Hard Evidence

  She'd had sex with him a dozen times at least, had been staying with him since Friday night—three days and three nights—and yet she didn't know him that much better than she had before he'd brought her to the safety of his home.

  Yes, she now knew he was a martial-arts expert, capable of killing with his bare hands. She knew he liked his salsa hot and ate peanut butter from the jar. She knew how to make his entire body jerk with a flick of her tongue. But she didn't know him. He never asked her for anything, never talked about himself or his life, never shared his concerns unless they related directly to her.

  And yet, strangely, she felt closer to him than she'd ever felt to any man. Okay, so maybe that wasn't saying much. It could be that her feelings were nothing more than the intoxicating result of the physical intimacy they'd shared—hours of soul-shattering sex. Either way, she wished she could touch him inside, wished she could reach that part of him he kept hidden, wished she could drive the shadows away.

  Sometimes when they made love, he seemed to open up, telling her with his body that he cared for her, seeming to need something from her that went beyond the physical. But no matter how passionate or expressive the sex, no matter the tone of his voice when he called her name, no matter how tightly he held her afterward, his reserve never completely slipped.

  The space between them served as a constant reminder that this wasn't permanent. He would be leaving her life as soon as his assignment was completed. The distance left Tessa on the brink of a happiness she couldn't quite claim, knowing the loss that would follow. It was like standing on the edge of a sunrise.

  She rose from the new kitchen table that served as her desk, walked to the back door, latte in hand, and tried to shift her thoughts back to her investigation. Outside, sunlight struck diamonds off the snow. Icicles dripped from the eaves. A crow stood in the bare branches of a small tree and croaked its opinions to the world.

  She'd turned in today's article early, having had lots of time to work on it over the weekend while Julian was away. A follow-up to her last piece, it included an interview with the U.S. attorney's office, as well as State Department officials, describing the breadth of the human-trafficking problem, both in the United States and globally, and what steps the country was taking to combat it. The work had given her something to do during the long, dark hours besides wonder whether Julian was still alive.

  He'd been out until the early morning hours both Saturday and Sunday nights doing God knows what. He'd come in, tense and angry, had taken a shower, and then made long, slow lnve. tn her She'd's»iven him evervthintx she. conlrt trieri tn ease the darkness she felt inside him, then had fallen into an exhausted sleep beside him.

  And here she was thinking about him again when she should be working.

  She turned back toward the table, set her latte down, and gathered up her notes from the State Department interview. Her gaze drifted to the page, and she smiled. The spokesman had used the term "Red China"—a phrase she'd thought had gone out of usage before she'd been born. How very Richard Nixon of him. Perhaps he'd been working for the feds since—

  What color Mafia?

  Syko's words came back to her in a rush of adrenaline.

  Red Mafia.

  She shuffled through documents until she pulled out Lon-nie Zoryo's autopsy. Her gaze darted over the page, looking for one thing. And there it was.

  "Birthplace," she read aloud. "Gzel, Russia."

  She picked up her secured phone and dialed the State Department.

  Julian punched in his code, unlocked the door, and stepped inside, shutting out the night behind him. It felt so damned good to be home.

  Home?

  When had he started thinking of this place as home?

  The answer slept on the couch, one small foot peeking out from under the quilt she'd taken from his bed. She'd been in the middle of reading something when she'd dozed off, the pages scattered across the floor beside her now-empty hand. Her face was relaxed, her lips parted, her lashes dark on her cheek. He'd told her more than once that she shouldn't wait up for him, but he knew she had trouble sleeping when he wasn't here.

  He stood for a moment, watched her sleep, drank in the sight of her safe and sound, feeling the familiar stirring in his chest. Then he walked quietly off to the bathroom, threw his clothes into a heap on the floor, and stepped into a hot shower, his skin covered with the stink of cigarettes, cheap women's perfume, and violence.

  Tonight had been productive, but it had also been hell. He'd spent the afternoon tracking down some of the leads he'd gotten from Dr. Norfolk and had located two more cribs, both of which seemed to be doing a booming business. He'd called them in to Irving, put them under surveillance, and then headed over to Pasha's. For a while he'd watched from the hotel room window down the street, where cameras were still rolling twenty-four-seven. Then, when the place looked busy, he'd walked across the parking lot and slipped into the slimy skin of Tony Corelli.

  He'd watched Irena dance, bought her a couple of drinks, and was pushing her for a private invitation to the back rooms when a big brute with no neck and a thick Russian accent had come out of nowhere, grabbed Irena by the arm, and demanded she come with him.

  "The lady's already occupied," Julian had said in his best Brooklyn Italian.

  The bastard had snarled at him, called him a huyesoska—a cocksucker, if Julian remembered his Russian—then grabbed him by his leather jacket and tried to throw him out of his seat. Julian might have dropped him to the floor, but just as the bastard grabbed him, he'd caught a glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from beneath the asshole's shirt.

  The Tiger.

  He'd allowed himself to be flung aside, then watched as the man who was in all likelihood Zoryo's replacement dragged Irena through the crowd toward the guarded doors. The hopeless look in her eyes as she'd looked back at him had been a knife to his gut. He'd forced his feelings aside, shut his emotions down, and let her go.

  The bartender, Chet, who'd become Tony's good friend, had taken pity on him, poured him a double whisky, and explained that Sergei was new and had taken a special interest in Irena. "But just between you and me, Tony, the guy's a prick!"

  Julian had played pathetic, sucking down the whisky, angling for sympathy. "Man, you got all the luck. You've probably boned every dancer here, even my Irena. What's a guy gotta do to get some action?'

  Chet had seemed to measure him. "I don't get you, Tony. You're young and good-looking. There's gotta be lots of women want to get in bed with you."

  Julian had shaken his head, then looked guiltily up at Chet, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I like 'em young."

  Ten minutes later he'd been scoping out hidden cameras and alarms as he was led behind the guarded doors to a private room in the back. Chet had set him up with a young, dark-haired girl who said her name was Luisa and who claimed to be from Florida but whose Spanish said Colombia. Julian had found himself in the situation he most dreaded—being put together with an underage victim he was expected to fuck.

  So he'd acted like the part of the randy bastard, forking over the cash, running his gaze over the girl, trading filthy comments with the bouncer. Then the door had shut, leaving him alone with her in a room equipped for more horizontal entertainment than that offered out front. He'd pulled her onto the squeaky little cot, muttered reassurances in her ear, and after a few minutes of PG-rated cuddling, feigned a terminal case of limp dick. Cussing, he'd released her and pretended to be suffering the biggest humiliation of his life.

  "Don't worry, baby. I ain't angry with you. Damn it! This never happens!" Feeling older than Father Time, he'd stroked her young cheek with his knuckles, watched the relief in her eyes. "Don't tell no one, okay, baby? I'd be real embarrassed. Here. This is for you—as long as you don't say nothing."

  Knowing she'd keep his "secret," he'd handed her a hundred, waited a few more minutes, then strutted out into the hallway like a stallion who'd just had his favorite mare. He and Chet had spent the rest
of the evening sharing dirty jokes and big grins, with Julian tipping in twenties.

  "Man, if you need anything—anything—you come to Tony, and I'll set you up just like you did for me," he'd said.

  He'd even bought Sergei a drink when the bastard reemerged an hour later, Irena nowhere in sight.

  "Sorry for the misunderstanding, buddy," he'd said, giving Sergei a friendly slap on his beefy back.

  Julian had left Pasha's hating himself but armed with the information he needed. The place was employing underage girls, some of them likely trafficked, and offering far more than private lap dances. It was likely also the hub of activity for Burien's Colorado empire—a distribution center, a money-laundering operation, a place where men with illegal tastes could meet their needs.

  He'd called in a report to Irving, who'd started the process of obtaining a secret no-knock warrant. If Irena, Luisa, and the others could hold on, if they could just endure the nightmare a bit longer, he would get them out of there, even if he had to die to do it.

  Julian scrubbed his skin, rinsed away the lather, searching for a feeling of clean that he couldn't find with soap. He turned off the water, wishing he could turn off his mind just as easily, then dried off and tied the towel around his waist.

  He found her standing in the darkness outside the bathroom door, the quilt wrapped around her shoulders.

  "Julian?" Tessa looked up at him, touched her palm to his cheek, her blue eyes warm with concern, as if she could see the tumult inside him.

  She dropped the quilt to reveal the soft curves of her naked body. Then she pulled off his towel and knelt before him, taking him into the wet heat of her mouth, the tug of her lips making him fill until he was thick and hard and burning.

  He closed his eyes, buried his fingers in the silk of her hair, and accepted her offering, her hand and lips working in tandem, her tongue stroking him just where he was most sensitive. She was a fast learner. She'd taken to sex like a mermaid to water.

  "Christ, Tessa!" He was lost in her, lost in what she did to him as she built the rhythm, stroke upon stroke, a strange pressure in his chest, his balls already drawn tight. He reached for the bedpost to steady himself, let her control the pace, the first glimmer of an orgasm burning inside him.

  She was what he needed, what he wanted,

  But not like this.

  "Stop, honey! Stop!" He drew her to her feet, backed her up against the bed, following her down to the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

  He kissed a path down her hot skin until she trembled, tasting her lips, sucking the tight velvet of her nipples, nipping her belly, hungry for her. She twisted and arched beneath him, her thighs parting as he nibbled and licked his way down her body. His fingers threaded a path through the dark blond curls of her muff, then he parted her lips and took her with his mouth.

  Tessa clenched her fingers in Julian's hair as he made love to her with his mouth, his forearm pressed across her belly to control the bucking of her hips. His lips tugged at her. His mouth suckled her. And his tongue—God in heaven!

  Nothing could possibly feel this good.

  She heard him groan, heard a woman's panting cries, the sound of her own voice more animal than human. Then she felt his tongue thrust inside her—and she shattered.

  "Julian!" She cried his name, her body coming apart in a liquid rush of bliss.

  And then he was above her, inside her, the deep, rhythmic penetration of his cock driving her straight from one orgasm to the next, his kiss flooding her mouth with her own musky taste. She wrapped her legs around him, opened herself to him fully, took all she could from him, holding nothing back, as he spilled over the edge and, with a deep groan, poured himself into her.

  Chapter 22

  Tessa woke the next morning with Julian inside her, thrusting slowly into her from behind as she lay on her side, an orgasm already sliding through her as sweet as honey. Her gasp became a low, throaty moan.

  He chuckled, pressed his lips to her hair. "You awake now?"

  "Mm-hmm." She felt as lazy and contented as a kitten, her body replete.

  But he wasn't through with her. He kept his pace slow, spreading kisses across her cheek, the whorl of her ear, her shoulder, his fingers twining with hers above her head. "What have you done to me, Tessa? I can't get enough of you! I can't get… enough!"

  His breath broke on the last word as he shuddered and came.

  They lay for a moment in silence, Tessa savoring the feeling of him inside her, of skin pressed against warm skin, his body hard and strong behind her. "Well," she said, at last. "I'm certainly going to expect more from an alarm clock from now on."

  She took a shower and got dressed, while he headed first into his office and then downstairs for his daily workout. By the time he came upstairs, dressed in a pair of loose cotton pants that tied at the waist, his bare chest beaded with sweat, his hair hanging damp and loose around his shoulders, she had a pot of oatmeal waiting for them and had made a protein shake for him and a hot latte for herself.

  "Breakfast of champions," she said, handing him the shake.

  He took it from her, drank, a hint of confusion in his eyes, the same look she saw there anytime she did anything for him. Had no one ever done anything thoughtful for him before? She pressed a kiss to his breastbone, then sat and ate her breakfast.

  He sat across from her, dug into his oatmeal. "So Irving tells me you withdrew your open-records request."

  "For now." She stirred cinnamon and brown sugar into her oatmeal. "The FBI had nothing so say, so I'm resubmitting my request to them under federal statute."

  He grinned. "The Federal Bureau of Obfuscation. We ask the questions, honey. We don't answer them."

  Tessa didn't find that funny. "So you're not going to tell me?"

  "Tell you what?"

  "What happened three years ago?"

  "Why is that important? Isn't it enough to know that whoever sent that anonymous letter is working for the bad guys?"

  She swallowed the bite she'd just taken. "I feel like after everything we've been through, I have a right to know."

  He gave a snort. "You think because we fuck a few times that I owe you my life story?"

  His harsh words felt like a blow, the sting taking Tessa by surprise. She fought to hide her reaction. "No, I was thinking professionally—outside the bedroom. I'm holding off on the story at your request and Chief Irving's. I deserve the truth."

  He rose, carried his bowl to the sink, then stood for a moment, leaning against the counter. "Okay, but this is off the record—absolutely one hundred percent. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  She watched him as he walked into the living room, sat on the sofa, angry tension rolling off him in waves. He rubbed his hands over his face, then rested his elbows on his knees.

  "Three years ago, I was working under deep cover in Mexico, where I'd infiltrated an organization run by three crime bosses, one a Mexican official, the other two here in the U.S. I worked together with Mexican agents, at the same time supervising teams in two U.S. cities. It had taken five years to reach the point where I felt we were ready to take them—five years of watching these men brutalize women in every possible way, five years of pretending to be their friend, five years of pretending to like what they liked."

  Tessa sensed the rage bottled inside him, saw regret in the hard lines of his face, and felt sick for him. "I can't imagine—"

  "No, Goldilocks, you sure as hell can't." He gave a snort and glanced over at her, his eyes hard. Then he stood and walked over to the window, his back facing her, his bruises now purple. "We had synchronized our operations, planned to move at the exact same moment so that none of the suspects would have time to warn the others. We wanted to make a clean sweep, to bring them all down at once, shut down their entire operation."

  She'd spent her career listening to people tell their secrets, listening as they laid bare their pain and shame, and she knew that whatever he was about to tell her wasn't a story he was u
sed to sharing. She resisted the urge to comfort him, sure he would only push her away again.

  Julian looked out the window, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, black ice grinding in his gut. "Do you ever watch nature programs?"

  She cleared her throat. "Nature programs?"

  "I once saw a program where a lioness frightened a mother cheetah away from her cubs and then killed them. The filmmakers could have saved those cubs by firing a shot overhead to scare the lioness away, but they didn't. They sat and watched and filmed as the lioness killed the cheetah babies one by one. They did their job."

  "Oh, Julian!"

  He knew she'd understood the metaphor, knew there were tears in her eyes, but he kept going. She'd wanted to know the truth, after all. She was getting the truth.

  "As we were getting in position, some of my suspect's men returned with three teenage girls they'd taken from a country village. I knew what was going to happen to them, and I wanted to stop it. It didn't seem right that anyone else should suffer, not when we had the hacienda surrounded and were armed like the fucking Marines. And so I notified our teams to move early."

  He remembered the satisfaction of landing a slug in the chest of Garcia's right-hand man, of smelling gunpowder instead of Garcia's nauseating cologne, of seeing Garcia in full restraints, gibbering in the back of a police van.

  "Our operation went off without a hitch. The bad guy and his goons went to prison. The girls were rescued and sent home, terrified but untouched."

  "You saved them." She stood behind him now.

  He spun about to face her, shouted at her. "I did nothing! Our second team got their guy, too, but the third team wasn't so lucky. Somehow, someone got off word to L.A., giving him enough time to get away. His thugs shot three agents, one of whom was the woman I was… seeing at the time. Margaux survived to hate my guts. The other two didn't. I resigned the next day. It was my call, and I blew it. If I'd waited, if I hadn't lost control of my emotions—"

  "Those girls would have suffered horribly." She touched a hand to his face, tears spilling down her cheeks, offering him an absolution he didn't deserve.