Envy (Fallen Angels #3)

Envy (Fallen Angels #3) Page 23

Veck felt the change in Reilly immediately: Even though he was inside her, mentally, she had put her clothes back on, stepped out of his door, and driven away.

Shit.

Moving a hand down between their bodies, he held on and pulled out. "I know what you're thinking."

She rubbed her eyes. "Do you."

"Yeah. And I should probably say something like, 'This was a mistake.' Just so you have your out."

Before he settled into the cushions of the couch beside her, he reached down and picked up his shirt, draping it over her naked body.

Pulling the thing up to her chin, she studied his face. "By all measures, it was. It is."

Okay, ouch.

"But I just couldn't stop myself," she said softly.

"Temptation is like that." And he needed to get it through his head that that was probably all it was on her side.

Her eyes shifted to the floor next to the couch ... where his wallet lay open, another condom clearly tucked into its flaps.

"I should probably go," she said roughly.

Christ, why had he always kept two in there?

And her leaving was the last thing he wanted - and the last thing he would get in the way of. "You're going to have to take my shirt. I broke yours."

Closing her eyes, she cursed softly. "I'm sorry."

"God, what for?"

"I don't know."

He believed that. Also knew she was going to figure out just exactly what and how much she was regretting soon enough.

As he stood up from the sofa, he cupped his sex with his hand; no reason for her to see that right now. And no reason for her to think of the evening as anything other than what she'd said it was: a mistake for her.

For him, on the other hand? Thanks to her, he'd had his first home-cooked meal in the twenty-first century, a ride home through the storm, and sex that came damn close to that dumb-ass overused phrase: making love.

Ironic how two people could come away from the same list of events with two totally different takes. Unfortunately, hers was the only one that counted.

In silence, he gathered her clothes one by one and handed them over. Going by the sounds, she drew her pants on, and then her socks and shoes. He assumed the bra went on as well, but that wouldn't make a lot of noise, would it. Holster was the last thing he gave her, and as she dealt with the leather strapping, he grabbed his pants and held them over his hips.

"I'll walk you to the door," he said, when she was finished.

No reason to draw out the awkward stuff. Besides, she'd already gone, anyway.

God, he felt like he'd been shot in the gut, he thought as he went into the front hall.

As Reilly came up to him, he focused over her shoulder. Which unfortunately brought his eyes to the couch.

"I don't want it to end this way," she said.

"It is what it is. And it's not like I don't get where you're coming from."

"It's not what you think."

"I can imagine."

"I don't want to ... I really wanted this. But I guess it's hard to just be another woman in your bed."

Opening the door, he got slammed with a blast of cold and wet. "I would never take you upstairs. Trust me."

She blinked. Cleared her throat. "Okay. Ah ... I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah. Nine a.m."

As soon as she stepped through, he shut the door and went around to the kitchen to watch her get in her car and drive away through the rain.

"Motherfucker."

Bracing palms on the counter, he let his head hang for a moment. Then, disgusted with himself, he doubled back and hit the stairs at a jog. In his bedroom, he passed by his bed and thought, Nope, absolutely not. He'd never take Reilly there. That mattress, which he'd brought up with him from Manhattan, was where he'd banged the randoms he'd picked up in bars - some of whom he hadn't even gotten a name from, much less digits.

All of whom he'd booted out before the sweat was dry.

The woman he'd been lucky enough to be with tonight was not one of that less than august group, and even if she didn't feel the same way he did, he would never cheapen her by laying her on that soiled place.

Clean sheets didn't hide the stain of the way he'd been living.

In the bathroom, he snapped off the cold condom and tossed it in the wastepaper basket. As he looked at the shower, he thought about taking one. But in the end, he just threw on a pair of sweats and went down to uch below, her delicate perfume still on him.

Pathetic.

One good thing about having logged three years of working various beats in Caldwell was that Reilly could get home from any neighborhood without thinking about it.

Handy on a night like tonight.

I would never take you upstairs. Trust me.

Yeah, boy, that little ditty was going to be with her for the rest of her natural life.

And of course, she wondered exactly what rarified class of females was welcome in that special space. God, how many women had he had on that couch? And how did you make the cut to get into his bedroom?

But she didn't blame him for any of the way she felt now. She had wanted exactly what had happened, and she was going to deal with the consequences - which, thanks to safe sex, were just going to be emotional: She'd chosen this outcome... . She'd followed him to his door; she'd pushed him into his house; she'd told him to get the wallet. So she was going to damn well be an adult and spend the next ten hours pulling herself together before she had to walk into the office at nine tomorrow morning.

It was what professionals did. And why professionals didn't let things like tonight happen.

Ten minutes of rain-soaked road later, she eased into her driveway, and hit the garage door opener. As she waited for the panels to up, up, and away, she thought, Oh, crap. Between dinner and what had gone down afterward, she hadn't checked her phone in hours.

When she took the thing out, she found that she had missed three calls. There was only one voice mail, but she didn't waste time getting it, considering who had been trying to find her.

She just hit Jose de la Cruz back.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Shoot, maybe she'd be waking him. It was late -

His voice cut through the electronic brrrrrring-ing. "I was hoping it would be you."

"Sorry, I've been tied up." Wince. "What's going on?"

"I know you wanted to get in there and talk to Kroner, and I think you can and should now. Docs say he's even better than he was this morning, but the tide could turn, and I believe your doing an interview as a neutral third party will help Veck, both in fact and in the court of public opinion."

"When can I see him." Hell, she'd go tonight if she could.

"Tomorrow morning's probably best. I got an update about an hour ago and he was still resting comfortably. He's no longer intubated, is off sedation, and actually ate something - but last I heard, he's conked out."

Recalling the condition the guy had been in on that forest floor, it was crazy that he was still breathing, much less sucking back hospital food - and she had to think of Sissy Barten. So unfair. That Kroner was alive and that girl ... well, she probably wasn't.

"I'll be there at nine tomorrow."

"There's twenty-four/seven security. I'll make sure they know you're coming. Hey, how're you and Veck getting along?"

She closed her eyes and kept a curse to herself. "Fine. Just perfect."

"d. Don't bring him with you."

"I wasn't going to." For more than one reason.

"And check in with me afterward, if you don't mind."

"Detective, you'll be the first person I call."

After she hit end, she rubbed the back of her neck, easing a strain that she had a feeling was from the session on her partner's couch.

Releasing the brake, she let the engine's idle draw her forward into the garage. After she canned the ignition, she got out and -

Reilly stopped in the process of closing the driver's-side door. "Who's there," she called out, ducking her hand under her coat and palming her gun.

The overhead automatic light gave her a clear picture of her stand of rakes in the corner and her trash barrel and the bag of rock salt that she used on her front walk in the winter for the mailman. It also made her a sitting duck for whoever was watching her.

And someone was.

Moving fast, she went around the hood instead of the trunk and had her key ready before she got to the door. With quick, sure moves, she unlocked the dead bolt, shot into her house and hit the garage door at the same time. And the dead bolt was turned back as soon as she was inside.

Her ADT system immediately started beeping from the corner of the kitchen. Which meant the alarm was operational and she was the person who had triggered it.

Using her left hand, she punched in her code, and canned the noise.

Her gun was in her right.

Keeping the lights off, she went through her house, looking out of the windows. She saw nothing. Heard nothing.

But her instincts were screaming that she was being watched.

Reilly thought of those "FBI" agents and the fact that someone had been in or around Veck's house the night before. Police officers could be stalked. Were stalked. And though she hadn't done anything with the public for a number of years, she was tangled up with Veck.

And he was far from uncontroversial on so many levels. In the office, she picked up the phone and checked for a dial tone. There was one. And ironically, the first person she thought of calling was Veck.

Not going to happen.

Besides, she was perfectly capable of defending herself.

Pulling the chair out from the desk, she oriented the thing in the corner so that she could see both the front door and the door that she'd come in through from the garage; then she dragged a side table over. In the closet, in a fireproof safe, there were three other guns and plenty of rounds of ammunition, and she palmed another autoloader, put in a clip, and flicked the safety off.

Sitting down with her back to the wall, she reached over for the cordless receiver to her landline and placed it on the table with the extra gun, keeping her cell phone in her pocket in case she needed to move fast.

Someone wanted her?

Fine. They could just come on in and see what kind of welcome they got.