Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (14 page)

That was the way Danielle wanted to remember her, but the image of her older sister, her body nothing more than an empty husk on a cold metal slab in some morgue, kept intruding. The detective had claimed the scene appeared as if Carmen had been caught in the middle of a drug buy gone terribly awry; she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anger flared in Danielle’s gut, coalesced in a fiery ball in her chest. Why couldn’t Carmen have stayed clean? Kept her distance from that scumbag ex-boyfriend? If only she’d been stronger… Damn her!

A shudder racked Danielle’s body, and she huddled into herself. On the horizon of her mind loomed a darker thought; it nagged at her. Alex… Alex had something to do with Carmen’s death. Danielle didn’t have proof; the cops certainly possessed no evidence or suspect. Yet guilt welled hard in her soul and spilled over. Had she caused her sister’s death?

She sucked in a breath, and the fresh scent of water, sun-kissed air, and…Malachim. With effort, she peeled her eyes open, and a patch of golden skin met her gaze. A flurry of sensations hit her at once. The firm support under her head wasn’t a pillow but a muscled shoulder. The warmth surrounding her wasn’t the bed’s comfortable blanket but a heavy arm and a thick thigh.
Jesus
. She shivered, stunned. Malachim. She lay beside Malachim—was sleeping beside Malachim.

She stilled and waited for the terror to pound in her chest and the bile to raze a path up her throat at the weight of his body covering hers. A slight instinctive tremor vibrated inside her, but it faded. His arms harbored, not shackled. His legs sheltered, not pried her thighs open for a painful, soul-shredding invasion.

He protected, not harmed her.

Her mother’s neglect, her aunt’s disinterest, Alex’s abuse, Carmen’s addiction—
no! Don’t think of Carmen right now!
Not now. It was too painful. Too raw. She tried to claw her way back to the present—back to the man who offered comfort. She needed him. For just a little while, she needed to feel
okay
.

In her life, she’d been rejected, betrayed, and hurt by those who were supposed to love her; she’d grown to expect rejection and the cruel side of humanity, and was surprised by kindness.

Like Pat’s. Like Malachim’s.

Carefully, she maneuvered from under his arm but didn’t move far. Propping an arm under her, she studied him. The short, white-gold strands on the side of his head lay smooth against his scalp while the slightly longer lengths on top were mussed as if he’d scrubbed his hands over them as she’d often seen him do. Dark blond brows arched imperviously even while he slept, and lashes of the same color fanned thick and heavy under his eyelids. Without the intensity of his gaze, she could leisurely examine his strong-boned, aristocrat/warrior face. The sharp angles, the elegant slope of his nose… She lifted a hand, and the fingertips lingered a couple inches above the sensual curve of his mouth.

He was beautiful.

His eyes opened. Her breath snagged. A fine tremble raced down her arm and settled in her hand. His narrowed contemplation dipped before returning to her face. He intertwined his fingers with hers, brought their clasped hands down to rest on his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hushed in the quiet room.

Nod. Just say yes, and he’ll be satisfied
.

She nodded. “No,” she whispered.

“Okay.” He untangled his fingers from hers and brushed her hair back from her cheek. “What do you need from me? What can I do?”

“Make me forget.” She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Just for a little while.”

His palm cradled her head, and he closed his mouth over hers, towing her under into the sensual world only he could weave. His tongue dipped between her lips, and she eagerly met him, needing more of him.

She crawled on top of his body and straddled his hips. His arms closed around her, and she shuddered as much from the pleasure as the utter sense of safety. Of sanctuary.

His hard, wide palms slid up her spine, gathering her T-shirt. They broke apart long enough for him to whisk the material over her head then feasted on each other again. Basked in each other. Drowned in each other.

“Please.” She fumbled with his button and zipper, lowered the metallic teeth, and reached inside his jeans. Palming him, she released his cock and swallowed his groan.

“Whatever you need, baby,” he murmured, offering himself to her with his soft voice and the sensual roll of his hips. She didn’t pause to think why he gave his body to her so freely. She didn’t stop to consider why she found oblivion and peace in his arms.

She just sank over him. Around him.

Into him.

Chapter Twenty

The tinkle of forks scraping plates and glass clinking underlined the soft drone of voices in the diner. A sad smile quirked the corners of Danielle’s mouth as she scanned the crowd of people gathered to mourn Pat’s death and celebrate his life. He would’ve appreciated holding the repast in the place he’d devoted his life to. Pat had loved the diner and the people who’d frequented it. Julie’s decision to shut down the place for the day and honor him there was perfect.

And sad. So incredibly sad.

She sipped from her cup of coffee. Though a huge, delicious-looking buffet covered the large counter customers usually bellied up to, the thought of downing even a morsel of ham or a forkful of green bean salad twisted her stomach into so many knots it probably resembled a contortionist. She’d called Julie Saturday morning about the date and time of the arrangements. All weekend she’d been dreading the coming of Monday—the day she would have to attend her friend and former employer’s funeral and say good-bye. The sorrow that had lurked just beneath the surface since Thursday night had raised its head to sink its sharp teeth into her.

Malachim had been her savior and sanity these past few days. He’d been there, quietly understanding she didn’t want to think, to linger on thoughts of death and loss—Pat’s and Carmen’s. Especially since come Monday she wouldn’t be able to avoid them. So she’d selfishly allowed herself to be distracted. They hadn’t brought up the “home invasion” or the secrets Danielle was certain Malachim knew she kept. They hadn’t spoken of Carmen or the police’s theory of her being “in the wrong place at the wrong time” during a drug deal gone bad. Instead, they’d played countless hands of poker and Go Fish, watched movies, ate…and made love.

Her stomach quivered, but the tremble had nothing to do with food. Images of the previous night in his arms stole across her mind in a vivid, erotic display. Heat streamed inside her as if the blinds to her self-induced abstinence had been flipped, and the sunshine warmth of Malachim’s passion and generosity flooded through. He’d been so free with himself—his laughter, his care, his body. He’d given, and she’d greedily taken, recognizing this would be the only slice in time she had with him. The only chance she would have to experience the intense hunger and passion as well as the healing.

She’d taken because she needed those memories to cling to when she left Boston.

Sighing, she placed the cup and saucer on the Formica table. The mugging, the break-in, Pat’s death, Carmen’s murder—she couldn’t deny the nagging theory that had haunted her ever since the night of the attack in her apartment.

Alex had found her. And those closest to her—those who stood in his way of reclaiming his wife—would pay the price.

It was only a matter of time before Malachim joined the doomed list.

No matter what, she couldn’t allow that to happen.

She had to disappear again. Danielle Warren would have to fade into obscurity and another alias would be born. And this time, she would stick to her rule of not forging friendships or…affections. After the harsh, agonizing lessons learned here, she wouldn’t forget.

“Hi, Danielle.”

She opened her eyes and summoned a small, shaky smile for Walt. He hadn’t been too far from her side since the funeral, his quiet, concerned gaze following her. It was comforting, yet served as another reminder of why she was fleeing Boston. Another attachment she should have avoided. Another target for Alex.

“Hey, Walt,” she said.

He cocked his head to the side. “You’ve been calling me ‘Walt’ all day. That’s how I know you’re hurting. No ‘Tres.’”

“Dead giveaway, huh?” She shook her head. “Thank you, by the way. For…everything. I really appreciate you staying by my side. You don’t have to.”

He shrugged, sliding a small plate of food in front of her. She tried not to stare at the slices of chicken breast, the yeast roll, corn, and green beans. But the scent of the food tickled her nose, causing her belly to protest with a nauseous roll.

“I don’t mind. I can only imagine how hard all of this has been for you.”
Since you witnessed his murder
was left unspoken, but it stood between them like the relative everyone hated to invite to a party. “Um, I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. “What are your plans about living arrangements? I assumed you wouldn’t return…” His gaze flicked toward the ceiling.

“No,” she murmured, picking up the roll and tearing off a tiny sliver. “I can’t go back there. I haven’t really decided yet. I’m staying with a friend.” Her throat tightened around the innocuous sounding term. “But I’m searching for another place.” Another place, another city, another identity.

“Well, my father owns several rental properties all over the city. We’re not a Disney Channel family, but if I put in a good word for you, I know he would lease you an apartment.”

“That’s so sweet, Walt. Thank you. I’ll let you know, definitely.”

He offered her one of his shy smiles. “You do that. And if you’re not going to eat that roll, you might want to put it out of its misery.”

“Oh.” She glanced down and noticed the bread littered the plate like confetti. Lifting her head, she had her first real smile of the day. “I think it’s learned its lesson.”

He folded his tall, lanky frame into the booth, and she scooted closer to the wall, allowing his legs plenty of room.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Alone,” he said, his dark eyebrows lowering into a frown. “Yesterday, a man came in asking about you.”

Fear skated over her skin, leaving pebbled flesh behind.

“A man,” she repeated, reaching for calm but coming up woefully short.

Walt nodded. “He asked questions about how long you’d worked here, if I knew where you were then. I avoided answering any because he didn’t, I don’t know,” his frown deepened, “sit right with me, I guess. Pat has—
had
—all types who came in here, but he didn’t fit.”

She swallowed. The inside of her head had transformed to an empty chamber where the faint gulp bounced off her skull.

“That’s weird,” she managed. “What did he look like?”

“Late forties, early fifties maybe. Tall, well-dressed, dark hair. Slick. He reminded me of the men who work for my father. You know, seem friendly, smiles, but don’t seem to think much of you.”

Oh, yes, she definitely recognized the type Walt described. She’d encountered such phoniness when she’d married Alex. A poor, scholarship Latina marrying a scion of the old-money Southern community. In many people’s eyes, she’d been a gold-digging illegal who should’ve been standing on the corner waiting for a work truck to stop by, not an educated, successful American attorney and hostess.

“I don’t know if he planned on returning, and I wanted to warn you just in case.” Walt paused, tapped the blue and white spotted Formica tabletop. “Danielle, I know we aren’t close like you and Pat were, but,” he straightened his shoulders and shifted his hands beneath the table, “if you’re in trouble and there’s anything I can do to help, I would. This guy…” He shrugged. “Anyway, please know I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Walt. I appreciate—” The automatic denial spilled from her lips almost before he finished offering his assistance, but then she stopped. She
did
need help. The first time she disappeared, the domestic violence advocate had given her a connection with the means to create a new identity for her. Finding a person to do the same here, in Boston, would be not only next to impossible but dangerous. But with his computer background and skills, Walt might be able to aid her…

But no. She shook her head. As tempting as the idea was to request help from Walt, she couldn’t place him in the sights of Alex or the person who’d come looking for her yesterday. Couldn’t—
wouldn’t
. Alex had found her faster than she’d thought possible, which meant that now she would have to disappear differently. No fancy identification documents or connections with this “life.” She would have to go completely off-grid as in no cell phone except for throwaways she would use only in case of emergency, low-skill cash-only jobs, temporary-living residences…no paper trails at all. A deep pit of sadness yawned wide under the steely resolve. No roots. No friends.

She inhaled. Exhaled a long breath. And met Walt’s steady gaze.

“Danielle?” Walt nudged.

“Nothing, Walt. I really appreciate the offer.” She summoned a small, shaky smile. “Just…thank you for being a friend.”

He nodded. “Always. Any time you need me, I’m there for you.”

…

Danielle stepped into the weak winter sunlight. The bell on the diner door clanged merrily as it swung shut behind her. She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and dialed the number for the law office. She’d promised Malachim she would call him when the funeral ended to let him know she’d arrived at the diner for the repast. His concern for her safety still caused warmth to swirl in her belly.

“Jerrod & Associates.”

Danielle smiled at Bethany’s cheerful voice. Even though she’d only worked with the receptionist a short amount of time, she would miss her. “Hi, Bethany. This is Danielle.”

“Hi,” the secretary replied, her tone immediately softening. “Malachim told us there was a death in your family. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine…better,” Danielle amended. “Thank you for asking. Hey, is Malachim available?”

“He’s on a conference call at the moment. I can have him call you back.”

She shook her head even though the other woman couldn’t see the gesture. “No problem. I’ll talk to him later.”

“Hey,” Bethany called out. “Before you hang up, I have a message for you. Christopher Jerrod called about an hour ago and asked me to have you contact him when you came in.”

Shock stole her voice, but after several moments, she scrabbled to find it. “Okay, thank you.”

She hung up, stared at the cell for several long moments before turning and retracing her steps into the diner. Her stomach churned, and she swallowed hard, forcing the wave of nausea down. She rounded the counter, pushed through the swinging kitchen door, and picked up the phone off the mounted receiver. With clumsy fingers, she withdrew his crumbled business card from her jacket pocket and dialed.

“Christopher Jerrod.”

“Mr. Jerrod?” she said, the steady tone belying the tremor in her hands. “This is Danielle Warren.”

“Ms. Warren,” a smooth voice greeted her with a joviality that grated her eardrums. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

“I’m just returning your phone call.”

“Yes. I know. I hated having to track you down. But”—his voice hardened, went cold, brisk—“We have business to discuss.”