Over the Line (11 page)

As I tinker with my makeup, I watch him in the mirror, watching me as he polishes off his sandwich, one of the bananas, and two bottles of water from the nightstand. I dab on vanilla perfume—Angel, Oliver’s favorite—then pin my hair up off my neck.

I step into my four-inch heels. I hate them, but they make my legs look killer, and I’m leaving no stone unturned tonight. I want Oliver to know I want Wes to want me.

I turn back to him when I’m fully primped and polished. “How do I look?”

His ravenous gaze rakes slowly over my body. “Stunning, as always.”

“Bathroom run?” I ask.

He nods to the empty water bottles. “Probably a good idea.”

He’s able to get himself to sitting, then standing, with only one groan and two grimaces. I follow him to the bathroom as he uses the walls for balance. I wait outside the door while he does his thing and changes into the fresh underwear. Then help him back into bed. He holds his hands up for me as I tie him, and there’s a minute I think about not taping his mouth again. But I can’t take the chance.

“Wish me luck,” I say, turning for the door once he’s bound.

I glance back as I step through and his tortured gaze meets mine. My heart shatters. Is this the last time I’ll ever see Oliver Savoca? I’m fairly sure the answer is yes. Convincing myself that’s a good thing shouldn’t be this hard.

I try to picture what will happen once I tell Wes about him. Will he just grab the rest of my family and put us on a plane back to Safesite? I might never set foot in this house again. This isn’t about only Oliver and me. I’m about to uproot my entire family.

I take a deep breath and set my resolve. “Good-bye, Oliver.”

I close the door and lean against it until I have my bearings. This is the right thing. The
only
thing. There’s no other way.

***

It’s dusk when I pull up to an apartment building in a modest neighborhood of St. Petersburg. I step onto the curb and smooth my dress just as Wes emerges from the building. When he meets me on the sidewalk, we’re almost eye to eye thanks to my heels.

“You found the place okay?” he asks, but his eyes are saying so much more as they take an appreciative sweep of my dress.

“GPS is a girl’s best friend.”

He presses his hand into the small of my back, the way he did on Monday, and guides me to the front doors. After spending my life around gangsters, that little gesture shouldn’t cause a thrill to course through me, but knowing what he’s risking, it makes the whole thing feel a little dangerous.

Like Oliver
.

I take a deep breath to banish the thought. Oliver and Wes are polar opposites: the manipulative criminal and the golden-hearted lawman. There’s no comparison. But at the thought of Oliver, the panic that Rob or Ulie will discover him in my room while I’m away flares hot in my chest, making my breaths short.

“Everything okay?” Wes asks, holding open the door for me.

I open my mouth to tell him no, but then think better of it. This isn’t a conversation I want to have standing on a public sidewalk. “I thought I was meeting you at a restaurant. What is this place?”

He smiles. “My apartment. I’m cooking for you.”

My eyebrows arch with my surprise. I can’t imagine Oliver ever cooking for a woman. “I’m impressed.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t be until you taste it.”

He escorts me inside and we take the elevator up seven floors. When he opens the door to his apartment, the sunset casts the room in a golden glow. Through the window in front of me, between the buildings across the street, the sun sets over a marina.

I step deeper into the room. It’s small but nice, the kitchen to the right separated from the great room by a small table and two chairs. A leather sofa and plaid armchair sit in the middle of the room, facing a large TV on the wall between a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and the bedroom door. The bookshelf displays a collection of antique globes, and classic movie prints adorn the walls. And it’s as tidy as Oliver’s place.

I move to the window and look out toward the setting sun, chiding myself. This isn’t a competition. I need to stop comparing Wes to Oliver. “What a beautiful view.”

“It’s what sold me on this place.” When I turn, he’s staring at me. I stand still as he approaches slowly, laying his hands on my hips. “You look amazing tonight.”

I tip my face up and hold my breath as he leans in and brushes his lips across mine in the softest of kisses. It’s slow and nice and I let the feel of it sink into my skin. After a minute, he lets me go and moves to the kitchen.

Now. I have to tell him now, before this goes any farther.

I follow him to the kitchen, but then realize I’m shaking. Partly because, damn, that kiss was nice. This really could have been something. But more because of what I’m about to do.

“What can I help with?” I ask.

He pokes some buttons on the oven. “It’s pretty basic. I just need to broil the salmon, and warm the ginger sauce. The rice is in the cooker and the salad’s already done.”

“Wow.” I look over his shoulder as he opens a bottle of white wine and fills two glasses, handing one to me. I sip and watch him move deftly around the kitchen. It’s only a few minutes later that everything is on the table. He refills our wineglasses and lights the candle in the center.

“Have a seat,” he says, pulling a chair out for me. He sits across from me and makes a go-ahead gesture toward my plate.

I pick up my fork and poke at the food on my plate, working up the courage to say what I need to. “How’d you end up doing this?”

His fork stalls halfway to his mouth. “The Marshal Service?”

I nod.

He takes a bite and chews as he thinks about his answer. “I was probably four the first time I remember watching my granddad ride with the posse in the Fourth of July parade. He and his buddies were up on those horses, all decked out and larger than life, and that was it. I knew I was going to be a cop.” He smiles up at me. “Course, I thought it was going to be on horseback.”

“Sheriff Wes?” I ask with raised eyebrows, sipping my wine.

He holds my gaze for a moment before nodding. “I got in trouble more than once in elementary school for going vigilante on other students when they took something that wasn’t theirs or picked on another kid. I believed in swift justice, administered by my fists. By junior high, the school counselor told my mother I needed an outlet and funneled me toward the Hickman Police Department Explorer Program. I was basically a junior cop. They stopped leaving me in the car on calls involving violent offenders the first time I chased a fleeing perp down, took him to the ground, and cuffed him before the sworn officers could catch up.”

I pick up my fork and take a bite of salmon. “How did you end up in Florida?”

“I went to the academy right out of high school, worked a few years with the PD in Hickman, Louisiana, where I grew up. When I saw the US Marshal Service was looking for guys, I thought I could make a larger impact there. Made it through the training and they sent me to Tampa almost five years ago.”

“So here you are, babysitting bad guys,” I tease.

He watches his finger run along the rim of his wineglass. “The law’s always been black and white to me. Either you’re on my side or you’re a criminal. That simple. But then I met you.” His eyes lift to mine and level me in a gaze somewhere between longing and lament. “You’ve made me see shades of gray, Lee; turned everything on its head. Nothing is clear to me anymore. Being here with you flies in the face of everything I’ve thought I stood for, but I can’t help myself.”

Something in my belly stirs, a quiet yearning. I cock my head and give him a smirk. “Starting to think maybe bad guys aren’t all that bad after all?”

He leans closer, his elbows on the table. His eyes darken as they peruse my lips. “I’m thinking you might be
very
good.”

The intimation in his voice prickles my skin into goose bumps.

“Why would you think that?”

He taps a finger on his temple. “Built-in bullshit detector. My job has made me pretty good at reading people. You’re strong and intelligent, but I don’t think you’ve got the stomach for the violence of your family’s lifestyle.”

A stone drops in my stomach as the blast of my Cheetah unloading a round into Oliver’s chest echoes in my head. Suddenly, my hand is shaking. I lower my fork and dab at my mouth with my napkin. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to settle the frisson of nerves that has me wanting to bolt for the door before I can say what I need to.

“You okay, Lee?” Wes asks.

When I lift my eyes to his, I’m not convinced I don’t see a tinge of suspicion under the concern. Which only frazzles my nerves more.

“Fine. I just . . .” I clear my throat and lace my fingers tightly in my lap under the table to stop the shaking. “What would happen if someone from Chicago found us here? What would be protocol?”

When his gaze sharpens, I know I wasn’t imagining the suspicion. Despite what he just said, I
am
a bad guy and he knows it. “What’s going on, Lee?”

“Nothing . . . I just . . .” Say it. Like ripping off a bandage.
I shot Oliver Savoca and he’s tied to my bed as we speak
. “I just want to know . . . so I can prepare my family in case . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. Why is this so hard?

“Protocol,” he starts, still scouring my face with his eyes, “would depend on the severity of the threat. If the threat wasn’t imminent, we could keep you here on lockdown until we had another viable option available for you. In the scenario that your lives were in danger, we’d extract you immediately and take you to a hotel until we could get you on a plane to Virginia. Then you’d start the process all over again at Safesite.”

“And what would happen to the person who found us? If you were to catch him?”

He sets down his fork and sips his wine. “Again, it would depend on the situation. If he were a known associate of the mafia, or had arrest warrants, he would be taken into custody and prosecuted.”

My stomach’s in a knot. I know what I have to do, but . . . “This is really good,” I say with a nod at my plate. “Ulie’s going to want your recipe.”

He takes a bite and watches me as he chews. “How is she adjusting?”

“It’s been hard. She’s given up a lot.”

“The timing wasn’t good, I know,” he says.

“Did you know Miley Cyrus wore her design to the Golden Globes in January?” I say, sipping the wine.

His eyebrows arch. “I did not.”

“It’s not right that she never got to live her dream.” There’s no hiding the guilt in my voice. “She has real talent.”

He lowers his fork. “You did what you had to do, Lee. You did the right thing.”

I look up at him and there’s understanding in his gaze. He’s the only person in my new life who knows what I did to my father. Keeping that secret from my siblings has been exhausting.

We make small talk as we finish eating, and as we clean the kitchen it becomes clear that I’m not going to find the courage to tell Wes about Oliver. But what other option do I have? I can’t tell Rob. I can’t just let him go.

I have no obligation to Oliver, no reason to protect him, but in my gut, I know that’s what I’m doing. How do I protect both Oliver and my family at the same time?

I wander out to the living room as Wes finishes up in the kitchen and look mindlessly over the shelf of DVDs below his TV.

“I can put in a movie if you see anything you like,” he says, draining the last of the wine bottle into my glass. His eyes lift to me and I don’t miss the trickle of his gaze down the front of my dress.

“I don’t really feel like a movie.” I’m still on edge, and the longer I stay here the more likely it is I’ll give myself away. “I really should be getting home. I want to make sure Sherm . . .”

I trail off as Wes moves toward me, holding out a wineglass. The look in his darkening blue eyes, three parts desire and one part mischief, stalls my racing mind momentarily.

He hands me my glass and sips his wine. His fingers twist through a loose strand of hair near my face. “Are you sure?”

I nod, but I’m not sure of anything right now. He must see my indecision in my eyes, because he leans in slowly. He’s all testosterone and muscle, taut and ready to spring.

It’s incredibly hot that he wants me, even though it’s against everything he stands for. He’s willing to break his strict code of ethics to be with me. So I close the short distance between us, pressing my mouth to his. He threads his fingers into my hair and tips his head, deepening our kiss. I go with it, letting him take the lead. His tongue slips into my mouth and caresses mine. I glide my hands over coiled muscle; biceps, pecs, ripped abs.

He groans into my mouth when my hand slips under his shirt and I stroke my fingertips along the waistband of his slacks. His hand presses against my back, drawing me closer, then glides lower, to my ass.

He draws back and drains his glass. He sets it on the coffee table, then takes mine and places it next to his. When he lowers himself into the cushions of the sofa, he brings me with him. He kisses me, and he tastes like wine as our tongues explore each other’s mouths.

He peels me away as he catches his breath. “I have to know where this could lead us, Lee. I think about you more than I should . . . more than I want to. I need to know if there’s something to this.”

My mind shuts off and my body takes over. I kiss him again and lose myself in sensation.

We kiss for most of the next hour as our hands explore, learning the new landscape of each other’s bodies. His hands are large, strong, and sure, and when he uses them to glide my skirt up, I don’t stop him. He slips my dress off my shoulder and kisses the nub of my nipple through the lace of my bra. It hardens for him.

I pull my bra strap down and he thumbs the lace aside. He cradles my breast in the palm of his hand and his thumb circles the areola, just a tickle over my sensitive skin.

His hot breath feathers over my breast, pebbling my nipple tighter. “I want to carry you into that bedroom and find out everything there is to know about this sweet body.” He lifts my bra strap back into place. “But I think this could be something real. I don’t want ruin it before it starts by rushing things.”