Chapter 12
Vincent donned earbuds for privacy, and speed-dialed Benton as he drove. Soon he heard the click of the connected line. “We’re on our way.”
“Don’t lose her. She’ll cut and run at first opportunity.” Benton’s tone was clipped and irritable, making Vincent wonder when the last time the team leader had slept. Like the rest of them, he’d been living off coffee and adrenaline.
“We have to drive, but you don’t. Take a flight,” Vincent said. “Grab some shut-eye. Eat something, Benton.”
“Yes, mom. Gilroy is harassing me, too, so don’t worry. I’m eating my vegetables. What about you?”
“Do I have to eat my vegetables?” Vincent smiled.
“No.” He went silent, and for a second, Vincent thought the line had disconnected. “Do I have to worry about you?”
Vincent nodded. Probably. He was getting an odd feeling about this case. “Don’t worry about me. You’re the one who’s burning out. You should have taken time off before jumping back into the game, Benton. Did you even debrief with the Special Agent in Charge?” Vincent knew what Benton had sacrificed to spend a year inside the Coppola syndicate, and he knew Benton closing this case was the only way the team leader felt justified for making those sacrifices.
“I wrote up my report and handed it in yesterday,” Benton said. There was a slight pause. “Listen, got to go.”
“See you in Jersey,” Vincent said.
They disconnected the line, leaving Vincent worried and tense. Worried, because after a year undercover with the Coppola Syndicate, Benton was too enmeshed in the RICO case to walk away. It was distorting his judgment, maybe making him see things not there, investing man hours chasing incriminating files that Avery said didn’t exist…and now said they did. Both assertions couldn’t be true, yet the case would succeed or fail depending on where the truth landed. He hated that level of uncertainty, especially with this shroud of secrecy Avery added with her refusal to tell him exactly where these files were. Damn, he just didn’t trust her, though he wanted to. The wanting to is what made him nervous.
He glanced at her next to him, and saw she was deep in thought, her gaze on the road. Her clothes were rumbled, and spattered with blood, as was his. He was a guy mid-op, so didn’t care, yet Avery professed a reluctance to retrieve the files. Wouldn’t she seek the delay of cleaning up, and finding replacement clothes? He was suspicious. Him and Avery seemed finally on the same page, yet it was just too good to be true.
He got onto the highway easily enough. Traffic was light. He settled in for the long drive, kicking in cruise control. He could feel her watching him, but he kept his eyes on the road, because she was giving him the vibe that she was in the mood to argue. When her fingers drummed impatiently on the console between them, he glanced at them, and sighed.
“Why do I feel sorrier for your hand than I do for Pinnella’s face?” He lifted her poor, bruised and battered hand, and kissed a spot that didn’t look like it hurt.
“Because he’s a pissant.” She pulled her hand from his grip, dragging the rings against his palm.
It reminded him of something. “I wanted to ask you about those rings earlier. I saw that Pinnella wore one, too, and I remembered seeing photos in the bureau’s files. I researched them again, when you were unconscious, and discovered they’re popular with some of Dante’s men. Not women. Only men.”
She kept her gaze directed out the windshield. “My father had them specially made.”
“Mementos of your father? Six of them?” For symmetry’s sake, maybe. Vincent wasn’t into fashion, so didn’t know, but this was Avery. Her reasoning probably had something to do with self-defense, or offense. Pinnella’s face certainly suffered from her wearing them.
She bit her lower lip, and looked as if she’d ignore him, until she didn’t. “I’ve grown…sentimental since my family was murdered. I wouldn’t recommend it.” When he didn’t respond, she threw him side eye before slouching in her seat. “It comes with a cost.”
So, the rings were probably from family members that died at the massacre? That was something not in her files. A bit morbid to wear them, but understandable, and their history was explanation enough for why she didn’t want to talk about them. He decided to drop the subject of the rings, feeling the necessity to pick his battles. Not because he’d lost his objectivity, as Deming had accused.
Avery wasn’t playing Vincent. He’d studied her just as Deming had, and knew her history. Her agenda was clear. Run with her sister, because she was afraid of her ex-husband’s mania. That he sympathized with the shit Avery lived through made Vincent human, not Avery’s chump. Once she handed over the files, everyone would get what they wanted, except for Coppola. He’d go to jail and Benton could finally relax. They’d rescue Millie, and Avery would be free. And Vincent? He’d keep on, keeping on, just like always.
He sniffed, grimacing, feeling an unease he didn’t want to explore, so he blamed it on Deming’s fish assault yesterday. It was a gift that kept on giving. Not that Avery seemed to mind the smell. She’d fallen asleep, so he turned off the radio and settled in for the long drive, telling himself not to think of tomorrows. They were unreliable, and sometimes they didn’t come.
* * * *
It was the heat that woke her. It certainly wasn’t dreams of her and Vincent, pawing at each other like animals. Despite the air conditioning blasting in the car, she’d sweat through her clothes and her face was sticking to the car’s leather seat. That would wake anyone.
After a few blinks and a yawn, she got her bearings and saw the Accord was parked at a TD bank off the I-95 exit to Hightstown, New Jersey. Her iPhone said it was 8:00 a.m. They’d driven through the night. That didn’t account for all of the time, so Vincent must have parked and slept behind the wheel at some point. Where was he?
Smacking her lips, feeling parched, she grabbed the bottled water in the console’s drink holder, and took a sip. The AC blasted, and the engine hummed. He’d left her alone in a running car, asleep. She frowned, a little pissed, then felt a jolt of adrenaline that had her screwing the bottle’s top back on and tearing at her seatbelt buckle.
This was her shot to escape.
Vincent opened the driver’s side door and sat next to her. “You snore.” He tossed a money bag into the back seat.
“Blow me.” Her heart skipped a beat, as anger—at herself—flushed her system. She’d missed a prime opportunity to escape. She wanted to scream. Worse yet, she worried that she’d unconsciously done it on purpose.
“If you need to use the bathroom, do it now,” he said. Avery grimaced, opening the door, but in truth she was excited because she saw this as her mulligan. Maybe she could slip out a window, steal a car, or hitchhike. When Vincent turned the car off and followed her up the paved walkway to the bank, her heart sank, despite the cool and moist air, the blue sky, the birds chirping in the trees. A perfect day, if not for the colossal shit show of her life. She was due the universe cutting her slack. Why couldn’t Vincent have just stayed in the car? “I’m going to want a location on the files before we leave here,” he said.
Avery kept walking, eyes front. “I’ve known you for three days now, Vincent, and I think you’ve said the word “files” a million times already. You’re a broken record.”
“It’s called message discipline.”
“It’s called a pain in my ass,” she said under her breath.
She walked into the bank hoping the bathroom might give her a way out. But nope. No window, and Vincent was making a big production of waiting outside the bathroom door, so there would be no slipping away. The man wanted a location for the files, and she had none to give him.
She peed, finished up in the stall, and then went to the sink, feeling dejected and a mess. Splashing water on her face, she did her best to clean up, and fix her hair. Face dripping water, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, wincing when she saw her colorfully bruised jaw. What the hell was she supposed to do now? A discrete knock on the bathroom door told her she’d been in here too long. Vincent was getting antsy.
Fine, she thought. When in doubt, go shopping.
He’d taken money out of the bank. She’d make him spend it. They smelled, so even Vincent couldn’t argue the delay. Shopping also gave her an address to plug into the GPS, without showing her true plan to the Feds. She was close now. Millie was within reach. If she could just play Vincent a little bit longer, her sister might yet survive.
Drying off, she left the bathroom, ignoring him as he followed her back into the parking lot like a duckling. Once inside the car, she programmed the Accord’s GPS for a hotel in Jersey City. Vincent was all eyes.
“The files are at a hotel?” he said.
“We need clothes, a shower, and a meal for where we’re going.”
“Why?” He seemed confused. Was she the only one that could smell them?
“We’re disgusting, Vincent. Where we’re going, we need to clean up. And no, I still won’t give you the exact location of the files, because you’ll tell Benton, and then Dante’s snitches will know where to find me.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He didn’t look happy, but he started the car and drove off, leaving Avery to count her blessings.
A half hour later, he pulled into the hotel’s lot as Avery retrieved the money bag in the back seat, opening it. Over ten thousand dollars was inside. She took out approximately one thousand and held it to him. “Get us a room. I’ve got some shopping to do.”
Vincent took the money bag and returned the money to the bag. “I’d never see you again.”
That was the whole point. “Foiled again.” She stepped out of the car.
Walking into the familiar lobby together, Avery stopped a moment and faced the atrium of various stores. It was loud, the stores expensive, and the hotel’s concierge was behind them. Last time she’d been here, she had money to burn, and was in the dark about most things about the syndicate. That Avery, the one with the husband and platinum credit card, didn’t exist anymore. She’d been retired much like most of Avery’s past identities, no more real than the one she used now, with Vincent. Avery had become good at being who she needed to be to get what she wanted. Yesterday, it was dutiful wife. Today, she was schemer, double-crossing snitch. And the only thing those two identities had in common was someone was bankrolling her. Today it was the Feds.
Avery led Vincent to the most expensive store in the mall.
An hour later, weighed down with bags of clothes and accessories, Vincent arranged for a room using fake identification and cash. A bellhop took Avery’s bags and led them to the elevator. The fifth floor arrived, and soon they were in their room, and Vincent was tipping the man.
“Dibs on the shower,” Vincent said.
He stripped on the way to the bathroom, and Avery stopped what she was doing to look, memorizing everything; where his hands went, what his fingers looked like as he undid his belt. How he gripped the hem of his T-shirt before he pulled it over his head. By the time he was in the bathroom and the shower was on, she was swaying on her feet, replaying his striptease.
Vincent poked his head out of the bathroom and crooked his head to the side, indicating he wanted her to approach. “Come on.” She noted the twinkle in his eye. “You can either join me under the water or sit on the toilet. Your choice, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
His smile told her his preference, and if it were another world, and she were another girl, she’d have taken him up on it. “I’m not a voyeur.” She wasn’t sure she’d survive watching him take a shower.
His smile widened. “Then be a participant. You can soap me up.”
“No!” She waved him off, hoping he’d see reason.
“Get in here.” He looked as if he were about to hunt her down.
“Are you naked?”
He chuckled. “Do you doubt it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Well, get in the shower first, and then I’ll come in.”
“Get in the bathroom first, and then I’ll get in the shower.”
She didn’t argue anymore, because it was clear he didn’t trust her to stay put, which he shouldn’t, but it was still irritating. “This is ridiculous. Get in the shower. Come on, hurry up.” She stepped into the bathroom, keeping her eyes averted as he laughed, yucking it up. He soon stepped into the opaque glass-fronted shower stall, and under the shower’s spray, and no, Avery couldn’t resist the urge to watch. She voyeured her ass off.
She wasn’t sure which was more arousing, watching Vincent soap up, or watching him rinse his nooks and crannies. The man was thorough. She had to give him that. Soon, she was sweating, and it was hard to breathe, and her lips were so damn dry she gave up licking them, and simply kept her lower lip in her mouth. By the time he spoke, she was wiggling on the toilet seat, and physically restraining herself from busting into the shower stall to molest him.
“Benton’s chomping at the bit,” he said. “Wants the location now.”
“Where is he?”
“Down the hall—”
“What?” Panic distracted her from her swollen nether regions. “What happened to keeping a low profile?”
“—and our backup team is down one floor.”
“If this hotel is crawling with Feds, Dante will find out, and soon. The news will travel like wildfire.” Her tone should have been sharper. She should have devoted more time and effort to chastising him for going against her directives, but damn… She couldn’t seem to care about anything but what she was seeing behind that shower stall glass. It would replay in her dreams tonight, for years to come, but now, it was testing her control. The man was too damn sexy.
He turned off the water and opened the door, triggering Avery to stand and pivot out of the bathroom. Naked, wet, and willing? No way she couldn’t reach out and touch him.
She upended the shopping bags on the bed and stared at their contents until they came into focus, and she was no longer imaging Vincent’s hot body. Black everything. Jeans, leather boots to replace Vincent’s sneakers, underwear, shirts, and leather jackets to hide their weapons. These clothes would allow them to blend where they were going.
Vincent walked up behind her, a towel wrapped around his waist. His bandage was gone, revealing an angry-looking, scabbed wound on his side. “They look expensive.”
“They are.”
“It will look horrible on my expense report.”
“We need clothes.” He smelled of soap, and stood so close she felt herself swaying toward his heat. He stepped closer, until his naked chest pressed against her back, and his breath warmed her cheek.
“Clothes are overrated,” he whispered, then rubbed his lips against her temple. When her breath caught, he chuckled and stepped to her side, lifting the men’s leather jacket. “Nice.”
Simple. Quality. They’d blend, and that’s all that mattered.
“My turn to shower,” she said.
Vincent dropped his towel, and reached for his clothes. She squealed, pivoting toward the bathroom door. “I’ll order breakfast.”
His amusement shaded his tone, but she was beyond caring. She needed to hide, so she slammed the bathroom door behind her, and leaned against it. Flushed, heart pounding, she told herself not to open the door again, yet, she wanted to see what she was missing.
Him. Naked.
She turned, palms against the door, the one thing standing between her and ecstasy. Then her gaze fell on her rings, on the bruises and cuts on her knuckles, and she immediately knew one thing didn’t stand in her way. A lifetime of being on the wrong side of the law stopped her. What she had to do to rescue Millie stopped her, but most of all, what she’d done, what Dante made her… That stood between her and Vincent more than any door could, more than anything, and like that jackass chasing the carrot on a stick, Vincent would always be out of reach.
Hot and bothered, Avery turned on the shower and stripped to her skin, forcing herself not to replay the images of Vincent naked. She kicked her clothes into a corner, and then stepped under the warm spray, scrubbing and soaping until she washed away the dried blood and sweat, and it swirled down the drain. Her bruises and cuts had bloomed over the last couple of days. They ached and were still sore to the touch. Water stung her abrasions, and her jaw still clicked from the sucker punch. She’d grown rusty since she’d left Dante, mostly because she’d tried to pretend she wasn’t the person he’d helped to create. That meant she’d stopped training. It had been a mistake and these injuries were the result. Three years ago, no one could have touched her…and survived.
When she could no longer control her thoughts, when she not only thought of Vincent naked in the shower, but thought of how it felt to be in his arms, his lips on her neck, on her breasts, holding her, bringing her so close to climax… She turned off the warm water and blasted herself with the cold. Soon, she could think again, and ended her frigid shower feeling more able to handle what was on the other side of the door.
She wrapped herself in the terry cloth robe hanging from a hook on the wall, and then opened the door, stepping into the bedroom. She smelled the food before she saw it; eggs, bacon, home fries, toast and there was coffee on a tray. It rested on the bed, where Vincent ate, fully dressed. She accepted the coffee from his outstretched hand, and sipped as she sat on the bed’s edge. “Thanks.”
He bit into a piece of toast, lounging, and then wiped his hands on a napkin. “Nice robe.” He wiggled his brows, glancing at the belt, hinting she could take it off and give him a show. Like he’d given her? Avery wouldn’t survive the attempt. Though heaven knows she was tempted—extremely tempted—but her cold shower had woken her to more things than an ill-advised romp in a government paid hotel room.
If Avery couldn’t give Vincent the slip, he’d become collateral damage in this battle between her and Dante. In fact, the guy was doing his best to position himself for that fall, urging her to include him in her schemes, her confidence. She needed to resist harder.
He was splitting her allegiances.
Millie had to come first. The Feds and Vincent had to be an afterthought, and that meant Avery had to resist Vincent’s siren call to trust him, no matter how tempting.
“You look nervous.” He was smiling, looking naughty.
She sipped more coffee, and then put it on the tray, picking up a fork. “You make me nervous.”
His smile widened. “In a good way?”
“Maybe nervous isn’t the right word.” She shoveled eggs into her mouth, telling herself to shut up. Yes, she wanted Vincent. Wanted him enough to think about long, lingering sex. In the shower, on the bed, standing against the wall…anywhere, really. Avery couldn’t remember the last time a person made her feel this way, because nobody ever had, and he did it effortlessly. “You make me want things I can’t have.”
Damn. She’d said it aloud.
Suddenly, Vincent wasn’t laughing. He was staring. She held the robe closed at her throat, and bit into a slice of bacon, fearing she’d open her mouth again. There was something about Vincent that made her default to honesty, and it scared her, because telling Vincent the truth could get them both killed.