Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Malachim reread the letter for the third time and still the words hadn’t penetrated the dense fog surrounding his brain.
Reinstatement. Suspension lifted.
He closed his eyes, and the paper trembled in his shaking grip. His license had been reinstated. He was free to practice again. A trickle of relief and unmitigated joy dribbled through the haze. Just like that, the balls of his future that Fate had been juggling in the air had landed. With the opening of one letter, he had his livelihood back. His purpose.

He swiveled around in his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face, and stared out the window into the postage-stamp-sized yard. The overcast sky deepened toward dusk, flinging shadows across the bare ground. But inside…inside, the sun had peeked through the steel-colored clouds, and its warmth seeped through skin and bone to heat his soul.

He had to celebrate. He had to call Danielle—

A perfunctory knock echoed at the door.

“What’s up, Mal?”

He turned from the window. “Why, come on in, Rafe,” he said wryly, treating his friend to a half-smile.

Raphael arched a dark eyebrow, the silver hoop in it glinting. “Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

“What the hell?” Malachim flicked a hand in Rafe’s direction, the letter from the bar and his good news momentarily forgotten. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d witnessed his pierced and tattooed friend in a suit. The black Armani fit his tall, lean frame to perfection, but… Malachim grinned. “I repeat. What the hell?”

Lip curled in a disgusted snarl, Rafe plopped down in the visitor’s chair. “Shut up,” he growled. “Chay insisted I attend a consultation with a potential client this morning. Apparently, their illustrious sensibilities required me putting on this getup.”

“Aww,” Malachim drawled. “You okay?”

Rafe’s middle finger shot up. Malachim snickered.

He shifted the neglected report back in front of him. “So other than whining about your individuality being threatened by the fashionable confines of corporate America, what brings you downstairs from your wired and steel-reinforced loft?”

Rafe’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “You mean other than Chay lying to our potential clients and telling them I had an outside appointment? I’d like to believe he was sparing me, but more than likely he refused to push his luck and decided to get my ass out of the office as soon as possible before I fucked up and said something offensive.”

“Smart move.”

“Pretty much,” Rafe agreed. He rose, stripped his jacket from his shoulders, and tossed it on the back of the chair as if it were an Old Navy hoodie instead of half of a four-hundred-dollar suit. Next, he attacked the tie and top buttons of his shirt. With a sigh he dropped back into the chair and resumed his sprawl. “But I do have another reason I needed to see you. Where’s Danielle? I noticed her door was closed.”

“Her friend’s funeral today.”

“Ah.” Rafe nodded. “Right.”

Malachim had informed his three friends about the attempted robbery and Pat’s murder as soon as he’d arrived home with Danielle. There wasn’t much he kept from them, wasn’t much he didn’t confide or ask their advice about, including Danielle’s admission about the enigmatic words uttered by the would-be burglar.

Rafe had immediately stated the suspicion skulking in Malachim’s mind from the moment Danielle had uttered, “
He said we…didn’t get to spend time together.”
It seemed as if Danielle had been the target, not her belongings, not Pat. Since then, keeping her within his sight had become a mission. Fucking Mission Impossible. He couldn’t imprison her in his home, no matter how much appeal the idea held.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with her,” Rafe observed.

Malachim grunted, shot from his chair, and tossed the reinstatement to the desk. Agitation crawled like an army of ants under his skin. “I wanted to, but she wouldn’t let me.”

A corner of Rafe’s mouth lifted. “Let you?”

“Yes, damn it. Let me.” He scowled. “She said she didn’t need a babysitter, and I had an office to run—”

“True,” Rafe interjected.

“So I asked Gabe to watch over her until she returned to my house this afternoon. Just to make sure she’s all right.”

Rafe shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

Malachim glared at him, and Rafe just shrugged in return. “Besides, I think it was more than her wanting me to return to work and not tag along with her.” Maybe she’d needed space after spending the last few days together. Maybe she didn’t want to rely on him more than she had lately. Hell. Maybe he should check between his legs for a vagina, because he was definitely starting to sound like a woman.

Danielle had been working in his office for a little less than two weeks, yet with her absence it seemed like something was missing. Maybe it was his awareness of her, of knowing he could just walk down the hall and see her dark head bent over her keyboard. Or glimpse the slim line of her spine in one of her tapered suit jackets.

Hell, he missed her.

And he was worried.

“Something’s not right,” he said quietly, more to himself than Rafe. He’d sensed her gradual emotional withdrawal. This morning before she’d left for the funeral, she’d been cool, reserved, the same woman who’d applied for a job in his law office. Not the woman who’d kissed his lips or arched over him as she accepted him deep into her body.

“You’re probably just nervous because she’s returning to the diner. She’s probably safer there surrounded by all those people than anywhere else.”

“Yeah, I know,” Malachim murmured, but Rafe’s cool logic still didn’t suffocate the unease growing like a weed in the pit of his stomach. “I’m just…nervous. Damn, I should be there with her. She shouldn’t have to face this alone. Especially after finding out about her sister’s death.”

Rafe didn’t reply for a long, heavy moment. Malachim glanced over his shoulder and found the man’s sober, speculative gaze fixed on him. “I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t warn you to be careful, Mal. You don’t know anything about her for real. She seems like a good woman—if a little spooked. But…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Malachim sighed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He got it. Rafe had the right to express his concern; he, Gabe, and Chay had been there to pick up the pieces after Tara’s betrayal. He vowed then never to be led by his dick again. To be more vigilant for the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He recognized Danielle wasn’t all she appeared to be—had called her on her lies. And yet, he’d invited her in his home, offered her a refuge under his roof, comforted her, made love to her.

She hadn’t snuck past his defenses; he’d fucking lowered them, rolled out the red carpet, and then presented the fatted calf, calling for her to enter.

Damn it
. He paced to the window, flattened a palm against the wall, and stared out of the glass. Instead of the winter-sleep yard, though, he saw Danielle’s face twisted with grief. Her sorrow over Pat and her sister hadn’t been an act; her anguish had been too deep, too raw. But was that the only real thing about her? Even though she’d admitted she’d lied to the detective in the hospital, he sensed she continued to hold something else back. She was wrapped in secrets; she hoarded them.

And though he believed she’d allowed him closer than any other person, she still didn’t trust him with the truth…and without the truth, he couldn’t trust her.

Rafe sighed, drawing Malachim’s attention back to him. “Which leads to the other reason I came down here to see you.” He hesitated, and that, more than the restless drumming of Rafe’s fingers on his thigh, sent foreboding skating down Malachim’s spine. Rafe might do restless, but he never did hesitation. To-hell-with-it bluntness was more his style. Whatever was bothering him had to be bad.

“What is it?” Malachim asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Rafe didn’t take offense, and the slight softening of his expression increased the dread stirring in Malachim’s gut. “I don’t know any other way to tell you this but come out and say it—even if you’re going to resent the hell out of me for it.” He rose from his chair. “Since you first told us about Danielle and how she literally appeared on your doorstep, I’ve been suspicious. Especially after all that Tara shit went down with Christopher.”

Shock pummeled him. “What the hell, Rafe?”

The other man held up a hand. “Hear me out. It just didn’t feel right. And something’s not quite…on the up-and-up with her. So I started keeping tabs on Christopher.”

“They just met Thursday,” Malachim objected, hearing the desperation and disbelief in his voice. “In my office.”

“So you said, Mal,” Rafe said gently. “But I’ve been tracking Christopher’s phone records and several of his bank accounts for large money transactions just in case.”

“You fucking hacked a federal bank’s security system?” he demanded, floored. The man was a computer genius who enjoyed bypassing supposedly secure systems—that was part of his job. But damn it to hell, he was admitting to criminal activity.

Rafe didn’t blink at the accusation. “Mal,” he continued, “no unusual activity has shown up there, but I did find something on the building’s security tape.” He paused. “Do you know they met Thursday outside the office? He left the building about a half hour before her, but when she exited, he was there waiting for her. They spoke for about ten minutes. He passed her something. The object wasn’t clear from the camera’s angle, but it didn’t appear as if they’d just met that afternoon as you told us.”

Malachim went cold inside, as if someone had shoved a dagger of ice between his ribs.

“Also, he called the office this afternoon.”

Malachim shook his head. “I didn’t speak with Christopher today.”

“I know. I checked with Bethany on my way in here. He left a message for Danielle. Mal,” his voice lowered, softened. “I’m sorry. But I thought you should know. It could be nothing, but still…be on guard.”

Pain unlike any he’d experienced before—more agonizing than when he’d discovered Tara’s betrayal—filleted him. The lies, the secrets. She’d been working with Christopher all along…

No
.
It’s not true.

Mental snapshots of the moments they’d shared together reeled through his mind. When he’d confessed about Tara. When she’d held his hands, encouraged him to forgive his mother. When they’d made love.

“No,” he said again, shaking his head. Those emotions couldn’t be faked. Couldn’t be bought.

On the outside, the situation appeared so similar to Tara, but Danielle wasn’t Tara. She
wasn’t.

“I don’t believe it,” he said hoarsely.

“Mal,” Rafe murmured.

“I. Don’t. Believe. It,” he gritted out. “I know she has her secrets, things she hasn’t felt she can share with me. But I trust her. She wouldn’t betray me like that.”

Rafe opened his mouth, but the phone trilled loudly, and a wave of thankfulness rolled through Malachim at the interruption. He strode to the desk, picked up the receiver, and pressed the button to his personal line.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Mal.” Usually, Leah Bannon’s voice coaxed an automatic smile from him. Though she was Gabe’s fiancée, she’d been their “little sister” and best friend first. Still was. But today, on the heels of Rafe’s announcement, he felt like a Damocles Sword swung over his head, ready to plummet and slice him in half.

“Hi, Leah. What’s going on?”

“I’m calling because I have the information you asked me for,” she said. The background check on Danielle he’d requested. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Okay. What did you find?”

Silence responded to his query. Then her soft sigh echoed over the line. “Mal, prior to a year ago, Danielle Warren didn’t exist.”

The sword dropped another inch.

“A birth certificate and Social Security card was requested in her name about fourteen months ago. A month later, a Massachusetts driver’s license was issued for Danielle Warren. The first tax return in that name and social was filed this past February. She’s never been issued credit, and the first employee credit check was last year by Pat’s Diner. Other than that, nothing.” Her voice lowered, softened. “I can’t say for certain, Mal, but it’s almost as if Danielle Warren was born in the past year and half.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The cold December wind snapped and snarled at Malachim as he exited the front door of the brownstone and locked it. He welcomed the freezing embrace; it echoed the chill that had taken up residence in his chest since Rafe’s visit and Leah’s call.

Numb. The dead space had invaded his soul, leaving him numb. So even as he explained Leah’s findings to Rafe and finished out the day, he’d appeared calm. He’d
been
calm. The dagger-sharp nails of fury and pain impatiently clawed at the edges of his mind, but they’d yet to penetrate and drag him under. But it wouldn’t be long. He’d been here before. So he knew it wouldn’t be long before he could no longer hold the consuming tide at bay. Then it would be like trying to contain churning flood waters with a brown paper bag.

But until that moment came upon him, he’d cling to the emptiness.

And to his shaky belief in a woman who, on paper, appeared to be as brand new as a newborn baby.

He headed up the sidewalk toward his car. Rafe had offered Malachim his couch to crash on, but Malachim had declined. He’d given Danielle a key to his home—insisted she accept it, actually—and she should be there when he arrived. No way in hell they weren’t having this conversation. He wanted, fucking
needed
, answers. Not only had she lied to him about something as fundamental as her name, but she’d placed his law firm in further jeopardy with this stunt. His license had just been reinstated. If the bar somehow discovered he’d hired a person who’d provided false documentation…

And even if her deception hadn’t been personal in the beginning, what about now? Even as she’d whispered his name and taken him deep inside her, she’d deceived him, betrayed him with her silence. He’d offered her his home, his body, his protection, and still she’d lied. Every time he’d called her name, and she answered, she’d lied. Danielle had—

Shit
! Not Danielle. What the fuck was her name—?

The first blow caught him from behind. Agony radiated from the back of his head, arrowing around to his temples and exploding in his frontal lobe. His breath exploded from his lungs. His knee and palm slammed to the cobbled stone. Pain radiated from his shin and raced up his thigh.

Jesus. What the hell?

Head throbbing, he pushed air through his nose and battled back the nausea swirling and pitching in his gut. He blinked, trying to clear the gold and white sparks dancing in front of his eyes. A pair of black boots appeared in front of his splayed hand.

Another mugging?
He shook his head and immediately regretted the abrupt move. He swallowed, fighting the bile sizzling a path up his throat.

Fire detonated in his head again. He groaned, lurching sideways. Darkness encroached on the rims of his vision, and the world shifted then righted in a drunken weave.

Don’t fall, goddamnit! Don’t you fucking fall!
The primal yell ricocheted inside his skull. Even as pain wrapped him in a blood-red cocoon, part of him understood that to lie out on the pavement would mean his death.

This wasn’t a simple mugging. Not when his briefcase was untouched next to him and his wallet remained in his pocket.

Fight
. He had to fight.

Fury rolled up out of his stomach, gathering heat and power as it razed up his chest, relegating the pain to a negligent cinder.

With a harsh groan, he shoved to his feet. Charged the figure in front of him. His shoulder crashed into a soft middle. Satisfaction spilled through him at the grunt of pain. Malachim stumbled but barely caught himself before he collapsed to the ground with his attacker in a tangle of limbs.

He whirled around. Agony streaked back and forth across his temples, and he narrowed his eyes against the throbbing ache. His hands shook as he balled them and faced the cowardly son of a bitch who’d sucker punched him from behind.

Beefy, wide-shouldered, with a squashed face that appeared as if it’d taken one too many to the dome. Closely shaven dark hair. Small eyes almost hidden under a heavy brow. Square jaw. Ugly as fuck.

No hood. No mask. He didn’t care if Malachim glimpsed his face.

That meant one thing: the bruiser didn’t intend for Malachim to be around for a police lineup.

No.
Hell, no
. He wasn’t going out like this. Not without answers. Not without seeing…

Behind him, he detected the scurried movements of the guy he’d knocked on his ass. Of the two, the one in front of him was the most dangerous.

Slowly, Malachim angled his body. Out of the corner of his eyes, the other man staggered to his feet. The bruiser didn’t move.

“She’s mine,” the softer guy wheezed. He lifted a shaky arm, pointed at Malachim. “Get him.”

As if the order flipped a switch, the bruiser lunged for Malachim. His knee and head screaming in protest, Malachim feinted right, then spun left. As soon as the larger man rushed past him, he jammed his knee up. Brought his elbow down. Right across the thug’s neck.

The jarring impact of flesh against flesh sang up Malachim’s arm, leg, and hip. But it didn’t compare to the triumph as the bruiser coughed and fell against the brownstone’s brick wall.

A blow to the rib and another to the side of his head had the big man gagging, wrapping a defensive arm around his middle. A whisper of sound alerted Malachim to the other attacker’s movements. He whirled around, his arm already jerking up, his wrist blocking the blow that would’ve knocked him back to the sidewalk

Unlike his partner, the man in front of him wore a dark hood that obscured most of his face except for his chin and mouth. His lips parted in shock.

The ferocious snarl was Malachim’s only warning. Searing pain erupted in his skull. At the base of his spine. In his ribs.

Then nothing.

…

Danielle shoved at the slow-as-hell glass door. It ignored her agitation and continued to slide open at a crippled snail’s pace. Her heart thundered, drowning out everything else in her head but its drumming beat and Raphael’s somber voice over the phone at the diner where he’d contacted her.

“Malachim’s been hurt. Meet me at the hospital.”

Malachim...hurt…hospital…

The words played a terrifying loop over and over again. Images of Pat lying on the floor of her apartment. Of his motionless body strapped to the ambulance stretcher. Of the doctor walking through those pressurized doors.
I’m sorry… We did everything we could…

“Please, God,” she prayed as she rushed through the emergency room doors. “Not him. Don’t take him.”

“Danielle.”

She whipped around. Raphael strode toward her. Heavy, dark scrollwork inked both arms, disappearing under the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, and the pierced eyebrow and long black hair lent a more dangerous air to his grim features.

“Malachim,” she said without preamble or greeting. “How is he? Will he be all right?”

The full curve of his mouth flattened. “We don’t know. He was unconscious when they brought him in.”

Unconscious? Jesus
. “Raphael, what happened?”

He turned, sweeping an arm out in front of him, gesturing for her to walk with him. She fell into step beside him, impatient for information.

“He was attacked,” he growled. “Beaten. Chay found the motherfu—” He clenched his jaw, shot her a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Chay found the two men kicking and punching him. They ran off, and Mal…” He paused, swallowed. “And Mal was knocked out, bleeding on the ground.”

“A mugging?” she whispered, though insidious doubt already crept through her. The pit of her stomach bottomed out when Raphael shook his head.

“No. I don’t know what the hell happened, but it wasn’t a mugging. They left his briefcase. His wallet was still on him along with his watch and keys. Whoever these assholes were, they didn’t come after Mal for his money.”

Two muggings that weren’t muggings. On the same street. Outside the same business.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

Grief, rage, fear—the noxious blend of emotion roared through and over her like a tidal wave. It crashed into her chest, and she reeled under its power.

“Danielle,” he said.

She opened eyes she hadn’t been aware of closing and met his shuttered gaze.

“I need to make something clear before we join everyone else.” He waited for her to nod before he continued. “I called you because I know Mal would want you here. But I don’t trust you. You’ve been keeping secrets and have lied to him. It’s not up to me. I have to go with what Mal needs, not what I would prefer. But as long as we understand each other.”

“Yes,” she murmured, fear a leaden weight in her stomach. “We understand each other.”

He studied her for several moments, nodded. “Good. We’re over here.”

By “we” he’d meant the small crowd of people in the corner nearest the closed double emergency room doors. Four older women, one of them Pam Jerrod, huddled on the plastic chairs, while two men and a younger woman with long, black hair stood next to them like silent sentinels. She recognized Chay and from online newspaper articles, identified Gabriel Devlin and Leah Bannon.

Raphael introduced her to Malachim’s family and friends. The three women surrounding Pam turned out to be Ana Devlin, Sharon Marcel, and Evelyn Sheldon, Gabriel, Raphael, and Chay’s mothers.

The women greeted her warmly, Pam rising to pull Danielle into her lightly perfumed embrace. But she encountered a polite, yet cool reserve with the two men and Leah. And Danielle understood that Gabriel, Chay, and Leah possessed the same sentiment as Rafe—if not for Malachim, they would order her out of the hospital and away from him.

And they would be well within their rights to do so.

Still, at this moment, she didn’t care about their cold reception; she wanted to know Malachim would be okay. That this was all some kind of mistake, and he would stride through those doors with his sexy, confident walk, demanding to know if they all had something better to do than hang around there. She needed to peer into his amethyst gaze, enfold his tall, rangy body in her arms, and be surrounded by his comforting strength.

Please, God, let Malachim be okay. Let him walk out of here.

She paced over to the window, stared through the glass into the inky night and the urban sprawl twinkling and glowing beyond the hospital parking lot.

Somewhere out there, the men who’d assaulted Malachim lurked. Maybe planning and waiting for the next opportunity to finish the job they’d started. Or maybe it would be someone else Danielle cared about. Walt? Julie?

A shiver skated down her spine, infiltrated her body so she felt frostbitten, burning in fear’s frigid flames.

“Mrs. Jerrod?”

Danielle spun around. The three men and five women rushed the doctor, forming a tight half-circle around the older man in light blue scrubs and a white lab coat. She edged forward, hovering on the periphery of Malachim’s vanguard.

“Yes,” Pam said, her clear and steady voice belying her pale complexion. “You have an update about my son?”

The physician nodded. “Yes. As you know, he received a pretty substantial assault. He has bruised ribs, a laceration to the back of his head, and several cuts and bruises. Our main concern was possible brain trauma, because when Mr. Jerrod came in he was unconscious.” The doctor paused, and Danielle bit back a scream. Her nails biting into her palms. “We don’t know the extent of it. We ran a CAT scan upon admission as a precaution. The good news is his scan turned up negative for anything acute, and he came to during our examination.” Pam uttered a small cry, and the doctor paused in his diagnosis as she gathered her composure. “He appears lucid, was able to answer our questions. But we are going to keep him overnight. The staff will be checking on him hourly, monitoring him for any changes in his neuro status. If all goes well, we can release him tomorrow.”

Danielle sagged into a chair, her legs reduced to the consistency of Jell-O.
Oh thank you, God. Thank you, God
. Everything faded into the dim cacophony roaring inside her head. She covered her face with her hands, her breath harsh and hot against her palms. The hard knot of worry and panic slowly loosened, the doctor’s assurance having tugged the tight coil free.

He was going to be fine. Released tomorrow.

As if fortified gates had been thrown wide open, relief swamped her, drowned her in its swelling waves.

“Danielle.” She glanced up into Leah’s green gaze. “They’re moving him to a regular room. We’re going to wait for him upstairs.”

The group converged on the upper level like a swarm. The logical decision would’ve been to leave, return to the diner, gather her meager belongings, find a hotel for the night, and prepare to disappear.

Yet she perched on the seventh floor’s more comfortable waiting room chair—waiting.

Two hours later, Malachim had been transferred from the ER to a private room, and his mother, friends, and their mothers had all streamed back and forth out of the waiting room, spending time with him. Each time they returned with relief etching their faces, the band around her chest slackened another increment. She breathed easier, and terror had slowly peeled its piercing talons from her heart.

“Malachim’s asking for you,” Raphael announced, standing beside her chair. Danielle stared down at her clasped hands.

Fear returned with a punishing vise grip. She’d been hoping for and dreading those words. Finally, she rose and faced Raphael.

“Thank you,” she said, not sure what else to say to him.
I’m sorry I brought this pain and trouble into your lives
didn’t seem fitting. Besides, those were words she needed to address to Malachim first, not his friend.

Raphael nodded.

She shifted forward, edging past him.

“Danielle.” She halted but didn’t turn around. “I think you know Malachim cares for you. If you feel even half of what he does for you, tell him the truth or walk away now before he’s hurt worse. And I’m not talking about a beating.”

She bit her lip, fighting back the sob that wanted to rip free. She bowed her head, giving Raphael the only acknowledgment she could manage. Then she moved forward, the need to just feast her eyes on Malachim, hear his voice, and assure herself he was truly okay lending her feet wings. She rushed from the room and into the hushed corridor. Placing a palm against his partially opened door, she inhaled deeply, then nudged it open and stepped inside.