"Hello?" I called softly as I stepped into the foyer. "Cole?"
There was no answer, and I repeated the call as I moved through the living room and then into the kitchen and bedrooms.
Nobody.
I returned to the living room and stood there frowning. The room looked pristine. Certainly no one had gone and smashed through this area in the mindless throes of a tantrum. Did that mean he hadn't been here? Or did it just mean that he was calming down?
Howard Jahn used to tell anyone who would listen that one of the reasons that he bought this condo as opposed to any other was because the living room was dominated by a magnificent spiral staircase that led to an even more magnificent rooftop patio. Now I turned my attention to that staircase and slowly let my gaze drift upward.
Please, I thought, then walked in that direction.
I climbed slowly, both wanting to find him and wanting to postpone the disappointment if it turned out that he wasn't up there.
He wasn't.
There were no lights on the patio when I stepped through the sliding glass door onto the smooth slate surface. I looked around, peering through the inky night first toward the railing and glass barrier that overlooked the lake, and then toward the fully stocked kitchen and sitting area.
No Cole.
I drew in a breath, letting my shoulders rise and fall as this unwelcome reality settled over me. I started to turn to go back inside when something on a small metal bench in front of the glass barrier caught my eye. A manila envelope. And on top of it, the small green stone that I'd often seen Cole rub when he was worried or frustrated or upset.
I'd changed into jeans before I'd come to the condo, and now I slipped the stone into my pocket. The envelope was a little trickier to deal with. I wanted to open it. And yet I didn't.
I had no idea what was inside that envelope, but I was certain that it had the power to destroy.
Still, I couldn't fight what I couldn't understand. And so I sucked in a breath, pulled open the already loose flap, and let the contents fall into my lap.
Oh god oh god oh god.
Photographs. Dozens of them.
The kind of photos you'd find in magazines that only existed so that men could jack off. And each and every one of them was of me.
Me, spread-eagled on the St. Andrew's cross.
Me, bent over, legs wide, and Cole's cock thrusting hard inside me. Not that he was in the picture--no, only I was identifiable.
Me, bound tight with hemp, a crotch knot at my clit.
I recognized each location, too. How could I not? My house. Our playroom. The photographer had found gaps in the blinds. Had trespassed into my backyard and watched as Cole had taken me--as I'd given myself to him in so many different ways.
Looking at them, my stomach churned and bile rose in my throat. Not because of what they portrayed, but how they portrayed it. Twisting my most personal moments into something cold and harsh and ugly.
Intimacy butchered to become porn.
Who? Right then, I swear I could have killed the bastard who had breached our privacy so violently. But who the hell had done it? And for god's sake, what did they intend to do with these horrible pictures?
I was just about to call Sloane to get her thoughts when my phone rang. I practically turned a backflip to tug it out of my pocket, then deflated when I saw that the caller was Tyler, not Cole.
"Anything?" I demanded.
"He's at BAS," Tyler said, referring to Black, August, Sharp Security. "Just unkeyed the door with his code. I'm going."
"No," I said. "I am. I'm at Evan's condo. I can be there in less than ten minutes."
"Do you know what's going on?" Tyler asked. "What's he doing at the office? Why the hell did he schedule the jet for tonight?"
The jet.
I thought of the weapons room at BAS. And then I thought of the fact that a private plane didn't have to deal with airport security.
"Where is he going?" I asked, feeling a little sick to my stomach as the pieces started coming together.
"Flight plan logged for Atlantic City," Tyler said, and I cursed.
"I know what he's doing," I said. "He's going to kill Ilya Muratti."
twenty-five
I found him in the weapons vault tossing boxes of ammo into a duffel that already held two pistols and a revolver.
"Are you planning to take out his entire staff?" I asked softly. "Or just the man himself?"
He didn't turn, but I saw his shoulders stiffen.
"Dammit, Cole, you can't do this."
"The hell I can't." He ground the words out, raw and rough and so filled with pain they seemed to drip like blood. "It's the only goddamn thing I can do."
"No." I took a step toward him, then another. When I was standing right behind him, I pressed my hand gently to his back.
I'd expected him to flinch away from my touch, and when he didn't, I closed my eyes, the motion like the physical manifestation of a sigh of relief. Maybe I haven't lost him yet.
"Please," I said. "Turn around and look at me."
At first I thought he would ignore me, but then he turned slowly, his eyes finding mine. They were cold and determined, dangerous and wild.
I shook my head. "You can't."
"You saw the photos?" His words were clipped, harsh. They were full of anger, but it seemed directed more at himself than at Muratti. "Saw the fucking hell I shoved you into?"
"You? You think this is somehow your fault? Dammit, Cole, this isn't your fault any more than what happened to Bree was on your shoulders. It's nobody's fault except Muratti's and the prick photographer who trespassed on my property.
"And," I added, because I was on a roll, "if you think I did anything with you that I didn't consent to one hundred and twenty percent--that I didn't enjoy at least twice that much--then you are a fucking idiot."
Some of the tension left his body then, and he sagged back to lean against the table on which the duffel bag lay.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Don't go to Atlantic City," I said, then tossed the envelope onto the table before handing him the stone. He took it, and as he did our fingers brushed. As always, I felt that shock of connection. More important, I saw in his eyes that he felt it, too. "Don't kill him, Cole. Not even for me."
He ran his hands over his head, then drew in a long breath. He had changed out of the tux he'd worn to the wedding and now wore jeans and a simple gray T-shirt that accentuated the muscles in his arms and chest. Even without a gun, he was deadly. With one, he was unstoppable.
I intended to stop him anyway.
"Talk to me, dammit," I said. I wanted to shake him. To slap him. I wanted to kick some sense into him. But the moment was charged--hell, he was charged--and every ounce of reason in me t
old me that I needed to talk him down. That raging against a man who could so easily give in to rage would be like pouring gasoline on a flame.
After a moment, he held out the small green stone, his thumb rubbing it in slow, even strokes. "Jahn gave me this," he said, without preamble and without looking at me. "Did I ever tell you that?"
"No."
"He left each of us a letter and a gift. More of a token, really. Something personal. Something that held some meaning for him."
"Why was the stone important to him?" I asked.
Now Cole turned his head and looked at me directly. "He bought it on his honeymoon," Cole said. "His first honeymoon," he added wryly. "His wife said he fretted too much. That he needed something to absorb the stress."
"But that's not the whole story." I'd known Howard Jahn. The man had about a million layers. And if he was giving a worry stone as a legacy, there had to be a deeper purpose.
"He knew me better than anyone," Cole said. "Anyone except you," he added, and something that had been cold and shriveled inside me began to bloom and grow. "He knew about my temper. About the crack my mother smoked. About the way I could snap. He knew about the gangs, and he knew what I'd done. More, he knew what I was capable of doing. And he believed that I could hold it all in. That I could control my temper rather than have my temper control me."
"Smart man, Howard Jahn," I said. "I knew there was a reason I always liked him."
I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Just a hint of an instant, but it gave me another thread of hope to grasp.
"He told me that one day I would find a woman who fit me. Who soothed me. Who'd help me cling to control. I'd find her one day, Jahn said," Cole continued. "But he gave me the worry stone to use until then."
He'd turned away as he spoke, looking vaguely at the wall of weapons--pistols and shotguns, Tasers, and who knows what else. But even though he wasn't touching me or looking at me, I knew that he was talking about me--that I was the woman Jahn had promised. And that simple knowledge filled me with a bittersweet joy.
That, however, wasn't the end.
"Go on," I whispered. "Tell me the rest."
He turned to me, and his face was no longer closed off. I saw love. I saw adoration. And--god help me--I saw pain.
"You do that for me, Kat. I love you--god, how I love you. But it's more than that. You've done more than slip into my life. Hell, you've clicked into place. You fit me perfectly."