Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (10 page)

“Illustration?” he repeated, mind whirling.

She nodded. “I want to be a children’s book illustrator.” Her fingers went to the top of the smock and released the first button. “I know it sounds silly.”

“Not at all.” He studied her, the careful movements as she slid off the shirt, folded it, and set it on the table. Followed her as she squirted dish detergent on a plate before picking up a brush and scrubbing it. “Why do you do that?” he asked abruptly. Her head jerked up, eyebrows arched in question. “Not that,” he waved toward the brushes. “Why do you qualify the things you say? You’re not talented. A children’s illustrator is silly. If you’re not an artist, then who the hell are you, Greer?”

A lost, almost haunted shadow passed through her green eyes, reminding him of the mysterious forest on her easel.

“I don’t know,” she finally whispered.

The impact of the soft, sad admission reverberated in his ears like a deafening shout. His fingers curled at his sides as he fought the need to reach for her, drag her close, rejection of his touch be damned. He wanted to press his lips to the lids of those troubled eyes, and then lower to her vulnerable mouth and remove the loneliness that scraped over his heart like a rusty, dull knife. He came from a family where hugs and affectionate touching were as normal as Spaghetti Wednesdays. Sometimes a tight embrace said more than “I’m proud of you” or “I love you.” Or “Don’t worry, I won’t let him hurt you.”

He’d seen images of the senior Ethan Addison and his wife on television right after Gavin Wells’s death. If either of those two doled out hard squeezes or teasing kisses, he’d hand over his left nut right now. Noting the rigid set of Greer’s shoulders and the tension in her slender frame, he was confident his boys were safe.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, startling him. “Don’t look at me like you pity me. I’ve had enough of that. More than enough. I may be twenty-six years old and have no damn clue about who I am, what I’m doing, or even what will happen tomorrow. But at least I’m finding out instead of being satisfied with letting others tell me.” Her voice wavered, but even as her lips firmed into a grim line, it strengthened. “So just…don’t do that.”

He held up his hands. “Got it. No pity. Just please, put the paintbrush down.”

Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as she glanced down and realized she gripped a brush between her fingers, jabbing it at him.

“Shit,” she breathed, dropping the tool in the plate full of solution.

He snorted. The curse word sounded almost prudish coming from her lips.
Ruffled
. He shook his head. Oh, yeah, she was definitely ruffled. And probably didn’t want him around to witness it.
Give her some space and time
, his conscience nagged. Fine. Hell if both of them didn’t need it. His stomach took that moment to growl, reminding him of the sandwich he’d come up out of the office to fix. With one last glance at Greer’s straight spine, he turned…

And halted.

Frowning, he edged around the easel and painting, nearing the window. He scanned the drive, at first unsure what had snagged his attention. At the end of the drive, the postman drew to a stop and shoved mail into the black box. Nothing special there, yet he remained at the window. He narrowed his gaze, not on the postal worker, but the rectangular white package sitting on the ground next to the iron base of the mailbox.

A package the mailman hadn’t delivered.

Before the thought finished, he was moving.

Out the room. Down the hall. Through the front door.

Down the driveway.

“Raphael,” Greer called after him, the alarm and sharp note of fear like a dissonant chord to his ears.

“Stay inside,” he barked over his shoulder as he rushed over the asphalt, his feet slapping against the cold pavement. He shoved the discomfort to the back of his mind, all his focus centered on the package that hadn’t been there when he glanced outside his office window a couple of hours ago. Slowing a few feet from the mailbox, he studied the innocuous-seeming box.

Plain white cardboard. Beige packaging tape across the seams and flaps. Cautious, he hunkered down next to it, arms braced on his thighs. His name and address written in bold black letters on the top. No return address or postage. No stains or discoloration. Lowering to his hands and knees, he sniffed. No odor. And no sound.

He rose to his feet, crossed his arms. Studied the box. As part of their training, everyone in the office had taken a course on recognizing suspicious packages, more specifically those containing biological agents or bombs. Chemicals usually came in envelopes, but not always. But bombs, most were delivered in boxes. Some of the identifying markers—oily stains, protruding wires, excessive postage, “Fragile—Handle With Care” messages, peculiar smells—were missing. Yet since the package appeared to have been hand-delivered instead of mailed, some of those might not apply.

He stroked a knuckle over his eyebrow. If he had only himself to consider, he’d open it. But he didn’t. Greer was only yards away in the house. He couldn’t risk it.

“Do you know what it is?”

He stiffened, slowly pivoted. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.”

“You were out here without shoes on,” Greer replied, holding out the black boots he distinctly recalled being in his bedroom closet. She’d been inside his room.
Shit
. That thought should not send a surge of lust through him. Not with a could-be-bomb less than two feet away. He gritted his teeth, ordered his dick to behave, and concentrated on the direct instruction she’d ignored.

“And that’s a good enough excuse to come out here and place yourself in a potential danger zone?” he growled.

Her chin notched up, her features assuming the
who-the-hell-are-you
expression she probably learned at birth. “You were out here,” she pointed out coolly. “I guess I should cower inside while you put yourself in danger for me?”

“Ex-fucking-actly,” he gritted out. “Go back to the house.”

“No.”

“Greer—”

“Forget it.”

You cannot throw the pregnant woman over your shoulder, nor can you snatch her up by the hair and drag her back to the house
, he reminded himself as he aimed a furious glare at her.

“Okay,” he bit out. “If you don’t give a damn about your safety, what about the baby?”

Surprise, anger, then chagrin crossed her features like a slide show.

“Point taken,” she murmured. Without another word, she whirled around and strode back to the house. Once she disappeared behind the front door, he grabbed his cell phone from his front pocket, pulled up a number, and dialed.

In record time, members of the Boston PD bomb squad arrived. They cleared the area and moved the package into a pressurized container by robot with a promise to call as soon as they discovered the nature of the box.

Now hours later, Raphael restlessly paced the living room floor, waiting for his phone to ring. Fury simmered in his chest. And every time he glimpsed Greer’s pale face, the simmer flared brighter, hotter. Whether the box enclosed an explosive device or not, the need to strangle the person responsible damn near choked him. Goddammit, the waiting had him so helpless. Powerless. And he hated it.

Finally, his cell phone rang, and he answered it before the first verse of Aerosmith’s “Love in an Elevator” had time to finish.

“Raphael Marcel.”

“Mr. Marcel, this is Sergeant Derrick Rhodes with the Boston Police Bomb Squad,” the deep voice on the other end greeted.

“Hello, Sergeant. Thanks for calling me back so quickly.” Quickly hell. It’d been four hours since they’d left. But the rational part of his mind acknowledged it would’ve taken them that long to open and possibly defuse an explosive if one was inside the package. “Did you find out anything?”

“Yes, sir,” Rhodes said. “The package did contain a hazardous device.”
Oh, shit.
Rafe’s stomach plummeted toward his feet. He shot a glance at Greer who studied him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. The loud roar howling in his ears almost made him miss the rest of the officer’s explanation. “…wasn’t a live device.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Rafe asked, uncertain he’d heard correctly.

“The device wasn’t live,” the officer repeated. “The mechanism that would’ve caused the bomb to detonate when opened was missing.” He paused. “I know it’s early in the investigation, and I usually wouldn’t give an opinion at this point. But my belief is the detonator was purposefully omitted.”

A hard kernel of fear and foreboding knotted his gut. A bitter cold invaded his veins, freezing him from the inside out. Except for the pounding of his heart against his chest.

“Mr. Marcel, a note was included with the box and device. It said”—another pause, and when he spoke again, a grim note had entered the sergeant’s voice—“it said, ‘Boom.’”

Chapter Eleven

Greer wrapped her arms around her stomach, but barely restrained herself from rocking back and forth on the couch. That veered too close to padded walls and an extra-long white jacket with buckles.

Boom
.

An image of Raphael’s furious expression as he relayed the phone call with the officer filtered through her mind.

He’s letting us know he can get to you any time, anywhere he wants.

Those chilling words echoed in her head like a death knell. All the worse because she agreed with him. Raphael had warned her the day before in his office that whoever was stalking her would only escalate after going from letters to vandalism to a mutilated doll. And he’d been right. This—a diabolical taunting—was definitely an escalation.

A potentially deadly escalation. She shivered.

“How’re you doing?”

She blinked, tipped her head up and focused on Chayot Grey’s solemn angel face. His pretty hazel eyes studied her closely even as sympathy softened his stare.

“Fine,” she said numbly.

“Translation: Someone just threatened my life with a bomb. How do you think I’m doing?” His faint smile was self-deprecating, wry. “Can I get you something? Water? Juice?” He scanned her huddled frame. “A sweater?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

“Okay. I’m going to sit here with you while Rafe ties up the interview with the police.”

She nodded, appreciative of his kindness, and if she could loosen the vise gripping her throat, she would’ve thanked him. Her gaze slid past Chay to the huge window beyond where Raphael stood outside, arms crossed, speaking with a police officer. As if he sensed her regard, Raphael turned his head in the direction of the house. Chances were he couldn’t see inside, but her view of his masculine beauty was unhindered. His wide mouth turned down at the corners, emphasizing the sensual fullness. The early April breeze teased his hair, and the dark waves grazed his hard jaw and the strong column of his neck. The late-afternoon sun glinted off the hoop in his eyebrow and those in his ears. He frowned at something the officer said and rubbed a knuckle over his unpierced brow. A habitual gesture she’d noticed that night in the bar and in his office yesterday. The unconscious act made him seem softer, more…vulnerable.

A breath shuddered out from between her lips. The lethal gift at the end of his drive this morning drove home just how vulnerable, how exposed he truly was. And
she’d
brought the threat directly to his doorstep.

Jesus, if he came to any harm because of her, she would never forgive herself.

“Thank you,” she finally murmured to Chay.

“Feeling slightly better?” he asked, settling into the chair Raphael had occupied the night before after comforting her. An image of his bare chest and beautifully tattooed arms rose up like a ghostly specter. Haunting her. With a mental head shake, she cleared the picture from her mind. Too bad the slow curl of heat in her gut couldn’t be shaken like a martini.

“Yes, thank you. And thank you for coming out here for”—she waved a hand toward the window and the driveway blocked by two police cruisers—“this. You didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “Rafe’s my best friend. Though it’s not written in the code, I’m pretty sure the fine print includes showing up for support when suspicious packages are delivered on his doorstep.”

The dry wit caught her off guard; she expected that kind of retort from Raphael. But Chay, with his closed expression and gentle tones? She was beginning to understand why the men were so close as well as business partners. They might be more alike than different.

Her mouth twitched. “You’re right, I suppose it does. So since you’re in here with me instead of out there, does that mean you’re on babysitting duty?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

She set the drink back on the table and ran her palms over her hair, suddenly too tired to hold up her bowed head. Some of her weariness could be attributed to the pregnancy—as with the sickness, the plaguing lethargy hadn’t quite passed yet either—but if she were cut-the-bullshit honest, she was scared. And tired of being scared. It seemed as if fear had been a permanent bed partner with her since Gavin’s death, the amnesia, and the arrival of the first letter. The unvarnished truth? She longed to lie down and just sleep. And maybe when she woke, this nightmare her life had devolved into would have faded away.

But nothing came that easy, and unless one morning she slid the shower door back and found that the past few months had somehow been a terrible dream montage, then she had to drag her big-girl panties on and face the twilight zone her existence had become.

The front door slammed shut, and moments later, Raphael strode into the living room, his presence wild, vibrant, consuming. His shuttered gaze swept over her.
Hold me, please. Just this once. Tell me everything’s going to be okay.
The cry rose up inside her, but she trapped the plea behind her teeth. But, God, she wanted him to drag her into his strong arms, press her close where she could inhale his unique scent, and know that as long as he held her nothing could harm her. But except for comforting her in the bathroom the night before, he hadn’t touched her. And as he shifted his scrutiny to Chay, she doubted he ever would again.

“You know, between Gabe, Mal, and now you, the police should just give you a hotline number,” Chay advised wryly, rising from the chair.

She recognized the names of Raphael’s friends; when she’d Googled his name after their initial meeting, she’d also come across several articles regarding his and his friends’ involvement in the disappearance of Richard Pierce. The details regarding the businessman’s murder had been from an anonymous “source” and pretty thorough. Including why Chayot Grey had stabbed him. The story had sickened her. And all her sympathy had been for the four boys and not the predatory “upstanding citizen.” Her father was many things—cold, condescending, absent, unforgiving—but he hadn’t preyed on innocent children. As a matter of fact, that was probably the only praise she could assign him.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Raphael said, dragging his hair back and briefly fisting the thick strands before dropping his arm. “Maybe we can get a package deal or something.” Maybe her confusion showed on her face, because Rafe tipped his head in the direction of the now empty driveway. “Our friends Gabe and Malachim have had interactions with the police lately.” A beat of silence passed. “As well as their women, whose lives were threatened. Seems to be a trend around here,” he murmured.

Their women…

The words echoed in her head, and a silly, girly part of her shimmied as if he’d slipped a letterman’s jacket over her shoulders.
Damn
, her rational side immediately leaped in to scold.
How pathetic can you get?
At best, he considered her a confused one-night stand who refused to go away—one he felt responsible for and offered to lend help to in solving her stalker problem. An offer he was probably regretting about now. At worst, he regarded her as a spoiled princess desperate to pin her dead fiancé’s baby on him. A pampered socialite who was using him for his particular skill set even as she dragged him into drama that had nothing to do with him.

Either perception made her cringe in humiliation.

It would be so easy to start relying on him. To start depending on him for her protection and care. To start falling for him and envisioning happily ever after. Then it would just be a matter of time before she convinced herself it was okay he didn’t believe her about being the father of her baby. It was okay he didn’t see her as anything more than a pretty, pampered, useless doll. Everything would be okay and “fine,” because she loved him. Fear that had nothing to do with the packaged threat crept through her like an insidious invader. No, this fear had everything to do with the vapid shell of a woman she could become if she surrendered to her weakness that was Raphael Marcel. Love, as she’d witnessed so many times, was an excuse to settle and put up with a hell of a lot of shit. And Raphael was the only man who’d threatened her resolve to never give in to the humiliation of “love.”

“What did the police say?” Chay asked.

Raphael slid his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “They’re keeping the box and bomb, of course, to examine for fingerprints and to determine if there’s a ‘signature’ that may already be in their system. They’ll file a report and have cruisers drive by, but there’s really not much more they can do but continue to gather the evidence so if a suspect arises, they have something on record.”

That sounded familiar, almost verbatim what she’d been told when her car had been vandalized and the doll left on her seat. Hopelessness washed over her, adding more weight to her already-burdened shoulders. Whoever was behind this seemed to be winning this war of terror.

“But,” Raphael continued, eyes narrowing, “depending on where the asshole with the box parked, I might’ve been able to catch him on video. Come on.” He headed down the hallway, Chay on his heels. “
Shit
. I could’ve looked at the feed. I was so wrapped up with waiting on the bomb squad, it completely slipped my mind.”

She didn’t wait for an invitation to follow…or an order to remain behind.

They disappeared through a doorway at the opposite end of the house from her bedroom, and she didn’t hesitate to follow. A steep flight of stairs descended into a lower level of the house, and she emerged into the man cave of man caves. Part playroom with the enormous mounted flat-screen television, complex surround-sound system, video game console, pool table, and wet bar. And part control center with a bank of computer monitors, drives, and technological equipment she couldn’t begin to name.

The entire basement stretched the length of the house, and it was…impressive.

And intimidating as hell.

With a confidence that shouldn’t have been sexy—but so was—Raphael slid behind the wide, curved desk, and his fingers danced over the keys, the
tap-tap
echoing in her ears. Obviously as comfortable down here as he’d been upstairs, Chay circled the desk and stood behind his friend’s chair, resting his folded forearms on the back of the seat. She hovered to the side, not as sure of her welcome into Raphael’s private lair.

As she waited, she took in the spacious area that seemed to mirror the two sides of her protector’s personality. Laid back, flippant, blithe. And then there was the other half. Brilliant, intense, focused. Hard. She’d been the recipient of both men’s attention. The devil-may-care seducer melted her, invited and persuaded her to indulge in every erotic fantasy she possessed, and some she didn’t know she had. The take-no-bullshit security specialist set every feminine alarm inside her clanging even as he inspired a warm—and dangerously deceptive—sense of safety.

She shifted a step back from him. And another.

Her halting movement must have snagged his attention, because his head jerked up, and he pinned her with an inscrutable stare.

What was he thinking?
She didn’t belong down there in his personal cave? She’d brought a shitstorm right to his doorstep? She wasn’t worth all this trouble?

Her breath caught as his eyes heated, the blue darkening to nearly black as his perusal moved from her eyes, slipped over her lips, and skimmed down to her shoulders, breasts, and lower still. The air stalled in her lungs, the visual survey like a physical caress. She shivered as if his fingertips actually brushed her mouth, molded her breasts, and smoothed over her stomach, teasing her with a sensual touch that left her aching and damp.

Did he hear the catch in her throat? Did he notice the hardening of her nipples under her thin sweater?
Maybe
. Because he snapped his scrutiny upward toward her eyes before quickly returning to the computer monitor.

Just as her knees turned to Jell-O, she sank against the back of the sofa.

The one look had been like a shot of pure sex.

Her common sense must have gone the way of butterfly collars and fanny packs. Because if she had one ounce of intelligence left, she would be sprinting up those stairs to pack her clothes and leave.

Facing a deranged stalker alone. Or making a fool of herself by lusting after Raphael Marcel.

Jesus, it was a toss-up.

“Here,” Raphael rapped out, grim satisfaction in that one word. Chay leaned forward, his jaw hardening, and again, she glimpsed the similarities between the two men. “Gotcha, asshole,” he murmured.

Her legs only slightly steadier, Greer pushed off the couch and edged forward until she had an unobstructed side view of what the two men studied so intensely.

Again, her breath whistled from between her lips, but this time it wasn’t from desire. Fear. Unadulterated fear and horror.

Raphael paused the video feed so the image of his long drive, the black mailbox, the gray, dirty van, and the man lowering a white box to the ground were frozen on his large screen.

She studied the van first—and recognized it as an evasion tactic. She didn’t want to look at the man who may be behind this terror campaign just yet. She needed…a few seconds. Just a few.

The nondescript older-model van could’ve been any delivery van, sans the advertisement on the side panel. Dried smears and flecks of dirt splattered the lower half as if it had been driven through a mud puddle hours before. Nothing special about it. Nothing to identify it from hundreds of others of vans out there in the greater Boston area.

Her heart hammered against her chest wall as she switched her scrutiny to the slightly hunched figure wearing baggy denim and a green sweatshirt with the Boston Celtics logo across the front. Dirty-blond hair hung in a surprisingly young face. Early twenties, maybe. Long bangs concealed his forehead and eyes, leaving the lower portion of his face visible. Still, she didn’t recognize him, and didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. A stranger would be harder to identify and catch. But if he’d been someone she was familiar with, then trapping him would’ve been simpler. But also more of a knife to her heart. So some piece of her was relieved. How crazy did that make her?