A Whisper in the Dark (41 page)

Tessa lifted her gaze and saw
him
come around the corner. He was wearing a dark blue cable-knit sweater instead of a black leather jacket, but she would have recognized him anywhere. And she could tell from his scowl that he recognized her, too.

The breath left her lungs in a rush. She took one step backward on unsteady legs, then another, her heart slamming in her chest, her lungs too empty to scream. Then beside her, she saw the fire alarm.

She lunged for it, found herself hauled up against a rock-hard chest, a steel hand clamped over her mouth, her feet lifted off the ground.

 
Julian saw she was about to pull the fire alarm and did
the only thing he could—clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her out of the hallway and into the nearest room, a large closet full of linens. He kicked the door shut behind him and worked to subdue 120 pounds of desperate, terrified female that kicked, twisted, and struggled in his arms.

He turned her to face him, held her fast. “I’m not going to hurt you, Tessa.”

At the sound of her name, she froze, and Julian found himself looking into the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Framed by long, sooty lashes, they stared up at him in unblinking horror. Her face was pale, her skin creamy and translucent apart from a few tiny freckles on her nose. She felt small in his arms, fragile and soft. Holding her this close, he could feel her heart pound, smell her fear, taste her panic.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” He’d said it to calm her, realized when her pupils dilated that his words had somehow had the opposite effect. “I’m going to release you, and you’re going to stand here and listen to me, got it?”

She nodded.

He lowered her to her feet, let her go—and found himself staring at the working end of a sweet little .22 revolver. Where the hell had that come from?

“S-stay away from me!” She was trembling—not a good thing when her finger rested on the trigger of a gun pointed at his chest. It hurt to get shot, even wearing Kevlar. “I-I saw you that night! I know you were there!”

“Put it down, Ms. Novak. I told you—I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why should I believe that? I know you’re carrying a gun. I felt it beneath your sweater!” Her voice quavered, hovering somewhere between rage and terror. She gripped the handle of the gun with two hands, steadied it.

He weighed his options. He could tell her he was a federal agent—except that she was a reporter. How could he be sure she wouldn’t splash his name all over the damned paper? He could disarm her, but there was a chance he’d hurt her or she’d pull the trigger either accidentally or on purpose. Neither option was ideal.

He took one slow step toward her. “Put down the gun.”

“Not a chance! You came here to kill him, didn’t you? You came here to kill Mr. Simms so he couldn’t talk to the police!”

He’d come to question the old guy, but he didn’t want to tell her that. “If that’s what you think, shoot me. Here, I’ll even make it easy for you.” He took another step forward, stretched his arms out to his sides. “Aim just to left of my breastbone. A little twenty-two round will ricochet inside my ribcage, shred my lungs and heart, and I’ll be dead before I hit the floor.”

She gaped at him in surprise, and her gaze dropped to his chest.

It was the break Julian needed.

He pivoted out of the line of fire, grabbed her wrist, and wrenched the .22 from her grasp. It took less force than he’d imagined, and he heard her gasp—whether in surprise or pain, he couldn’t tell. He turned to face her, found her rubbing her wrist and watching him fearfully through those blue eyes.

“I told you to put it down. You should have listened.” He popped out the cylinder, tapped the bullets into his hand, and pocketed the rounds. Then he snapped the cylinder into place and handed the gun back to her.

The damned thing had been fully loaded and ready to fire.

She dropped the little pistol into her purse, her wary gaze never leaving him. “H-how do you know my name?”

“I know almost everything about you.” He recited what he’d learned after doing a digging on her this morning. “Born in Rosebud, Texas, on March 9, 1979, to Linda Lou Bates, age fourteen. Father unknown. Grew up on welfare and food stamps with your mother and maternal grandfather. Graduated Rosebud-Lott High School in 1997 with a GPA of three-nine-eight and left Rosebud behind the next day.”

No longer pale, her cheeks had flushed red with what Julian supposed was anger or embarrassment. He continued.

“You earned an associate’s degree in English from Austin Community College in 1999—the year you changed your last name to Novak. Moved to Athens to study journalism at the University of Georgia and graduated Phi Beta Kappa. Then you took your first reporting job at the
Savannah Morning News
. You moved to Denver three years ago to take a seat on—”

“I-I don’t know who you are, but I’m getting security!” Quick on her dressy little feet, she darted past him toward the door.

He caught her easily, turned her about, and hauled her against him—just as the door opened and two middle-aged women wearing blue cleaning uniforms walked in. Unsure what she might say and wanting to avoid a scene and get rid of the women, Julian ducked down and silenced her with his mouth.

Tessa heard the door open behind her, felt the hot shock of his lips on hers, and in dazed disbelief, realized what he was doing. He was trying to shush her, trying to control her. It was nothing less than assault, and it both stunned and enraged her. She pushed against his chest to no avail, tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth, his tongue invaded, turning her scream to a stifled squeak.

A bolt of heat, unexpected and unwanted, shot through her, and her insides seemed to melt as he attacked her senses, his tongue teasing hers with stolen strokes, his lips pressing hot and unyielding against hers. She couldn’t stop herself from noticing how hard his body felt, couldn’t stop the minty taste of his toothpaste from flooding her mouth, couldn’t help taking in the scent of him—spice with just a hint of leather.

Tessa’s mind knew it, but her body didn’t seem to care. The adrenaline in her blood warmed to pheromone, icy rage to steam. And before she realized it, she had quit fighting him, quit fearing him, quit breathing. Worse, she’d begun to kiss him back, her tongue curling with his, her bones going liquid as his hand slid slowly up her spine.

Behind her, the women gasped, giggled.

Tessa had forgotten all about them.

“
¡Perdónenos!
”
Pardon us!

The door closed, and Tessa realized dimly that the women had gone.

But he didn’t quit kissing her, not all at once. He nipped her tongue, drew her lower lip into his mouth, sucked it. Then, abruptly, he grasped her shoulders and held her out before him.

“I hope you listen closely, Ms. Novak, because I’d hate to see you on an autopsy slab.” His eyes were darkest blue. His dark brows were bent together in a frown, his square jaw clean-shaven, his lips unusually full for a man’s. “I know you get paid to sensationalize other people’s suffering, but this is one crime you’d better leave to the cops. You’ve already stirred up enough trouble with today’s article. It would be best for both of us if you don’t write another.”

“Sensationalize—? You—! Oh!” She was so furious she could barely speak. “I watched that girl die! She begged me to help her, and I couldn’t! But I’m going to do my best to help her now. I’m going to find out who killed—”

He gave her a little shake. “What you’re going to do is get yourself killed! Let the cops do their job. Go chase an ambulance or something.”

“Let go of me!” She jerked away from him, wiped a hand across her mouth, tried to erase the lingering evidence of his kiss. “You drag me in here, assault me, insult me, and then try to tell me how to do my job? Who
are
you?”

“Are we on or off the record?”

“On.”

“You don’t need to know who I am.”

“Off the record, then.”

He seemed to hesitate. “I’m Julian Darcangelo, and I’m one of the good guys.”

“That’s a scary thought.” Tessa thought he looked like one of the bad guys—a shadowy criminal type. She didn’t realize she’d spoken those last words aloud until the corner of his mouth turned up in a sardonic grin.

“You know better than to judge people by appearances, Ms. Bates. Oh, I’m sorry—it’s Novak, isn’t it? And next time you hold a gun on someone, don’t let him get so close. Never take your eyes off his.”

Then he brushed past her, opened the door, and strode out into the hallway.

By the time her legs were steady enough for her to follow him, he was gone.