Moonrise (18 page)

“All finished, Annie,” Martin said smoothly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ve got some things to do.”

“Can I go with you? I feel claustrophobic.”

“No.” James’s voice was cool and implacable. He waited for her protest, but she said nothing, merely glaring at him as Martin let himself out of the trailer.

She followed him to the door, and James half expected her to try to dart out after him. He tensed, ready to leap and stop her, but she simply closed the door behind him and began fastening the locks. She was clumsy but determined, and he watched her out of hooded eyes, fascinated.

It took her almost five minutes. When she was finished, she turned and faced him, and there was no missing the faint look of triumph
in her eyes. “I figured I’d better know how to do that for myself. I don’t like being dependent.”

“No?” he said softly.

“I spent twenty-seven years that way. It was enough.”

“I don’t know if right now is the time to start developing a life of your own,” he murmured.

“Too late.”

“Too late,” he echoed, watching her.

“What were you and Martin talking about? Why did he suddenly disappear?” She was just out of reach, but he knew he could move quickly. He watched her, idly, and wondered how he ought to take her. Fast, so she couldn’t object. So she didn’t even know what hit her?

Or a slow seduction that left her a weak-limbed puddle in the bed.

Though right now he couldn’t begin to imagine Annie Sutherland as weak.

“So did you two decide what we’re going to do next?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking. We were discussing who was going to take you to bed.”

“Sure you were, James,” she scoffed. “Who lost? You?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Exactly.” She turned away from him, heading into the kitchen. “I hope Martin’s gone
food shopping. There’s nothing to eat but re-fried beans, and I’m really not in the mood, no matter how much salsa music is on the radio. I want—”

She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He could move very swiftly, silently when he wanted to, and this time he wanted to. He put his arms around her, his hands on her breasts, and pulled her against him, tight.

It shut her up immediately. She stood very still, and he could feel the faint tremor that washed over her body. She wasn’t nearly as tough as she wanted to be. As she wanted him to believe.

He cupped her breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples. They hardened, as his cock hardened against her, and he told himself Martin was right. The sooner he did it, the sooner he’d stop thinking about it. He couldn’t afford to waste even a fraction of his attention on the softness of Annie Sutherland’s skin, the warmth of her breath, the sweet, musky scent of her that was driving him crazy.

He slid one hand down her stomach, over the loose-fitting running shorts and between her legs, pressing up against her, imagining the heat and dampness, the need. She made a strangled cry of protest, but then no other sound. She simply let him hold her tightly against him as his hand rode between her legs.

Martin was right, he thought absently. She was shivering now, so damned ready to explode he almost came thinking about it. He thought about shoving her shorts down, bending her over the kitchen counter and taking her from the back. Without having to look at her face, without having to kiss her. Without having to acknowledge this was anything but a straight fuck, something they both needed.

He shoved his hand down inside her loose pants. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and she was wet. He knew she would be.

She fought him for a moment, but he ignored her struggles. He was much, much stronger than she was, and he wasn’t interested in her protests, in denial or shyness or whatever. He slid his fingers deep into her, using his thumb, and he made her come.

The sound she made was low, desperate, and lost. She was a fierce knot of reaction in his grasp, and he held her, prolonging it, touching her, pushing at her, feeling the wave after wave of response that hit her.

“Stop,” she gasped, but he wouldn’t stop. She was shaking apart, and he wouldn’t let her go, let her rest. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her. He needed something beyond complete surrender, beyond the powerful climaxes he was wringing from her. He wanted
to drain the fight, the life from her. He wanted her soul.

He took it. Sliding his fingers deep inside her, listening to her choking cry, he took everything from her.

She was weeping. He knew that as he felt her tormented body collapse in his arms. He was supporting her—her legs had no strength, and all she could do was sob quietly.

He released her. Pulled his hand from her shorts, set her against the counter, and stepped back. For a moment he reached for his zipper and then stopped.

She had her face on the counter. The sobs were softer now but no less shattering. And he realized it might be kinder if he simply leaned over, kissed her behind her ear, and killed her. Kinder for both of them.

He turned and left the kitchen area of the tiny trailer. Left her alone, broken, weeping. He flicked on the television to CNN and threw himself back onto the sagging love seat. And only when he turned up the sound did he allow himself to breathe.

He had no idea how long she’d lie there and cry. How long he could stand to listen to it. He’d heard many women cry over the years. Women mourning their children, cut down by sniper fire. Women whining that he didn’t love them. Women dying, and afraid.

He didn’t let women’s tears bother him.

But Annie’s did. And he hoped to God she’d stop.

It wasn’t until a momentary lull on the television that he noticed the silence. He looked up, and she was standing in the kitchen, staring at him, her face pale, shocky, tear-streaked. He hadn’t kissed her, he thought, with a mixture of despair and relief. He hadn’t made the mistake of kissing her.

And then he noticed the gun she was holding.

“A
re you going to shoot me, Annie? Isn’t that a little extreme?”

She knew how to fire a gun. Her father had despised guns, but he’d made certain his daughter knew how to use one, and James’s gun was not dissimilar from the 9mm weapon she had practiced on. He could move fast, she’d seen him to do it, but not faster than a bullet.

“No,” she said, setting the gun down on the countertop with great care, close enough that she could pick it up quickly. “As long as you don’t touch me again.”

His gaze was steady, unreadable, but he made no effort to move, to take the gun out of her reach. “Then you’d better shoot me, Annie,” he said, turning his gaze back to the television.

She wanted to. She wanted to pick up the gun and wipe that cool, enigmatic expression
from his face. Just once she wanted to see whether he could feel anything.

During the long days after her father’s death he’d been there, a solid, secure presence, looking after the details she’d been too distraught to deal with, an invisible strength for her to turn to. But not once during all that time, even when they lowered Win’s walnut and brass coffin into the ground at Arlington, did he betray any emotion.

She shivered, remembering that cold spring day. A bitter rain had been falling, a fitting cap to the week, and James had stood beside her in a dark raincoat, holding a black umbrella over her head. She’d watched the coffin being lowered with a sense of numb horror that had haunted her dreams ever since.

“I want to be cremated.”

That got his attention. He stared at her, then leaned over and killed the sound on the TV. “You aren’t going to die,” he said.

“Everyone’s going to die sooner or later. The way things have been going lately, I suspect it’s going to be sooner.”

“I’m not going to let anyone kill you.”

“Martin said you’re good, but you’re not perfect.” Her knees were still weak from what he’d done to her in the kitchen. She was wet between her legs, angry and vulnerable. She
moved from behind the counter, away from the gun, wondering if she’d regret it.

“What made you think of that?” He leaned back, looking at her.

“I hated Win’s funeral.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”

“He insisted on a full burial. I hated it. When I die, I want to be burned and my ashes put in a tiny little box. You can keep me on your mantel.”

She’d managed to shake him. Something crossed his face, something oddly akin to horror, swiftly followed by anger.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Though I might prefer to keep you in some Tupperware.”

“No plastic,” she said, pushing him. He didn’t strike her as a man capable of feeling horror. But she hadn’t mistaken his reaction. “I’ll settle for an empty tequila bottle. One without the worm. I imagine you’ll have no trouble finding one of those.”

“You can be a real bitch, you know that, Annie?” he said calmly enough.

The notion startled her. “No,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I hadn’t known that.” She wanted to get away from him, but there was nowhere in the enclosed space where she could escape. The one place she didn’t intend to go was the bed. She sat down
in the cracked vinyl chair. “I don’t think Win would recognize me nowadays.”

“You’d probably piss the hell out of him.”

“Why?” She was shocked.

“Because he did his damnedest to make you who he wanted you to be. Intelligent, well behaved, conservatively dressed. A model daughter and the perfect wife for whoever he chose for you.”

“Not such a perfect wife, and he didn’t choose Martin,” she snapped. “And what’s wrong with that description?”

“It’s not you. It’s who he made you. And you let him do it. You let him drain all the life and individuality from you, until you didn’t have a thought or an emotion to call your own. The model young Republican with just enough liberal notions to make you politically correct.”

“At least I have emotions.”

“They weren’t yours.”

“They are now. Including a really intense hatred of you, James,” she said in an icy voice.

He smiled. Slow, disbelieving, and so infuriating that she wished the gun was still in reach. “Annie,” he said softly, “if you want to believe that you go right ahead.”

She glared at him. “Are you egocentric enough to assume I still have a crush on you? I got over that years ago, James. All I want
from you is the name of my father’s killer. And the reason.”

“That’s all? You don’t want revenge?”

“I assumed you’d take care of that part,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, did you? We find out who executed your father, and then you get to leave the dirty work up to me. You can go back to your safe little life and your drab clothes with clean hands and a satisfied conscience. Is that it?”

“I’d really like to kill you,” she said.

“I seem to bring out your violent streak, don’t I?” he murmured. “Maybe we’d better bring our unholy alliance to an end before you turn out just like me.”

“And what would that be like? Or don’t you even know?” she goaded him.

“I know,” he said, and his voice was bleak. “When Martin comes back, I’ll send you with him. He may not be as good as I am, but he has connections. He could keep Carew off your back. If anyone can keep you safe, Martin can.”

“Can anyone keep me safe?”

She expected a lie, an evasion. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Then I’m not going with him.”

He was showing emotion now. Anger. He pushed off the couch, stalked by her, and it took all her courage not to pull her legs away
from him as he brushed by. “You’ll goddamned well do as I say.”

“Make me.”

He stopped, mid-stride, turning to look at her, and she regretted her words instantly. “Haven’t I just given you a clear lesson on how I can make you do anything I want you to do? I can overpower you, physically, sexually, emotionally. You’ll do what I tell you.”

“I’ll fight back.”

His exasperated sigh was a little warning, and then he leaned over her, trapping her in the chair, his hands on the vinyl arms, his face close to hers. “You won’t win, Annie,” he said softly. “No one ever wins.”

Anne stared up at him. His face was so close she could see the specks of silver in his dark eyes, the bleakness he tried to disguise. She didn’t want to think about what he’d just done to her, or why.

“I don’t want a battle, James,” she said. “And neither do you. Just help me find out what happened to my father.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’ll make it simple,” she cried. “Find out what happened to that picture of the saint. Find out what he did with it, and we’ll stop there. If you want to.”

“If I want to,” he echoed. The trailer was absolutely silent, only the faint, muffled sound
of the muted TV disturbing the thick tension that lay between them. “All right,” he said. “We’ll find what he did with the picture. And then you’ll go back to Martin.”

She didn’t want to go back to Martin, she realized with sudden shock. She never did again.

But she refused to consider what she really did want. “Find the picture,” she said, “and I’ll do what you tell me to.”

He stared at her for a minute longer, then nodded, moving into the kitchen, busying himself with the kettle.

She glanced at the television. The mute was on, but the pictures were bright and vivid. It looked like a bombed nightclub, somewhere in Europe. Covered bodies were stretched out over a wide floor, and there were dark-clothed women weeping in silent fury.

She shuddered, looking away. Death was everywhere. In the past six months, since she’d first discovered her father’s body at the bottom of the stairs, she’d been living with mortality. She’d always been afraid of death—avoiding funerals and tragic movies and even the obligatory sympathy notes. Now she’d been flung into the heart of it, and there was no longer any room for fear.

“Don’t send me away, James,” she said quietly.

He didn’t turn, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. But he had. “It would be better if you left it up to me,” he said finally. “I’ll take care of things. I’m good at cleaning up the mess people make.”

“I don’t want you to. I don’t want someone’s death on your soul, no matter how well deserved. I just want to find out what really happened to Win. And then we can leave it at that.”