Avenging Angel (8 page)

“If I always got what I wanted, I wouldn’t be here, doing this. I’d be safe at home.”

“Alone? Or with someone?” He’d thought about the possibility. She hadn’t been seeing anyone in Chicago. But she’d left Chicago four months ago.

Johanna ignored his question and prayed he would release her, because she could not ignore the man. Being the cause of his pain had forced open the gates of her compassion, and with that damnable compassion had come all the other feelings she hadn’t wanted to surface.

Her gaze dropped to his lap, and her cheeks colored. Since his shower, she knew what he looked like there. She remembered the night he’d held her and how much she had wanted him. She remembered the emptiness he’d left behind when he’d turned and walked out of Austin’s office, and the shame she’d felt for offering him something he hadn’t wanted. In a quiet, surprising moment, desire had made a fool out of her with a man who should have remained a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting go of her wrist. “That’s none of my business.”

She readied herself to take the second stitch, then couldn’t do it. “You’ve been hurt before,” she said, stalling with the needle in her hand.

He followed her gaze to his shoulder. “I was shot. Tore some of the muscle, but it healed okay.”

“Maybe you need a new line of work.”

He flashed her a quick, surprising grin. “Right,” he drawled, filling the word with irony and sarcasm.

“I’m going to do this again,” she said softly, holding his gaze. She lifted the needle, and his grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. He nodded.

She tried not to hear the hiss of his indrawn breath, or see the involuntary trembling of his muscles. At the end of the second suture, he took her hand in his again.

“You need to give me a minute.” His voice was a grating whisper between ragged breaths.

She hurt for him, hurt for him so badly. The last stitch had visibly paled him. The feathery lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened into creases. His lashes had lowered, half concealing those eyes, and his mouth was tight with strain, but she had to continue. “I don’t want to drag this out any more than you do.”

“I still need a minute, counselor.” Dylan didn’t let go of her hand, but held it tighter, slipping her fingers around into his palm. Her skin was so soft, a pleasure to feel against his. More than her softness, though, he needed her strength. He was dizzy, and his nausea had returned.

He closed his eyes and felt her other hand come to rest on his forehead.

“You’re hot,” she said, pressing her palm and fingers across his brow. “Let me get you some aspirin.”

“I already took four, and three of the other.”

“How did you let this happen to you?” The tone of her voice and the gentleness of her hand told him it wasn’t an idle question.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked at her, just looked at her. She was gut-wrenchingly beautiful, everything he’d dreamed about for weeks and months, well worth the price he’d paid to save her life. Maybe the only thing worth the price he would pay in the end.

Johanna held his gaze as long as she could without succumbing totally to the longing she saw in his eyes. He was dangerous, and the tenderness in his touch had no place in the grim reality of their situation. He was still a stranger, she told herself, a hardened, battle-weary stranger, with a streak of ruthlessness that had made her the victim of a crime . . . and had probably saved her life.

“I’m only going to do this one more time,” she promised, and felt a lump of regret settle in her throat as he closed his eyes in silent acceptance. She would hurt him once again, then no more.

When she finished her third and final stitch, she set the needle and thread aside and picked up the tube of antibiotic medication. Her hand started shaking as she squeezed the cream across the wound. What she’d done to him looked awful, and he still hadn’t opened his eyes. A doctor would have used at least twice as many stitches. The scar would be jagged and wide, worse than necessary.

She reminded herself that she’d only done what he’d asked, but she wished someone else had done it. Despite her trembling hands, she taped a layer of sterile bandages over the wound with methodical efficiency.

“Don’t get this wet again,” she said, running nervous fingers over the edge of the tape, pressing it into place. “You should never have taken a shower. A doctor should look at this, but don’t mention my name. I’d be arrested for practicing medicine without a license.”

His strained voice spoke above her. “You did a good job.”

She looked up quickly, worried by the weakness she heard. If he passed out, she would have to get him to a hospital. There was no telling what kind of massive infection might set in from her sewing him together like a ripped shirt. She wouldn’t have his death on her hands, or on her conscience.

“A damn good job,” he repeated, his voice gaining a surprising measure of strength and relieving her uppermost worry.

“I’m an attorney,” she said, deliberately reminding both him and herself of who she was, and subtly implying that attorneys always did good jobs, especially if the attorney was Johanna Lane. It took a lot of brazenness on her part; she felt like a butcher. Now that the worst had passed, though, she needed to regain her distance and forget her lapse into compassion and his lapse into best-forgotten confessions. She returned her attention to putting away the first-aid supplies.

“Austin Bridgeman’s private attorney,” he said, carefully pushing himself off the vanity to stand beside her, proving to her that she’d underestimated his strength. It was something she’d be wise not to do again.

He was too close in the confined space. His bared chest was less than a hand’s length away. His jeans fit him too well around his narrow hips. His belly was lean and ridged, with a dark taper of hair arrowing beneath his pants. She took a step away from him.

“Ex-attorney,” she said on a short breath, putting the unused bandages back in their box. “I haven’t worked for Bridgeman in four months.”

“I remember when you left,” he said as he handed her a bandage she’d missed. “I remember exactly when you left.”

So did she, and her face warmed again. He couldn’t have made his meaning more clear, or his lapse back into intimacy more apparent.

Dylan watched the color rise in her cheeks and felt a sense of victory. He’d made her remember what he’d never forgotten—the last time he’d seen her in Austin’s office. . .

* * *

He watched her from the darkened doorway. He watched the play of light along her legs and his gut tightened. She was leaving. He’d known for a week, and his first reaction of relief had been giving way to regret ever since.

Things were going to come down hard at Bridgeman, Inc. before the year was out. If she stayed, she’d be dragged down too. But when she left, he wouldn’t see her again. The realization hurt in a way he was unused to feeling. A few women had come and gone in his life. He didn’t know why he felt a need to hold on to one he’d never had—except she was gorgeous, vulnerable, and more in need of a friend like him than she knew. She was clean, but Austin wasn’t, and the longer she associated with him, the dirtier she was going to get. He didn’t want that to happen to her.

He noted the tiredness around her eyes and the uncharacteristically rumpled silk blouse only half tucked into her skirt. He wished he could ease some of the burden she carried, but Johanna Lane was prohibited territory—despite the shy, heated glances he’d intercepted from her. He was on a case, working under an alias, and however attracted she was to him, she was also smart enough to stay away. He was trouble, and she knew it. He’d seen her make the decision to look but not touch every time he caught her eye.

She pushed a silken fall of honey-blond hair back off her face, and suddenly he wondered what it would take to make her change her mind. Prohibited or not, he wanted her to touch him.

She turned the chair back toward the desk then, and he stepped farther into the room.

“Miss Lane.”

Startled eyes met his across the expanse of plush carpet and expensive furniture. It took only a few seconds for her to recognize him, and her surprise turned into a subtle excitement he felt even at fifteen feet.

“Mr. Erickson,” she said, lowering her gaze and fiddling with the papers on the desk. “You’re working late.”

“So are you.” He walked deeper into the room, closer to the pool of soft light surrounding the desk and her. “I saw the lights, but I didn’t expect to find you.”

She laughed, a gently self-deprecating sound, and slanted him a quick glance. “I should have been gone hours ago.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, continuing across the room and stopping at the desk. He was close, closer than he’d ever been. Close enough to touch.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, gathering up her papers. “I’m in the executive parking garage.”

“You’ll be safer with me.” He wasn’t going to let her leave alone. The opportunity was too ripe. He’d waited too long.

She slowly lifted her lashes to meet his eyes, and he felt anticipation build inside him.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she said softly.

She was right, but Dylan had never expected to hear her admit it. He let the silence lengthen, telling himself he was a fool—but he couldn’t resist. With the barest movement of his hand, he reached to her waist and pulled out the rest of her white silk blouse. The material cascaded into his fingers, feeling rich and soft, and warm from her body.

He held her gaze with his own, gauging her response in the faint mask of color spreading across her face. He heard her breath grow shallow. She wet her lips, and his groin tightened. It had been so easy to make her change her mind. It had taken nothing at all.

Her acceptance of his touch was a warm seduction to a heart that had been living outside the boundaries of truth for longer than he cared to remember. He grazed his fingers across the silky skin of her waist and forced himself to go no farther.

He wanted her with an ache he could feel pounding through his veins with every pulse beat. Every moment she allowed him to touch her was proof that she wanted him too. But he was a force of destruction.

His gaze slipped to her lips, and temptation made his mouth go dry. He was in over his head, way over his head, and if he didn’t leave, he was going to drown in the hot sweetness of her.

“Dane . . .” she whispered, wanting him—but wanting the wrong man.

He closed his eyes and cursed softly, then, with an iron will, he turned and walked away. . . .

* * *

His memories did him no good. She was alone with him now and he was farther away than ever from what he wanted.

“How long have you been with the FBI?” she asked, as if she, too, realized that what they might have had was now out of reach.

“Twelve years.”

“Do you have any identification?”

A short, damning silence preceded his reply. “I left my badge in my other pants.”

Johanna set the antibiotic cream aside and picked up the first-aid tape. She’d known he was lying about the FBI. He was exactly what she’d thought he was and nothing more. Her hands started shaking again.

“What do you want with me?” she asked. “What does Austin want?”

“Austin wants you dead.”

She lowered her chin to her chest. What he said was impossible, unthinkable, yet she knew he was telling her the truth.

“And you?”

“I want you alive.”

It didn’t make sense.

She looked up and met his intense gaze in the mirror. He was watching her, waiting for her response. Now that he was clean and shaved, it was easy to remember why she had found him so attractive, so dangerously attractive. His face had a mischievous appeal, despite the deadly serious type of mischief he instigated. He had never made her uneasy like some of Austin’s other bodyguards. No, the way he had made her uneasy was very private and exclusive—and he was still doing it. She had to be crazy.

“Does Austin know you’ve betrayed him?” she asked.

“I left him a message in Lincoln, Nebraska,” he said coolly.

“Will he kill you too?”

“As soon as he gets his hands on me.”

“What happens to me then?” She didn’t mean to sound entirely self-centered, but her own survival was at the top of her priority list.

“I hope to have you someplace safe by then.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She didn’t like his answers. She didn’t like his methods. A trembling sigh escaped her as she covered her face with her hands and lowered her chin back to her chest. She was doomed.

“You have to let me go. You have to. It’s the only chance I’ve got, if I can get to the police.”

“No.” The single word was succinct.

“Why not?” she demanded, turning on him, her anger flaring to life.

His eyes hardened. His explanation was short, to the point, and delivered without apology or room for debate.

“Because any information the police have, Austin can get. Because if you walk into a station at two A.M., you’ll be dead before dawn. Do you understand me?” He paused and pinned her with a glare so damn serious, it literally made her tremble. “I hope to hell you do, because whether you want to believe it or not, Miss Lane, I’m the best chance you’ve got of getting out of this alive.”