Born Wild (8 page)

Now
that
made Bill's chin jerk back on his neck like he'd been the recipient of a five-finger sandwich. “I thought that's what
you
were going to do.”

Ace rolled his eyes, heaving a long-suffering, overly dramatic sigh. “She'd much rather that comfort come from you, you nitwit.”

No, she wouldn't. No way. No how. “She would?”

“Without a doubt,” Ace stated with conviction. “So get to it.”

“But…” He glanced back at Mac who was still seated at the conference table.

All right, it was confession time. Because in all honesty, the thought of going upstairs to comfort Eve scared the living shit out of him. He may never be able to forget what had happened, he may never be able to trust her again, but that didn't mean he didn't still want her more than he wanted his next sunrise. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he figured he'd never stop wanting Eve. And that meant, in order to save himself more grief and misery, he had to stay away from her whenever he possibly could.

Now being the perfect example.

“Don't we still have things to discuss?” he asked Mac, and it was only partly a stalling tactic. Because Bill hadn't missed the flicker in Mac's eyes when Eve asked if he really thought whoever was doing this was someone she knew. Mac smelled a rat. Bill was certain of it. “Like, who you suspect is
really
behind these attempts on her life?”

“I don't know who's behind them,” Mac said, his expression contemplative.

“There,” Bill pointed a finger at the guy's face. “That look right there tells me you know more than you're saying.”

Mac shrugged. “Here's what I know. There are usually two reasons people commit premeditated murder.”

“And those are?”

“Love and money.”

“Jesus,” Bill swiped a hand over the back of his neck where a patch of goose bumps had suddenly erupted. Love and money, huh? Well, shit. That could mean only one thing. “So you suspect it's someone
very
close to her,” he murmured, unconsciously shooting a worried glance toward the stairs leading to the third floor.

“Let's rule out everything else first,” Mac stated. Then he added, “But let's do it in the morning. Because right now, I'm tired as a cactus.”

Ace snorted. “You've been hanging around with the ragin' Cajun too long, Mac my man.”

“Hey,” Mac frowned, “I'm from Texas. We have our own expressions and—”

Bill stopped listening, instead turning his full attention toward the staircase.

Did he dare?

“Go,” Ace came up beside him, giving him a little shove even as Mac continued to rant about the superiority of Texans when it came to the inventiveness of Southern colloquialisms. “But I warn you, you better just talk to her, just comfort her. I don't want to hear you up there smudging her cookies.”

“Smudging her what?” Bill asked, only half listening since all his attention was focused on those stairs. Was it a stairway to heaven or hell?

“You know what I'm talking about,” Ace insisted. “Eating her cake, flicking her bean, smudging her cookies. None of that.”

And,
shit
, had his thoughts been plastered all over his face?

He turned to lift a brow at Ace who flattened his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I can see the gerbils spinning the wheels in your head. But I trust you to keep them, and yourself, in check. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course I can,” Bill said, but he wondered who he was trying to convince more, Ace or himself. Then he decided there was no use standing there pondering imponderable thoughts, so he pulled his determination around himself like a steely mantle and stomped across the room to the metal steps.

Somewhere on Lake Shore Drive

11:02 p.m.

She needed to die. It was the only way…

And it broke his heart that's how it had to be. But there was a law in the jungle: Eat or be eaten. And, as sad as it might sound, it didn't matter what the relationship was. The female praying mantis ate her lover. The chimpanzee was known to eat his enemy. Even polar bear fathers had been filmed killing and eating their young.

He didn't make the rules, by God. But he'd certainly learned to live by them. And the only way he could see to get free of his current predicament was for Eve to meet her maker.

Unfortunately, she was proving far more difficult to kill than he ever imagined…

Tough. That's what she was. Tough and smart and beautiful. And there was a part of him that was so damned proud of her and how far she'd come from that young woman who'd suffered nearly paralyzing shyness and self-doubt. A part of him that
adored
her and scorned himself and the decisions he'd made that necessitated her death.

No.
He shook his head, gazing out of his living room window at the cars zooming past on Lake Shore Drive, and beyond, to the calming blue of the lake itself.
You've made your decision.

As always, the inner pep talk steadied him. And he could admit that he no longer had the time to stage her death, to orchestrate another accident. The clock was ticking down to the final hour, and he had to act fast. It needed to be quick. It needed to be dirty. And it needed to be soon.

Which meant it was time to call in the cavalry, otherwise known as the lowlife Chicago thugs who were threatening to break his knees before breaking his neck…

Picking up a cheap, plastic pre-paid phone, he dialed a number he knew by heart. One quick string of words later, and it was done. Eve's life—or the
end
of her life—was no longer in his hands.

It's just as well
, he thought, sighing. It'd been obvious that night when he hesitated in putting a bullet in her brain that he really didn't have the stomach to see this kind of nasty business through. He
loved
her, after all. But he hadn't been able to countenance the thought of the half million dollars he'd have to pay that seedy Chicago gangster—on top of the wad of money he already owed the man—for services rendered.

Then again, time—and an impending deadline—brought clarity. And, really, what was a measly five hundred thousand when compared to continuing to breathe without the help of a tube? Which was exactly what would happen to him if Eve didn't meet her end soon.

So, yes, he'd done the right thing, calling in the hit. And now all he had to do was sit and wait. Wait to give the big, sleazy assholes with their big, sleazy guns her whereabouts.

Glancing down at the glass of scotch in his hand, he watched the amber liquid catch the light from a nearby Tiffany lamp. It sparkled like agate, reminding him of the style of life he was used to living, of the style of life he
deserved
.

Raising the glass to his nose, he sucked in the peaty aroma of well-aged malted barley.

Yes,
he assured himself.
I
did
the
right
thing.

***

She was crying.

He could hear her through the door.

Damnit!
The sound of her sobs, of her quiet sniffles, stabbed through him like shrapnel from a car bomb, tearing apart his insides. He was a sucker for women's tears, no doubt about it. Really, what decent, honorable man wasn't? But Eve's had always been particularly heartrending. She cried with her whole body. She shook from head to toe, her tears seeming to come up from the depths of her soul.

His steely cloak of determination slipped, and he pressed his forehead against the cool metal door, fighting the urge to just turn away. From her sorrow. From his own. Then he reminded himself of Ace's words and metaphorically reached back to adjust his mantle.

Flyboy was right. It was time for him to, if not forget, then at least
begin
to forgive. To heal his hurt as well as hers. And, yes, as much as it might grieve him to admit it, ever since their reunion he'd been doing his best to hurt her, to give her a taste of his suffering.

Of course, healing their hurts meant he had to start by marching into the room and asking her to answer the question that'd eaten at his brain like a tumor since the day he'd received that wedding invitation in the mail…

He needed to ask her
why
?

Why had she done things the way she'd done them? Why hadn't she treated him with a little more respect, a little more compassion? Hadn't he deserved that?

And maybe after he'd asked those questions, depending on her answers—or perhaps her answers didn't really matter so much as the act of
finally
confronting the issue—he could begin to move forward. Move on.

Okay, Billy boy. Let's man up and do this.

“Eve?” he knocked softly. “I…” He had to swallow the ton of sand that'd inexplicably taken up residence in his throat like the place was a friggin' Saudi desert or something. “I'm coming in, okay?”

He didn't wait for a reply, simply turned the knob and pushed into the room.

And there she was, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, Peanut curled up next to her, a loud purr rumbling from the big tomcat until he sounded like a furry, V-twin engine. Yes, there she was. The first woman to touch his heart. The only woman who'd ever broken it…

Her usually sleek, raven-black hair was a bird's nest, the end of her perfect nose pink and shiny. And her eyes? Well, they were so puffy and red he was hard-pressed to make out the blue of her irises. And yet she was still, hands down, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Shit.

“I want to be alone, B-Billy,” she hiccupped, wiping the backs of her hands over her wet cheeks.

“That's not what you told Ace,” he reminded her as he edged closer and closer to the bed even as the urge to flee in the friggin' opposite direction grew stronger and stronger. Now that he was here, doing it, he wasn't sure he was ready. It suddenly felt as if he was poised to pull the pin on something, and the explosion was going to be far larger than he anticipated.

“That's because Ace isn't…” She shook her head helplessly, looking up at him when he came to stand beside her, her eyes begging him for mercy. No doubt she expected more disdain and vitriol from him. Why shouldn't she? That's all he'd given her for nearly a year…

Double
shit.

Once again, that soft spot inside, the one he'd thought forever hardened, took one long look at her there, expression meek and pleading, and immediately turned to goo.

“Ace isn't what?” he asked, shoving Peanut back into the middle of the mattress, receiving a loud, disgruntled
mrrreow
for his trouble. He ignored the cat's furiously twitching tail and narrowed, yellow eyes as he gently lowered himself to the bed beside Eve.

“He's not
you
,” she said, stiffening up like her whole body had been doused in Super Glue when he threw an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the little voice inside his head that yelled,
Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!
“Wh-what are you d-doing?”

“Comforting you,” he said, his breath sawing from his lungs at the feel of her in his arms again. So delicate and fragile. Like a very fine, very rare crystal vase that had to be protected at all costs.

“B-but why?” she stuttered. One big, sparkling tear leaked from the corner of her eye to trail down her perfect, pale cheek. He reached up to thumb it away, and her breath hitched in her throat.

So soft. That's what he remembered about her. How soft her skin was. How good it smelled. Like handmade soap, designer lotion, and warm lace. He dragged in a deep breath. That lavish aroma would always make his dick hard enough to hammer nails.

Now being no exception…

He shifted, subtly adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. “Let's just say I'm putting a little change in the karma bank,” he told her. “Besides, I think it's time to let bygones be bygones.”

“Do you…” She licked her pale, peachy lips, and his eyes followed the dart of her pink tongue. The sexual beast inside him, the one he'd kept reined in around her since their reunion, began chomping at the bit.
Damnit
all
to
hell
! She made him feel completely uncivilized, straight up animalistic, in fact. And the way he wanted her, hard, fast, and totally dirty was straight out of the jungle. Anytime he touched her, he was all about the
me
Tarzan, you Jane
. And it was so very annoying that his libido had never gotten the note that she was persona non grata in the whole horizontal mambo department. “Do you mean that?” she finally managed.

Did he? If he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure.

What he
was
sure of was that, despite everything, despite the fact that their convoluted history meant there was no chance of a future between them, he wanted to kiss her. To taste those full, perfectly formed lips, to breathe in that sweet, soft breath, to feel her warm, lithe form pressed against the length of him once again.

Smudging her cookies indeed…

God, he remembered how she'd been all those years ago. So young and fresh. So eager to learn the ways of his body. So delighted as he learned the ways of hers.

Oh, great.
And now his dick wasn't only hard enough to hammer nails, the damn thing was actually sucking all the blood away from his brain, causing him to, for a split second, consider doing something very,
very
stupid.

She must've sensed the change in him because a subtle trembling shook her shoulders. Her pupils dilated until they almost eclipsed the blue of her irises. And staring at her lovely face, he couldn't read her expression. Which was odd. Because open book or wide-open book, remember?

So call it Fate or bad luck or simply bad timing, but, in that moment, he couldn't tell if she was inviting him to lay her back on that bed or sizing him up for a coffin—payback for all the hell he'd put her through recently. And the not knowing meant he had to rely on instinct. So before he realized he even moved, he was palming the back of her neck and dragging her forward for a kiss, the little head in his pants instinctively taking over for the big head on his shoulders.

And the instant their lips touched? Well…let's just say he knew it for the mistake it was.

Suddenly, his big head was back online and shouting at him to
get
the
hell
out!
Because the feel of her, the
taste
of her, made him want to forget everything, forget that she was a cruel, untrustworthy woman. And he absolutely
could
not
forget that. If he did, there'd be nothing stopping him from throwing caution to the wind and giving her another chance, from allowing her the opportunity to crush him again.

Which could not,
would
not happen. He'd barely survived the heartbreak the first time. He
wouldn't
survive it a second…

But he couldn't make himself release her either. In fact, against all reason and good judgment, he did just the opposite. He slid his free hand down her arm, stopping to intertwine their fingers. Then he snaked their joined hands behind her back and pressed her forward until she was forced to scoot closer to him. She was trembling in his arms just as she had at eighteen, trembling with desire mixed with nerves. And just as he'd done all those years ago, he gentled his assault, kissing his way across her brow and then her closed lids, letting her lush lashes tickle his lips, sipping at the salty wetness that still clung there. Sliding his nose down the side of hers until their foreheads touched, he was surprised when she released his hand, grabbed his face, and angled his head, slamming her mouth over the top of his only to proceed to try to catalog his teeth with her tongue.

Sonofa—

And just like that, all his gentleness vanished. Okay, and Ace was right. He not only wanted to smudge her cookies, he wanted to flick her bean and eat her cake, too. But first he wanted to kiss her. Kiss her like he hadn't kissed a woman since her, with everything he had, with his whole body, with his whole…
heart.

He slipped his hand under her blouse, and the warm skin of her back was soft yet firm, covering supple feminine muscles. Eve might look fragile, but she did not feel it. What she
did
feel like was his. She'd
always
felt like his and—

Shit
on
a
stick!

How had everything gotten out of hand so quickly?

Once again, his body acted before his brain. With absolutely no finesse, he jumped from the bed like the thing had turned into a gaping mouth threatening to swallow him whole. The sudden move nearly had Eve face-planting into the colorful rug, and he steadied her by placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I, uh—” He stopped short, trying and failing to catch his breath. She was looking up at him with big, wary eyes, two graceful fingers touching her kiss-wet lips, her other hand wrapped around the pearl pendant at her throat.
Holy
hell, you've got to get out of here, boy-o.

“I didn't mean for that to—” He stopped again, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Eve.”

He turned on his heel, gritting his teeth against the pain caused by the humungous bite his ulcer took out of his stomach when her softly whispered “G-goodnight, Billy” followed him out the door.