Crave (Fallen Angels 2)

"Tell me," she whispered.

He put the bottle back. Went a couple of feet farther down the wooden racks. "I only did men. No women. There were some who could do the females, but not me. And I'm not going to give you specific examples, but the political-affiliation nonsense just wasn't enough for me. You kill a bunch of people or rape some women or blow some shi--er, stuff . . . up? Very different story. And I needed to see some proof with my own eyes--video, photograph . . . bodies that were marked."

"Did you ever refuse an assignment?"

"Yes."

"So you wouldn't have killed my brother."

"Never," he said without hesitation. "And they wouldn't have even asked me. The way Matthias saw it, I was a weapon that worked under prescribed circumstances, and he took me out of his holster at appropriate times. And you know . . . I realized I had to leave XOps when it dawned on me that I was no different from the people I was killing. They'd all felt as if whatever atrocities they were committing were justifiable. Well, so did I and that made us mirror images of each other really. Sure, an objective viewpoint would have agreed with me over them, but that wasn't enough."

Grier let out a long exhale. He was what she'd always believed in, she thought.

"How so?" he said.

With a flush, she guessed she'd spoken aloud. "I always told Daniel . . ." She paused, wondering if she had the stuffing left in her to go there. "I told him that it was never too late. That the things he'd done in the past didn't have to define his future. I think toward the end, he'd given up on himself. He'd stolen from my father and me and his friends. He'd been arrested burglarizing a house and also on felony theft of an auto and then while trying to hold up a liquor store. That's how I got involved with doing pro bono. I was in and out of various jails for the five years before his death. I felt like I wasn't helping him--but maybe I could someone else, you know? And I did . . . I did help people."

"Grier--"

She waved him off as her voice hitched. She was finished with crying. There was going to be no more of that and no more dwelling on what couldn't be changed. "Do you want to go through this now?"

As she indicated the dossiers, he shrugged and went to the door, settling into a lean against the jamb. "I really just came to check on you."

In the still air, his low-lidded eyes warmed her from the inside out. Such a contradiction he was . . . between his trained-killer job and his Boy Scout heart.

She glanced down at his picture. "You look like you're tracking something here."

"I was about to get on a plane, actually. I had the feeling someone was watching, but I couldn't tell from which direction. I was waiting at an airbase to go overseas." He cleared his throat like he was sweeping the memory from his mind. "Your father's passed out upstairs. He spent about two hours on the phone, as far as I can tell."

"It's been that long?" She glanced at her watch, and as she shifted her wrist around, she became aware of all the kinks in her body. Stretching her arms over her head, her spine popped. "How are things going?"

"I don't know. Before he lay down, he told me that as long as we can make it until tomorrow night, we're in business. He's pulled multiple contacts from the CIA, NSA, and the presidential cabinet, and we're meeting right here so that I don't have to move. The missing piece is Jim Heron--we're still waiting for him to get back--although if we have to, we'll go forward without him."

"Have you gotten a . . . response? You know, from them."

"No."

Fear tickled across her ribs and hit her heart like a battery charge. "Can you last until tomorrow night."

"If that's the way it has to be, yes."

He seemed so sure, and she needed to believe in that confidence: It would be a tragedy beyond measure for him to be cut down now, when he was so close to the freedom he sought.

Strange, that someone she had met only days before suddenly seemed so important to her.

"I'm proud of you," she said, running her finger down his photograph.

"That means a lot to me." Pause. "And thank you for showing me the way. I never would have been able to do this without you."

"Without my father, you mean," she countered softly. "He has the contacts."

"No. You're the one."

She frowned, thinking that was a funny way of phrasing it. "I want you to answer something for me."

"Name it."

Her eyes flipped up to his. "What are your chances. Realistically."

"Of getting out of this alive?"

"Yes." When he just shook his head, she frowned at him. "Remember, we're so done with the whole `shelter the little woman' routine."

"Fifty-fifty."

Well, didn't that give her a knot in her throat. "That bad, huh."

"Do you want something to eat along with the coffee? I'm no chef, but I saw some leftovers in the fridge and I can work a microwave." When she begged off, he tacked on, "You have to eat."

"I'd rather have sex with you," she blurted.

Isaac coughed. Actually coughed, like someone had punched him in the solar plexus.

"Sorry if that's too blunt." She shrugged. "But social graces are waaaaay down my list of things to worry about right now. And I have a feeling I'm not going to see you after tomorrow night, either because you're swept up into federal custody or because . . ." She took a deep breath. "I want a proper piece of you before you go. Something to remember you with that's in my skin, not just my brain. Upstairs was so fast and furious . . . I want to pay attention and remember."

He was silent for a long time. "I'd think you'd want to forget as much of this as you can."

"Not you . . . I don't want to forget you." The corner of her mouth lifted a little. "Although I don't think I could."

When he stayed where he was, she pushed her chair back and stood up. The distance between them took three strides to cross, and as she came at him, he straightened; then he tugged his sweatshirt down like he was tidying himself up.

Grier rose onto her tiptoes and touched his face, putting her palms on his five o'clock shadow. "I'm never going to forget you."

As he licked his lips, like he was hungry for exactly what she was after, she took his hand and drew him deeper into the wine cellar, pulling him fully inside, shutting them in together.

Unlike the first time, when she'd been all wound up and seeking only more of the cyclone, this was about him, the man, not her own internal buzzing.

This was all about him.

As she leaned in to kiss him, he put his big hands on her thin wrists and held her off gently. "This didn't help upstairs."

"Yes. It did. You just didn't believe me."

"Grier . . ." Her name was a combination of confusion and desperation: why spelled with five new letters instead of the usual three.

"I don't want to talk anymore," she murmured, fixated on his mouth.

"You sure?"

When she nodded, he bent down and pressed his lips against hers, drawing her into him. He was fully aroused, more than ready for her, and yet he moved her back.

Before she could protest, she heard the click of the lock sliding into place and then those warm hands slipped under her shirt and slid around her rib cage, going to the small of her back. As she felt a gentle, lifting pressure, her feet came up off the floor and she was carried over to the table.

Pushing the dossiers to the side, Isaac laid her out flat, his palms moving to her br**sts as he bent over her and kept their mouths fused. Her yoga pants were off her legs a moment later, but instead of tossing them, he put them over the chair she'd been in. Smart. No telling whether she was going to have to get dressed fast in the middle.

A subtle pull and her hips were right at the edge of the table . . . and then he broke their kiss and sank down onto his knees.

If she'd thought she'd seen his eyes burn before, it was nothing compared to what they were doing now. Frost had never been so hot.

As she got an idea where he was headed, she sat up. "But I want this to be for both of us--"

"You said you wanted to remember something." His palms slid up to the tops of her thighs and squeezed. "So lie back and let me do my thing."

That tongue of his made a reappearance--and didn't that make her get on board with the plan.

"G'on now," he murmured with that Southern drawl. "Lie on back and let me take care of you. I promise to go slow . . . real slow."