Facing It (27 page)

Again, she reached for him, linking her hands behind his head and pulling him down to her. Lying in the mingled shadows and strips of fading sunlight, they touched and explored, learning the tastes and textures of one another’s bodies, the caresses punctuated by sighs and moans and sometimes Chris’s deep groan.

Finally, Ruthie shifted restlessly beneath him and slipped a hand down to encircle him once more. “Chris, please, now.”

“Sure?” he muttered next to her ear, a teasing hand testing her readiness.

“Yes.” She arched into him. “Please, hurry. I want you.”

A brief interruption while he rolled on a condom, a readjusting of positions and he moved inside her with a slow, easy thrust, another muffled groan escaping his lips. She inhaled sharply at the intense pleasure of being stretched around him. Fully sheathed within her, he stilled, tendons standing out on his neck and arms with an effort at control. Experimentally, she tilted her hips beneath his, rocking into him, and he gasped.

“Lord, Ruthie, don’t, I won’t be able to—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Giddiness bubbled through her, joining the heated desire radiating from the intimate connection of their bodies. “I don’t care how long you last. I just want you, want this.”

She moved beneath him, a tiny coaxing roll of her pelvis, and he muttered an oath on a smothered moan before he plunged hard against her. She wrapped her arms and legs about him as they moved together in a hurried coupling. Small shivers of an orgasm washed through her and she sighed his name moments before he thrust deeper with a hushed grunt of satiation.

He collapsed into her, one arm holding his weight, his face buried against her shoulder. Eyes closed, Ruthie held him, the sweetness of connection spiraling through her. She stroked a hand over his shoulder and down his back, frowning a little at the ridge of scar tissue on his left shoulder blade. A tear trickled from beneath her lashes, followed by another before she blinked them away. This was no place for tears. The joy and completion he’d brought to her life were too big for tears.

He kissed her shoulder, eased away long enough to dispose of the condom, returned to pull her close once more.

“Ruthie,” he whispered, and she warmed to the raw emotion in her name on his lips. She held him tighter, never wanting to let go of the moment or of the man in her arms.

Keeping her close, he rolled to his side and she pillowed her head on his shoulder, rubbing a hand along the line of his ribs. His humming sigh vibrated through her. They lay in silence for long moments, the sun slipping away completely.

Finally, wrapped close, they slept.

The feathery back and forth movement of fingers on his spine brought Chris awake. He smiled into the pillow, his body saturated with a bone-deep contentment. Ruthie kissed his shoulder blade, lips brushing against the jagged scar there, and some of his pleasure drained away. He tensed and her caresses stilled for a moment.

She pressed her cheek to his back before she continued rubbing at his side. He relaxed under that gentle touch. She made being with her so damn easy. He loved that about her, the quiet acceptance, that she didn’t try to push beneath his defenses, but waited for him to lower them.

Loved
.

He rolled the concept around his mind, testing it, tasting the words. He found himself wanting to give her the words, well aware she already had the emotion from him.

The memory of Kimberly, how much he’d thought he’d loved her at first, how quickly he’d gotten pulled into and wrapped up in her stopped him. Ruthie was nothing like Kim, but at the same time, the swift fierceness of his feelings for her was enough to slow him down a little.

Teasing fingers ran over his side, stopping to tickle at his hipbone, bringing a smile to his mouth again. It died on a rough sigh. She deserved to know why he might be reticent at times, why he needed to take this slow and easy.

He rolled to his back and wrapped an arm around her. She folded her hands on his chest, her chin propped on them, impish dark eyes trained on his. He wrapped a stray tress around his finger, rubbing the silky strands between thumb and forefinger.

“That looks like a serious expression,” she said.

“I need to tell you about Kim.”

She nodded, silent, waiting, patient.

His stomach knotted and he looked away. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up, brought Kimberly into what lay between him and Ruthie. Except, if he didn’t,
Kim
would always be between him and Ruthie.

“You don’t have to do this now.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Her fingertip moved over his skin, tracing a small figure eight. He shivered under the light touch.

“Kim was…when I was over at the Tifton PD, Kim was my fiancée.” He swallowed against a sudden dryness in his mouth. “We lived together for almost a year.”

Ruthie remained silent but there was no sense of prodding urgency in her waiting, only a quiet acceptance of whatever he wanted to say.

“She, um, she…” The urge to move, to escape the memories grabbed him with a strong hand and he shifted up against the pillows, looping his arms around his knees. Ruthie reached for the sheet and wound it around her curves, sitting with her feet under her, as pretty and casual as if they sat on her mama’s back porch talking. He dropped his head and blew out a long breath, trying to dispel the tension wrapping old tentacles around him.

Ruthie caressed his ankle, the top of his foot, an easy touch designed to soothe. He lifted his gaze to hers. “She was violent. At first, emotionally, screaming and crap when things didn’t go the way she wanted them to. Later, physically.”

“She did this.” Ruthie trailed a finger up the scar on his calf. “And the one on your arm, your back.”

“That was the last time. She came after me with a knife. I swear to God, I think she really wanted me dead that night. After that, I didn’t go back.”

She curved her palm around his calf. “Chris, she had no right… If I could take it away, I would.”

“I told you I wasn’t whole, Ruthie. She…she messed up my head big time. You shouldn’t have to deal with that. You deserve better—”

“Stop.” Leaning forward, she halted the flow of words with her mouth. After a swift, sweet kiss, she pulled back, still touching his leg. Her eyes glowed with a fierce light. “I don’t think you realize how strong and special you are. I’m very blessed to have you in my life like this, and I know it, so you can just stop running yourself down, Chris Parker, do you hear me?”

An irresistible grin tugged at his mouth. She was definitely a Calvert. How many times had he heard her mother or Tori use that very tone? He laid his hand over hers, trapping her fingers against his skin. “Yes, ma’am.”

A naughty expression lit her face. “Oh, I think I like the sound of that, coming from you.”

He laughed, surprised by her playfulness. “Come here.”

She did, letting him draw her nearer. With their faces close, lips only a breath apart, he found himself staring into her intense gaze, wanting to get lost in her. She pressed a finger to his mouth. “I won’t hurt you, Chris. I promise. Let me love you.”

Eyes still locked on hers, he nodded. She eased forward, taking his mouth, and he cupped a hand around her nape, pulling her down and under him. With an approving moan, she wrapped herself around him, her touch soothing and arousing once more.

With darkness descending around them, he made love to her, losing himself, finding himself, in her.

As Las Vegas wedding chapels went, Harrell had to concede this one probably wasn’t too bad. The understated décor was done in shades of ivory and pale cream, and the officiant wore a somber suit instead of the prerequisite and clichéd Elvis costume.

Swallowing his lingering doubts, he’d walked his mother down an ivory runner scattered with pale pink rose petals—fake, he was pretty sure but nice just the same—and handed her over to Barry. Now, he stood to one side, hands linked behind his back, watching as his mother exchanged vows with husband number nine. The weird thing was, he could almost believe she and Barry could make a go of it. His mother did believe it. Her confidence blew his mind.

And made him ashamed, all at the same time. His mother had the same faith in love Jennifer did. Guilt curled through him with the memory of Jennifer telling him she loved him, of his throwing away her declaration. She was right—hearing her say it, even when he loved her, scared him shitless. He was a fucking coward, willing to let Jennifer hurt because he was too afraid to risk himself.

The knowledge didn’t sit well.

“…for better or worse, as long as you both shall live?”

His mother beamed at Barry’s “I will”. Yes, she was happy, although Harrell had too much experience with her wedded bliss and the resulting heartbreak to fully place his confidence in this union. But for this moment, at least, she was happy. She’d found some happiness, as well, in all of her marriages. For that, she was willing to gamble that her joy with Barry would last.

“Julia, do you take this man…”

He was guaranteeing his unhappiness.

Shrugging off a slight frown, Harrell straightened. Being with Jennifer, however briefly, had brought more peace and contentment into his life than anything ever had before. And he was tossing that aside to ward off future pain.

How fucking twisted was that?

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Harrell’s mother lifted her face, and Barry leaned in and brushed a firm, chaste kiss over her lips. The other attendees—a couple waiting for their own nuptials and a curvy blonde who’d filled out the necessary paperwork—stepped forward with congratulations and best wishes. Then his mother looked around expectantly, and Harrell pinned on a bright smile and gathered her in a close hug. She held on to him a moment, her perfume whispering a childhood memory over him, before she let him go. He shook Barry’s hand, offering congratulations.

She tucked her hand through Harrell’s arm as they prepared to leave. “We should go for a really nice dinner and celebrate.”

An impatience to be back in Atlanta, to fix what he’d screwed to hell with Jennifer, simmered under his skin, warring with his sense of duty to his mother. He didn’t want to dim that glow on her face.

Keeping his smile in place, he nodded. “Sure thing, but I have to leave right after, Mom. I need to get back to Atlanta. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Somehow, being at home helped. Never in her wildest imaginings would Jennifer have believed that being surrounded by her mother and sisters would make her feel better, but oddly, it did, so much so that she waited until insanely early Monday to leave for Atlanta. Finally feeling like she was getting her equilibrium back, she ignored her cell phone both times it rang and displayed Beecham’s number on the caller ID.

Eyes still burning from the tears she’d shed on her mother’s shoulder, she fought through Atlanta’s early morning traffic to arrive at her apartment a little before seven. Time enough to change for the office, grab some orange juice and a bagel, begin getting over Harrell Beecham.

Shit. She braked too hard as she caught a glimpse of his familiar sedan in the lot before her building. Clad in a dark blue suit, he sat on the front steps. Damn it, what was he doing here?

Lifting her chin, she zipped into a parking spot at the end of the row. Straightening her shoulders, she tugged her overnight bag free and marched up the sidewalk. He rose at her approach, but she didn’t spare him a glance on her way up the stairs. He followed, heavy footsteps ringing on the treads. At her door, he reached for her bag as she juggled for the right key. She let him take it. She was finished fighting with him.

Bag in hand, he leaned a shoulder against the wall as she unlocked the door. “I tried calling you.”

“Yeah.” She pushed the door inwards. “I know.”

“Jen—”

“I have to change. Give me fifteen minutes.” She tossed her keys on the table in the small foyer. “Raid the fridge if you like.”

Her bag hit the floor and he reached for her, pulling her around to face him. He looked down at her, his eyes stormy. “Jennifer, please.”

“No.” Anger and renewed strength pulsed deep in her. “Not again.”

He didn’t loosen his grip. However, a very real fear lurked in his eyes. “Hear me out. I know I screwed up. I know that by not trusting in you, in us, the way we feel, that I destroyed your faith in us, in me. Give me a chance to make it right, baby, please.”

“No.” She blinked hard, the urge to cry hitting her all over again, making her already irritated eyes burn. “I don’t want to live my life like this, Beecham. I won’t live my life like this, wondering when you’re going to pull everything out from under me—”

“I won’t.” He cradled her face, desperation spiraling through his voice. “God, Jen, I stood there yesterday, watching my mother put herself out there and realized what a damn coward I was, that I was sacrificing you to keep myself safe, and it made me sick, to think I’d do that to you, to us.”

She pulled away, afraid of succumbing to his touch, his words. “And what’s different now? What’s going to keep you from doing the same thing?”

“You.” His voice lowered, intensity vibrating in the deep tones. “You will, because, goddamn it, I love you, Jen, and I don’t want to waste another second being afraid. I just want to love you every second I can.”

“Don’t. Don’t do this. I can’t keep—” To her horror, she choked up, her voice breaking on the words, the weak tears falling once more.

Swearing, he stepped forward and wrapped her close. She struggled against him, but he merely tightened his arms. Finally, she gave in, clinging to him as the hurt spent itself in rough sobs.

He kissed the curve of her neck, buried his face against her, mouth close to her ear. “Tell me you love me too, Jen,” he whispered. “Give me that, just that. I’ll prove myself to you, I promise. You won’t have to doubt me again.”

She closed her eyes, so tempted to believe in him, so afraid of falling once more.

Their cell phones rang simultaneously. He stiffened and she stilled, pulling free.

“Weston,” Beecham said.

“Janice.” Jennifer named Weston’s secretary. Unease traveled over her, lifting a wave of fine gooseflesh in its wake. She flipped the phone open and lifted it to her ear. “Agent Settles.”

Janice’s terse message did little to assuage the lingering trepidation. Ending the call, Jennifer faced Beecham, sure he’d gotten the same communication she had—Banning and Edgewood had both failed to make scheduled check-ins; neither were answering their cells.

This was not good.

“We’ve got to go,” she said as Beecham snapped his own phone closed, his mouth a grim line. She brushed at her still-damp lashes. Her jeans and pink polo would have to do; she wasn’t taking time to change, not with every nerve singing with tension, not when she was ninety-nine percent sure her fears about Chason had come to fruition.

Beecham nodded, brows lowering in a frown. “Jen, about—”

“No. No more.” She moved toward the door, jingling her keys. “Let’s go.”

His whole being taut with a vibrating pressure, he accompanied her to the car. He didn’t try to broach the subject of what lay, or didn’t lay, between them, or actually speak at all as she navigated Atlanta’s morning gridlock. She was grateful too.

He didn’t speak, but as she tailed the BuCar with Weston and another senior agent to the safe house, she felt his gaze on her occasionally, as heavy and palpable as a touch. With each mile, her own apprehension grew, a weird blend of professional and personal anxiety that pulsed through her body.

When they reached the safe house, the nervousness solidified into a grim certainty. The front door stood ajar. No way Banning and Edgewood, however complacent they might have grown with Chason, would be that sloppy.

The smells hit her as they approached the door and she didn’t even have to go farther to know what they’d find. The sharp metallic odor of blood blended with bodily fluids and decay. Jennifer’s empty stomach curdled.

Weston pushed the door inward. “Shit.”

Chason was nowhere in the house. They found Banning in the living room. Jennifer stared, a rough shudder moving over her. Blood congealed into a sticky pool around Banning’s head, his throat slit.

Beecham brushed her arm. “Let’s check the bedrooms.”

Upstairs, Edgewood’s body still lay in bed, a gaping slash in his neck as well. Beecham eyed the body, touched one arm tentatively.

“Rigor’s already passed. Looks like lividity’s set in. They’ve been dead a while, at least twenty-four hours.” Beecham’s terse statement confirmed Jennifer’s own thoughts.

“Call Calvert,” she said quietly, aware of Weston’s voice below them as he called in the deaths and requested the evidence response team. “You know where Chason’s going. He doesn’t have anything left to lose now, Beecham.”

With a sharp nod, Beecham pulled his phone from his belt. Half-listening to his brief, strained conversation, she studied the brutal wound on Edgewood’s body and tried to figure out how far a lead on them Chason had.

Oh, please let it not be too late for them to keep Ruthie safe.

The house sat empty and quiet, early sunlight slanting in through the kitchen window and splashing bright puddles on the floor and counters. Ruthie set out the ingredients she’d need for the day’s lunch entrée—tomatoes, bell peppers, onions, boneless chicken breasts.

John Robert and Camille had boarded the school bus just minutes earlier and Mama had taken Ainsley with her for a church meeting. That had become part of their easy routine, Ainsley spending time with her beloved grandmother while Ruthie passed the morning cooking and preparing lunches, then her daughter accompanying her on the deliveries before they picked up John Robert and Camille from school.

Tonight, they were all having dinner at Chris’s, and John Robert couldn’t stop talking about it. Ruthie smiled and made short work of slicing bell peppers into julienne strips. The children were fast falling into adoration with his quiet strength, drinking it in. She shivered a little, at the memory of having that same strength all over her, his hands and mouth on her. She adored him too.

Life was good, better than it had been in as long as she could remember.

The side door opened and closed with a soft snick.

She reached for another pepper and applied her knife to it. “Mama? Did you forget something?”

Footfalls whispered in the hallway, but not her mother’s light steps. Not Tick’s easy stride or Chris’s sure tread, either. Apprehension prickled over her. There’d been no sounds of an engine outside, no crunching of tires on pea gravel. Someone could have parked on the grass, beneath the trees but…

She stilled, tightening her grip on the knife, and edged toward the back door, keeping the table between her and the hallway door as she did so. Something about those steady, measured steps was too familiar.

She glanced toward the phone, gauging the distance between it and the door. If she went for the phone, she’d be cornered. If she went outside, the nearest house was two miles away.

He stepped into the doorway. A chilly certainty settled over her. Her palms damp, she clutched the knife, blade pointed in his direction. She’d defied him, ruined everything for him. He wouldn’t let that go unpunished.

He wouldn’t let
her
go.

“Hello, Ruth,” Stephen said, his tone quiet and even. “Put the knife down and come here, darling.”

Just like he always had. Just like he expected her to obey instantly. Did he really not get that she’d escaped him, that there was never any going back?

The reality of his appearance slowly settled in. He was sweaty, disheveled, his clothes and hands stained with dirt, caked mud, grass…and what looked like blood. Seconds for that to penetrate her mind, seconds for the implications to sink in.

“Ruth,” he repeated softly. “Come here.”

“No.”

Familiar controlled fury flickered in his brown eyes. “I told you to—”

“You don’t do that anymore, Stephen.” Her fingers slipped on the knife and she tightened her grip until her knuckles hurt. “Now go. Leave.”

He took a step forward. “I’m not going anywhere. Get over—”

“I said get out.” She lifted the knife, holding it in front of her, the handle pressed hard against her stomach for support. The blade quivered wildly. The beginnings of fear and adrenaline filtered through her, trying to cloud her brain, and she shoved them down. If she got scared, if she let the panic take over, she was dead. She knew it as certainly as she knew at this point, it was him or her.