Hard Evidence (14 page)

He came face-to-face with her in one smooth motion. "Sure about that, are you?"

Pulse racing, Tessa found herself looking at his mouth, wondering if he would kiss her, wishing he would kiss her, hoping to God he would kiss her. "Pretty sure."

One of his hands slid into her hair, cradling the back of her skull, angling her head so that her mouth was aligned with his. "I'll take that as a challenge."

And then he
did
kiss her.

Slowly.

He brushed his lips over hers once, twice, three times, sending shudders through her. Then with a low groan, he slipped his other arm around her and drew her against his hard chest. But still he didn't kiss her full on, tasting first her upper lip, then her lower lip, then the corners of her mouth again and again, until her lips tingled and ached and she was shaking with need.

She shouldn't be doing this. She didn't want to be used, didn't want to be a notch in yet another man's bedpost. She didn't want to make another stupid, heartbreaking mistake. She'd been careful all these years not to fall into bed with men who wanted nothing but sex, men like Julian. But then she'd never really met a man like Julian, and it had been so long since she'd let a man touch her, so long since she'd allowed herself to
feel
.

He pulled back and looked down at her, his lips wet, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark. "How am I doing so far, honey?"

He didn't give her time to answer, but kissed her—hard.

Oh, God, yes!

He thrust deep with his tongue, plundered her mouth with stunning thoroughness, finding her most sensitive places, sucking and nibbling her lips, tilting her head to take the kiss deeper, cutting off her breath, consuming her. She moaned, kissed him back, her fingers clenching in his hair, her body deliciously aware, liquid heat pooling between her thighs.

He fisted his hand in her hair, forced her head back, and kissed the exposed skin of her throat, nipping the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, sucking on her earlobe, pressing his lips against her pulse. The stubble of his beard grazed her skin, the slight pain a source of pleasure.

"More?" He whispered the word against her throat, his voice rough, his breathing every bit as ragged as hers.

"Oh, God, Julian!"

Julian took that as a yes, ignoring the voice in his mind that told him this was wrong, listening instead to her little whimpers and moans, to the response of her body and the answering tension in his own. He didn't want to think about who wanted picket fences and who didn't. He didn't want to think about his damned job. He didn't want to think about Burien.

The only thing he wanted to think about was Tessa.

With a groan, he drew her off the sofa and pulled her to the carpet beneath him, kissing her harder, his brain buzzing with raw, urgent lust. She arched against him, the soft, feminine feel of her making every muscle in his body tense, his cock already straining hard as steel against his jeans. He'd meant to take it slow and easy, but he wasn't taking it slow now.

Still kissing her, he reached with one hand, pushed her shirt up, and jerked her bra down, baring two of the most beautiful breasts he'd ever seen—full and creamy white, their light pink nipples puckered with arousal.

"Jesus!" He ducked down, greeted each rosy peak with an impatient flick of his tongue, then closed his lips over her right nipple and tasted her.

She gasped, then moaned, a sensuous, feminine sound, her fingers sliding up his neck to fist in his hair. "Oh, Julian, yes!"

Driven by her pleas and moans and his own blistering need, he tugged on her nipple with his lips, flicked it, sucked it, cupping her other breast greedily, his thumb tracing circles on the petal-soft tip.

God, she was sensitive! She reacted to each stroke of his tongue, each tug of his lips, as if his mouth were caressing her entire body, her breath coming in gasps and shudders, her hips lifting off the carpet, the musky scent of her response driving him damned close to the edge.

He shifted his mouth to her other nipple and sucked hard, his hand skimming down the silky, hot skin of her belly. He made fast work of her zipper, then slid his hand beneath her panties, his fingers threading through her damp curls. He didn't waste time, but parted her puffy lips and thrust first one finger, then two into her slippery heat, taking care to graze her clitoris as he drove deep and then withdrew.

She cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs parting to give him better access. "Oh! Oh, God, Julian!"

"You're on the brink. I can feel it." He brushed his lips over a tight, wet nipple, his hand busy stroking her inside and out. "After you come, I'm going to rip those jeans off your body, wrap your legs around my waist, and fuck you the way you've wanted me to since we met."

"You… arrogant… oh!" she panted, her head turning from side to side, her eyes squeezed shut, her skin glowing pink. "Oh, oh, God, yes!"

Then her breath broke, and she came, arching off the floor, her inner muscles clenching tightly, making him nearly explode at the thought of his cock replacing his fingers.

He rode through it with her, kept his rhythm steady, his mouth on her breasts, her throat, her lips, as the quaking inside her slowly subsided—and the fire inside him flared.

Suddenly her hands were tugging at his T-shirt, pulling it out of his jeans, her hands sliding hungrily over the skin of his belly and chest. "I need to touch you! I want to touch you!"

"Jesus, honey, fine by me." He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, then reached down to help her with his zipper, hunger for her raging in his veins.

Almost painfully hard, his cock sprang free.

Then a voice crackled over his radio.
"Suspect sighted. Code Black."

Chapter 14

Still shaken by the force of her climax, Tessa found herself being hauled to her feet, her mind reeling from pleasure to alarm in the span of a single heartbeat. "Wh-what—?"

"Quiet!" Julian zipped his jeans, pulled on his shirt, and strapped on his harness, his hair hanging loose around his shoulders. Then he held the radio to his mouth. "Copy that. Welcome wagon ready. Over. Where's your gun, Tessa?"

She pointed toward the kitchen, tugging her bra and shirt back into place over her still-aching breasts. And then she heard it—the sound of someone moving outside her door.

Her mouth went dry, adrenaline kicking her already-racing pulse up a couple notches.

Julian hurried into the kitchen, moving almost silently, returning in a blink with her revolver. "Get to your room, lock the door behind you, and take cover behind the bed. Don't come out till I tell you to, understood?"

She nodded and took the revolver from him, suddenly sickly afraid not for herself, but for him. She touched a hand to his arm. "Be safe!"

His gaze met hers, something like surprise in his eyes. Then the look vanished, and he motioned with a jerk of his head. "Go!"

She hurried into her bedroom, shut and locked the door, then ran to the other side of her bed and knelt down, trying to listen over the hammering of her own heart.

She heard her door open, heard Julian swear, heard the thud of footfalls racing down the hallway. Then a door slammed, and she knew someone had reached the stairs. From the stairwell— or was it from outside?—she heard more shouting, men's angry voices. A few minutes later there came the approach of sirens, distant wails that grew louder until it came to a stop just outside.

And then… nothing.

She waited in the dark of her bedroom for what seemed an eternity, listening. Had Julian chased him down the back stairs and caught up with him outside? Was Julian cuffing him and putting him in a squad car? Had the creep run off down the street? Was Julian safe? Was it all finally over? God, she hoped it was over!

The silence grew unendurable, her apprehension overwhelming. She stood, tiptoed over to her door, opened it a crack, and saw nothing but the cheery light from her living room. She stepped into the hallway, gripping the revolver tightly in her sweaty hand, her senses heightened. Pressing herself up against the wall, she glanced round the corner. Her front door stood slightly ajar, but she was alone.

She hurried to the door and looked out to find the hallway empty. Then her gaze fell on a flyer that someone had stuck to her door—and her stomach dropped to the floor.

It was a printout of a photograph. Of her. Asleep and naked in the bathtub.

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

She whirled about to find Julian striding toward her, an angry expression on his face. Then she saw his hands. They were stained with blood.

"I know how it happened. Wyatt got the drop on Taylor and fired a round into his gut from a trey-eight equipped with a silencer. But I want to know
how
it happened. Goddamn it! We had him—
we had him
—and somehow he escaped!"

Tessa sat on her couch, hugging a pillow to her chest, while Julian shouted at Chief Irving over his cell phone. Anger rolled off him in dark waves, but she knew he blamed himself.

While he'd been getting dressed, one of his men had been shot in the stomach by a .38 round that had penetrated Kevlar. Wyatt had apparently used a silencer, and no one had known anything was wrong until Julian had literally tripped over the officer's unconscious and bleeding body at the bottom of the back stairs. Julian had stopped to save the officer's life, and Wyatt had gotten away.

It sickened Tessa to think a police officer lay in the hospital, almost killed for trying to keep her safe. It sickened her almost as much to think the bullet they'd pried from his intestines could just as easily have been fired at Julian. By comparison, the naked photograph of her seemed insignificant, harmless. And, yet, in some ways it was what shocked her the most.

While she had lain asleep in the tub, this freak, John Wyatt, had crept up on her and taken her picture. He'd done more than that, of course, but it hadn't been until she'd seen the printout that she'd remembered hearing the
click
. In fact, it was probably the click that had awoken her enough to notice his breathing in the first place.

When Julian had finished yelling at her for being in the hallway, he'd taken the printout, sealed it in a plastic bag, and sent it off as evidence with one of the responding officers.

"This is his own doing," he'd said more to himself than to her, bloodstains on his jeans and T-shirt. "He was sent to watch you, but my guess is he's become obsessed. He's stalking you like a predator, trying to terrorize you before he moves in. He wants you to know he's coming. He wants you to be afraid." ■

"Well," Tessa had said, feeling nauseated. "He should be happy. He succeeded."

Who were these guys? What was this really about?

Julian had spoken of Wyatt as if he worked for someone else.

He was sent to watch you.

He'd spoken of the man he'd thought was Maria Ruiz's killer in the same way.

The man I believe pulled the trigger is already dead, face

blown off point-blank with a forty-four Magnum, no doubt as punishment for leaving witnesses.

Were Wyatt and the dead killer nothing but hired guns? Why would anyone hire killers to take out a sixteen-year-old girl? What sort of criminal would be heartless enough—and have enough money—to hire people for such violent crimes? A drug kingpin? An arms dealer? A crime boss? Was there really any chance that the shooting had been gang related as she'd initially thought?

There's worse things than gangbangers on these streets.

Who or what had Syko been thinking of when he'd told her this?

In the kitchen, Julian was still arguing with Chief Irving. "I know he attacked one of your men, but if you put out a warrant, he'll be dead. He's now my best and surest path for closing this investigation quickly. If I can catch him, get what he knows from him… Fine. Do it your way. It will be my job to try to reach him before anyone else."

Tessa's mind absorbed these words, puzzled through them, stuck on one phrase.

I know he attacked one of your men.

One of
your
men.

Not one of
our
men or one of
the
men or one of
my
men. One of
your
men.

What was going on here? It sounded to her like Julian was talking about bending the rules, playing light with Wyatt's civil liberties. Why were they keeping this case so tightly under wraps? They still hadn't even released Maria Ruiz's autopsy. And who was Julian Darcangelo, this mysterious man who had stepped out of the shadows to help her?

It seemed almost unbelievable to her that a couple of hours ago the two of them had come within moments of having sex on her floor. Even though they hadn't finished the act, it was still the most amazing sexual experience she'd ever had. He'd made her feel like the center of a blazing universe, as if he'd been aware only of her, as if he'd felt what she'd felt* as if her pleasure had mattered more to him in that moment than anything else. And when the first sultry shock of climax had washed through her, she'd felt a surge of emotion that had been as undeniable as it was terrifying.

She was falling in love with him.

This was
not
part of the plan. She didn't want to fall in love with him. Or if she did, she wanted it to happen
after
he'd fallen in love with her—and shouted his feelings from the rooftops, bought the ring, and gotten down on one knee. She didn't want to be used again. She didn't want to take the risk only to find herself as alone as her mother had been.

"She's shaken but safe for the moment," she heard Julian say. "We need to get her into witness protection sooner rather than later. I've got other things I need to be doing. I'm not a damned babysitter!"

His words hit her in the stomach, and something inside her shattered like glass. Her body went cold, a sensation very much like pain settling behind her breastbone.

She'd thought he'd stayed on her couch because he'd at least cared about what happened to her. He'd seemed so concerned. She hadn't realized he'd seen it as a burden. And what about the intimacy they'd shared earlier? Did that have anything to do with real feelings and desires, or had he just been trying to prove something again?

"I'll take that as a challenge," he'd said.

And she'd melted like butter.

You have only yourself to blame, Tessa.

Perilously close to tears, Tessa met him when he stepped out of the kitchen and handed him his leather jacket. "I'd like to thank you for all you've done to ensure my safety. You've risked your life for mine, and I won't forget that. But I'd like to ask you to leave now. I don't want or need a babysitter."

Julian drove through Denver's darkened streets on his way to LoDo, the events of the night playing through his mind, his body tense. He glanced at the clock on his dash. Four a.m. The whole thing was his fucking fault. If he hadn't been distracted, he'd have been able to respond the moment he'd gotten the call. Instead, he'd lost precious minutes stuffing his dick back into his pants, retrieving Tessa's gun from the last place she'd misplaced it, and getting her out of harm's way. By the time he'd been armed and in position, Wyatt, who'd already shot Taylor and knew the cops were there, had stuck the picture to the door and fled. Julian had opened the door in time to see the bastard vanish down the stairwell and had chased after him, only to find Taylor lying half dead in a pool of his own blood. Bad fucking luck the bullet had gone through Taylor's vest. It happened.

If Julian had opened the door sooner, if he'd gotten to Wyatt right away…

Taylor would still be in the hospital with his belly ripped open and a tube in his nose, but Wyatt would be sitting in interrogation spilling his guts, perhaps even giving Julian that key bit of information he so desperately needed to close this case: where Burien was hiding.

Damn it! Damn it to hell!

Julian slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. He was furious with himself for letting Wyatt get away. He was angry Taylor had nearly been killed. And he was annoyed that Irving had gone official and gotten a warrant. It was as good as writing Wyatt's epitaph, and Julian wouldn't be able to use him once he was dead.

But this wasn't about Wyatt. Not really.

This was about Tessa. It was about five foot five of soft woman who'd come apart in his arms—and then tossed him out of her apartment. She'd overheard the "babysitting" comment he'd made to Irving, and she'd decided to take it the wrong way.

How was she supposed to take it, you imbecile?

Already on edge, Julian had ignored the hurt he'd seen in her eyes. "You want me to go? What happens if Wyatt or one of his buddies shows up, Goldilocks? Will you take him on with the revolver you never keep at hand?"

"My safety is no longer your problem," she'd said, her chin high, her voice tight.

"You've survived on pride in the past, Tessa, but this time it might get you killed."

A part of him had wanted to explain. He'd been trying to make Irving understand that she needed more protection than he couid give her, that he needed to be out on the streets doing what he did best. But his mouth and temper had gotten ahead of his brain, and the words hadn't come out right. Instead of clarifying what he'd meant, he'd thrust his arms into his sleeves and told Tessa she was being stupid.

"No, stupid was earlier tonight," she'd said, her voice ice. "But I do learn from my mistakes. Yes, I do learn."

Then she'd shut the door in his face.

Furious with her and with himself, Julian had walked away, leaving her alone in her apartment under the watch of a fresh plainclothes unit.

All night as he'd trolled alleys, streets, and strip clubs looking for any sign of Wyatt, he'd told himself this little misunderstanding was for the best. He'd come terribly close to doing something tonight that he knew he shouldn't do. Another thirty seconds and he'd have been deep inside her. It would have been the most incredible fuck of his life, and he'd have come hard and fast. But then he'd have seen an even worse look of hurt in her eyes than the one he'd seen tonight, and he'd have had to live for the rest of his life knowing he'd caused it.

He and Tessa might have compatible biochemistry—okay,
combustible
biochemistry—but they were as different as two people could be. She was classy, educated, sophisticated; he'd gotten his education on the street, capping it off with a GED and FBI training. She knew about books and art; he knew about guns and killing. She'd smoothed the edges off her rough childhood; he'd sharpened his and turned them into a weapon.

He didn't have to ask to know she wanted marriage, a home, a few kids, while he wanted… what?

To bust Burien? To spend the rest of his life in seedy hotel rooms, illegal massage parlors, and dark alleys, wondering who would fire the round that would finally bring him down? To spend his free time mingling body fluids with women for whom he felt nothing and who felt nothing for him?