Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

He'd lived on the edge for too long.

"How old are you really?" she asked eventually.

"Twenty-six."

She recoiled. So that was the truth? "You seem older."

"I feel like it."

"I'm thirty-two." Still more silence. "Why won't you look at me."

"You've never had a one-night stand. Until now." Like he'd cursed her in some way. "Well, technically, it's been two nights with you." As his jaw clenched, she knew that wasn't a help. "Isaac, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I." He cleared his throat.

"I wanted you."

Now he looked at her. "And you had me. God . . . you had me." For a brief second, his eyes flared with heat again, and then he refocused on the cabinet in front of him. "But that's it. It's over and done with."

Okay . . . ouch. And for a guy who seemed bitched that he'd indoctrinated her into the one-night club, you'd think his conscience would feel better if they did it a few more times.

As her sex heated again, she thought . . . they'd just see about the "over and done with" part.

"Why did you come back?" she asked.

"I never left." As she felt her brows flare, he shrugged. "I spent all day in hiding across the street from you--and before you think I'm a stalker, I was watching the people who were--and are--watching you."

As she blanched, she was glad for the darkness in this valley of cabinets and cupboards. Much better for him to think she was holding it together. "The white strips were put there by you, weren't they. Your muscle shirt."

"It was supposed to be a signal to them that I'd taken off."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Why haven't you married?" he asked abruptly.And then he laughed in a hard burst. "Sorry if that's too personal."

"No. It isn't." All things considered, nothing seemed out-of-bounds anymore. "I never fell in love. Never had time to, really. Between chasing after Daniel and my work . . . no time. Plus . . ." It seemed at once perfectly normal and completely foreign to speak so candidly. "To be honest, I don't think I ever wanted anyone that close to me. There were things I didn't want to share."

And it wasn't like she was hoarding her family's name or position or wealth. It was the bad things that she kept to herself--her brother . . . and her mother, too, if she was honest. Just as she and her father were both lawyers and very focused, the other two in the family had suffered from similar demons. After all, just because alcohol was legal, didn't mean it couldn't destroy a life as much as heroin did.

Her mother had been an elegant drunk for all of Grier's life and it was hard to know what had put her there: biological predisposition; a husband who disappeared regularly; or a son who at an early age started to walk the path she did.

The loss of her had been just as horrible as Daniel's death.

"Who's Daniel?"

"My brother."

"Whose pj's I borrowed."

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "He died about two years ago."

"God . . . I'm sorry."

Grier glanced around, wondering if the man--er, ghost--in question would choose now to show up. "I'm sorry, too. I really thought I could save him . . . or help him save himself. It didn't work out that way, though. He, ah, he had a drug problem."

She hated the apologetic tone she always assumed when talking about what had killed Daniel--and yet it crept into her voice every time.

"I'm really sorry," Isaac repeated.

"Thank you." Abruptly, she shook her head as if it were a saltshaker that had caked up. Maybe this was why her brother refused to talk about the past --it was a terrible downer.

Switching gears, she said, "That man? Back at your apartment--he gave me something." She leaned up and patted around for the Life Alert, finding it under the sweater she'd taken off after the first fight with her father. "He left it in my trunk."

Although she handled it with the tissue, Isaac took the thing with his bare hands. Guess fingerprints were a nonissue to him.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something for me."

"Wait--"

As he shoved it into his pocket, he talked over her objection. "If I want to turn myself in, all I have to do is hit the button and tell them where to find me. It's got nothing to do with you."

Give himself over to that man? "What happens then?" she asked tightly. "What happens if you . . ."

She couldn't finish. And he didn't answer.

Which told her everything she needed to know, didn't it--

At that moment, the front door unlocked and opened, the sounds of keys and footsteps echoing down the hall as the security alarm was turned off by someone else.

"My father!" she hissed.

Jumping up, she tried to straighten her clothes--oh, God, her hair was a wreck.

The wineglass. Shit.

"Grier?" came that familiar voice from the front of the house.

Oh, damn, Isaac really didn't need to meet what was left of her family right now.

"Quick, you have to--" When she looked back, he was gone.

Okay, usually, she was frustrated by his ghost routine. At the moment, it was a godsend.

Moving fast, she flipped on the lights, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and headed for the mess on the floor and wall.

"In here!" she replied.

As her father came into the room, she noticed he'd changed into his casual uniform of a cashmere sweater and pressed slacks. His face, however, was anything but easygoing: Stark and cold, he looked as he did when he faced an opponent in court.

"I received notification that the fire alarm went off," he said.

Undoubtedly he had, but he'd probably been on his way over here anyway: His house was out in Lincoln--no way he could get to Beacon Hill this fast.

Thank God he hadn't gotten here ten minutes earlier, she thought.

To keep her blush out of the sight, she concentrated on picking up the sharp shards. "I burned an omelet."

When her father didn't say anything else, she stared over at him. "What."

"Where is he, Grier. Tell me where Isaac Rothe is."

A sliver of fear trickled down her spine and landed in her gut like a rock. His expression was so ruthless, she was willing to bet her life on the fact that the pair of them were on opposite sides of the table when it came to her client.

Houseguest.

Lover.

Whatever Isaac was to her.

"Ouch!" She brought up her hand. A piece of glass was sticking straight out of the pad of her forefinger, her blood bright red as it pooled into a fat, welling drop.

As she headed over to the sink, she felt the presence of her father across the kitchen like a gun pointed at her back.

He didn't even ask how badly she'd hurt herself. All he did was say once again: "Tell me where Isaac Rothe is."

Chapter Twenty-five

Back in Caldwell, inside the funeral home, Jim was an old pro at the McCready floor plan and he worked his way down to the basement on quick feet. When he got to the embalming room, he walked through the closed doors . . . and all but skidded to a halt when he came out on the other side.

He hadn't realized until now that he never expected to see his old boss again face-to-face.

And yet there Matthias was, across the way at the refrigerator units, looking at the nameplates on the latched doors just as Jim had done night before last. Shit, the guy was frail, that once tall, robust body now angled over his cane, the previously black hair showing gray at the temples. The eye patch was still where it had been after the initial round of surgeries--there had been hope that the damage wasn't permanent, but clearly that had not been the case.

Matthias stopped, leaned in as if to double-check, and then unlatched a door, braced himself against his cane, and pulled a slab out of the wall.

Jim knew it was the right body: From under the thin sheet, the summoning spell was at work, the pale phosphorescent glow bleeding through and glowing like his corpse was radioactive.

As Jim walked over to stand on the other side of his remains, he wasn't fooled by the fact that Matthias seemed to have wilted around his skeleton and was relying on the cane even as he stood without moving: The man was still a formidable, unpredictable opponent. After all, his mind and his soul had been the drivers of all those bad deeds, and until you were in your grave, they were with you wherever you went.

Lifting a hand, Matthias pulled the sheet back from Jim's face and laid the hem with curious care on his chest. Then, with a wince, the guy gripped his left arm and massaged as if something hurt.