Love Kills (Lilah Love 4)

“I’ll handle closing up the scene.”

He needs control. I need out of here.

“But tomorrow—” he starts.

“We’ll talk. We’ll deal with all of this. Call me if there’s anything significant that comes up during clean up. And have Sergeant Morris at the station tomorrow for official questioning.”

“What the hell is that about?”

“Ask Morris. And I’ll let you finish up the basics.” I start walking, and I don’t stop. I exit to the hallway, shed my suit in a disposal unit setup by the team, and I head for the elevator. I punch the button, and the car opens immediately, thank fuck.

I step inside the empty car, punch the button, and just stand there, watching the doors shut, a knot in my chest, a clawing sensation with it. The past is right here in this elevator. I reject it again and hard. I force myself to think about the investigation. That puts me back in the alleyway, hesitating because I don’t want to get killed because of Kane.

Kane.

Fucking Kane.

I focus on him. That’s a good thing. That’s a bad thing. He distracted me. I thought about our engagement while investigating the murders. What the hell is this man doing to me? The elevator dings again, and I step off, a woman on a mission. Adrenaline burns through me and carries me to the door. I don’t bother with the security codes. I ring the doorbell over and over, knowing that brings Kit to the door. I also know there are cameras, so when the bastard answers my door, in my apartment, and points a gun at me, that’s all the invitation I need.

I draw mine and point it at him. “Leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he spouts back.

“Except away,” I say. “One way or the other.”

“Take a dinner break,” Kane says from behind him.

Kit grimaces with the statement that is all command, but he hesitates, his eyes burning angrily into mine before he lowers his weapon, shoves it in his holster under his jacket and then steps out into the hallway. Kane eyes my gun. “Planning to shoot me again?”

I holster my weapon. “I’ll just use my fists.”

He clearly doesn’t think I’m serious because his lips quirk, amusement in his eyes before he backs up to let me enter the apartment.

I follow, ready for a fight.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I step inside the foyer, right in front of Kane, shut the door, lock it, and turn back on the security system. That I put that above a much-desired confrontation with Kane says I’m on edge. Umbrella Man is in the building. He may still be in the building, despite an automatic search that took place when the building was locked down.

I turn, and Kane is no longer standing in front of me. He’s at the second door we must pass through to enter the apartment, the one that offers an extra level of security. He wants that extra level of security before whatever is about to go down between us, goes down. I know this, not just by his position at that door, but because Kane is now wearing his suit jacket again. That means he’s ready to do business. For him, that means he’s about to blow some shit up, perhaps not literally, but perhaps, quite literally. He’s on edge, just like me, ready for anything.

I want him to blow up something, too, or someone: Umbrella Man.

I close the space between me and him and keep walking, exiting the door into the living room, letting him shut it and secure the entry, comforted by the fact that this place is like Fort Knox. Any attempt to get to Kane won’t be while he’s in this apartment. I’m suddenly back in that closet, staring at that poster with the U2 lyrics, and I start walking toward the kitchen. That takes me back to that parking lot in the Hamptons where I’d been kidnapped. What an idiot I was to even let that happen to myself and how was I drugged and Alexandra was not? And why am I thinking about this when three women died tonight? I’m not dead. I survived my shit, and they did not. They deserve my attention.

I enter the kitchen and walk to one of several bars in the apartment, this one is in a small enclosed area where he keeps the most expensive of his whiskey. There’s no reason to lock it up because no one can get in here. Nope. They can’t. Yet, Kane had a guard stay here with me when he was out of town, and he just had one with him. Whatever the fuck that means.

I grab the black bottle he told me cost him twenty grand. Fuck his twenty grand when he probably made part of it doing bad things. I’m living with a man who does bad things. And so do I, so I can’t even judge him. God, I love that he does bad things. God no. No, I do not love that he does bad things. I just love the way he makes it seem so damn sexy. God no. He does not. Bad things are not sexy. I’m a fucking FBI agent. I’m also so very fucked up. I open the cap, slugging a swallow. It bites, but it’s smooth in an instant. It shouldn’t fucking bite at all for twenty thousand dollars.

Mr. Bad Things himself steps behind me.

I turn, and we both lean on the counters behind us, small counters, close together. His legs almost touch mine. I hate him for making me wish they were, at least right now. Sometimes, I don’t hate him for making me want him at all. Now, I do, and he knows it. I see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes. He knows me. He knows me like no other person knows me, and he reads that funky place I’m in now. He thinks he knows how to handle it, too. He even took off his jacket and tie, like this war with me is no real war. He’s right, really. It’s not a war. Not between me and him. Not anymore.

It’s a war within myself.

A war I’m not sure we can win, and some part of me is damn glad he’s certain we can. Because I’m not.

I lift the stinking expensive ass bottle, toast him, and take another swig, daring him to tell me to stop. His lips curve and he reaches for it, taking it from me—because I let him, of course—and he slugs back a drink. Another thing I love about Kane—he can get ghetto when he needs to. Which also means he does bad things. Damn him for making me okay with bad things. And distracting me. I take another slug, the heaviness of the whiskey officially giving my head a little twirl, at least that’s what it feels like. That and I’m pissed.

I set the bottle down. “You,” I say.

“What about me, beautiful?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What about me, beautiful?”

I growl. “Kane.”

“Lilah,” he says in that richly accented voice of his, that he chooses to make richly accented when he speaks my name. Because he knows I like it. Because back before I ever had my guard up with Kane, I told him I liked it. My guard isn’t up with Kane anymore. It also wasn’t fully up in that alleyway when it should have been because of Kane.

I step to him and grab his shirt. “Do you know what I did out there tonight?” I don’t give him time to reply. “I hesitated because I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die because of you, Kane fucking Mendez.”

He catches my wrists, both of them, and pulls me hard against him. “When did you ever not want to live, Lilah?”

“I’m talking about now, asshole. Tonight. I hesitated. I could have died.”

He turns me and pins me in the corner, where the wall overreaches the counter. I don’t let anyone cage me in, but Kane is Kane. And here I am. “I should have never left you alone for so long.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. “And alone wasn’t my problem. You are. You made me hesitate. I didn’t want to die tonight. We’re talking about tonight.”

“You’re supposed to want to live, Lilah. I let you feel the wrong things.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” I say, punching at his chest. “You aren’t hearing me.”

He cups the back of my head. “You’re supposed to want to live. And you’re supposed to want to live life with me. We were engaged, woman.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“And here we are again. Back where we always belonged.”

“With a serial killer stalking you and me?”

“There’s always going to be someone coming after both of us,” he says. “And if you think you’re better off with no reason to live, you love me a whole lot less than I love you.”