t stay with Max. She should not have made the mistake of falling asleep
in his bed. Her defenses came down when she slept.

Water dripped down her face and splashed into the granite sink.

“Samantha, open the door.” Quiet. Firm.

Don’t show fear. Don’t ever show fear.
She turned off the water. Slowly, taking her time, she opened the door. A smile was already on her lips, the water drying
on her skin, when she faced him. “Sorry, Max, I think I’m going to have to take a rain—”

“Stop it.” His gaze raked her face.

Sam let her brows rise. “Uh, stop what?” He didn’t know how fast her heart was beating. Didn’t know that her muscles were
locked.

Max grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. “We don’t have to fuck.”

Blunt. But then, she was fast realizing that was his way. He said what he thought and to hell with everyone else.

Must be nice to be able to live like that. She worried too much about others.

Only with him can I let myself go and just feel pleasure.
But there wouldn’t be any more pleasure tonight, and she couldn’t risk letting the memories come back.

“Get in bed, baby.” The words were soft but his hold,
the grip that pulled her forward toward the bed, was unbreakable.

The back of her knees bumped into the mattress. “I have to go. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. I forgot—”

“Bullshit.” He pushed her onto the bed. She scrambled back, sliding against the cool sheets. Max came in after her, crowding
her, and she caught sight of his cock. Big and long and more than ready.

Sam shook her head. “I thought we weren’t—”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. The embrace wasn’t sexual. Max was just… holding her.

And that scared her.

“Go to sleep, Samantha.”

In his arms. Her body stiffened even more.

“If the dreams come back, I’ll wake you up.” Max stretched, snapped off the lamp, and turned his head back toward her. “You’re
not the only one with nightmares.”

He didn’t understand.

Max pulled her closer. “Sleep.”

No, he didn’t understand, but—but she didn’t want to be alone. Wasn’t that why she’d gone to that bar in the first place?
To find someone else? To feel skin against hers? To know someone wanted her? That someone didn’t see her as twisted and broken?

Moonlight fell on her, pouring through the glass windowpanes. She turned her head away from Max because she didn’t want him
to see her face.

Sam licked her lips, felt the comfort of his embrace, and finally, Christ, finally, almost believed she was safe.

Safe, in the arms of a stranger.

She was so screwed up.

• • •

The stench of bleach burned his nose when he entered the house on the end of Sycamore Lane.

He’d cleaned the shack himself, every inch, because he wanted to make sure that the job had been done right. There’d be no
mistakes on his watch. This was too important.

The chair sat waiting in the back bedroom. The wooden chair was the only piece of furniture in the ten-by-thirteen-foot space.
The oak gleamed now, but it had been stained red earlier. The blood had dripped onto the hardwood floor.

Jeremy Briar hadn’t died easily. He’d slit Jeremy’s throat, not enough to sever the jugular but enough to stop the asshole’s
screams. He hadn’t sliced the guy’s throat because he’d been afraid someone might hear Jeremy. No chance of that out here.
He just hadn’t wanted to hear the desperate cries and the begging anymore.

Begging didn’t work with him.

Only money stopped his hand. If Briar’s father had just paid the ransom…

Then Morgan Briar wouldn’t have been forced to scrape his only son’s flesh and blood off the driveway.

A car’s engine sounded outside. A soft purr. He glanced over at the window. Right on time.

He turned away from the chair. It wouldn’t be empty for long.

Once the news had time to run Jeremy’s sad story, he’d take a new mark. This time, the bastards would
know
to pay. No one would screw him over now.

He walked back down the hallway and moments later, he opened the front door and saw the first rays of dawn creeping out against
the darkness.

His partner came toward him, hurrying in her heels, her breath fogging in the cold. “I think I’ve got the next one.”

He smiled. “No,
I
do.” Time to move to the next level.

He’d already picked their next victim. Actually, he’d picked them all, months ago. He’d planned out every move, and he wasn’t
going to stop. Not until his list was finished, and he’d gotten everything he deserved.

The bastards can pay or they can bleed.

I
need money.”

The steady rap of pounding hammers filled the air around Max. Electric saws cut through metal, sending sparks shooting into
the air. It took a second for the demand to penetrate the layers of noise, and when it did, Max shoved back his hardhat, wiped
the sweat out of his eyes, and blinked. “Quinlan? Shit, what are you doin’ here?”

His stepbrother never bothered with his construction business. As far as Max could tell, the guy wasn’t much for getting his
hands dirty. The fancy parties, yeah; that was his scene.

But a site like this was all Max really knew. Construction had been his life for over a decade. Long before his mother had
hooked up with her prince not-so-charming, he’d chosen this path and busted ass to make his business a success.

Quinlan ducked his dark head and came inside what would eventually be a world-class kitchen. One day real
soon, if Max could just get the rest of his damn supplies in on time.

“You heard me, man.” Quinlan glanced around, eyeing the workers nervously, but they weren’t even looking his way. “I need
money.”

It wasn’t the first time that Quinlan had come to him. “How much?” His construction company had managed to survive and finally
thrive through the years, despite the dive the economy had taken. He wasn’t in the same category as his stepfather, didn’t
want to be, but he was doing well enough that the invitations to those fancy parties kept finding their way to his door.

Quinlan shook his head. “No, I want
my
money.”

Ah, now here was the rub.

His brother’s hands were clenched. “My grandfather left me that trust. The money is
mine
,” Quinlan snapped.

And it was one hell of a lot of money. Enough money to make a man do some damn stupid things. Max sighed. “You only have two
more years, then the trust’s yours.”

“I don’t want to fucking wait!”

Now
that
snarl did have the guys looking their way because they knew Max didn’t take shit like that from anyone, not even his brother.

“Sorry, I think you’re gonna have to fucking wait.” Max shrugged and reached for the blueprints once more.

“
Talk to him
. Tell my dad I need more. I need it now—”

“Why?” Max shook his head, aware that his brother was sweating when there was no reason to sweat. “Why do you need the cash?”

Quinlan’s lips firmed into a thin line.

Ah, shit. Max dropped the prints and closed the
distance between them, fast. He grabbed his brother’s arms, jerked them out so he could shove up the sleeves of his shirt
and
see
Quinlan’s arms. “You using again?” Quinlan had already been through four rehab programs.
Four
. The docs would say he was clean, then just a few weeks later Quinlan would be using again.

His brother tried to snatch his arms back.
Not going to happen
. Max just tightened his grip. “Are you?” The guy wanted money to support his habit. Great, just—

“
No!
”

There weren’t any needle marks on his arms. But then maybe Quinlan was just snorting coke up his nose again.

“I-I only used the last time because of what happened to—”

“
Don’t
say her name.” Max didn’t want Quinlan talking about his mom or about the tragedy that had happened to her.

“She said we were brothers,” Quinlan swallowed. “Th-that I could count on you.”

Max dropped his brother’s hands. “You can.” He was the one who’d tossed Quinlan’s ass into rehab. Not the old man. Quinlan’s
father hadn’t seemed to care about getting him clean.

“Talk to him, Max. Get me the money. I
need
it.”

Try earning it.
He bit the words back. They’d had that fight already. Quinlan didn’t know what it was like to fight your way up from nothing.
To work eighteen-hour days over and over until you thought that you’d collapse.

No, Quinlan didn’t know anything but wealth.

And a prick of a father.

Max had worked until his entire body ached, worked night after night as he struggled to get his life on track.
Yeah, he could be in an office now, running things from some plush suite, but…

My projects, my job.

“Please, man, I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

Max gave a curt nod. Fine. He’d talk, for all the good it would do him—and that was
none.

“Thanks, Max!” A broad grin split Quinlan’s face, making his dimples flash. “I knew you’d help me!”

Right.

Quinlan spun around and took a few fast steps away. “Oh!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Should have told you last night.
That new girlfriend is hot.”

Max stared back at him. Girlfriend? Not quite.

“How’d you two meet?” Quinlan asked.

In a bar. She picked me up. Offered me no-strings sex.

But the strings had come from nowhere last night as he’d just held her and ignored the hard-on that had kept him up until
dawn. “Around.” He tilted his head and studied his brother. Were the guy’s hands shaking? Yeah, they were.

Using.

Quinlan gulped. “R-right…. see you, man, okay?”

Yeah, he’d be seeing him again. Max’s lips tightened.

He’d promised his mother that he’d look after Quinlan. A brother, not by blood, but by a mother’s command. He’d promised….

And Max kept his promises. Even the ones he wanted to break.

“Every major newspaper in the area headlined with the Jeremy Briar kidnapping and murder.” Monica Davenport’s cool voice carried
easily through the conference room.

Sam shifted in her chair. Yes, she’d seen the headlines.
WHO KILLED THE PLAYBOY
?
Big, bold, in-your-face headlines. But playboy? No, he’d been—

“Some rag even managed to get a picture of Briar’s mutilated body. A shot that looked like one of
our
crime scene photos.” Monica’s lips tightened, the only change in her expression, but that small flicker was enough to tell
Sam that the woman was pissed. Monica, or
Ice
as she’d been nicknamed back in her Academy days, wasn’t one for much emotion.