Fallen Angels 03 - Envy (37 page)

“Watch it,” he warned. “It’s got to be wet.”

“It is.” She looked down. “I’l get some towels.”

“And I’l pay if we ruined your ceiling downstairs.”

She glanced back at him, her torso twisting graceful y. “It was so worth it.”

“And you are so beautiful,” he said softly, as he watched the light catch her curves.

With red cheeks, she turned away to the stack of towels on the counter and began throwing them on the floor around the tub’s base.

Even though he was more than content to watch the show, he rose up from the water and got out. The mirror over the sink made him nervous, but he forced himself to look into it. Nothing but his reflection. No shadows. Nothing that moved other than his ribs from his breathing.

Relieved, he approached her from behind. Stepping against her warm, wet body, he bent down and kissed her shoulder.

“I’m not . . . used to this.” She patted the last towel of that stack, as if impatient with herself. “I’m just . . . I don’t know how to handle this.”

“You handled me just fine.” He ran his forefinger down her spine. “Better than anyone has.”

She laughed in a little tense burst. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Don’t. You’re something else.”

He put his hands on her neck and caressed her back al the way to her hips. Then his lips fol owed the trail he’d blazed, kissing and nipping down her torso . . . and going even lower.

Getting on his knees, Veck ran his lips up her thighs, gradual y moving closer to that juncture he’d been keeping in mind the whole time. At his gentle urging, she bent over the counter, exposing that slit of flesh that drove him insane—

With a sudden surge, he nuzzled into her, and then sucked her into his mouth.

Sweet . . . and hot . . . and slick against his tongue. And she loved it, too, her arms bowing out to keep her balance against the marble, her breath fal ing into a sharp panting rhythm.

Using his hands, he spread her feet further to give him more room to work, and then he swept his palms up the front of her legs to grip her and keep her tight to his face.

Fast flicking. Deep sucking. Penetration with his tongue.

He took his time, because there was so much to explore, and he kept her on the brink until he couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. Snaking his hand up, he eased the pad of his thumb into the top of her sex at the same time he extended his tongue inside of her. Quick circles in the right place sent her flying, and he loved the way she clenched internal y and kicked against him.

When she was finished, he eased back. Through her trembling legs, he got one fuck of a view of her breasts, the two of them hanging down, the tips brushing against the marble as they swung back and forth from her breathing.

Veck squeezed his eyes shut and needed to take a minute.

The next time he came, it was going to be where his tongue had just been.

Orgasm. Of. Her. Life.

As Reil y struggled to remain upright, her body was stil cruising at ful speed ahead—except there was nowhere to go, however, so al the muscles of her thighs did was twitch in place. And that wasn’t the half of it. Her mind was blown, to the pot where she wasn’t exactly sure where she was.

Turning her head, she got a faceful of toothpaste and brushes.

Bathroom. Wel , she guessed there were two locales in her house she would never look at in the same way—wait. Three. The downstairs loo as wel as the kitchen.

As the world tilted and spun, she realized that Veck had picked her up. Good plan. She didn’t think she could walk—and what a way to air-dry.

In her bedroom, he laid her out on her duvet and covered her with half of it. “I’l be right back.”

She wasn’t alone long, however, because he moved fast, going downstairs, rifling around in what sounded like the kitchen, coming back quickly. He canned the overhead light as he reentered, and at first she thought it was for her modesty—not that she needed it, considering what he’d done to her at that counter—but then she saw him put something on the bedside table.

His gun.

No, there were two. He’d brought hers as wel . From where they’d disarmed at the table before dinner.

How romantic.

The stark reminder of the night before chil ed her, but he took care of that, covering her with his hot, hard body.

“Don’t think about it,” he whispered. “Not now. There’l be plenty of time when we’re through.”

She touched his face and wished they were on vacation somewhere far, far away from the kind of work they did and the reason they had been brought together.

“You’re right,” she said. “And I don’t want to wait a moment longer.”

He nodded, and produced that last foil square he’d kept in his wal et. When he was finished taking care of things, he mounted her again, and as she spread her legs further, she felt the shift in him, in herself: everything slowed down.

As he entered her on a gentle glide, she welcomed him not just with her sex, but her soul, kissing him deeply.

Without words, without hesitations, without any reservations, they moved together, building momentum, gathering intensity. When the end came, it was at the same time, and they held on to each other, she with her nails digging into his back, he with his arms under her and squeezing.

It was the most perfect union. And afterward, even though he had to pul out and did, they lay together in the dark as close as they could get, their bodies forming a critical mass of warmth in the center of the bed.

“Wil you let me stay the night?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, yes.”

“I’l be right back. You get under the covers.”

Good idea. Because as soon as he was up off of her, the cold rushed in and goose-pimpled her al over.

A few minutes later he came back from the bath and joined her. “Did I take your side?”

“Ah . . . no. I’m over here at night.”

“Good.”

She rol ed over and they faced each other, heads on her pil ows, bodies warming up under the weight of the blankets.

He brushed his fingertip down her cheek . . . across her jaw . . . to her lips. “Thank you . . .” he whispered. width="1em">God, she couldn’t find her breath at this moment. “For what.”

There was a pause. “The pizza. It was just the way I like it.”

Reil y laughed. “Smart-ass.”

“Come here. I need to hold on to you.”

She felt the same way. And when there was no distance between them, it was like coming home.

With her head on his chest over his thumping heart, and his arms around her, and her leg thrown over his, she wasn’t just comfortable; she was safe.

While he idly smoothed her hair, she closed her eyes. “This is just perfect.”

She could hear the smile in his voice: “Which is how I want it to be for you. I want to make everything perfect for you.”

As Reil y drifted off to sleep, her last thought was . . . she couldn’t wait to do it al over again. And not just the sex. This lovely, invaluable quiet was even better than the making love part.

Although that hadn’t been half-bad, either.

T
he fol owing morning, as Veck walked into HQ, his number one priority was not grinning like a motherfucker.

Tough to pul off.

He was an hour late, because he and Reil y had engaged in acts that, had he had any more condoms, would have been termed “foreplay.” As it stood, given that they’d been completely surrounded by no amount of latex, what went down was better than the best sex he’d had with anyone else—by about five thousand miles.

And he’d already hit a Walgreens and stocked up on the way into work.

As he strode through the lobby, he nodded to people, keeping it professional even though his inner sixteen-year-old had its swagger on like he’d won the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the Stanley Cup al in one night.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he prayed like hel that Britnae didn’t morning-coffee him. That girl had nothing on his Reil y, and it was time to break her of the habit of coming on to him. He didn’t need to worry, though. One of the night guys, who worked intake, was at her desk. Veck didn’t know the officer al that wel , but he was looking different somehow. Kind of like he’d gotten his Hugh Jackman on, in spite of the fact that on the surface he had more in common with Homer Simpson. And Britnae? Eating it up.

Which proved that what was inside was what counted—and who knew a girl like that would figure it out?

Down in Homicide, he sat at his desk and fired up his computer. And then struck by a romantic notion that was as unfamiliar as it was undeniable, he went into his e-mail, got Reil y out of his contacts, and got ready to send her something.

Lot of space to fil . Looooot of space.

In the end, he typed only a few words. And he hit
send
fast, before someone looked over his shoulder.

Afterward, he just sat there and stared at his screen, wondering if he’d done the right thing . . . until he realized he was looking at his in-box, and the report on Sissy Barten was already in from the ME.

Clearly, the guy had burned the midnight oil to do the autopsy.

Veck read through it al and looked at each one of the twenty or so photographs of the body. There was nothing in any of them that he hadn’t seen for himself at the quarry, and when he got to the last shot of the ritualistic markings on the torso, he sat back, and tapped his forefinger on his mouse.

If Kroner didn’t kil her, who did?

“Mail cal .”

Veck glanced up at the administrator with his rol ing cart of envelopes and boxes. “Thanks, man.”

Three pieces. Two interdepartmental. One U.S. mail . . . that happened to have a cancel ation stamp from Connecticut. Return address? The federal corrections institution he had avoided for the past ten years.

Looking at the envelope, he felt like he’d gotten shrinkwrapped in broken glass.

His first impulse was to throw the thing out, but the pul of what might be inside made that impossible—and didn’t that make him hate the mental power his father had always had over him.

Call me when you get scared enough.

Why Jim Heron’s voice was in his head as he tore open the flap was nothing he was going to waste energy on.

Inside was a sheet of paper with three lines handwritten in an elegant, flowing script that was more the image of wealth that his father had sported than the guy’s roots in the Midwest.

Dear Thomas: I hope this finds you well. I wish for you to come see me as soon as possible. The prison is allowing me a final visitor and I have
chosen you. There are things to be said, son. Call the below. Love, Your Father

“Are you okay?”

Veck glanced up. Reil y was standing next to him, her coat stil on, her purse hanging from her shoulder, her hair smooth and freshly shampooed.

If it hadn’t been for the night before, he would have yeah-fine’d her and moved along. Instead, he just held the letter up to her.

She sat down in her chair as she read it, and he watched her eyes go left to right, left to right, left to right. Then she went back to the top and read it over again.

“What are you going to do,” she asked when she final y looked up.

“It’s mental suicide to see him.” Veck rubbed his eyes to clear the imprint of those words. “Mental fucking suicide.”

“Then don’t do it,” she said. “You don’t need whatever he’s going to say to stick in your head for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah.”

The trouble was, his father wasn’t the only one with something on his mind. And sure, it would be great to be the big man and walk away, but he felt the need to look into those eyes one last time—at least to see if there real y was anything in common in there. After al , he’d felt crazy al these years, covering up mirrors, double-checking shadows, staying up at night wondering whether it was paranoia or valid perception.

This could be the last chance to find out.

“Veck?” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Are you going to go down?”

“I don’t know.” And that was the truth. Because she did have a point. “Hey, ah . . . the report on Sissy Barten came in. You need to take a look at it.”

“Okay.” Down with the purse. Off with the coat. “Anything surprising?”

“Everything is surprising about that case.” Veck glanced over. “And I want to go to talk to Kroner.”

She met him right in the eye. “You’l never get the clearance.”

“I wasn’t planning on asking for it.”

Reil y cursed to herself. This was not how she’d planned for the morning meet-and-greet to go. After Veck had left her house, she’d enjoyed a long shower, shaved everything she had to run a razor over, and gone bag-diving into her new Victoria’s Secret col ection.

The black-and-red bra-and-panty set she had on reminded her of every single lick, suck, and stroke they’d shared—and put her in mind for more of the same as soon as possible. So she’d planned on coming in here, acting professional, and somehow discreetly tipping her hand to him about what was under her clothes.

Instead, she’d walked into a management issue.

Glaring at her partner, she shook her head. “Going off half-cocked is
not
the answer. And if you intend to fol ow through with this, you’ve put me in a hel of a position.”

“Sissy Barten is what’s important. Not bureaucratic rules. And I’ve been cleared from any involvement with that night at the motel—remember? You were the one who did it.” He sat forward. “Kroner didn’t kil her, and you know it. Serial kil ers do not vary their styles—they get sloppy sometimes, or stop in the middle if they’re interrupted. But a guy who has been taking trophies off his victims does not suddenly start scratching symbols into their skin, or bleeding them out. What I need to find out is why that man knew what he did about the quarry and why the hel her earring is in the things from his truck.

There’s something we aren’t seeing in al this.”

She couldn’t argue with him on any of that. It was his method that was the problem. “Someone else could ask him those questions.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

In the silence that fol owed, she thought, Wel , at least they’d had the night and the early morning to be on the same page. Too bad it hadn’t lasted. He was going to fight her on this, and she was going to get pissed, and then everything they’d shared before and after that damn pizza was going to go out the window—