The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2) (17 page)

He didn’t bother hitting the lights as he opened up and closed himself into the unit, but he sucked in a sharp, pained breath as he went to shrug off—

Oranges and jasmine.

He held the combination in his lungs and refused to acknowledge that he was savoring it. Only one woman he knew had the scent of oranges and jasmine, and Gabriel was going to get a fucking shot in the teeth for lying to him about the cockroach bullshit.

Stunned and moving slowly, keeping his anticipation and anger in check, he went soundlessly through the quiet apartment. The open concept allowed him to see the unoccupied living room with its few framed paintings and the requisite flat screen on his way down the short hallway. There were shopping bags and a couple of shoe boxes on the floor beside the kitchen counter. He took another deep breath and felt his knees wobble. Another, and his hands started to shake.

What the hell was Nika doing here? Why wasn’t she with her brother?

More importantly, why wasn’t she tucked safely behind the four secure walls of the clubhouse, where no one could possibly harm her?

Was that what Caleb had been trying to tell him when he’d hung up on him? That she’d left?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, signaling a text, and he took it out.

Saw you go in. Didn’t know you were coming to relieve. We’re outtie.

Alesio

Gabriel must have had his little cousin, along with one of their other guys, on guard duty. They always worked in pairs. Vincente stayed still for a second, trapping the panic flaring in his chest now that his choice to bail had just been taken from him. No way would he leave her here on her own. It was secure, but not secure enough.
Fuck.
He’d avoided her for a week; now he had no choice but to spend the fucking night with her. Because he would not make an ass of himself by calling Alesio back. Way too many questions would be asked.

Way too many.

In motion once more, he reached out and slowly pushed open the bedroom door.

Holy . . . heaven.

His breath jammed at the sight that greeted him. His fantasy come to life was lying half-naked on the bed, all that multicolored hair spread out around her. Her flawless body—fuck him, but he’d forgotten just how flawless—was covered by nothing more than a pair of tiny green boy shorts that rode low on her slim hips. A small white tank barely covered the perfection that should have been just another torso. The yellowing bruises still marring her skin in various areas didn’t detract from her beauty, but they did bring Vincente to a place that reminded him to dial back his appreciation. She didn’t need him ogling her, especially when he claimed to want to do nothing more than help her.

So, should he wake her and let her know he was there? Or let her sleep and see his presence for herself in the morning? Because with everything that had happened tonight—after seeing those photos and hearing about those murdered redheads—there was no way he was letting her out of his sight. Not tonight.

“Fuck,” he whispered, unsure what to do.

Even at a whisper, the sound of his voice had Nika jackknifing to a sitting position, her hand blurring as it snaked under the pillow to come out with what looked to be a SIG Mosquito pointed right at his chest.

CHAPTER 11

Vincente flashed to the side and yanked the bedroom door half-closed, flinching as he waited to hear a shot go off. The sight of her arming herself so swiftly? Sexiest shit ever.

She definitely wasn’t one to lie down and play dead over a fucknut like Nollan. She was prepared.

Because she thought the guy was coming for her?

“Red.” He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice as nonthreatening as possible, which was a feat in itself considering it had gone meat-grinder rough now that he’d seen her nearly bared. “Red, put the gun down. It’s me.”

Nothing. No sound at all. Not even breathing.

“Red?” His muscles spasmed at the shaky gasp that sounded behind the door. “It’s me, babe. Put the gun down.”

“V-Vincente?”

He closed his eyes for a second, and then put a hand out to push the door wide again. And, yes, his whole body torqued at the sight of her, long legs bent and off to the side in an unintentionally erotic pose. He separated his teeth from their clamp and stepped forward as she lowered the weapon, blinking repeatedly as she tried to wake up.

Seeing her now, after only seven—endless—days, was like breaking through the surface of the ocean to take a deep breath when he hadn’t even realized he’d been drowning.

He had no fucking business being attracted to her the way he was—not after everything she’d been through. But then, she’d always had a hold on him, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her on that street in Seattle. Well before he knew who she was.

“Vincente.” The puzzled way she breathed his name in that musical voice was as soothing as a warm hand running down his back.

“Yeah, uh, Gabriel didn’t tell me you were staying here or I wouldn’t have come.”

An immediate flash of hurt burst in those radiant eyes of hers—the color of which, he could now see, just so happened to match her tiny underwear frickin’ perfectly. The sight of her upset had his fingers curling into fists; her next words made him want to put a hole in the wall.

“I don’t doubt that,” he thought she said as she dropped her eyes to her lap. “If you’ll give me a minute, I can get some things and head back to the clubhouse until you leave.” She slid the gun onto to the nightstand while she spoke, her thumb efficiently passing over the safety.

“There’s no need for that,” he grumbled as she got to her feet and walked over to grab a robe off the chair in the corner. He looked away from her firm, beautifully rounded ass and tipped his head back to search the ceiling for the fortitude he needed to remain a gentleman. He’d never had to work so hard at something he’d thought was ingrained.

“Okay. Thank you.” She was biting her lip as she turned back, as if she was thinking hard. “Gabriel didn’t tell me you used this—oh, God . . .” The vibrant blue silk trailed behind her, billowing open as she stepped toward him, her hand coming up as though she was going to touch him.

“Don’t.” He growled the word, dark and dangerous, because he wasn’t sure his control could withstand it if she so much as trailed her pinkie over his hand.

Her face fell hard, but she recovered quickly enough. “I just wanted to help you. You’re bleeding.”

Frowning, he looked down. A small red pool had formed on the hardwood next to his boot, from the drips coming off the tips of his fingers. “Oh, fuck. Sorry.” He’d forgotten all about the knife wound. No wonder he was getting dizzy.

Spinning away, he crossed the hall into the bathroom and slammed his hand on the wall switch. Rolling his shoulders, he let his trench fall the rest of the way off before yanking the taps to get the water running. He pulled his sopping shirt over his head and tossed it into the tub with a splat, and then ripped a washcloth off the shelf, at the same time texting Paynne that he had eyes on his sister and he’d contact him tomorrow about going after Nollan.

“Oh, Vincente,” she gasped quietly. “Let me help you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nika hovering in the doorway.

“I got it.” He tucked his phone into his back pocket and worked the cloth under the stream from the faucet with one hand, turning it off with his knuckle as he wrung the sopping—

“Oh, for God’s sake. Give me the damned cloth.” Her impatience snapped like a wet towel on his ass as she entered the room.

Without waiting for him to get with the program, she reached across and took it from him. Unable to protest, to move at all, he watched dumbly as she wrung out the excess water and grabbed his elbow, yanking on it.

“They got you on the back of your arm, and it’ll be awkward for you. I’m standing right here. Now turn. Come on.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face and yanked again when he hesitated. He moved for her. “You can hate me again after I’ve at least cleaned it for you,” she muttered under her breath. But he heard. And froze midturn, his mind furiously rejecting her words.

Slowly he came back to face her. “I don’t hate you, Red.” He should let her think it—would be easier all around. But looking down at the crown of her bowed head, he couldn’t.

“Whatever.” Her dismissal was brisk and cutting as she once again tried to turn him away from her. He locked down and waited. She lasted all of two seconds before giving an impatient huff and raising her eyes to his.

“I really don’t hate you, Red.”

“Fine. You don’t hate me. Happy? You’ve made your point—now turn.”

He hid a smirk at her little show of temper and obeyed. Somehow he knew she’d think he was laughing at her, when what he was really doing was just enjoying her. Enjoying a spirit he hadn’t seen enough of. Man, she’d be explosive if she ever got riled. Anyone with hair as fiery as hers couldn’t be anything less. He’d gotten but a glimpse that day in Seattle when he’d pushed her too far, and it had been a beautiful thing to witness.

“Where’d you get the red hair?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“My Irish grandmother on my father’s side.”

Irish. Very nice.
“What about your name?”

“My mother’s parents were Croatian.”

Good breeding. The mix turned out one smokin’ babe.
But Vincente knew she was more than that. So much more.

“You okay to do this?” he asked next, not wanting to freak her out with what he knew had to be a bloody mess.

“I’m fine.” She gently swabbed his injury.

“Knife wounds don’t freak you out?” he pressed, unable to shut himself up.

She scoffed delicately, causing her warm breath to brush over his bare shoulder. “Never knew you were so chatty,” she said wryly, holding the cloth to put pressure against his arm for a few beats. “Caleb came home with worse than this a time or two.” She worked herself under his arm to rerinse the cloth. “I can do some pretty nice sutures, too, which I’m”—she dabbed—“pretty sure you need.”

Grateful for anything to concentrate on but her, Vincente turned to check his arm out in the mirror and saw the deep laceration continued to seep blood at a good rate, bright-pink flesh clearly visible.
Shit.
No wonder he was light-headed.

“You wanna prove your claim?”

Her lips pursed, and he almost smiled again. She’d been bluffing; she didn’t know how to suture.

“I don’t have a needle and thread.”

Or not. “Inside pocket of my coat.”

She reached down for his jacket and sifted through the layers, making no mention of the knife and small pistol she had to have seen. When she came back up, his suture kit was in hand—made for each of the boys courtesy of one Dr. Tegan Mancuso.

“Have a seat,” Nika offered, nodding to the closed toilet seat, but then she grabbed his forearm to keep him up, her warm fingers curling over his howling wolf tat. “Wait. I think maybe the light in the kitchen is brighter, isn’t it?”

He nodded and extracted himself from her hold to head out—run, escape, whatever—not waiting to see if she followed, which she didn’t immediately. He was grateful. Gave him time to regroup.

Christ, with all this tucking-tail he was doing lately, he was beginning to feel like a pussy. Really. How hard was it to resist a fucking woman?

He stalked into the main room and caught sight of a lacy black bra peeking out of a shopping bag that had been casually thrown on the love seat next to the gas fireplace. An image of fuchsia silk blasted into his frontal lobe, the pretty things Nika had been wearing the night he’d seen her in Gabriel and Eva’s bedroom. For that split second, before the marks on her body had registered, Vincente hadn’t felt worthy of seeing such perfection.

He forced his gaze away from the lingerie and started to sweat.

Stalking out into the main room, he crossed over to close the drapes before going back to turn on the bright overhead florescent in the kitchen area, used many a time for situations just like this one. They were high up enough that someone on the street couldn’t see in, but he never took chances with privacy. He plunked his ass down at the dining room table to wait for his nurse.

Looking at the empty hallway, he quickly snagged his phone and dialed Gabriel.

“Go.”

“You lying fucking asshole,” he hissed into the mouthpiece.

“V?”

“You lying. Fucking. Asshole.”

There was a slight pause, and then Gabriel was cursing. “Aw, shit. You’re in Astoria.”

“Yeah. And it would’ve been nice not to walk in and find a half-naked woman already in my bed,” he snapped.

“Really, V? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Yeah. An asshole. You want to explain why she’s here on her own?”

Another tense pause, which spoke volumes about how much his boy didn’t want to explain shit. But he did. “You didn’t see her when Eva and I went to the clubhouse this morning. She was like a caged animal in her brother’s space. She needed to get the fuck out of there. And you think we didn’t try to talk her into coming here? You fucked? Of course we did. She wouldn’t. She’s been a prisoner long enough, and I think she just wants to live her life.” There was the sound of a shuffle in the background. “Okay, baby. I’ll be right there. Listen, V, we saw that she needed to be on her own. Not that she is completely. I bought the place across the hall from ours last year. Did I tell you that? I don’t remember. Anyway, Vito and Alesio are in there keeping an eye on her.”

“Not anymore. Alesio saw me come in and thought I was their relief. They’re gone now, and I’m fucking stuck here. I don’t mind admitting to you that this is seriously testing my control. I’ll get you back for this, Moretti. Mark my fucking words.”

He hung up to the sound of yet another merry laugh from one of his friends at his expense and tried to blank his mind. A blank mind equaled a calm system. Blank mind. Blank mind.

It was useless. He wasn’t calm, because Nika had him tied up in fucking knots.

Bare feet tapping on the hardwood had him looking to see her coming down the hall, still in her tiny tank and pretty blue robe. She’d obviously been busy because, along with his kit, she now carried sterilized surgical pads, gauze, tape, and a couple more facecloths. The bathroom cabinet was well stocked.

He surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his brow and tried not to stare at her sleep-mussed hair.

After popping open one of the cupboards, she reached up and grabbed a plastic bowl to fill with water. He refused to look at her long, shapely legs.

“Is it against the rules for me to ask how you received this particular injury?” she asked as she put the bowl on the table and pulled a chair up behind his left side.

Just as he was about to tell her yes, he realized she’d most likely be pissed that he’d kept it from her, and for some stupid reason he didn’t want that. “Got tagged when I was giving your brother a hand earlier.”

She went still, bringing her head around until her anxious eyes met his; the fading bruise on her cheek stood out under the bright light. “He and TP left here only a little while ago. He’s okay. Right?”

“He’s fine. I talked to him on my way here, and they were already back at the clubhouse.”

Her eyes slid closed and she cringed, looking guilty. “Thank God,” she breathed. “Are you the only one who got hurt?”

What was the guilt for? He shrugged at her question. “Not sure. TP was unconscious when I found them, so he probably has a headache. But the cops were en route so we beat feet. Didn’t have time to compare wounds.” His blood pressure went up at the reminder of what Lore had told him about the dead girls.

“What was happening? How did you come to be there?”

Embarrassment made him snap at her. “Doesn’t matter.”

She shrugged as if she didn’t give a shit—which pissed him off, yeah, pissed him off, because that
was not
hurt he felt—and opened the kit. Placing it on the table, she went back to the sink to wash her hands, soaping them longer than he thought was necessary, but he was strangely touched all the same that she cared enough to do it.

After drying them on a paper towel, she came back over and professionally unraveled the fine black fiber, threading the curved needle quickly and efficiently before laying it aside on a clean strip of gauze. Her fingers were long and beautiful, her nails just long enough to have those white tips that felt sublime when they ran down a man’s back.

“You have done this before,” he grumbled, his voice deeper than it had been a minute ago. Watching her did that to him.

She shrugged again, and he noticed then that she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Was she as aware of him as he was of her?

“Told you,” she said shortly as she stepped to the side and sat. She got right back up again. “Hate the quiet.”

He just barely caught her mumbled words as she disappeared down the hall and had only gotten in two deep breaths before she was back, an iPod dock in her hands, which she plugged in and fiddled with for a second. “Any preferences?” she asked over her shoulder.

Nothing that’s gonna make me want to fuck you to it.
“Nothing too heavy.”

Marley’s “Jamming” came on, and it was all Vincente could do not to roar at her to shut the motherfucking thing off. Did people do anything
but
fuck to that song?

But he sat there like a good boy. Silent and strung tighter than a six-string as she came over. And didn’t he nearly snap in half when she claimed her chair and spread her legs so she could snug up to his left side? Holy hell, but he was gonna lose it here.