Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (2 page)

Lillian stared at him for another minute before shaking her head. She had a feeling digging in her heels now wouldn't get her very far. Michael Kincaid might not have been as bossy as Tristan, but he didn't look inclined to stand around and argue with her, either. Besides, she didn't really want to be right across the street from
Teplo
anyway. And the thought of sleeping alone in the bed she'd shared with Tristan made everything inside her squeeze painfully tight. Even jail was preferable to that intense pain.

"Give me ten minutes," she said, stumbling away from the kitchen.

Lillian kept her head down as Officer Brett Warner led her out of her home with her hands cuffed behind her back. Michael had already slipped out the back door with her overnight bag in hand, promising he'd meet her at the precinct soon.

"We're almost there, sweetheart," Warner murmured under his breath, trying to reassure her.

It didn't help. Her legs trembled as she walked, fear making her weak in the knees. Even though this was fake, little more than a performance designed specifically for the Vetrov family, the cold metal around her wrists sent a chill through her. So did the blue lights flashing through the darkness, and the unusual quiet coming from those standing in groups outside of
Teplo
, watching. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't with Tristan by her side.

But he was nowhere to be seen, and she couldn't back out of this now. It was far too late for that.

Warner opened the back door of his police cruiser. "Duck your head."

She did as instructed, ducking into the backseat of the car. Her injured leg protested the lack of room, the damaged muscles cramping as she forced them into the narrow space between the metal cage and the edge of the backseat. Biting her tongue to hold off the pained cry threatening to escape, she nodded at Warner, letting him know she was ready for him to close the door.

For the first time since walking out of the house with him, she risked a glance across the street. Her eyes immediately landed on one of Anton Vetrov's people, Malachi. He stood by the doors to the club, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a smirk pulling his lips up at the corner as he held her gaze. His propensity for violence was written all over his face. He appeared sinister, like the villain he was.

Funny how she hadn't noticed that malice and wickedness the first night he'd lifted the rope and let her walk through the doors of
Teplo
. He'd looked at her like he wanted her, and that had embarrassed her, but he hadn't seemed dangerous to her. Now that she knew the truth, knew the horrible things he'd done for the Vetrov family and for his own amusement, having his gaze on her chilled her to the bone.

Did he know she wasn't really in trouble with the police?

Did Anton and Paulo?

She shivered at the thought of any of them finding out the truth about her arrest and broke his gaze, fear pounding through her with each beat of her heart. They'd killed so many people already, forcing lethal doses of drugs into them and then leaving their bodies scattered around the city. She didn't know for certain if they'd killed intentionally, but she didn't doubt it. They were working with a drug cartel, for God's sake. Who knew how far they were willing to go to push their drug into the market? They'd certainly been willing enough to murder Emma, an innocent teenager.

Would they do the same to her? To Tristan?

She jumped when Warner slammed the driver's side door.

His gaze sought hers in the rearview mirror. "We'll be there soon," he promised. Despite the shadows cast from the bars of the cage, kindness and compassion burned in the depths of his eyes. He reminded her of her father in that way, and that made her throat tight.

She missed her father so much all of the sudden. He always knew what to say to make her feel better, to reassure her that things would work out. Even when she'd been at her lowest, fighting to walk, he'd been able to give her hope and make her smile. What would he say if he knew what she'd spent the last several weeks doing? If he learned of the thing she'd let Tristan do to her in the middle of the club? The things she'd
wanted
him to do to her?

Lillian glanced across the street at
Teplo
, at the people Tristan wanted so badly to save. Would her father understand why she'd said yes? What had driven her?

She didn't know, but she prayed he never found out the truth.

Malachi's gaze burned as Warner pulled away from the curb, driving her away from the chaos her life had become since meeting Tristan. As
Teplo
faded in the shadows behind them, she had a feeling whatever waited ahead would be even worse.

Chapter Two

Standard gray paint peeled from the walls in Warner's office, flaking off to reveal the dirty tan color beneath. The scent of burned coffee and industrial strength cleaner made Lillian's head ache as she stared at the walls, listening to the faint ring of telephones in the distance.

"Are you comfortable enough?" Warner asked solicitously, glancing up from the papers strewn across his desk when she shifted in her seat, trying to ease the ache in her leg. They'd been at the precinct for over two hours already. The pain in her thigh rose in intensity minute by minute. She needed to walk, to stretch, to do anything other than sit and wait for Michael to whisk her away to wherever they planned to keep her.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, offering Warner a weak smile. He'd been nothing but nice to her since they'd arrived, getting her a drink, rounding up worn and tattered issues of
American Police Beat
magazine for her perusal, even dragging a more comfortable chair into his cramped office when he realized how uncomfortable she was in the hard, aluminum folding chair.

They hadn't spoken much, and that was okay with Lillian. She'd asked once where they were going to keep her, but he either didn't know or didn't feel inclined to share that information with her. There wasn't much else to say. Warner was doing the DEA a favor, babysitting her because Tristan had asked.

She still hadn't heard a word from
him
.

Hurt and anger ran like a current through her, rising in intensity alongside the pain in her leg. He'd dragged her into this, and then he'd disappeared, leaving Michael and Warner to deal with her in his stead. Regardless of his reasons, the fact that he was avoiding her hurt. After all they'd shared, he should have been the one to tell her what he wanted to do. He should have been the one to face her, and she hated that he'd sent someone else to do it for him.

Funny thing though, she still ached to see him, to touch him, to assure herself that he really was safe. She wasn't sure she could believe Michael and Warner until she saw Tristan for herself.

Maybe she didn't know every detail about him, but she knew enough to know he was hurting. That all of this—avoiding her, the fake arrest, sitting in the precinct for hours—was his way of trying to keep her safe. But who was keeping him safe? Who was watching over him, making sure he didn't do anything foolish?

She didn't know, and that terrified her.

"How long have you been a detective?" she blurted to Warner, trying to keep her mind off of the icy fear squeezing her heart in a vise. Tristan would be fine. He had to be.

Warner glanced up at her again. "Nine years next spring."

"Do you like it?"

He eyed her as if trying to decide whether or not to humor her and engage in this conversation. When he nodded and settled back in his seat, she barely contained a sigh of relief. "Yes," he said then. "It's a tough job, but it's rewarding."

"Oh." She licked her lips.

"This job, law enforcement, isn't for everyone. You see things you can't forget, deal with people you'd rather avoid." He crossed his arms over his stomach, getting comfortable. "But you also see the good—people rallying to help out a stranger, or make a difference. When the unthinkable happens, no one goes through it alone."

Tristan went through it alone. Or at least he thought he did. He kept so much to himself, trying to shoulder the burden alone, because that's what he thought he deserved. To be alone. To continue paying for the deaths of his parents. When did it end? When did he get to live?

The pager sitting on the corner of Warner's desk vibrated its way across the top. He reached out and snagged it, flicking his eyes toward the display. He pushed a button and tucked it into his pocket before flipping closed the file in front of him. "Kincaid's here," he said then, rising to his feet.

Lillian gripped the edge of his desk and fought her way into an upright position. Her upper lip curled in a rictus of pain as she placed weight on her bad leg. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply in through her mouth and out through her nose until the pain eased, allowing her to step away from the desk.

Warner offered her a sympathetic smile, but, thankfully, said nothing. Instead, he made his way toward her, squeezing through the narrow passage between filing cabinets and the wall, and then held the door open for her to pass through.

"Thanks," she mumbled, limping into the hallway.

Warner preceded her down the hallway toward the back of the building. "Agent Kincaid will meet you outside and take you to the safe house," he said, reminding her of the hasty plan Tristan had put together at some point after walking away and leaving her standing outside of
Teplo
alone.

"Okay." She bit her lip, fighting the urge to ask if he would be there, instinctively knowing he wouldn't. Not when he'd sent Warner and Michael to deal with her so he wouldn't have to do so. Not when she hadn't heard from him in hours. Blinking her eyes to hold back tears, she took a deep breath. "Thank you for your help," she said softly when Warner stopped at a door with an exit sign glowing overhead.

"Anytime, sweetheart."

As soon as he pushed the door open, Michael was there, tugging her toward a sleek gray sports car idling in the alley. Lillian stumbled along at his side, holding her breath as if that would keep anyone from seeing her. Logically, she knew it wouldn't. If Anton Vetrov had sent someone to watch her, nothing she could do would stop them. But holding her breath, hunching her shoulders, and keeping her head down made her feel better. Smaller. Less of a target.

"You good?" Michael asked when he settled her into the front seat, locking the seatbelt around her.

She offered him a jerky nod. He took it for truth and slammed her door before jogging around to the driver's side. He said something to Warner who frowned and then nodded. And then he was sliding into the car beside her.

Lillian curled up in the seat, squeezing her eyes closed.

Michael chattered as he raced through the darkened Seattle streets, twisting and turning until Lillian lost all sense of direction. She didn't answer him, and she didn't open her eyes to see where they were. She wasn't sure she really cared where she ended up; it wouldn't change anything.

She was wrong about not caring.

As soon as she opened her eyes, her stomach sank.

"Why are we here?" she asked as Michael pulled up right outside the doors of the Ashton and slammed his little sports car into park. Her heart pounded, sweat breaking out on her forehead. This was Tristan's building, where he lived.

"You're staying here," he said with a shrug before climbing out and slamming the door. He'd been talkative on the short drive, but hadn't said much of value. Lillian had a feeling he simply didn't like the silence. He seemed too restless, full of pent up energy.

She glanced up at the massive glass-spired building and swallowed hard.

Was Tristan here?

God, she hoped so.

Swinging her legs out of the car, she struggled to get her feet beneath her. Michael already had her bag in hand as he stood to the side, waiting for her. He watched her struggle for a brief moment before holding out a hand. She took it gratefully, allowing him to pull her from the car.

"Thanks," she mumbled when his eyes drifted to the long surgical scar peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. She tugged it down, her cheeks burning.

He shot her an odd look, but didn't comment, instead turning toward the building. "Sup, Frank?" he called to the security guard, who smiled and waved him through. Pausing inside the building, he leaned close and said something to the older man, whose gaze darted in Lillian's direction and then slid away.

"Will do," he said with a nod.

"What did you say to him?" she asked as Michael led her through the empty lobby toward the elevators. As soon as he put his finger on the button, one slid open. The same one she and Tristan had taken what seemed like ages ago. When he'd backed her into the corner and worked sexual voodoo over her body without even touching her.

"I want you under the lights next time. I want to see you with your hair down, your head thrown back, and sweat sliding down your body. I want to watch what the music does to you while I fuck you."

"Does the thought of feeling me deep inside while you move make you wet, beautiful?"

"You comin', Little Mama?" Michael arched a brow.

"Yeah," she muttered with a shake of her head, limping inside the elevator.

The doors slid closed.

"I told him if anyone asks, he's never seen you before."

Who?

Oh, the security guard, Frank.

She glanced sideways at Michael, her eyes wide. He didn't say anything else though, instead slinging the strap of her bag over his shoulder and then pulling his phone out of his pocket. His fingers flew across the buttons, a furrow taking up residence between his brows.

"Elevators," he grunted a few seconds later and shoved the phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

Lillian caught sight of herself in the mirrors and grimaced. Her hair was still neatly pinned in a bun, but her normally bright hazel eyes were red-rimmed where she'd spent half the night crying. Her bottom lip was swollen where she'd bitten it. Her face was pale and pinched, showing her pain plainly. Not only the way her leg throbbed with every step, but the other stuff too—the crushing sadness she felt for the dead girl, and the heartache threatening to consume her if she thought too long about Tristan.

Where was he?

What was he doing?

Did he intend to come for her here?

Was it over between them?

She had so many questions, and no answers. All she had was hope, and she wasn't sure that would be enough, not when someone else had died while she and Tristan were wrapped up in each other, consumed by the desire raging like an inferno between them.

"Let’s go," Michael said when the elevator dinged at the top floor. Tristan's floor.

Lillian hesitated once more. "I–"

He cocked a brow.

"Never mind," she said and followed him out of the elevators before the doors closed on her. As she feared, he immediately started strolling toward Tristan's penthouse, oblivious to the way her heart sped and then fractured the closer they got.

"Ames said Riley wants you here," he said, extracting a key from his pocket and pushing the door to the penthouse open. "I gotta take care of something, so I can't stay. He'll have an unmarked in the parking lot soon, and another stationed down the hall. Don't try to leave until they get here and he won't kick my ass, cool?"

So, Tristan didn't plan to come here.

Another wave of hurt rippled through her.

Michael dropped her bag inside the door and flipped the lights on.

She stepped inside, steeling herself for the rush of emotion being here sent swirling through her. The place was cold, devoid of color or life. The furniture and carpeting were bright white, reflected back in the floor to ceiling windows that circled the entire room until the already massive space appeared cavernous. Everything was elegant, pristine, as if it had only recently been unpacked. She could smell Tristan here though, his scent—woodsy with a lingering hint of citrus—was everywhere. Subtle, but there.

Wandering farther into the room, she ran her hand over the back of the sofa, feeling the cool leather slide against her palm. She might not have known Tristan long, but she knew him well enough to know this place wasn't him.

He'd told her before that he lived here when he was working. She still didn't know what that meant, but being here, feeling how empty and lifeless this place was, she couldn't help but hurt for him. As lonely as she'd been in her house for the two weeks before he'd burst into her life like a comet, at least she'd had warmth and memories and things that mattered to her tucked into niches and corners. Nothing of him existed here. He was heat and passion, energy and raw emotion. This place was a glass prison.

"Little Mama? You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

"You sure?"

The genuine concern in Michael's voice made her turn to him and offer a small smile.