Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) (8 page)

He went to the gurney and put his hand on her arm. She flinched, and he didn’t like that at all. “You have a friend. I’m here. I’m going to take care of you.”

“Why? How are you a friend? Because you were going to fuck me?”

Paige had told him that her pain was high, and they were being conservative with meds, giving her only Tylenol with codeine, because they wanted to keep her alert and ambulatory so they could send her home. Nick had experience with bruised and broken ribs, so he knew how bad the pain could be. Still, he hated the deflated, defensive, almost whining tone in her voice. What had him caught was her spark, and the events of the night had dimmed that.

He smiled, hoping to ignite her a little. “I think future tense is more appropriate than past. I’m still going to fuck you. I’ll give you a minute to feel better, though.”

She only blinked. “Are you a friend?”

“I am. And I’m going to get you out of here and take care of you. You’ll get better drugs for home.”

“I want to go home. I’d like a ride, since I can’t find my phone and I don’t know anybody’s numbers. But you don’t have to take care of me. I’m okay.”

“I do,
bella
. I will.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m Bev. And I don’t want you to take care of me.”

He didn’t like ‘Bev.’ It sounded like some kind of mechanical noise. But he really liked ‘Beverly,’ the old-fashioned lilt, the way his tongue furled and unfurled over the syllables. And he’d been growing quickly fond of calling her
bella—
and was surprised to find his feelings hurt by her rejection of it.

“I’m afraid, Beverly, that we don’t have a choice. People took photos outside the club. You and I are already on the internet, probably going viral as we speak. You are connected to me now. Until we figure out who did this and resolve the situation, you need to stay close to me to be safe.”

“Being close to you is what made me unsafe.”

It was a different kind of light, but he was glad to see anger in her eyes. So much better than that defeated, wet puppy look she’d had. “I think you knew who I was before you sat at my side, Beverly.”

She took a deeper breath, and winced hard, groaning. He squeezed her hand, and she glared down at his hand on hers. “So…what? I’m a hostage or something? I can’t even go to my own apartment, which is thirty feet from yours?”

“You’re not a hostage. But I’m not asking, either. You’ll stay with me. I have a spare bedroom. It’s very nice. And anything you need from your place will be right down the hall. There will be people you can send to fetch anything. Think of it as being pampered.”

“By big galoots with guns.”

Privacy regulations prevented medical rooms in public hospitals from being bugged, but Nick still had no intention of  exchanging any kind of incriminating words anywhere on the planet but a guaranteed secure location. Knowing he needed to end this conversation before she said something more, he simply nodded. “I’ll keep you safe. I’m going find the nurse, get you sprung. I want to go check on Brian before we go. I’ll be back soon.” He went to the door, pulling his phone from his pocket as he did so. “And Beverly, be careful what you say and who you say it to. Understood?”

When she nodded, he returned it with a smile and then left.

~oOo~

He reached in and flipped the switch, turning on the lamp on the nearest nightstand. His guestroom was hardly ever used as such, but his cleaning service kept it always ready. Matty’s sister, Donna, ran that service.

The ride had been difficult for Beverly, and she was tired and quiet now, moving on her own power, but only just. With his arm around her shoulders, Nick led her into the room and turned the covers down, then helped her sit on the bed. She was still wearing that black dress, dirty and tattered now, but she hadn’t bothered putting her shoes back on. Nick pulled off the papery slippers Paige had given her in the E.R.

“I can give you a t-shirt and some sweats or something to wear. Can you manage that?”

She glared at him but nodded, and he went to his room and collected a white t-shirt and a pair of black sweats. He set them on the bed next to her.

“Thank you.” She began to lift her arms, headed to the zipper at the nape of her neck, but drew back with a sharp, shallow hiss. There was no way she was going to be able to undress herself.

“Let me.”

Her blue eyes were wide with anxiety. “No—I…I can manage.”

“You can’t. Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to fuck you when you can barely move. I’m just going to help you change your clothes. Unless you want to sleep in the dress you were wearing when we got bombed.”

“And not in the good way,” she muttered.

He barked a laugh, surprised and pleased. That was better. More backbone. “Right. Not in the good way. So, come on.” He held his hands out over her lap, and she put hers in them and let him help her back to her feet.

Nick undid the zipper slowly, trying to be gentle. Under the dress, she wore a black bra with straps crossed over her back. When he pushed the dress down, off her body, he saw that the bra had a print of tiny, white roses. Her underwear, a thong, matched. His hands desperately wanted to sweep over the firm globes of her bare ass, an ass that practically demanded it be grabbed hard, but he forbore and turned her around. Her bra clasped in front, and she took hold of the hook before he did, unfastening it and letting her ample breasts spring free. Exposed to the cool air of his room and the heat of his regard, her nipples pebbled. Nick’s mouth watered.

She was lovely. Unlike other women he’d bedded, she had soft curves instead of sharp angles, but she was firm and toned. He badly wanted to feel that tone in his hands, in his mouth, under his body, around his cock.

Her chest pinked to a deep, rosy blush. He looked up to see that it had suffused her face, too.

“You’re staring.” She tried to shrug the straps from her shoulders but winced in pain again. He did it for her.

“You’re beautiful.
Bellissima
.”

“I thought that wasn’t what this is about.”

He reached down and picked up the t-shirt, and she let him help her get into it. “It’s not. I’m just enjoying the view.” He liked that she hadn’t told him he was wrong, though. He detected a little of her spark in that assuredness.

When she got her hands through the sleeves, he reached for the sweatpants, but she said, “No. I don’t need those right now. I just want to sleep. And have the good meds, finally.”

Feeling a sharp twinge of concern and sympathy with every wince, every moan she tried to hold back, he helped her into bed and pulled the comforter over her, then went for a glass of water and a dose of the good meds. Percocet.

“Okay. Get some rest. I’m very close, so just call out if you need anything.” He turned to the open door.

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“I feel stupid for saying this, but I’m…scared. I don’t want to be alone. Will you stay here until I fall asleep?”

It was near dawn, and he wouldn’t sleep in what was left of the night, anyway. There were too many things to do, too many problems to solve. The thought of sitting here, watching Beverly fall asleep, calmed him. Perhaps that would be enough rest to prepare him for the chaos the sun would bring.

He went to the empty side of the bed and sat up against the headboard. “The doctor told you it would be best to sleep on your sore side. Can you?”

She shifted slowly to her right and settled down so she was facing him. “It hurts.”

Bending down, he pressed his lips to her temple. “I know. The pills will kick in, and you’ll breathe easier this way.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Nick watched her and let his mind tease out the problems snarled together. The bombing had to be Church. It seemed like everything they were involved in somehow, all of a sudden, led back to Church. Even that pathetic bagman J.J. had caught was probably tied up in the Paganos’ war with Church.

But how had the bomb happened? They had friends on the Providence bomb squad, so he knew they’d get their answers about the bomb itself. Controlled blast radius and timing—triggered, he thought, by the front passenger door opening—spoke to talent and opportunity. Talent made it Church. The only other entity who could afford that kind of talent would be another family, and there was no beef among the families now.

But opportunity—how the hell had the bomb been planted? Jimmy had opened that door to let Nick out when they arrived at Neon. And he’d obviously seen or heard something the second he’d opened it again, because he’d had time to yell them down before it blew. It must have been planted while they were in the club. Jimmy stayed with the SUV. The only time he left his post was if nature called, and then he called in to say so. So when? How?

Beverly moaned and then sighed, relaxing, and Nick knew she’d fallen asleep. He focused on her for a minute, marveling at the twists of the night that had landed her here, in his guestroom, for at least a few days. He needed to find out her last name. And where she worked. With that, it occurred to him to wonder what, exactly, he knew about her and whether she could have anything to do with the bomb. He didn’t know her full name, what she did, where she was from, anything except her first name and that of a few of her friends. And yet here she was, in his home.

It was highly unlikely that she was involved. He got no read from her that was ‘off’ in any way, and he had a keen sense for people. Still, he’d have her checked out at first light. He didn’t like ciphers in his midst.

Her right arm was stretched toward him, her fingers grazing his arm. He studied her tattoo, those two dainty feathers, each with a thick, dark quill and then fading out to seem light as air. The work was first-rate. Wrapping his fingers gently around her hand, he lifted it to look more closely.

The skin under the quills seemed raised, and, curious, he ran his thumb over her wrist. Scars. Two scars, both long, one longer than the other, vertical from her hand. He knew what those were.

He lifted her left arm, careful not to wake her, and checked the underside of her wrist—a single, much shorter, lighter scar there, not hidden with ink. He’d noticed that her right hand was her dominant hand. She’d cut into the right one first, probably thinking that her stronger hand would work better after its wrist had been cut and would be able to open the left wrist. Maybe she’d been wrong. Or maybe she’d changed her mind. Either way, at some point in her past, Beverly had tried to kill herself.

And that changed everything.

He got up and left her alone.

~ 6 ~

Bev slept hard for several hours, waking slowly, her body stiff and heavy with pain. The ache was so bad that it distracted her from the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, and by the time she had the focus to wonder where she was, she knew. She remembered. She was in Nick’s apartment, in his guestroom, apparently unsafe to cross the hall and be in her own place.

Each breath felt as if it got caught in her ribs somehow, and when she sat up, she thought she’d cry—but crying would hurt too much, so she refused herself that release.

Everything hurt. Her face, her head, her ribs, her arm—those were the worst, but she hurt from the roots of her hair straight down to her toenails. And she hurt because someone had bombed the truck she’d been about to get into. Nick’s truck.

Well, she’d spent the night at Nick’s place, but not the way she’d been hoping.

She tried to tell herself that Chris had been right, that Nick was someone to be avoided at all costs, because quite clearly he was dangerous. She’d gotten an early warning this time, and it had come with blood and fire. But those thoughts were stifled by others—his smile that always seemed a private thing between them, the way he called her
bella
, his hand on her leg, his lips on her mouth, on her hand. The way he’d sat with her last night as she’d fallen asleep. The way he’d helped her change out of her dress and had been a gentleman.

She was wearing his t-shirt right now. Feeling like a besotted schoolgirl, she brushed her hand over the smooth cotton. Another bad boy. She was up to her neck with another bad boy, lost this time before they’d done anything but kiss. She knew Chris hadn’t meant what he’d said last night. He’d be there for her, no matter how big a mistake she had made, or was still making, here. They’d been there for each other as long as they’d known each other.

Oh, no—Chris. The bombing must have been all over the news. Nick had said something about their photo going viral. And she didn’t have her phone. Chris and Sky would be going crazy. She needed to get to her apartment and get their numbers.

Getting carefully and unsteadily to her feet, she saw the sweatpants he’d brought her last night still folded at the foot of the bed. She worked her way into them and then went out of the room.

When she opened the door, she almost shut it again and stayed behind it. The apartment seemed to be full of people. Somebody was cooking with garlic. And there was the kind of conversational hum that suggested several people were talking together.

Bev tried to take a deep breath for strength, but even a normal breath was too deep right now. She resisted the impulse to hide, though, and walked out into the apartment.

An older woman, mid-sixties or so, stood in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot on the range. She was sturdily built, heavier than Bev but not fat, dressed like a lady who lunched—in dress slacks, low-heeled pumps, a patterned silk blouse, and rather a lot of gold jewelry. Her hair was tastefully styled and colored a coppery auburn. When she turned, Bev saw she had a tea towel stuck in her waistband like a makeshift apron.

She smiled and set a wooden spoon across the top of the pot. “Oh, honey. You’re awake. I’m so glad. Such a terrible night you had.” She came right up to Bev with her arms out—she wanted a hug.

Bev didn’t mind hugs at all, and in fact she could have used one, but at that moment, with her body feeling like it did, the mere thought made her stomach roll over. She backed up a couple of defensive steps.

The woman stopped short, her eyes widening as she realized. “Oh, right. I’m sorry.” She reached out instead and took Bev’s not-hurt arm and led her to a chair at the breakfast bar, which was the only dining setup in Nick’s apartment. His place was larger and nicer than hers, but in this, at least, their units were similar.

“Come sit down. I’m making a ziti for the boys, but that’s too heavy for you so soon after you’re up. Would you like an omelet? Ham and cheese?”

Bev might have laughed if her ribs would have allowed it. She would not have listed ‘ham and cheese omelet’ under ‘light breakfasts.’

“No, thanks—” Her voice failed her and she cleared her throat and then grunted with the pain of it.

“First things first. Let’s get you something for your pain. Nicky said only Tylenol this morning. Would you like it with coffee or juice? There’s grapefruit and tomato.”

“Coffee, please…”

The woman got the question implied in Bev’s tone. “Right! Betty! I’m Betty, Nicky’s—Nick’s—mother. He sent for me to come take care of you. And you’re Beverly.”

“Bev. Yes.” She was meeting his mother? What the hell?

“Bev? Okay, Bev. Coffee it is. And some Tylenol. And to eat?”

“I just have fruit and yogurt for breakfast.”

Betty scoffed. “Honey, that’s not breakfast. You need a good meal to start every day. I’ll make you some poached eggs on toast, how about that?” Without waiting for an answer, she went around the counter and fixed her a cup of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both.”

Betty nodded and pushed a heavy mug of dark, strong-smelling coffee across the counter to her. Then she handed over a bottle of Tylenol, a sugar bowl, and a small glass of milk. “Sorry about the milk and the glass. He doesn’t have a creamer—or cream.”

“It’s okay. Thanks.” Milk was not her main concern. Her main concern was why she was only getting Tylenol when she knew damn well she had a prescription for Percocet, to be taken as needed, and she needed it. She also needed to talk to Nick, because people who actually cared about her were probably going nuts. But he wasn’t in the living room with the three men she didn’t recognize, none of whom were paying her any attention.

“Let me just get this ziti together and into the oven, and I’ll get your breakfast going.”

“Where’s Nick? I need to talk to him.”

Betty turned and pointed with her wooden spoon. “He’s in his office. I’m sure he’ll be out as soon as he can.”

Bev followed the direction indicated by the spoon, almost screaming when she tried to twist her body to look over her shoulder. The chair she was sitting on swiveled, thankfully, and she moved her whole body around instead.

The room with the glass wall. She saw him now, sitting at his desk, three more men in there with him.

Two of the men sitting in his living room were wearing jeans and hooded sweatshirts. The other wore a black and yellow tracksuit. The men sitting with Nick were dressed more formally, in khakis and button-down shirts, even on this Saturday.

Screwing up her courage and toughening up against her pain, Bev slid off the tall chair and headed for his office. Behind her Betty called, “Bev, wait,” but she didn’t stop until she’d reached the glass door and knocked.

All eyes in the room went to the door. Bev opened it, trying to ignore the way her hands shook and trying even harder to make sure her voice didn’t do the same. “Nick. Hi. Sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you.”

All the men—two of them older than Nick, one obviously younger—stared at her without speaking, and the scene was frozen so long that Bev began to worry that she was going to pass out from the combination of pain and tension. She kept her eyes on Nick; he looked nothing like the nice guy who’d called her
bella
and taken care of her last night. His piercing green eyes were cold as crystal. He was dressed more casually than the others in the room, in jeans and a grey pullover.

“We’ll finish later. Get your men on what we’ve talked about.” Nick’s voice was flat and low. His eyes hadn’t left hers.

One of the older men, with thickly curly, greying hair, turned back to Nick. “Boss, we’re not done here.”

“We are for now. Go.”

The three men got up and left. Bev stepped back to make room, and then she entered and closed the door.

Nick gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.” She crossed the room and sat, easing herself into the chair.

“I need to call Chris and Sky and let them know I’m okay. They’ve got to be worried sick.” She wondered then, for the first time, whether she should bother calling her mother but decided that she didn’t need that stress today. Even if she knew Bev had been involved in what had happened last night, there was no guarantee she would have been particularly concerned. “And I need to find my purse, if I can.”

“Your boyfriend was already here. He knows you’re safe. He’s short on manners. And brains.”

“What does that mean? And I keep telling you he’s not my boyfriend.” Why did he insist on calling Chris her boyfriend? And what was going on? Chris had been here? “Wait—he was here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were sleeping.” He closed his laptop. “As for your purse, it’s at the precinct in Providence. You’ll have it later today. I have some questions for you. What’s your name? Your real name?”

“What do you mean, ‘my real name’? It’s Bev. Beverly Maddox. Beverly Denise Maddox, if that makes you happy.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one. Am I being interviewed for some kind of job? What is this?” Her ribs began to ache more sharply as her heart rate picked up. He was being aggressive with her, and she had no idea why.

He seemed unaffected by her confusion and distress. The man who’d lain with her on the sidewalk was gone. “What
do
you do for money, Beverly Denise Maddox?”

“What? Why all these questions? What difference does it make what I do?”

“I’d like to know who’s in my house. Is there a reason you don’t want to tell me?”

There wasn’t, except that she was feeling attacked and afraid. She answered his question. “I’m a waitress. I work at Sassy Sal’s. I need to call my boss, too. I’m supposed to work the breakfast shift tomorrow.”

“How does a waitress afford a beachfront condo?”

“I don’t have a beachfront condo. You do. I have a courtyard condo, and it’s half this size.”

“Still. I know how much they go for. More than a diner waitress could afford.”

Finally, her gumption kicked in, and she squared her shoulders, wincing only a little, she hoped, at the pulling pain. “My money is my business. Who are you to be nosing around in it? Look—I don’t know what happened between when I fell asleep and now, but you obviously don’t want me here. I don’t want to be here. I’ll go back to my own place, and we can pretend like last night never happened.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s not possible. As I told you last night, we’re connected now, and you’re my responsibility. And I already know the answers to the questions I’m asking. Your father died two years ago, and he left you an inheritance. You used most of it to buy the condo outright. With the rest of it, you paid off your credit cards. Responsible of you.”

“What—how—why—what?” Appalled, she couldn’t form a clear thought. Then she got it. “You hacked me, or whatever it’s called.”

“Or whatever it’s called. Yes.”

“Then why even bother to ask?” Had she thought she
liked
this guy?

“I wanted to know if you’d lie to me.”

“You’re testing me? Go to hell. I’m going home.” Furious and feeling violated, she got up, willing herself not to flinched at the strain in her ribs, and stalked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster. Somehow, though, he got around his desk and to the door before she did, and he blocked her path. His eyes lased into hers. He was angry, and she still had no idea why.

“You’re not going. I told you last night—you’re here, with me. Until I know it’s safe.”

“Why do you care? And why are you angry at me?”

“I’m not angry.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re totally different from the way you were last night. What did I do?”