Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (8 page)

Her brother didn’t hesitate but nodded and turned toward the door. Noah glanced at Ethan’s retreating back. “Hold on, Ethan, I’m coming,” he called after him before pinning Greer with an intense, hard stare. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Noah. I’m sure.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll call you.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead, stabbed Rafe with a hot glare, then followed Ethan out of the office, taking all of the tension in Rafe’s body with him. The blond was too damn intense. And touchy-feely. He didn’t know which bothered him worse.

She whirled around, fury narrowing her eyes, tautening her mouth.

“Those two are my closest friends,” she snapped. “Did you have to be such an ass?” Not waiting for his response, she wheeled around and stormed across the reception area. She yanked the door open, paused, and shot him another of those green death rays. “And for the record? All the
Die Hard
movies after two sucked.”

Shock slapped him in the face. He might’ve gasped.

“You take that back,” he shouted. But she ignored him and slammed the door shut after her. The hormones. It had to be the pregnancy hormones that made her say something so mean. So…so sacrilegious.

Growling a “shut the hell up” to a laughing Chay, he stalked after her.

The woman had lost her damn mind.

Chapter Nine

Blood. Bright. Wet.

Gaping, ragged tears in flesh.

Bile. Hot. Burning.

Pain. Blinding, hot pain.

Greer jerked awake, jackknifing up. Harsh bellows echoed in her ears, lifted and lowered her sweaty chest. She blinked, but darkness greeted her, the images that had been so sharp fading into dim obscurity. Desperately, she tried to clutch at them, but they filtered through her mental fingers like wisps of fog.

She groaned, half sobbed, and tunneled her fingers through her hair, cursing the black hole in her head. This fucking black hole. God, why didn’t her brain make up its damn mind? Either let her have a tear in her memories that encapsulated a murder, or give her the damn hours—the truth—back. But to torment her with trickles and flashes but still leave her damaged, lost? Broken. She hated feeling so…broken. All her life she’d been made to feel that way. But now? Now she actually was.

One night, damn it. Just one night without the nightmarish visions that had plagued her every night for the last two weeks but never stuck around after she woke. At least this time the episode wasn’t followed by a teeth-grinding headache. Like the one that had sent her to the hospital the night before. Inhaling deep, she tried to calm her racing heart, shove back the fear that still crawled under her skin, curled in her stomach.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Consciously calm the body. Starting with the toes, legs, chest, arms, fingers. Heart. Head. Relaxation techniques, the doctor assured her, would help with the stress and tension that were probably triggering the migraine attacks and nightmares.

Groggy, she slowly reclined until her head met the pillow, damp from her sweat and probably tears. She stared at the shadowed ceiling. Frustration and grief swelled, a tidal wave she allowed to crash over her, through her. The faint pulse of the headache she’d hoped to avoid echoed in the back of her head.
Leave it.
Just leave it for tonight. Tonight other things demanded her attention. A mutilated doll. Rafe. Packing her belongings. Leaving Ethan’s house. Arriving at Rafe’s.

Falling asleep in the guest bedroom.

Groaning, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and rubbed. Hard.

God, she was tired. Stretching across the bed for a short nap was the last thing she recalled. It seemed as if all the worry, dread, and fear of the past four months had crashed down on her shoulders at one time. The onslaught of emotion had dragged her down to the sleigh bed with its simple but pretty white quilt, still numb and shell-shocked over the turn of events at his office. The late afternoon rays that had streamed through the huge bay windows had disappeared, replaced by milky beams and pockets of darkness. When she’d lain down, she’d thought dozing past an hour an impossibility. A restful sleep had been almost nonexistent since her life had morphed into a
Snapped
episode.

Maybe it’d been the twenty-five-minute drive from Boston to Rafe’s Chestnut Hill home with its wooded lot and illusion of complete privacy. Maybe it’d been the glimpse of the security system that had appeared complicated and state-of-the-art even to her untrained eye. Probably both. But in that place in her heart where she couldn’t deceive herself, she admitted the distance and Fort Knox system were secondary to the man who owned the home she slept in.

There was just something about him. Aside from the hair, piercings, and tattoos, because none were particularly unusual. The
something
surpassed clothing or hairstyle. It was in the ever-moving, alert survey of his surroundings. The loose-limbed, smooth stride that reminded her of a stalking feline—graceful, unhurried, but dangerous. As if he could explode into lethal motion at any given second. Add them all up, and he exuded “fuck with me at your own risk.”

Yes, maybe she couldn’t exactly define the
something
. But whatever the elusive thing was, it allowed her to sleep like the baby tucked under her breast. Until the nightmares, that is.

Gingerly, she scooted back, sitting against the headboard. And groaned again. But not out of fear.
Oh, God
. She pressed her palms to her stomach as it pitched and rolled in a sickening wave. Greer remained still for several moments, hoping against hope that tonight would be the magic night the sickness disappeared. That if she didn’t move, the churning would calm, and she could go back to sleep.
Oh, God. Not happening
. She moaned, rolling to the end of the bed as her belly gave a hard lurch. She left the bedroom and swayed down the hallway to the bathroom Rafe had pointed out earlier.

As soon as she flicked the light switch, her stomach rebelled. She rushed across the white tile and had barely managed to flip the lid before the grilled chicken and salad she’d eaten for lunch made a guest appearance. She shook, flushed and aching. Her stomach wrenched hard as irrational fear for the baby’s safety spiraled through her.
No way can this be healthy—

A cold cloth was pressed to her forehead. She groaned, unable to hold in the grateful moan as blessed coldness combated her heated skin and won. Curling her fingers around the edge of the toilet, she emitted a little sob as another wave hit her, and once more she bent over the bowl.

“Shh. Easy. Try to relax. Don’t fight it,” a sleep-roughened voice murmured. Rafe rubbed slow, wide circles over her back, continuing to soothe her with his gentle touch and low assurances.

She’d been so preoccupied with purging everything she’d ever eaten—as well as an internal organ or two—she hadn’t heard him enter the room. In a far corner of her mind, it occurred to her she should be embarrassed. But hell, she was too sick to be humiliated. Too weak to ask him to leave. And besides, she welcomed his presence. For the first time she wasn’t going through this by herself. Ethan had been concerned about her, had empathized, but he’d never breached the bathroom door to comfort or hold her. But Rafe had. Even with how he felt about the situation—her, the pregnancy, being in his home. Her eyes burned with the threat of tears. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized she’d wanted someone there. Someone to assure her that she would be okay, that she could get through this. That she was strong enough.

She sagged to the edge of the tub, exhausted but finally finished. Throat raw, stomach as tight as a vise grip, and legs like noodles, but she was finished. Rafe flushed the toilet, and seconds later nudged a squat glass of water into her hand.

“Rinse, don’t swallow. I’ll be right back.”

She followed his instructions, and when he returned to the bathroom with a robe from her unpacked suitcase, she’d just swished the last bit of water in her mouth, washing away the acrid, nasty aftertaste of bile. Silently, he helped ease her to her feet and into the robe. She shivered as the warmth from the terry cloth embraced her, and chased away the clammy chill left behind by sweat drying on her skin.

He guided her to the living room, slowing his stride to match her slower hobble. Carefully, he lowered her to the couch, and she curled her legs up under her. He tugged a throw from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her knees.

“Be right back,” he said before leaving the room.

She stared after him, the “okay” stuck in her throat. A few minutes ago she’d been too busy waving a not-too-fond farewell to her lunch to pay attention to what Raphael wore—or wasn’t wearing. But as he leaned over her, wrapping the cover around her thighs, every sense, thought, and nerve was solely focused on him. The soft swish of long dark hair as it swept forward, brushing his high cheekbone and hard jaw, barely grazing the slope of his shoulder. The dark, heavy scrollwork accented with punches of blue and red that covered his arms and shoulders. The sexy contract and release of muscle under golden skin—skin that stretched tautly over his bare shoulders, chest, and abdomen. The silky trail of hair that started under his six-pack, forked around his navel, and disappeared beneath the waistband of the black sweatpants that rode low on his narrow hips.

She remembered the strength in those arms and chest. Remembered how he could so effortlessly hold her up as he plunged inside her, stroking, taking her to a place where nothing existed but devastating pleasure and beautiful freedom. Remembered the wide, comforting plane of his chest as he held her close. Remembered how he whispered soothing words of assurance and comfort even as she splintered apart in so many pieces she feared never being whole again.

The quiver in her belly had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with the man who’d introduced her to a side of herself she hadn’t known existed. A side that kicked propriety’s ass out the door and enjoyed sweaty skin twisting against skin, raunchy erotic murmurs, and straining, grasping, fighting for the rapture found in a man’s arms. No, not just any man. Him. Raphael.

And staring after his naked wide shoulders and back also inked in dark tribal swirls, his slim hips, and tight ass, that sleeping side of her stretched, awakening from the hibernation it’d fallen into four months earlier. The last time Raphael had touched her.

Shit
. She dropped her head against the back of the couch and stared unblinking up at the ceiling.
I’m in so much trouble
. For the next few days, she would be cooped up in this house with him, hearing his deep rumble of a voice, inhaling his special sun-and-sand scent, ogling his made-for-sin body. Torture. Pure, unadulterated torture considering she couldn’t—wouldn’t—do a damn thing about it.

He was like an ice cream binge. Enjoy for one night, but not a smart move to indulge in on a daily basis. Not because of their different backgrounds, social circles, or appearance. She didn’t give a damn about those. His background was probably more honest, trustworthy, and loving than hers, and after Gavin’s death and her almost-arrest, he might have more social clout than her. And as far as appearance… Well, the way she couldn’t keep her eyes off his ass pretty much said it all.

None of those sanctioned him as off-limits. It was
her
—her uninhibited, primal response to him. He was…too much. Too gorgeous, too intense, too passionate, too overwhelming. She’d never lost her head with Gavin. In the months since his death, she’d done some serious soul-searching, and she knew that before his betrayal, her ex-fiancé had claimed her loyalty, affection, and respect. But not her heart. And that had been his main appeal. Nothing he could’ve done or said would’ve ever persuaded her to have sex in the backseat of a truck on a public street. She’d never be emotionally out of control with him.

But Raphael…

The passion, the hunger he stirred in her, was a slippery slope to reckless, rash behavior. To emotional devastation. Hell, she was already pregnant. And if the pain of his initial rejection and disbelief hurt her now, how much worse would it be if she allowed herself to fall in love with him?

An image of her mother flashed in front of her mind’s eye.

No
. She cringed. As soon as this whole mess was over with, she would leave, start over living the life she wanted, and raise her baby. Once Raphael accepted that the child was his, they could co-parent, but her focus was a new career in illustration and her son or daughter. And staying alive.

“Here.” A mug with vapor curling from the top appeared in front of her face. “This should help with the nausea.”

She accepted the steaming drink from Raphael and cautiously sipped. The tangy and slightly sweet flavor that flowed over her tongue possessed no resemblance at all to the bland, tasteless tea she’d been drinking. She waited. Usually after a bout of sickness she didn’t eat or drink anything, afraid it would quickly make the return trip back up. But the spicy tea swept a warm path down her throat until peacefully settling in her stomach. Humming in pleasure, she savored another taste of the tea.

He sank onto the chair next to the couch, his long legs sprawled out in front of him and his long-fingered hands intertwined over his flat belly. Dragging her hungry gaze off the expanse of smooth skin and toned muscle, she peered down into the cup.

“What kind of tea is this?”

“Ginger.” He yawned, wide and hard. “It’s supposed to help with morning sickness.”

She froze in the middle of lifting the mug to her lips. “How did you know I suffered from it?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “And I didn’t get a chance to ask before you fell asleep. But just in case, I had Chay drop off some things for me on his way home from work.”

“Oh.”
Wow
. His thoughtfulness was…nice. And at total odds with the Ice Man routine she’d nearly gotten hypothermia from. “Have you been through this before?”

He didn’t immediately reply, and she glanced over at him.

He appeared the same—hair a dark tangle around his face and shoulders, slouched in the chair, legs stretched out in a loose, wide vee. The same except for the cooling of his eyes, the firming of his mouth, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, and fingers that clenched so tight the knuckles paled. That quickly, the Ice Man had returned.

“I have two older sisters who’ve been pregnant two times each and a mother who believes in natural remedies. I picked up on a couple of tricks.”

She nodded and stared down into the cup, because it meant she wasn’t looking at him. “You seem to be making a habit of running to my rescue,” she murmured. Her heart beat a steady, loud tattoo as she lifted her head. “About what happened in the police station—”

“Forget it.” He dipped his chin in her direction. “That happen often?”

She swallowed, the abrupt dismissal of her apology stinging. Parting her lips, she almost surrendered to the urge to push the subject. Make him listen. But the cold, hard expression warned her to leave it alone. Instead, she went with the obvious change of subject.

“The morning sickness?” she asked. When he gave a grunt of assent, she rubbed a hand over her midsection. “Yes. Usually first thing in the morning when I wake up and at night around the time I go to bed. I guess because I fell asleep so early, it was just waiting on me to roll over to make an appearance.”