I STARE AT FAITH, WAITING for her reply, and while I do not share my father’s name, I cannot dismiss the possibility that her reaction to my tattoo is about her knowing who I am. That she always knew and she’s a damn good actress. That she knows that the words “an eye for an eye” etched in my arm motivated me to come for her and she’s trying to manipulate me as I suspect her mother did my father. And the idea that he and I, men who do not get manipulated, could be by a mother and daughter, grinds along my nerve endings. Or maybe my tattoo, and the words it spells out, simply stir guilt in Faith over the sins I suspect her of, which isn’t much better. Or it could be something else entirely, and considering the way she’s rocked my world, I hope like hell it is.
My fingers flex at her hips where I’ve pulled her between my legs, I repeat my question. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”
“I said admire or fear.” Her hands close down on mine. “Why are you honing in on the fear?”
“It’s a strange thing to say, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart with that condescending tone. And you’re shocked about the word fear? Really? This from a man who admitted to me in the gallery bathroom that people fear you?”
“But not you. You said not you.”
“I don’t fear the Nick Rogers with me now. But the words ‘an eye for an eye’ infer that you might love hard, but you hate harder. That’s who you are, right? You’ll tear my throat out if I ever cross you? Which, I guess makes it a good thing that I have that hard limit. We fuck. You leave. Now, if you want.”
Relief washes over me, and the intensity of it, my desire for her innocence, shakes me to the core. I do not get personally involved, but then, I don’t fuck my friends or enemies, either. I fuck for release. For pleasure. And she’s personal. In more ways than I expected. “I don’t want to leave and until you saw my tattoo, you didn’t want me to leave.”
“I don’t want your kind of viciousness in my life.”
“You knew I was Tiger before you ever invited me here. But let’s clear up who Tiger is. Who Nick Rogers is. I don’t hate. It’s a dangerous emotion that feeds irrational actions. And as for ‘an eye for an eye’… I began my career in criminal law, and in fact, did a two-year stint in the DA’s office that started when I was a law student. I got my tattoo after putting a man on death row for brutally raping and killing a fifteen-year-old girl. So, fuck yeah. An eye for an eye. Only, he’s not dead yet, but you can bet I’ll be in the front row when he does.”
She breathes out. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” I fist my hand and show her my forearm again. “Those words,” I say. “They do matter to me. I read them often when I’m protecting someone who’s been done wrong. I deliver justice.”
She stares at my arm for long seconds before she reaches down and covers the tattoo with her hand, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I reacted prematurely and convicted you for someone else’s sins.”
“Him,” I say, referring to the man in her past that I have a good idea is the artist she lived with in LA.
“You keep going back to him.”
“Because he’s in the room now and he was with us when we were fucking, Faith.”
“This is one night,” she argues.
“This is whatever it turns out to be,” I amend. “And for the record, I don’t stay the night with women or have them stay with me, but I’m not leaving without a fight and at least three more orgasms. Yours. Not mine. And as for him, I keep going back to him because he’s the reason you might try to insist that I leave. He’s the reason you just tried to push me away over my tattoo. And if I’m right, he’s the reason you keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make a statement like that.”
I’ve studied her for three weeks, obsessed over the details of her life like I do every case I take on, because I win. I always win. I know her better than she thinks. But I settle for, “I know enough.”
She studies me for several long beats, her expression tight, her voice tighter as she says, “Macom Maloy. That’s his name and ‘an eye for an eye’ was his justification for doing something I consider unforgiveable.”
“Unforgiveable,” I repeat. “That sounds personal.” And, I silently add, perhaps like murder and blackmail.
“I’m not going to talk about this or him,” she says firmly, her gaze meeting mine, no coyness. No cowering, no lowered lashes and turned head. Just straight up. No more conversation. She’s not having it.
“I’ll let it go,” I concede, clear on the fact that if I push, she’ll push back and I’ll end up at the door. “But I’m not him.” I fist my hand and show her the tattoo again. “I do believe in these words. I do live by ‘an eye for an eye,’ but I apply that in a controlled fashion, and I fight for those I protect.”
She covers the tattoo with her hand again, but she searches my face, studying me, looking for the truth in my words before she says, “I believe you, but sometimes the need to punish—an eye for an eye—gets out of control, Nick. Maybe it hasn’t for you. Maybe it has. But be careful. It could.”
I cover her hand with mine where it rests on my arm, my eyes never leaving hers. “That’s a sign of weakness and I am not weak.”
“Until you are.”
“Not gonna happen, sweetheart. I have a spine of steel.”
“There’s that arrogance again.”
“Yes. There it is. Like I said. It works for me.” My jaw clenches with my need to ask her more questions that I just promised not to ask. “How about those pancakes, sweetheart? I haven’t eaten since about three today.”
“That’s it?” she asks, sounding dumbfounded. “You aren’t going to press me for more? I’m used to you pushing too much and too hard.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.” I stand up and cup her face. “I pushed to get you to say yes to me, Faith. I pushed to get here. I’m not going to push to get kicked out the door. And free will, sweetheart, does not just apply to sex. So,” I pause, and ask again, “how about those pancakes?”
She blinks at me, seemingly stunned by me actually doing what I said I’d do, which tells me more about Macom. I might be a bastard, but not his kind of bastard. “I can’t make you pancakes, Nick,” she says firmly.
“I pissed you off that bad, did I? You’re going to starve me?”
She smiles and damn she’s pretty when she smiles. “I actually don’t have eggs or milk in the house. I’m not here often.”
“I see. What do you have?”
“Cereal.”
“But no milk.”
“Right. And boxes of macaroni and cheese but—”
“No milk.”
“Right.” Her eyes light. “But I do have lots of ice cream. This is my cheat place. I eat junk here.”
“Ice cream it is then.”
She points to the bathroom. “But I’m going in there first. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m going to the car to get a t-shirt.”
“You have a t-shirt in your car?”
“I always keep an extra suit, jeans, and a t-shirt, in the car.” I give her a wink. “You never know when someone might slice off all your buttons.” I pull her to me, kiss her, and head for the door as her laughter follows. I pause under the archway and she does the same at the bathroom entrance.
She laughs again. “You should have seen your face when I pulled that knife, Nick. I mean, I get it. I should have known it would freak you out. I’m a stranger and all, but you looked like you’d just realized you gone home with Chucky’s Bride.” She turns earnest. “But don’t worry. I’m not as easily provoked as she is.” She laughs again and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to scrub my jaw and run a hand through my hair. Holy fuck. She’s joking about being a killer and the ways that could fuck with my mind right now, if I let it, are too many.
Exiting into the living room, I head down the hallway, and when I reach the foyer I stop dead in my tracks as darkness greets me. The light was on when we came into the house. Suspecting a bad bulb, and feeling rather protective of this woman I ironically came here to prove is a killer and who ironically just joked about being one, I walk to the switch and flip it on. Frowning, I decide it must be on a timer the security company has installed. I unlock the door, and exit to the porch, and make my way to my car, where I open my trunk, and when I would grab my overnight bag, I am instead drawn to the identical one next to it. I unzip it and pull out the two death certificates on top, both with the same cause of death: heart attack. A month apart. Also in the bag is every detail of Faith’s life, and her family’s, heavily focused on her mother, none of it leading me to a clear answer. But I’ve looked in the eyes of more than one killer and I’d bet my practice that Faith isn’t a killer, but not my life. Not quite yet. Not when I’m smart enough to know that I want this woman beyond reason. But if I’m right, and she’s innocent, where that conclusion leads me, I don’t know. But the woman. She leads me right back in the door, to her.
I grab my overnight, open it and pull on a white t-shirt, slipping it over my head, and then pull the zipper, and settle the bag on my shoulder. Shutting the trunk, I waste no time crossing the lawn and re-entering the house. I lock up and flip off the light, having no intention of going anywhere tonight but Faith’s bed. Traveling the hallway, I find Faith in the kitchen, standing at a pantry with her back to me, my lips curving at the sight of her bra hanging on the door handle. Her dress is laying on top of the trashcan and I make a mental note to find that dress and buy her another one, pretty damn certain good ol’ Macom is behind her dislike of other people’s money. Which sure doesn’t lend to the premise of Faith being involved in blackmail.
Walking to Faith’s bedroom, I’m presumptive enough to drop my bag inside the door, and then return to the kitchen. She obviously hears me this time, glancing over her shoulder from the pantry she’s still studying. “I have cherry Pop Tarts,” she says, facing me. “Cool Ranch Doritos, protein bars, and microwave popcorn.”
“The protein bars and popcorn don’t fit the cheating while you’re here theme.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty after all the Doritos and ice cream, and force myself to eat protein bars and popcorn.”
“Ah,” I say. “Makes sense.” And it makes her all the more adorable and she doesn’t seem to know it. “Not to dismiss the delicacy of cherry Pop Tarts, Doritos, protein bars, and popcorn,” I continue, “but what happened to the ice cream?”
“My favorite choice is well stocked,” she says, opening the bottom drawer freezer and waving a hand across it. “I have Haagen-Dazs only because it’s my favorite. My top choice: pralines and cream which is so very, very incredible.”
“Two verys. That sounds serious.”
“It is. It’s addictive.”
Like her, I think, when normally it’s simply fucking a beautiful woman I find addictive, until it’s over.
“I also have rum raisin,” Faith continues, “and I promise you. You can’t go wrong with rum raisin.”
“I’ve heard that,” I say, my tone serious. “You can never go wrong with rum raisin.”
She smiles. “Don’t joke. I take rum raisin very seriously.”
“Only one ‘very,’” I point out. “I predict you choose the praline.”
“I’m still deciding,” she says. “And so are you, because I also have two pints of coconut pineapple which sounds simple, but it’s creamy and sweet and addictive.” Her hands go to her hips. “And each of these pints contain my entire day’s calorie intake, but I haven’t eaten all day so I don’t care.”
“Nerves over the show?”
“Yes. Nerves and the birthday thing. You know. You self-analyze and do all those things the big birthdays make you do. But it’s over. No more of that.” She points at the freezer, but not before I see the flicker of emotion in her eyes I can’t quite name. “What’s your sin?” she asks, glancing back at me, her expression checked now.
You, I think, but I say, “I’ll take the coconut pineapple,” and reach down, grabbing a pint before adding, “because sweet and addictive is exactly what I want right now.” I watch her cheeks flush over that comment, when in contrast, her bold order for me to spank her had not. Beautiful, sinful in bed, and sweet when she’s not. I might be fucking in love. “What about you?” I ask. “What’s your sin, Faith?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s you,” she dares to say. “But as for the ice cream. Praline.” She grabs her pick, shuts the freezer and then walks to a drawer to grab two spoons, which she holds up. “No knives, I promise.” She clunks her pint on the counter. “Though I think I might need to cut this, it’s so solid.”
I motion to the living room. “The fireplace will soften it up.”
“And warm me up,” she says, shivering. “The freezer gave me chills.” She darts past me, my gaze following her to note her bare legs and pink fluffy slippers. Adorable all right, and I’m so fucking hard all over again, she might as well be wearing leather and a g-string, which is exactly why I need to keep my pink, fuzzy slipper-wearing woman away from the knife drawer until I’m one hundred percent sure she isn’t a killer.