Wanted (Most Wanted 1)

That, however, wasn't something I was going to tell him. I might be feeling ripped and scared and sentimental and a million other emotions, but I knew better than to dump the heavy shit on a guy I wanted to stay. So, wisely, I stayed silent as he led me through the polished lobby to the sleek elevator bank.

The car arrived and we got on. I started to dig in my purse for the card key that would access the penthouse, but Evan already had one. I'm not sure why I was surprised. He was as close to Jahn as I'd been. Maybe closer. For years, Evan had been around full-time, while I'd only been able to visit during the summers and then, later, when my college load permitted jaunts into town.

Only silence greeted us as we entered the condo, a sharp contrast to the noisy hum of the guests that had filled these walls earlier in the evening. Not even Peterson was around. Though he was ostensibly Jahn's live-in help, he actually lived in a separate apartment one floor below the penthouse that could be accessed by a private set of security stairs.

In other words, Evan and I were alone. And while I could still recall with vivid, delicious clarity the way that his body had felt against mine in the alley, right then it wasn't the press of skin against skin that I craved. It was simply the man, beside me, telling me that everything was going to be just fine.

As if he could read my mind, he led me to the comfy leather couch, then pulled a soft afghan over me. "Shoes off," he said. "Then I need you to tell me the truth."

I looked at him sharply, not sure I was ready to talk about the way I'd flipped out.

"Hot chocolate, wine, or something one hell of a lot stronger?"

I actually smiled, the expression feeling foreign. "Cocoa, please." I narrowed my eyes. "But only if it's good. I have my standards, after all."

His smile was casual, but I could see the spark of relief in his eyes. If I was making quips, maybe I wasn't quite the wreck he'd feared. "Sweetheart, I'm always good."

My smile widened and a genuine laugh escaped.

"That's what I like to hear." He reached for my hand, then brushed his fingers over mine before he moved off toward the kitchen.

The moment he was out of sight, the weight of the air in the room seemed to bear down on me. I'd done this before. Curled up beneath a blanket. Hot cocoa. Only Evan wasn't in the kitchen that time, my mother had been. And my father had been beside me, holding tight to my hand. I'd had my back pressed against the sofa, but as much as I'd hoped and wished, the cushions refused to open up and swallow me.

The detectives and uniformed officers had been gentle, their questions respectful, their voices soft. But that hadn't stopped the walls from closing in or the tears from flowing.

And it sure as hell hadn't brought my sister back.

"Angie."

Evan's voice was feather soft, but even so it ripped me violently from my memories. I jerked my head around to see him standing in the doorway, a steaming mug held tight in his hands.

"I'm okay."

He cocked his head as if considering my words, and I gave him bonus points for not calling me a damn liar. He crossed to me without another word, then held the mug out for me. I took it, my fingers brushing over his as I closed my hands around the warm ceramic. Our eyes met, and I felt the flash of a connection shoot through me. Real and solid and unmistakable.

And nothing more now than a missed opportunity.

The heat I'd seen in his eyes was banked now, replaced instead by affection and concern. But I didn't want affection. I wanted the fire back, and I wanted it hot enough to burn away my memories--of tonight, and of eight years ago.

"Tell me," he said, settling down on the couch next to me.

I was sitting cross-legged with a pillow in my lap and the afghan draped loosely over me. His thigh brushed against my knee, and that single point of contact was the only part of my entire body of which I was aware. It was hard to concentrate on his question, and I knew that I needed to. I had a feeling that despite my usual reticence, I would say things around Evan that I shouldn't, and just because I wanted to fuck him didn't mean that I wanted to trust him. Not with everything. Not with that.

I took a sip of the cocoa, then looked up at him in delighted pleasure. "You added peppermint schnapps."

"You once said you like it that way."

I blinked, surprised. I'd spent one Christmas at Jahn's house with my parents. Evan and Cole and Tyler had come over one evening, along with the students who were in Jahn's seminar that year and a few of the neighbors. Jahn had served cocoa with peppermint schnapps. It was the first time I'd ever tasted it, and I'd thought that if heaven had specialty drinks, that would certainly be on the list. "You remember that?"

His eyes never left my face. "I remember a lot of things."

"Oh." I looked down, suddenly self-conscious, and took a long sip of the drink, relishing the way it eased down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

"Angie," he said gently. "Who hurt you?"

I looked back up sharply as I realized what he thought. That I'd been the victim. That I was having flashbacks of some horrible attack.

I laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "I did."

If I'd been trying to shock him, I'd failed. He didn't move or flinch. There was no surprise on his face. Only compassion.

"Tell me," he ordered. "I can help."

"I'm not asking for help."

"No, you're not." He twisted a lock of my hair around his finger. I waited for him to say something else, but no words came. He just sat there with me until I couldn't take the weight of the silence any longer.

"You never met Gracie," I said, the words sounding almost like an accusation.

"No, but Jahn told me about her."

"That she died?" I said, with more venom than I intended.

"That she was a wonderful girl that he loved very much. That he missed her. That you all missed her."

I nodded, fighting the knot of tears that was forming in my throat. "I miss her every day." I drew in a breath to steel myself. "Did he tell you how she died?"

"No. And we never asked. Angie," he said. "I'm asking now. Was she attacked? Was it in an alley?"

He reached over and carefully took the cup out of my hands. Only then did I realize it had been shaking, the cocoa sloshing over the sides to land on the silk of my dress, leaving it dotted with puckered wet spots.

"It's okay," Evan said, and I knew he wasn't talking about the dress.

"It wasn't an alley," I finally managed. "They attacked her under the pier. At least three of them and they had knives. They dragged her to a van. They raped her. They sliced her. And three days later they dumped her." A tear trickled down my cheek. "They didn't kill her. They left her to bleed out. She died all alone in a ditch near Miramar."

"Goddamn bastards." His voice was deceptively calm, but I could hear the steel beneath it. "Who? Did they catch who did it?"

I did. Me. It was me. I wanted to shout the answer, because that was the truth, wasn't it? If it weren't for me, Grace would still be alive, and nothing I could say or do or hope or beg could ever change that.

I tried to imagine telling him the whole truth. Leaning my head against his chest and feeling his hands on my back as I told him the story that I'd only ever told one person. Not my father. Not my mother. Not even the police. Just my uncle Jahn, and now he was dead, too, and my secret was mine once more.

I could imagine it, but I couldn't do it.

"Was it political? Aimed against your father?"

"I don't know who did it," I said, looking at my hands, now fisted in the blanket. "But the police called it gang-related. My dad was still in the California legislature back then, but there didn't seem to be anything political about it. There was no ransom note. No demand. They never arrested anyone. My dad even hired a PI, but he never got anywhere, either."

"You were with her?"

I shook my head, expecting him to look at me like I was a little bit crazy.

"I should never have gone out tonight," I sa

id. If he thought the change in subject was strange, he didn't comment.

"There's nothing wrong with needing to let go sometimes."

I wiped my hand under my nose and sniffled, feeling small and young and terribly lost. "Even when people get hurt?"

He slid off the couch and knelt right in front of me, then gently pressed his hands on my knees. "No one got hurt, Angie."

I shrugged. "You almost did."

His mouth twitched a little, making the dimple flash. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered you care, or insulted that you think so little of my skill."