Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

Sighing, Malachim pushed to his feet, grabbing the Scotch. Muttering a curse, he went still. The room didn’t
spin
exactly. It did do a little bob-and-weave, though.

Danielle stretched forward across the desk and removed the bottle from his grip.

“I’ll take that.” She moved to the fully stocked minibar in the corner of the room and replaced it. “I hate to break it to you, but you can’t drive me or yourself home.” Turning around, she crossed her arms. “Inability to get stinking drunk withstanding, you’re not fit to be behind the wheel of a car.”

He scrubbed his hand over his scalp. Suddenly, he was tired. As if the totality of the evening’s confessions and revelations had sapped his energy and weakened the walls he’d erected against the past.

“Fine,” he conceded. He plucked his suit jacket off the back of his chair and slid his arms into it. “I’ll call a cab for both of us.”

“Take a cab to Dorchester?” she scoffed. “Uh, no thanks. The T is cheaper. But I’ll request a taxi for you.” She moved toward the phone, but he beat her to it, clapping a hand over the receiver. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, and he caught the swift intake of her breath before she moved away. He couldn’t decipher whether fear motivated the reaction or something…else. The buzzed, masochistic fool in him wished for the latter.

“We’ll both a take the cab, or I escort you home on the T then ride it back to my place. Would your conscience permit you to let me ride home buzzed…by myself…on the train…at night?”

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Emotional blackmail? I would’ve thought you were above that, counselor.”

“Not even the slightest.”

She huffed out a breath, sounding more than a wee bit exasperated with him. She glanced to the side, down, and then finally met his gaze. “You win.”

And once again, it didn’t feel like much of a triumph. He wanted to call it pride, but the alcohol forced him to be more honest with himself. Her aversion to being in close proximity to him bruised him in a place he’d thought forever numbed by Tara.

That’s it. No more fucking Scotch for you. Ever.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled open the passenger door for her to slide into the taxi’s dim interior, and he followed. He gave the driver the diner’s address and then his, instructing him to drop off Danielle first. The cabbie cocked an eyebrow at the backwards directions, but he shrugged and pulled away from the curb.

Silence reigned in the cab. He wedged his body into the corner of the backseat, sprawling his legs as far as the cramped space would allow. Leaning his head against the window, he sighed, the Scotch making its presence more known. In the close quarters, he heard her every breath, spied the shallow rise and fall of her chest, caught the fresh scent that seemed to permeate her hair and skin. He inhaled, needing to drag more of her into his lungs. Damn the alcohol; she was more heady and intoxicating than the oldest, most potent spirit.

He studied her exotic profile. The high brow; thin, aristocratic nose just a shade too long by conventional beauty standards; the wide mouth with its full bottom lip; and the small, stubborn chin. His gaze dropped to the elegant, tightly clenched hands on her lap. Even in the shadows, he noted the paler skin stretched over her knuckles. Did she fear him? God, the thought of her sitting there, trembling in terror of what he might do to her caused the alcohol in his gut to roil and pitch.

“Danielle.” He’d deliberately softened his voice, yet she flinched as if he’d roared her name.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her head averted, continuing to stare out the side window.

“Look at me.” He paused. “Please.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and her fingers were clenched so hard, he feared they wouldn’t easily straighten. Malachim’s breath caught in his throat as he waited. After several seconds, when her head turned in his direction, his lungs relaxed.

God, he longed to touch her.

Yes, he would be a eunuch and a flaming liar if he denied he wanted her beneath him, straining against his body as he thrust deep into soft, hot flesh he knew would squeeze his cock in the sweetest, tightest embrace. He craved it. Woke up in cold sweats from dreaming about it. But this… This need swelling within his chest now was gentler but no less hungry. No less desperate.

He yearned to rub his thumb over the hard line her mouth had become, coaxing the sensual fullness to appear once again. More than the next critical beat of his heart, he desired to brush his lips over her brow, ease the panic and pain in her eyes, and replace them with pleasure. With wonder. With joy.

What would Danielle look like carefree, laughing…unburdened?

Jesus, he wanted to know.

He straightened from his slouch, at the same time shifting closer to her. Carefully, unhurriedly, determined not to spook her. Not to threaten her.

In the darkness, her eyes widened, and her breath quickened. At any other time, he would’ve backed off. But not tonight. As much as he needed to have her sun-kissed skin under his fingers, she needed to understand—believe—he would take a blade to his own hand before harming her.

Gently, he cupped the nape of her neck. Pressed a thumb into the side of her throat and circled. She went rigid beneath his hand and loosed a tiny whimper.

“Shh,” he crooned. “No, look at me,” he tenderly ordered when her lashes fluttered. He had to see her eyes, had to be able to detect if his caress became too much for her to bear. Even more, he had to see the moment the fear bled from her beautiful dark gaze and trust entered. “Thank you,” he murmured, staring into the brown depths. Yes, panic still lingered, but so did another emotion…an emotion that set his heart racing for his throat.

“I would never hurt you,” he murmured. “Not that way. I may be an asshole sometimes and kick the hell out of your feelings, but I’ll never hurt you in the way that makes you shake under my hand.” He slid his hand into her hair, loosening the bun and cradling her head. And had to bite back his groan at the sensuous glide of her heavy hair over his hand and wrist. “You’re safe with me. I promise,” he said hoarsely.

This time when she closed her eyes, he didn’t request she reopen them. Another tremble shivered through her figure, but he sensed the reaction wasn’t born of fear. Weariness, maybe. The fool in him whispered maybe pleasure at his touch, but the realist quickly rejected the idea. He figured it had to be tiring carrying so many secrets and shadows around. He also sensed if he pushed her right now in this weakened moment, she might break and confess who’d harmed her, bruised her soul, heart, and possibly body. But to take advantage of her state would make him no better than the phantom who haunted her. Would make him no better than his father who preyed on the vulnerable.

Instead, he slowly pulled her forward, eliminating the scant inches separating them. For a heartbeat, she resisted, and disappointment almost capsized him. But the tension loosened like an unraveling string, and then her forehead was pressed to his shoulder, and he was inhaling the apple scent of her hair, the thick strands tickling his chin and mouth.

A shudder passed through him, one of relief and soul-deep contentment. A psychologist would have a field day picking apart his psyche. Because he’d been mentally abused by the man he considered a father, he sought to protect those who couldn’t defend themselves. Rafe, when he’d been teased mercilessly because of his alcoholic father. Chay, by helping to cover up Richard’s death. And now Danielle, whose lies and secrets scared the shit out of him, but whose eyes and tough-as-nails demeanor hid a damaged heart.

Too soon, the cab slowed to a stop outside the diner. Part of him growled in denial, wishing this moment to last just a while longer. Not only had Danielle lowered her impregnable shields a small amount, but she’d allowed him to let his down, as well. In the past, only with Gabe, Rafe, and Chay could he have revealed the tarnished, not-so-strong bits of himself. She didn’t know it, but she’d given him a gift tonight. One of release, peace, a measure of freedom. One that would most likely disappear in the morning, but for now…

He reluctantly released her and eased his hand from her hair. And fought the urge to drag her back. Tonight, hours after he arrived home and lay in his bed, he would feel the moist heat of her breath against his throat. The silken curls would still caress his fingers. The slim length of her thigh would continue to brand his skin.

They stepped out of the car and the hard, cold snap of air immediately surrounded them. The wind ruffled her hair, and he couldn’t stop his hand from lifting and smoothing the dark mass down. This fascination with the lush curls confused him. Over the years, he’d admired sophisticated twists, sleek bobs, and even glossy spirals. But none of those hairstyles—or women—had stirred a wish for wild abandonment and joy like hers did.

He twined a midnight strand around his finger and, letting his eyes drift closed, brought it to his lips.

“Malachim,” she whispered, and once more he detected the jagged note of panic. And something else entirely.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Just allow me to blame this on the alcohol.” He freed her hair and shifted forward, invading her personal space. “Allow me this one illusion,” he said softly. And pressed his lips to her forehead. Her hands slid between them, and she curled her fingers in the lapels of his coat.

Hanging on. Not pushing him away.

One more second. One more second, and I’ll move away and leave
. One passed into two, and then into several. She was so fucking small, so delicate; the top of her head barely brushed his chin. A rough breeze blew her hair forward, and the curls grazed his neck, his jaw. The primitive urge that had been around since the time of cavemen rushed up and through him. Teeth ground together, he battled the instinct that demanded he haul her into his arms, cover and protect her from anything and anyone. The same instinct insisted he stuff her in the taxi and take her home.

But as the foolish thought ghosted across his mind, he stepped back and away. He was neither foolish nor naïve; Christopher and Tara had taught him too well. When the alcohol faded from his bloodstream and dawn stretched her fingers over the night sky, Danielle would still be enshrouded in her lies, in her secrets.

He might want her, but he still didn’t trust her.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Twelve

Hope was a cruel bitch.

She showed a person glimpses of a future that could’ve been theirs once upon a time. A future so far beyond their reach it might as well exist in a land of pumpkin carriages and magical glass slippers.

Malachim represented that dream, Danielle brooded, staring after the cab as its red brake lights blinked then disappeared when it rounded the corner. One where men didn’t use or beat women but sheltered them from the big, bad evils of this world. One where relationships were equal, tender, and giving. One where touch was about pleasure, not pain and humiliation.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Before Alex, she could’ve had that—all of it.

She closed her eyes, and in her head she heard Malachim’s gentle but firm
look at me
. As when he’d whispered the words, a shiver coursed through her like a mini quake. The dim interior of the cab hadn’t hidden his purple gaze but emphasized the power of it. His voice, his hand on her neck…his so-soft tone when he’d called her
sweetheart
…

Malachim had assumed he’d scared her—and he did. But not how he imagined.

When he’d confessed the truth about his parentage, his pain had called out to her. Her fingertips had itched to brush his jaw, trace the graceful, arrogant arch of his eyebrows. Assure him that he was so strong, beautiful…worthy. That vulnerable glimpse beneath his cool, urbane exterior had shaken her, confused her. So much that she’d slipped and admitted details about her childhood that she’d never even shared with Alex. Almost immediately, she’d recognized her mistake, but it’d been too late. And if she were brutally, George-Washington-cherry-tree honest, she couldn’t regret her lapse. Not if it would again remove the hint of shame that had clouded his gaze.

By the time they’d entered the cab, her defenses had borne dents the size of craters. So when he’d reached for her, she could no longer fight—fight him; herself; the low, amazing burn of desire. No longer was it a stirring she could deny. For the first time in years, arousal coiled tight in her stomach, tingled in her breasts, pooled between her thighs. That first bite of need had stolen her breath. Not even in the early years of her marriage when she’d been in love with Alex had she experienced the swell of heat that had engulfed her in the backseat of the taxi.

She grazed her fingers over her forehead where the imprint of his mouth lingered. Every time she looked in the mirror, she’d probably see the brand of his kiss like an invisible stamp from a rave. God, the press of his soft lips against her skin. She would’ve had to be Stevie Wonder not to have noticed the sexual promise inherent in that lovely mouth. But to feel it… The kiss had seared her, shaken her. It still did.

She hadn’t wanted this awakening of desire then—wasn’t sure if she welcomed it now. Cold, hard logic a person could trust. But emotions were unstable, misleading.

So yes, Malachim scared her. Not because she feared he’d punch her, kick her, or lash her with a strap. He terrified the part of her that huddled inside her soul. The part of her that still believed in happily-ever-after. The part of her that clutched onto hope in spite of the many disappointments and rejections she’d suffered.

The stubborn, relentless part of her that still desired to love and be loved.

He frightened her, because it had been the same part that had convinced her to marry Alex.

Everything in her screamed Malachim wasn’t Alex, but…

She sighed, turned toward the brightly lit diner.

But she wasn’t willing to bet her life on it.

And then there was Christopher’s “offer.” If she didn’t contact him soon, none of this—her newfound and confusing emotions, Malachim—would matter. Because she harbored no doubt Christopher would go through with his threat to expose her. But betraying Malachim… That wasn’t an option.

She sighed and pulled open the diner door. Several of the regulars glanced up from their plates and cups of coffee to wave and call out a greeting.

“A taxi home, Dani?” Pat asked from behind the counter, a brow raised. “My, we are moving up in the world,” he teased. “Something wrong with your fella’s car?”

Danielle wrinkled her nose at the antiquated term, sliding onto one of the round, patched stools. “He’s my employer, not
my fella
.”

Pat snorted. “
I’ve
never kissed you now, have I?”

“Pat,” she hissed in warning, glancing around to see if his booming question had traveled. “What are you doing up front anyway? It’s Thursday. You should be holed up in your office cursing the computer.” Thursday nights usually found Pat in his “inner sanctum,” working on payroll and other invoices. At his wife’s insistence, the older man had added a Point of Sale system in the front of the diner weeks before Danielle had arrived. Yet, over a year later, he still cursed the system and new computer Julie had installed in his office, as well. To him, there was nothing wrong with good ol’ paper and pen.

“Smart-ass.” He grunted. “Well, since you have your new job and aren’t able to finagle that damn computer for me, I’m procrastinating. And actually, I’m waiting on you. I was getting ready to call and check on you before you rolled up all la-di-da with your fel—excuse me, your employer.”

“I swear, Pat,” she growled. “I’m really surprised Julie hasn’t smothered you in your sleep yet.”

He blinked. “Then what would she ever do without me?”

Danielle snickered. “I’m sure she would have quite a few choice words in answer to that question.” She shook her head. “What did you need from me?”

“Not from you—for you. I wanted to get inside your apartment and take a look at the leaking pipe under the kitchen sink.”

“Pat,” she said, exasperated. Rising from the stool, she hitched her bag and purse straps higher on her shoulder. “Like I’ve told you before, it’s your property. You can go in and do the repairs. That’s your right.”

“And like I told
you
,” he drawled, “It may be my property, but it’s your home, and I will not invade your privacy.”

“Stubborn old man,” she muttered, heading behind the counter. She followed Pat through the swinging double doors that opened into the spacious industrial kitchen and led to a side exit and separate staircase. He plucked up his toolbox at the side entrance before continuing through the door and to the stairs.

“So, you sweet on this Malachim Jerrod?”

“Sweet on him?” she scoffed even as her heart executed a perfect-ten swan dive toward her stomach. “You’re showing your age, Pat. And no, I’m not. He’s my employer, nothing else.”
Note to self: When you change clothes this evening, check the hem of your slacks for singe marks
.
Liar, liar, pants on fire!

“Humph. And there are some Eskimos outside who need a brand new Frigidaire.” He started up the steps. “What’s the matter with him? He seems like a decent sort. I can’t imagine you putting up with him if he wasn’t.”

“He’s fine.” And complicated. Beautiful. Dangerous. “But I repeat, he’s my employer. And even if he wasn’t, I’m not looking for romance or relationships. I don’t want those kinds of complications in my life.”

“Dani, you can’t help who you love or when it happens.”

“Yes, you can,” she snapped, jerking to a halt behind him. Regret for her sharp tone shamed her. He’d done nothing to earn the backlash of her emotional baggage. “I’m sorry, Pat,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. But I don’t believe the same as you. We can help who we love; it’s a choice, a decision. People use being ‘in love’ as an excuse to be emotionally out of control.”

“Aw, Dani.” Pat paused in the middle of the staircase and turned. She almost ducked her head at the sympathy further creasing his lined face; she’d rather not witness his pity. He set the rusted metal box down on the step next to his foot and stretched out his arms, hands fisted. “If you’re holding onto the past with your hands squeezed tight, you never truly let go of it even when you move forward into the future. So when something good comes your way, you can’t grab it. But”—he unfolded his fingers, splaying them wide, palms up—“if you go into life like this, freeing the past, you’re ready to receive all the future has for you. But you can’t like this.” Once more, he curled his hand into large fists. “You deserve so much more than that, Dani.”

Tears stung her eyes. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest, pressing up toward her throat.

“Thank you,” she gasped then cleared her throat. “Thanks, Pat.”

He nodded, lowered his arms, and retrieved his toolbox. Turning, he continued up the old, carpeted staircase until he reached the small landing outside her apartment. The keys on the crowded ring he pulled from his pocket jingled while he sifted through the various pieces of metal, searching for the one matching the lock on her front door.

“Got it,” he announced, clutching the knob. He raised the key to the lock. “I don’t know why I have most of these keys anyway. I don’t use half—”

The door swung open.

Her stomach plummeted. Darkness yawned wide and deep beyond the door’s edge. Like the entrance to a carnival haunted house, it beckoned her close, even as the malevolent air hinted at menace…at horror.

“You know better than to leave your door unlocked,” Pat scolded, frowning over his shoulder.

“I didn’t,” she breathed.

His eyebrows jacked high, surprise flashing across his face. A dark anger chomped fast at shock’s heels. Slowly, he bent to one knee, placing the box on the floor. Quickly, but silently, he opened the battered lid and removed a large, silver wrench. Straightening to his full height, he held a finger over his lips, then jabbed the digit down, indicating she should stay put.

Hell, no
. No way would she allow him to walk into the apartment when neither of them knew what waited on the other side. She shook her head so hard her hair whipped against her cheeks.

He glared, and if looks could kill, she would be dead and buried in a Jersey landfill. Yet she stood her ground. She didn’t possess a superhero complex by any means, and she damn sure wasn’t concealing royal blue tights underneath her pants. But on the chance an intruder had been in her apartment, she refused to permit Pat to shoulder the danger. Not on her behalf. Hell, if she could, she’d forbid him to enter. And after he gave her a blistering, whispered tongue-lashing about protecting his property and tenants, and how a man didn’t hide behind a woman’s skirts, the man would still proceed how he pleased. The chances he had of convincing her not to follow him would be just as slim. Like
nil
to
nada
.

He pinned another fierce glare on her before returning to his toolbox, fishing out a hammer, and shoving it into her hand. Then he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. She nodded. Got it. Stay behind him.

Pat pushed the cracked door open wider. The small creak that had been negligible before screeched like a banshee in the stillness. He winced but continued inching into the residence. Her pulse drummed in her ears, its wild snare beat deafening her to everything else. Her tongue seemed to expand to double its size, filling her parched mouth. She tightened her grasp on the rubber-over-steel grip of the hammer, the sweat dampening her palms, slickening her hold. As she passed over the threshold, she opted to leave the door open. If someone had been in her apartment, he or she was most likely long gone, but the immediate escape route offered a sliver of security.

Light flooded the room, bathing the combination living and dining room in a golden glow. She blinked, and Pat stopped, dropping his arm from the wall switch. They went still and scanned the small area. Nothing seemed out of place. No cushions were tossed on the secondhand sofa. The coffee table and cheap entertainment center remained upright. The two chairs remained tucked under the tiny dining room table just as she’d left it this morning. If someone had broken in here, they’d obviously figured the front room hadn’t held much in the way of valuables. That left the bedroom…

As if Pat had read her mind, he patted the air next to his hip, gesturing for her to remain there. He edged forward.

The crack of wood against wood exploded behind them. She spun around. A large, dark figure shot out of the hall closet and bore down on her. Black jacket and hoodie cinched tight. Pale skin over a square chin. They were the only impressions she received before a hand locked around her neck, trapping the scream racing up her throat. Cruel fingers bit into her shoulder and slammed her against the wall.

Daggers of pain stabbed into her skull. Agony zipped up and down her spine. The breath burst from her lungs on a tortured gasp.

The intruder grimaced, baring straight, white teeth. “We didn’t get to spend time together,” he rasped. Terror slammed into her with the force of a runaway train, temporarily trumping the ice picks piercing her head.
Spend time
…
spend time
…
Oh, Jesus. Alex…

“Get away from her, you son of a bitch!” Pat roared, tearing the intruder off her. Danielle slumped and slid to the floor, the hammer tumbling from her hand, useless. She blinked, struggling against the throbbing ache in her head, her blurred vision, and the slippery header into the nightmare of her past. Planting a palm on the floor, she tried to scrabble to her feet, but they weren’t cooperating and slid out from under her.

Pat wrestled with the dark-clad figure. Their grunts and harsh curses burned the air as they grappled, each vying for dominance and the upper hand. Though older and shorter, Pat was wider and brawnier than his opponent. With a low growl, Pat shoved the prowler away, landing a solid punch to the other man’s face. The intruder stumbled back several steps, his arms pinwheeling as he fought to maintain his balance and not go down.

But Pat was on him. Fingers twisted into the front of the hoodie, Pat crashed the thief to the wall. Jerked him forward and smashed him again.

Once more, Danielle tried to rise from the floor. Slowly, she drew her feet under her, inching up the wall. Pat glanced over at her, worry etching his brow.