Chapter 13
He noted Avery’s shaking hand with dismay. Delicate, battered, she seemed to collect bruises. The one on her jaw was almost as green as her eyes now, though it was fading. Her knuckles were raw, scabbing and deep purple. They had to hurt. And she was upset. He was upset, too.
She’d said he made her want things.
Well, she made Vincent want things, too, things he hadn’t wanted since forever. Since before Madeline. It was folly. He liked to think his ex-wife had flushed those ambitions from his system, but here he sat on a bed in a hotel room, feeling emotions that had long been dormant. Emotions he didn’t even want to name.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s late morning, day three of our search for the Coppola files. You’re overdue to produce another excuse for why you’re not handing them over.” He glanced at his watch, and then nodded. “Yup. Overdue.” He threw her an expectant smile, and then waited for her response.
She blushed and looked away. “We need to run an errand first, then you’ll get your files.”
And bam. An excuse, with barely any hesitation. She was getting good at this. An errand. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. He could picture him now in his hotel room, pacing, wondering why Vincent wasn’t texting him the location. In Vincent’s estimation, that Benton wasn’t calling for an update made him fucking Superman, because even Vincent’s impatience was off the charts. “And will you be sharing the details of this “errand” we’ll be running?”
She adjusted herself on the bed’s edge, and quickly cleaned her plate, making him wonder if her appetite had returned, or if she was keeping her mouth full to have the excuse of delaying an answer. After she’d swallowed, patted her mouth with the cloth napkin, she took a sip of coffee. Only then did she looked at him.
“When we’re in the car,” she said, “I’ll program the GPS. You will not share our destination with Benton, or I’ll bail. Got that?” She widened her eyes, and her intensity told him it was a deal breaker. “I mean it, Vincent.”
He sighed, thinking he was willing to lose this battle if it meant he’d win the war. “I want Coppola implicated and in jail. If this errand gives me that, I’m okay with it.” She couldn’t hide her relief. “When do we go?”
“One-thirty. The man I need to see won’t be available until then.”
Vincent grimaced. That meant hanging around the hotel room for two and a half hours. Two and a half hours of him not seducing her and wanting to. Two and a half hours of wondering if she’d kiss him back if he reached for her. Two and a half hours of hell.
“Fine,” he said.
“Thank you.” She nudged a wet lock behind her ear, sipping coffee, looking like just another woman who might be enjoying a vacation at a posh hotel. For her sake, he wished it was true, but it wasn’t. She was burning her candle at both ends, and he was concerned. Shouldn’t she be freebasing ibuprofen, taking ice baths, and pampering herself? Instead, she acted as if it was just another day in the life. It bothered him, making him fear Coppola conditioned her to take pain for granted.
“Did Coppola beat you?” Just the idea of someone putting violent hands on her filled him with rage.
Avery startled, paused, and then shook her head. “Not his style.” Vincent felt a wave of relief run through him, and it was only then that he realized how badly he’d needed to hear her denial. “Dante isn’t a hands-on kind of guy. He has others do his dirty work.”
Shit. “And did they?”
“None of your business.” She narrowed her eyes, as if offended he’d asked, yet there was no outrage in her tone. It sounded to him like she simply didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew he wouldn’t rest easy until he got that answer. He was having a hard time matching up the Avery he’d come to know, and the one in her files, who was raised in a crime family, who chose to marry the man responsible for her family’s massacre. Physical abuse would explain it; Stockholm Syndrome. Otherwise, Avery didn’t make sense. Deming would know. That’s what her voodoo was all about; taking people apart and predicting their behavior.
“Why’d you leave your husband?” His ex, Madeline, left for money and social status, or at least that’s what he’d told himself. Avery lost both of those things when she’d left Coppola, but she’d left him anyway.
She sipped her coffee, agitated. “That’s personal, and you’re a Fed. When this is over, I don’t want my secrets used to fatten that thin file you showed me back at the sheriff’s office.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Probably.
Avery must have seen his internal waffling, because she cracked a smile. “You’re horrible, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Your life is your job. Have you ever had a successful relationship? I mean, other than with a gun?”
Hmm. She made him wonder if she had access to that same voodoo Deming used, because she’d zeroed in on his flaws without noticeable effort. Deming called her a quick study. As much as he was having a hard time understanding her decisions, Avery didn’t seem to have difficulty filling in all his blanks. He blamed his inability to understand women; not their priorities, their mercurial moods. Lots of guys didn’t understand women, but he seemed to have a bigger deficit than most.
“My ex-wife said she loved me,” he said, “and then cheated on me because she’d missed me so much.” He narrowed his eyes, curious if Avery would sympathize with his ex-wife or him. With women, it was always a coin toss. “She couldn’t handle me being away from her while I did my tours in Afghanistan, but then married an officer two weeks after our divorce was final, who then went to Afghanistan. She had the loyalty of a flea.” Avery compressed her lips and batted her eyelashes, the image of sympathy.
“She was a fool,” she said.
He sipped his coffee, feeling embarrassment scratch at his pride. “I’ve bared my soul. Your turn.”
“That was your soul?” She snorted, making him smile. “Your ex wasn’t worthy of you. Better luck next time.”
“There will be no next time.” He shook his head. “I’m not looking for love.”
“Men rarely are.”
“And you?” he said, more curious than sensible.
She avoided his gaze. “I have other priorities.” Setting her cup aside, she stood, and gathered up her newly-purchased clothes.
“When this operation is over, you’ll be free. Have you thought of what you’ll do?” He braced himself to hear that she’d want to settle down, maybe marry, have kids. It made him uncomfortable thinking of her with another man.
She shook her head, upset for some reason. “What are you doing, Vincent?” When he had no ready answer, she glared at him. “Just stop it. Okay?” She turned and disappeared into the bathroom with her clothes.
What was he doing? He feared the real question was what had he done? He’d become personally invested in Avery and wanted her happy. No, he’d done much worse. He wanted to be in her life. When had he become such a dumb ass?
Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the bathroom, fully dressed, acting as if their previous conversation had never happened. When she flopped on the second double bed, as far from him as the hotel room allowed, she turned on the television full blast, aiming the clicker like a weapon. And that’s how she remained for the next two hours while Vincent worried his problem, pacing and climbing the walls.
When he finally had reached his patience’s limit, and putting his fist through the television seemed like his only recourse, Avery turned the set off. “One-thirty.” She looked at her new gold watch. “Time to go.”
“Where?” He wasn’t in the mood to coddle her, and his tone and expression must have tipped her off, because she refused to meet his gaze.
“I know a guy,” she said.
“Enough, Avery. At least tell me what we’re doing.”
She adjusted her leather jacket, making sure it hid her gun and knife sheaths. “I need something to gain access to the files. We’re getting it now.”
“What?” His belligerence had his arms folded, and him glaring.
“A…key.”
“You sure? You don’t sound sure.”
“A key. I’m sure. Okay?” Clearly agitated, she nonetheless took his aggression, without pushing back. “Listen, we have to go now, otherwise we might miss him.”
“Him. So, a “him” has a key. Fine. That’s more intel than I had before. We’re making progress.” He dropped a fifty on the bed’s side table for housekeeping, and then headed for the door. “I like your shiny stuff.”
Avery looked at him over her shoulder, confused. He flicked a wrist bangle. “The gold seems more your style than those clunky silver rings.” Avery curled her fingers, but that was the only indication that she’d heard him, or cared what he thought as they stepped into the hotel’s hall.
With his tone deafness with women, he supposed her reaction meant he’d probably made a faux pas somehow. Avery saw him as the enemy. Why would she care what he thought about her bracelet? She probably hated him. It did beg a question, however.
Why did he care so damn much what she thought of him?