A Brutal Tenderness (3 page)

I leave the hot engine of my Harley ticking as I walk away from
the university parking lot, making my way to where I know
Jewell will be. I don’t have a plan to make contact with her. I’m
not going to lie to myself; I’m stalling. I’m going to meet, in the
flesh, the only person who could have stopped Faith’s murder,
could have prevented the death of a woman who was like a
sister to me. Someone who couldn’t even muster a scream, a
911 call, for the woman who had put her before everyone else.

Then I see her in the hall, talking to that lacrosse douche.
Suddenly the image of her dancing fills my head, playing like
a slow-motion movie of seduction behind my eyelids. I shake
the image from my mind, instead rifling through the mental
head count of the students, shrugging off many possibilities
of who this jerk could be. Finally, a scrap of memory presents
itself—Mitch Maverick, I vaguely remember. A recent transfer
student. I make a mental note to look up his background
because he’s talking to our swan in hiding. Can’t have that.
Anyone who even breathes around Jewell gets infiltrated.

I take ample opportunity to watch the two as they make
faces of interest at each other.
He makes me sick, just like her—two rich brats gravitating
toward each other.
Water seeks its own level
, I think with barely
contained disgust. It’s like a homing device; they know they’re
cut from the same cloth.
Well, fuck that. O’Rourke wants me to make contact? Fine.
I truck over, using the confident gait I adopt when I know
I might have to use my fists instead of my words. It feels good,
like the beast who smells the lock getting turned to signal its
freedom from its cage. I can almost hear it sigh inside me. I
always feel so sure of the physical. That I can dominate. My
cock and my fists: Those do what I tell them.
A small smile curls my lips. I’m in utter control here. I have
it.
Then Jewell MacLeod turns and looks at me full on.
The surveillance tapes didn’t prepare me. The recounting
of the horror of her testimony didn’t either. They were a pale
shadow of what happens between us in this moment. It’s a
sucker punch that takes me in a classic one-two. If I hadn’t
been trained to pretend, to be someone else, she’d have brought
me to my knees with a look.
It instantly slams into me why Faith loved her, it strikes
me between the eyes like a physical blow: Jewell is fragile,
vulnerable. She’s a woman on the chasm of breaking apart.
Faith had felt the same thing I’m feeling now: a fierce sense of
protection.
I listen to Maverick’s limp introductions and completely
dismiss him, studying the woman in front of me. Her carefully
dyed hair gleams softly, the mess of its weight carefully
knotted at the bottom of her neck, strands escaping along her
collarbone.
The sudden urge to kiss her along that delicate intersection
pops up unbidden in my mind. When her eyes meet mine, I
gaze into the false sea of blueness, knowing the deep emeralds
that are beneath.
I shift as I stand, subtly getting myself in hand and break
the spell as she sticks out her hand, and I almost blow it by
calling her Jewell. At the last moment, I repeat the name she’s
using, the one Maverick introduced her as. “Jess Mackey?”
I wrap her hand in mine, and when our skin meets in that
first press of flesh, heat instantly travels from our contact and
tells the guy downstairs that everything is alive and well.
Fucking great
, I think, shifting my weight again.
This can’t be happening. How can I feel anything other than
hatred for the girl who let her selfish fear, her gutless passivity,
overtake her when Faith needed her most?
Even telling myself that, I can hardly let go of her. I look
into her eyes and see them widen at the contact.
Does she feel it too? Before I can get a read on her,
Maverick wrecks the moment by clearing his throat.
Jewell steps back, our fingers sliding out of each other’s hold
like reluctant taffy.
I strain to think of something to normalize the moment and
immediately fall back on being an asshole. I’ve had moderate
success with that in the past.
“Just wanted to meet your girlfriend,” I tell Maverick. My
smile’s full of sarcasm. “She looks a little lost, if you ask me.”
“No one did . . . ask you,” Maverick says as he puts me on
point for half a second.
Then I hear the velvet of Jewell’s voice, and another small
tingle shoots up my spine.
Fuck, I’m in so much trouble here
. This
is not how this is supposed to go. I can’t lose the grip on how
I’m supposed to feel: cold, distant, calculating.
But this is the kind of event that reams of paperwork and
two years of surveillance can never convey. Chemistry, raw and
pure, is a conduit between us.
“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend,” Jewell notes in a cool tone of
subtle reprimand.
Kinda feisty, I’m surprised to note. That’s not something I’d
known about her.
Then Jewell turns on her heel and practically runs off.
What the fuck? I smile as I watch her move off, Maverick
calling pathetically after her.
Suddenly I sense it’s Jewell MacLeod who’s in control here,
and I start to panic. Maybe I’m not the right guy for the job.
But then an idea takes shape, and it’s one that will work with
O’Rourke’s directive—and make my dick calm down.
The question is, Will she go with it?

my bottle down by half, workout gear clinging to my chilling
body. I need to rehydrate. Badly. I left Adams down there
licking his wounds. I give a tight smile, then slug down the rest,
tossing the bottle in the recycling can.

Dec’s brows dump over his brown eyes, his scowl deepening
as he crams half a sandwich in his mouth, talking around it.
“Y’know, Steel . . .”

My brows pop.
“You’re an uptight sucker. Why don’t you work it out?”
I flex, laughing. “Thinking I’m doing enough of that

already.”
Clearwater looks at me, nods, then says, “Yeah, Hercules.
What gives?”
I shrug, no time for self-examination for me, but I give the
best response I can. “I need this case to close, Dec. I won’t be
happy until it’s signed, sealed, and delivered, that little bitch
Jewell delivered up for justice like a cherry on top. That’ll make
a dude wound .”
Dec gives a small frown. “Yeah . . . about Jess Mackey.”
“Jewell,” I clarify in a flat voice.
“Steel, come on, ya hard-ass. She’s hiding. Whether we
know it or not, keep your focus.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I open them, my
expression resolute. “Okay, whatever. What is it?”
Dec slams his palm on the table, the salt and pepper shakers
rattling. “Listen, Steel, I know you blame our girl for Faith’s
death . . .”
“I don’t blame her. I hold her accountable.” My eyes hold
his, unflinching, determined.
Dec sighs, swinging his dark hair out of his eyes. “For
Christ’s sake, Cas, she’s a ballet dancer. She couldn’t hurt
anyone.”
As I open my mouth, his finger wags in front of me. “No,
shut up for once.” His eyes bore into mine. “You’re wrong about
her. She’s shy and sweet.” Then his eyes narrow. “Think about
it, Steel. What was she supposed to do? Open that closet and
defend Faith?” he asks, his palms up and away from his body,
“Fucking think about it, Cas. She would have died too. Thad
would have chewed her up and spit her out.”
My next words are meant to hurt, to deflect. I’m so good at
this verbal maneuvering tactic it’s second nature. “You want to
bang her,” I state.
There’s a charged silence.
“I want to beat your head in for that, Steel,” Dec says in an
ominous tone. Then, “Not everything’s about sex.”
Right. “Uh-huh,” I agree unconvincingly.
His hands clench, and I know he’s thinking about having
a go. Then his shoulders relax. “She’s not the kind of girl you
bang, my friend. She’s not one of your little submissives.”
I frown, my hands bracketing my hips. “What kind of girl is
she, then?” I ask sarcastically.
Dec waits a second, allowing the pause to swell between us.
“She’s the kind of girl you love, Cas.”
“She’s too terrible to love,” I say in a knee-jerk response. But
Dec is ready, a smile spreading across his face.
“She’s too good not to.”
Fuck
, I think,
we’re talking about the subject here. Maybe we’re
all getting a bit too close.
And yet his yapping is beginning to
break down the walls of the carefully constructed image of
Jewell that I’d created in my mind of a passive, narcissistic
woman, which I’d been clinging to for two years.
But for the sake of the job, I know I have to ignore my
fellow agent’s words.
She’s just bait to entice the killer out of hiding.
My rage over Faith’s death needs to fall on someone,
especially with Thad out of reach.
But it doesn’t sit as comfortably on Jewell as it once did.

It’s easy to compromise a fuel line, especially when the car’s
owner would rather dance than put gas in her car. I’ve never
met a car I can’t persuade to do my bidding, and her shit Kia
was a pushover.
Must be a big step down from her usual wheels
, I
think with disdain.

That’s me, the car whisperer. Should have been a mechanic
instead of chasing killers.
I’m leaning against my hog, as comfortably as some men’s
favorite recliner. My showered body is as relaxed as it can be
two hours after I pressed myself hard into service at the gym
with Adams. Clearwater’s words burn inside my brain, but I
drown them with the cool waters of my icy resolve: She’s a
subject in a serial murder sting. That’s all Jewell McLeod is.
Maybe if I keep reminding myself enough, I’ll believe my
own words.
I speak into the mike under my thin T, the bulk of my
leather jacket camouflaging it: “Subject approaching.”
I watch Jewell rushing up the knoll of finely manicured
grounds of the campus in a graceful jog that begs to be a sprint,
wisps springing from the tight bun she winds all that long hair
into.
I give a hard swallow, wondering what it looks like down.
An image bursts into my brain of her body against mine, that
long hair swinging in my face, tickling my ribs, a curtain of silk
enclosing us as I grab her hipbones like handles, making her
body move the way I want it, owning it. The image is so vivid,
so visceral, that I completely miss her trying to start her shitty
little Kia at the same time I push away my stubborn thoughts
of screwing the subject of our protection.
The woman I’ve determined to hate.
I watch her take a delicate hand and strike the steering
wheel, and when she gasps at the pain she brings on herself, I
give in to the tiniest flinch at her distress.
Dammit. I shake off my empathy.
It’s time. She’s got a date with douche, and we need to make
the perp think she’s being courted. I should be happy that said
douche is interested too. That’ll make it seem more imperative
for Thad to go after her.
We’re forcing the compulsions we’re banking on him
having. In theory, attention paid to Jewell should compel him
to stalk her and thereby reveal himself.
But her date doesn’t make me happy. In fact, it makes me
want to break Maverick’s hands off. I’m conflicted as hell. Not
the reaction I should be having.
Jewell hasn’t noticed me yet. I straighten, stride to the door,
and throw a hand on the hood.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in.
She turns, startled eyes to mine, and I automatically search
for the green I know lies beneath. “Hi,” she responds tentatively.
“Get out,” I say, nodding toward the car, letting her know I
can help.
Her eyes widen with fear and more than a tinge of irritation.
She huffs, blowing an escaped strand of hair out of her face.
My eyes move to her lips and I swallow again—hard.
“No,” she says, looking away from me.
“I can take a look,” I explain, stepping away from the car.
Jewell’s brows slowly rise, but she slides out of the car, one
sleeve of her top rolling off her shoulder, and my eyes tag that
bare stretch of skin. I tear them away and squeeze into the
small car.
I act like concentration to start the car is warranted, my
damn knees kissing my chin. I hunt for the bar that will move
the seat back and give me more room. It allows some room,
but no car is usually comfortable for someone six foot four. I
turn the key and give a subtle pump of my boot on the pedal,
provoking a minor flood of gas. The residual gas in the fuel line
sparks a brief ignition and stutters to a full start, like I want.
Then it predictably dies.
My eyes meet hers and don’t look away. “You know, Jess,” I
say, “a car runs better if you put gas in it.”
Her disbelief is comical, and she rushes over and leans
in the car. The fragrance from her recent shower and the
underlying scent that is uniquely hers suffocate me as she sees
the empty gauge.
When Jewell turns, her face is inches from my own. And
then she spooks at my closeness. As she pulls her head back too
fast, she raps it hard on the rim of the window.
I know a blackout when I see one. I’ve had a few, the signs
are obvious.
I do what I’ve promised myself I’d never do.
I go beyond the obligatory handshake, and I’m out of the
car and swooping to keep Jewell from falling on the pavement.
As I hold her, something deep within me responds. Even
I’m not powerful enough to self-delude at this point. I want
her. My role as her protector suddenly becomes more than just
a job description. I feel the urge to keep her safe.
She breaks my chain of epiphanies. “How tall are you?”
Jewell asks, her words running together.
I smile despite my jumbled-up mental shit. “You must have
hit your head hard.”
I put her gently away from me—pure self-preservation. If
I don’t, I’ll do something I can’t take back, won’t want to take
back.
Jewell lifts her head, shaking to seemingly rid herself of the
muddle that the hit gave her, and exclaims frantically, “I need
to go!”
“Where? I’ll take you,” I say, grabbing her slim arm in case
she face plants.
She backs away, and I release her. Jewell shakes her head,
putting a hand to it, orienting herself.
Not on my watch. “I said I’ll take you.” My eyes tell her I’m
not fucking asking. I’m not much for permissions anyway.
Jewell takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I watch her
eyes, dangerous windows to her soul, and once again the feeling
washes over me, the feeling that I know her, that in some way
I’ve always known her.
“Okay,” she says reluctantly.
“Where?” I ask as I walk with deliberate precision toward
my waiting bike, though I know damn well. I’ve seen her make
coffee at Java Head every Saturday for going on two years
through the window of the downtown coffee shop.
I slip my helmet on and hand the spare to Jewell as she
carefully avoids touching my fingers—an avoidance that tells
me so much about how she feels, about how I make her feel.
“Java Head,” she finally replies, trying to maintain her
distance behind me.
But that’s not how tandem motorcycle riding goes. She
wraps her dancer’s arms around my waist, a safe distance
between our bodies. I give a grin that she can’t see and jerk her
against my back, the parts of her I’ve fantasized about pressed
in a heated and intimate kiss of our bodies as I let go of the
throttle and the bike rolls toward her place of work, an unlikely
place for her date with the lacrosse asshole.
Maybe I ride a little faster than I should, thinking thoughts
better left untouched.
The ballerina in hiding clings to my back as I realize I can’t
answer my own question.
If I hate Jewell, why don’t I want to let her go?