Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen

“Good morning.”

Malachim glanced up from the eggs he scrambled on the stove. Danielle hovered in the archway, her hair rumpled from bed, the gray T-shirt and sweatpants he’d given her the night before hanging off her petite form. Her unpainted toes peeked out from under the baggy hems.

She was gorgeous.

If he shoved aside the previous evening’s events, he could pretend she’d risen tousled and sexy from his bed rather than the room down the hall. But the ache in his arms and cock made that dream impossible to cling to.

“Morning,” he rumbled, switching his attention back to breakfast. Better a pan full of scrambled eggs than the swell and gentle sway of her unbound breasts behind his shirt. How sick was it that he was jealous of his own damn shirt? “How’re you feeling?” he asked gently.

Sorrow flashed in those dark eyes before her lashes lowered. “Fine.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said politely, avoiding his eyes. Inside, Malachim sighed. They were having an awkward morning after without the sex. “You have heated floors,” she blurted.

A corner of his mouth quirked at the surprised pleasure in her voice. He transferred the eggs from the range to the plates sitting on the attached marble island, then surveyed the wide, open kitchen with its exposed beams and top-of-the-line appliances and rustic design. Through her eyes, the kitchen and the bedrooms with their floor-to-ceiling arched windows and fireplaces must seem decadent and over-indulgent. Was that how she saw him, as well? Pampered, spoiled, entitled?

Granted, he’d bought this home with money he’d inherited from his grandfather, but Malachim had always worked hard, putting in long hours at the firm and with his clients. That had been one of Tara’s main complaints. He’d neglected to play as hard as he worked.

But this home was his sanctuary; he enjoyed its old-world beauty, loved sitting out in the walled garden during the summer with a book. Even though the two reception rooms, bedrooms, and guest cottage provided more space than he could ever occupy, the house was cozy and his. Only the firm and this building had ever been
his
.

“Yeah, they’re heated,” he said, setting bacon and a waffle on each plate. “C’mon and eat while the food’s hot.”

He rounded the island with a plate in each hand and set them on the dining room table. The flames from the gas fireplace warmed his skin through his white T-shirt and jeans. Pulling out a chair, he waited for her to cross through the kitchen and into the dining area. Once she settled in the seat, he took his own across from her.

“This looks good. Thank you,” she said, cutting her fork into the waffle.

“Don’t get too excited,” he teased. “This is about all I have in my repertoire. But I do have a varied and awesome takeout menu file.”

She offered him a wan smile. “You’re such a man.”

“I think I should be offended.” He paused, scooping egg onto his fork. “But I’m not.”

The quirk of her lips was the closest thing to a smile he’d seen since he’d arrived at the hospital the night before. He’d take it and be thankful. They ate in companionable silence. After a while, she leaned back in her chair. She lifted her arms and threaded her fingers through her hair, smoothing the heavy strands away from her face. He quickly averted his gaze. He didn’t know which captivated him more—this unprecedented glimpse of an unguarded Danielle or the thrust of her breasts beneath the faded cotton.

Hell, she’d lost a friend the night before. Her home was probably decorated in the highest police couture of yellow crime tape, black fingerprint dust, and white chalk. And here he sat ogling her like a pimple-faced teen who’d sneaked a peek at his first boob.

He was an asshole, no doubt about it.

“The breakfast was wonderful, Malachim. Thanks again.”

“No problem.” He rose from the table, returned to the kitchen, and poured coffee into two mugs.

She rose from her chair and walked over to the island where she accepted the mug he pressed into her hand. She took a small sip before setting the coffee on the counter. With a sigh, she rubbed a palm over the nape of her neck and wound her other arm around her midsection. She paced away from him and halted in front of the wide picture window, staring out the glass. The window offered a lovely view of the walled garden, but from her defensive—or protective—pose, Malachim doubted she even noticed its beauty.

As if she had a teleprompter erected above her head, he could guess the thoughts running rampant behind her dark eyes.

I shouldn’t be here. I can’t stay.
He could read it in the tension drawing her spine as straight as a ruler. In the rigid set of her shoulders. In the vulnerable self-protective comfort of the arm wrapped around her waist.

He ground his jaw as everything in him roared and recoiled at the idea of her leaving. Part of him acknowledged the reaction was disproportionate to the situation. He’d known Danielle for so short a time, she shouldn’t matter this much. But she did. Did he trust her? Hell, no. How could he when she reeked of secrets and lies? Did he want her? Hell, yeah. With a passion that shocked the shit out of him. Tara, naked, hadn’t aroused him like the sight of Danielle in ill-fitting sweats and a T-shirt.

Yet this urge—this need—to keep her close stemmed from more than desire. Maybe it was the vulnerability he spied in her eyes, in her body language. And then maybe it was the humbling strength she probably wasn’t even aware she exhibited. He still had no clue about her past. Whatever had occurred, she’d been hurt, traumatized. And yet she hadn’t been cowed or destroyed. She was a fighter, a survivor. And as friend to a survivor of a horrific crime, he admired her courage. Her spirit.

Hell, he confused his own self. He held her at arm’s length even as he pulled her close. There was a word for that.
Schizo.

“Let me take a stab at what you’re thinking,” he said softly. Presenting her with plenty of time to shift away, he set his cup down on the counter and moved closer until he paused next to her. He forced his hands to his sides instead of on her. “You’re leaving.”

Her gasp of surprise preceded a tiny, pensive crease that appeared between her brows, and victory unfurled within him. As an attorney, he understood the prudence of sometimes shutting up. That frown was as good as a confession.

“I’m going to need to return to the diner,” she said, turning and facing him.

“Can you really go back there? Sleep there?” The idea of living in the place where so much violence had occurred didn’t sit well.

She stared over his shoulder, her gaze far away. He suspected she’d returned to the night before. The spasm of pain that passed over her lovely features confirmed his assumption.

“No,” she murmured. “I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Pat on the floor and the blood.” She inhaled, her eyes briefly closing. “If it’s okay, I’ll stay here until after the” —her voice cracked, faltered— “funeral. That should only be a few days. Monday, I think.”

“Of course.” He shook his head, “Sweetheart, I can help you—”

“No,” she snapped then held up a hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She inched back, inserting space between them. “I’ve asked and accepted too much from you already. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, pretending to acquiesce while inside he quietly celebrated as if he’d won the most important case of his career. His mind churned with real estate possibilities. Gabriel had vacated the Charlestown condominium he’d leased from Malachim weeks ago, opting to move into Leah’s home. He didn’t need the rent, but stubborn Danielle wouldn’t move into it without paying. The more he turned the idea over, the more he warmed to it. Maybe he could convince Sharon to bring it up to her. The associate could tell Danielle she knew of a great place with reasonable rent…

Yeah, he’d make that phone call later in the day.

Satisfied, he walked back to the counter and picked up her coffee mug, offering the still-warm cup to her once more.

“There’s a bag on the couch in the front reception room for you.” Her eyes narrowed, and he held up the hand not holding coffee. “Hey, the last thing I’ll give you, I promise. But you can’t walk around in my sweats for the rest of the day.” Though, as long as she remained bra-less, he had absolutely no problem with it. At all.
Nada
.

“Fine,” she growled. “But I insist on reimbursing you.”

“You’ll have to track Leah down then. She’s the responsible party.”

“Who’s Leah?”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. Had there been a slight snap to her question. Jealousy, maybe? Almost immediately, he discarded the idea as wishful thinking. On his part. Desire had him hallucinating emotion.

“My friend’s fiancée. I called her early this morning and asked her to bring some things by for you.”

“Oh.” She lowered her head, the dark curls sliding forward and hiding her face from him. “Well, please pass my thanks on to her. But,” she tilted her head back, a glare fixed on his face, “no more handouts. I mean it.”

He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.” Which would have meant something if he’d actually been a Boy Scout.

“Whatever,” she grumbled, brushing past him toward the kitchen archway that opened into the living room. “You probably weren’t even a Scout.”

He grinned.

Damn, she was smart.

And hot. Couldn’t forget hot.

Chapter Sixteen

“You’re a damn cheat, Malachim Jerrod!”

Malachim
tsked
as he gathered the spread of cards across the table.

“Such language, Danielle. You should be ashamed. And on a Sunday.”

When she uttered another curse that was anatomically impossible, a shocked laugh escaped him. The face of a saint, the body of a pinup model, the poker skills of a card shark, and the mouth of a guttersnipe.

He was completely charmed.

Who knew a game of poker would reveal the side of Danielle he’d longed to catch a glimpse of?

Three days had passed since Pat’s murder on Thursday night. In that time, the hollow look in her eyes had begun to ease, and her demeanor had slowly lightened. She’d gradually allowed herself to relax, to lower that damnable guard several inches. He believed he might be seeing the Danielle who’d existed before life had screwed her over.

“I have been advised by Rafe, connoisseur of all things debauched, that the action you so eloquently suggested is not only impossible but probably painful. So I’ll pass.” He smirked, shuffling the deck for another hand.

“You cheated, Jerrod. Admit it,” she demanded.

He coughed into his fist. “Sore loser.”

Laughing, he dealt the cards. The doorbell pealed, echoing throughout the house.

She snickered. “I keep expecting Lurch to show up saying, ‘You rang.’” Her voice deepened, imitating the Addams Family butler so well, he choked on the pretzel he’d just swallowed.

Charmed
? Try fucking in love.

He rose from his chair, grinning. “Don’t look at my hand,” he admonished, wagging a finger at her. “On second thought…” He bent and swiped up his cards.

Her chuckle followed him out of the living room and down the hall to the foyer and front door.

With a quick glance through the peephole, he punched in the security code and opened the door. His mother stood on the small landing.

Pam Jerrod smiled at him, reaching up to smooth the back of her fingers down his cheek.

“Hi, honey,” she greeted, scanning him from head to bare feet. “You’re not dressed for brunch.”

Ah, damn.
He’d forgotten all about their usual Sunday brunch date. “Sorry, Mom, it completely slipped my mind.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow. “Come on in.” He shifted back to allow her entrance.

“Forgot?” She entered the foyer and removed her dove-gray gloves. “What? Did you get caught up in work again? I swear, if you and your office chair could procreate, I’d have grandchildren by now.”

He laughed, well used to the undercover bawdy humor Pam possessed. Those closest to her—him, Gabe, Rafe, Chay, their mothers, and, at rare times, Christopher—were the few she was comfortable enough with to reveal that side of herself to.

And from the choked gasp coming from the direction of the living room, Danielle could now count herself among the privileged circle.

“What was that?” his mother asked, craning her neck.

“Not what,” he corrected. “Who.” He entered the room, and Danielle rose from the couch. The moment she glimpsed Pam, her smile lost some of its open warmth. A polite reserve stiffened her full lips and cooled the laughter in her eyes.

He hated the return of her guard.

“Mom, I’d like to introduce you to Danielle Warren. Danielle, this is my mother, Pamela Jerrod.”

“Mother?” she repeated, surprise softening her features.

“Yes,” he said dryly. “Mother. I didn’t hatch from an egg, you know.”

“Although you wouldn’t be the first person to make that assumption,” Pam interjected wryly. She tossed him a behave-yourself-or-else scowl, which he shrugged off as he usually did. His mother covered the distance separating them and Danielle and extended her hand. Danielle accepted and shook it.

The differences between the women were striking—and not just due to age. Pamela Jerrod was still very much a beautiful woman with the blond hair he’d inherited, clear dark blue eyes, and slim figure. Where his mother’s tall, svelte frame reminded him of a graceful gazelle, Danielle’s petite body and lush, tight curves placed him in the mind of a sleek panther. Both beautiful, but so different.

And yet they shared a vulnerability that connected them. As Danielle had obviously suffered, so had his mother. To his knowledge, Christopher had never raised a hand to Pam—if the bastard had, Malachim would have killed him. Yet his emotional abuse had inflicted bruises that existed far beneath the skin, invisible to the eye.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Jerrod,” Danielle said in that husky voice. As always, it drew images of tangled sheets, damp skin, and breathless moans. Damn. He crossed his arms. He deserved an Oscar for his performance with her. He knew nothing in his manner would reflect an inkling of the effect she had on him.
Move the fuck over, Brad Pitt
.

“Please, call me Pam.” His mother patted Danielle’s hand before releasing it. “And now I see what had you so preoccupied, Mal.” Her gaze dipped to the cards strewn across the table, the bowl of pretzels, and bottles of water. “A date with a lovely woman is far more preferable to brunch with your mother.” She smiled.

“Oh, hell,” he groaned, mortified. He could freakin’ spot the bouncing, towheaded baby boys in her narrowed gaze. “Mom, give me a break.”

“What?” she asked, eyes wide and the picture of innocence…if innocence included a scheming woman with grandchildren on the brain. Ever since Gabe and Leah had hooked up and become engaged, the moms had been in matrimonial bliss, dumping Rafe, Chay, and Malachim in matchmaking hell. As delighted as Malachim was for his friend—God knew if anyone deserved happiness it was Gabe—he had an ass-kicking coming his way.

“Nothing,” he growled. “And I do mean nothing.”

Pam smiled sweetly as Danielle switched her rapt stare back and forth between mother and son as if they were engaged in a tennis match.

“I’ll be on my way then.” She turned with a wave.

“Ow, damn it!” he cried out at the pop on the back of his head.

“That’s for disrespecting me in front of your guest, you ungrateful wretch,” she said sweetly before treating Danielle to a blinding smile. “It was so nice meeting you, Danielle. I hope to see you again.”

“Me, too, Mrs. Jer—um, Pam.”

With another grin for Danielle, Pam brushed a kiss over his cheek and left the room.

“Oh, my God,” Danielle breathed. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“Not. A. Word,” he snarled and jabbed a finger at her. Plopping into his chair, he glared, daring her to defy his order.

Her mouth snapped shut, but her eyes glimmered with hilarity. When he glowered, she etched a cross over her right breast.

He snorted, plucking up a bottle of water. “Your heart is on the other side,” he drawled.

“Oh.” She grinned. Paused. “Wow.”

“I said
not a word
.” He tilted the bottle and pointed the capped top in her direction.

“‘Wow’ isn’t a word, but an exclamation. And so apropos.” Her grin widened until it stretched across her face. “Wow.”

“You said that.”

“So, uh,” she coughed, the sound suspiciously resembling a laugh. “I guess you and your mother are really close.”

He rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, we are.”

“She seemed rather surprised to find a woman with you.” She leaned over the table and scooped the cards up.

“Surprised, shamelessly thrilled,” he agreed as she deftly shuffled the cards. “She’s in full it’s-past-time-my-son-settled-down-and-I-want-grandkids-before-I-die mode.”

“Okay.” She chuckled and slid a card across the table. “But I can’t imagine you of all people would have a hard time finding a woman. You’re successful, wealthy, handsome—”

“You noticed, huh?”

“Seriously,” she chided. “I’m sure you’re considered a great catch. So why did she seem so delighted to see me? Like I was the Great Latina Hope.”

He maintained a wry smile in spite of the dread flickering to life in his stomach and wending a path up his chest.

“I’ve had a dry spell lately. And Mom’s probably afraid that spell will stretch into a drought.” He swiped up the last of his dealt hand and started to rearrange it, his gaze glued to the number and face cards rather than meeting her too perceptive stare.

“Does she have a reason to be afraid?”

His fingers tightened around the rectangular pieces of cardboard. He didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to revisit the pain and betrayal. The hollowed-out emptiness.

“Yes,” he ground out.

“Malachim,” she murmured.

“What are you willing to give me in return, Danielle?” he demanded, propping his forearm on his leg, his hand and cards dangling between his spread thighs. Leaning forward, he pinned her to the couch with his scrutiny. Caught the moment understanding flared in her coffee-colored eyes. “Will you admit why you lied to the detective at the hospital? Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not going to be the only one laying myself open for public consumption.”

The harsh words plummeted into the room like boulders into a cool, tranquil pond, rippling and disturbing the fun, amiable atmosphere they’d shared before his mother’s arrival. He waited, motionless. Would she tell him to go to hell and storm from the room? Would she finally,
finally
gift him with a slice of truth…of herself? The only peek she’d granted him was the crumb about her mother in his office the night before. He yearned for more; he longed for her to let him into her inner court where no one else had access.

She stared at him, her gaze searching his. Her face lost its teasing animation, replaced by the cool mask he detested. Yet he detected the slight tremble of her fingers as she placed her cards on the table. Those long, elegant fingers with their naked nails were her tell.

They fluttered when she was excited. Clenched tight or twisted when nervous or scared. Remained abnormally still when she lied.

Now they were clenched.

His pulse thumped hard, hammered in his temples like a tribal drum.

“I don’t…” She paused as if considering her phrasing. “Have a lot of faith in the police or the justice system. In my experience, they haven’t always been…reliable.”

Oh, he heard so much in that slight hesitation. At some point in her life, those sworn to protect and serve had failed her. She didn’t trust cops. Suddenly, her vehemence about not calling the police after the mugging made sense. Through the years, he’d had clients who’d had troubled pasts and possessed an inherent dislike for anyone with a shield pinned to their chest or carried in a wallet. While her reply assuaged some of his questions, it didn’t answer all of them. What had occurred to instill her mistrust? Was it related to the fear of men she tried—and failed—to conceal?

“I get you might have had a negative experience with the police, sweetheart. I do. And I’m sorry about that. But you lied. Why?”

She shook her head, her curls glancing off her cheeks. “I-I,” she stuttered, “I didn’t want to tell the detective what the intruder said to me.”

He leaned over the table as fear slithered across his soul like dark clouds over a bright, full moon. “What do you mean? What did he say?”

Another pause, and the skin over her knuckles blanched.

“He said we…didn’t get to spend time together.”

“Fuck!” He exploded from his chair. The piece of furniture teetered before rocking forward, the front legs hitting the floor with a thud. He noticed her flinch, but he could do nothing to reassure her. Not while fury raced through his veins.

He stalked from the room and entered the kitchen. He didn’t want to scare her with his rage. Because part of it was directed at Danielle. Why hadn’t she said something earlier? The home invasion, the shooting, her narrow escape… Suddenly, the robbery-gone-wrong had taken on a darker, more sinister cast.

One where she, not her belongings, had been the primary target.

She wasn’t going back to that apartment; if he had to fucking tie her to his home until she saw reason, he would. If Pat hadn’t been there, she could’ve been…

The desire to see her, to stroke her cheek, to pull her into his arms overwhelmed him. He returned to her, a scrap of driftwood being carried back on the swell of need. He’d scanned her in the hospital waiting room, but he had to do it again. Had to convince himself she was truly all right.

Her gaze settled on him the moment he walked into the room, as if she’d been watching the entrance for him. Acknowledging he faced probable rejection, he still strode to the couch and dropped to his knees beside her. He stared into her eyes. Noted the thick, black fringe of lashes. Studied the delicate arch of her dark brows. Detected the soft gasp of air between lush, parted lips.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered.