Tough. That’s what she was. Tough and smart and beautiful. And there was a part of him that was so damned proud of her and how far she’d come from that young woman who’d suffered nearly paralyzing shyness and self-doubt. A part of him that adored her and scorned himself and the decisions he’d made that necessitated her death.
No. He shook his head, gazing out of his living room window at the cars zooming past on Lake Shore Drive, and beyond, to the calming blue of the lake itself. You’ve made your decision.
As always, the inner pep talk steadied him. And he could admit that he no longer had the time to stage her death, to orchestrate another accident. The clock was ticking down to the final hour, and he had to act fast. It needed to be quick. It needed to be dirty. And it needed to be soon.
Which meant it was time to call in the cavalry, otherwise known as the lowlife Chicago thugs who were threatening to break his knees before breaking his neck…
Picking up a cheap, plastic pre-paid phone, he dialed a number he knew by heart. One quick string of words later, and it was done. Eve’s life—or the end of her life—was no longer in his hands.
It’s just as well, he thought, sighing. It’d been obvious that night when he hesitated in putting a bullet in her brain that he really didn’t have the stomach to see this kind of nasty business through. He loved her, after all. But he hadn’t been able to countenance the thought of the half million dollars he’d have to pay that seedy Chicago gangster—on top of the wad of money he already owed the man—for services rendered.
Then again, time—and an impending deadline—brought clarity. And, really, what was a measly five hundred thousand when compared to continuing to breathe without the help of a tube? Which was exactly what would happen to him if Eve didn’t meet her end soon.
So, yes, he’d done the right thing, calling in the hit. And now all he had to do was sit and wait. Wait to give the big, sleazy assholes with their big, sleazy guns her whereabouts.
Glancing down at the glass of scotch in his hand, he watched the amber liquid catch the light from a nearby Tiffany lamp. It sparkled like agate, reminding him of the style of life he was used to living, of the style of life he deserved.
Raising the glass to his nose, he sucked in the peaty aroma of well-aged malted barley.
Yes, he assured himself. I did the right thing.
She was crying.
He could hear her through the door.
Damnit! The sound of her sobs, of her quiet sniffles, stabbed through him like shrapnel from a car bomb, tearing apart his insides. He was a sucker for women’s tears, no doubt about it. Really, what decent, honorable man wasn’t? But Eve’s had always been particularly heartrending. She cried with her whole body. She shook from head to toe, her tears seeming to come up from the depths of her soul.
His steely cloak of determination slipped, and he pressed his forehead against the cool metal door, fighting the urge to just turn away. From her sorrow. From his own. Then he reminded himself of Ace’s words and metaphorically reached back to adjust his mantle.
Flyboy was right. It was time for him to, if not forget, then at least begin to forgive. To heal his hurt as well as hers. And, yes, as much as it might grieve him to admit it, ever since their reunion he’d been doing his best to hurt her, to give her a taste of his suffering.
Of course, healing their hurts meant he had to start by marching into the room and asking her to answer the question that’d eaten at his brain like a tumor since the day he’d received that wedding invitation in the mail…
He needed to ask her why?
Why had she done things the way she’d done them? Why hadn’t she treated him with a little more respect, a little more compassion? Hadn’t he deserved that?
And maybe after he’d asked those questions, depending on her answers—or perhaps her answers didn’t really matter so much as the act of finally confronting the issue—he could begin to move forward. Move on.
Okay, Billy boy. Let’s man up and do this.
“Eve?” he knocked softly. “I…” He had to swallow the ton of sand that’d inexplicably taken up residence in his throat like the place was a friggin’ Saudi desert or something. “I’m coming in, okay?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, simply turned the knob and pushed into the room.
And there she was, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, Peanut curled up next to her, a loud purr rumbling from the big tomcat until he sounded like a furry, V-twin engine. Yes, there she was. The first woman to touch his heart. The only woman who’d ever broken it…
Her usually sleek, raven-black hair was a bird’s nest, the end of her perfect nose pink and shiny. And her eyes? Well, they were so puffy and red he was hard-pressed to make out the blue of her irises. And yet she was still, hands down, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Shit.
“I want to be alone, B-Billy,” she hiccupped, wiping the backs of her hands over her wet cheeks.
“That’s not what you told Ace,” he reminded her as he edged closer and closer to the bed even as the urge to flee in the friggin’ opposite direction grew stronger and stronger. Now that he was here, doing it, he wasn’t sure he was ready. It suddenly felt as if he was poised to pull the pin on something, and the explosion was going to be far larger than he anticipated.
“That’s because Ace isn’t…” She shook her head helplessly, looking up at him when he came to stand beside her, her eyes begging him for mercy. No doubt she expected more disdain and vitriol from him. Why shouldn’t she? That’s all he’d given her for nearly a year…
Double shit.
Once again, that soft spot inside, the one he’d thought forever hardened, took one long look at her there, expression meek and pleading, and immediately turned to goo.
“Ace isn’t what?” he asked, shoving Peanut back into the middle of the mattress, receiving a loud, disgruntled mrrreow for his trouble. He ignored the cat’s furiously twitching tail and narrowed, yellow eyes as he gently lowered himself to the bed beside Eve.
“He’s not you,” she said, stiffening up like her whole body had been doused in Super Glue when he threw an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the little voice inside his head that yelled, Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! “Wh-what are you d-doing?”
“Comforting you,” he said, his breath sawing from his lungs at the feel of her in his arms again. So delicate and fragile. Like a very fine, very rare crystal vase that had to be protected at all costs.
“B-but why?” she stuttered. One big, sparkling tear leaked from the corner of her eye to trail down her perfect, pale cheek. He reached up to thumb it away, and her breath hitched in her throat.
So soft. That’s what he remembered about her. How soft her skin was. How good it smelled. Like handmade soap, designer lotion, and warm lace. He dragged in a deep breath. That lavish aroma would always make his dick hard enough to hammer nails.
Now being no exception…
He shifted, subtly adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. “Let’s just say I’m putting a little change in the karma bank,” he told her. “Besides, I think it’s time to let bygones be bygones.”
“Do you…” She licked her pale, peachy lips, and his eyes followed the dart of her pink tongue. The sexual beast inside him, the one he’d kept reined in around her since their reunion, began chomping at the bit. Damnit all to hell! She made him feel completely uncivilized, straight up animalistic, in fact. And the way he wanted her, hard, fast, and totally dirty was straight out of the jungle. Anytime he touched her, he was all about the me Tarzan, you Jane. And it was so very annoying that his libido had never gotten the note that she was persona non grata in the whole horizontal mambo department. “Do you mean that?” she finally managed.