Mark's headlights swept across Virginia's front window as he pulled into her driveway. What a long fucking night. It still amazed him when people tried to steal from the Chilvatis. Short deliveries were suspicious once, but every time? Stupid, just plain stupid.
It was a good thing Louis had had the common sense to come get him. Gus was already at the docks when they arrived, already worked up to a trigger-happy manic state. If it'd all been left up to Gus, they would have had a massacre to clean up after.
In the end it had only taken a broken nose to get the one in charge confessing. Lots of pain. Showy blood. Point made. Lesson learned.
Done.
Then Gus had shot the guy.
Luckily for the moron—the one without the gun—it was only in the leg. Oh, the moron with the gun had been aiming for the head, but his arm had been knocked down at the last second. An argument had ensued, ending with Junior peeling away in his car and seven stunned faces turning to gape at Mark.
Which is pretty much what Louis had done all the way home—presumably wondering if his boss had lost his edge.
Had he? Months ago, he wouldn't have given a shit if the two-bit hustler had lived or died. All he knew now was that he wouldn't be able to face her with the knowledge that he was involved in a murder.
She was rubbing off on him.
He didn't know if that was a good thing . . . or a very dangerous thing.
Louis had already weighed in with his opinion.
"Don't underestimate Gus," Louis said as Mark navigated the shadowy streets near the docks. "Embarrassing him in front of the men that way . . ."
Mark kept his eyes on the road ahead, bracing himself for a lecture. Yes, Gus would be on a rampage, but truth be told, he didn't give a shit. He was tired of Gus. Tired of the lies. Tired of the whole fucking business.
"He may be a jerk but he's not stupid. And Augustus will always pick blood over all others."
"Not always," Mark answered, hearing the bitterness in his own voice.
Louis frowned but didn't ask, too sidetracked by the other point he'd obviously been waiting to make. "Just be careful. Love makes you do some crazy shit."
Mark grunted. "I'm not in love. Men like us don't fall in love."
"Hey! I love my Rosie!"
Mark threw him a quick glance. "You're the exception to the rule."
Louis's hearty laugh and subsequent "surrrrre" were still repeating in his head as he stepped out of the car. He usually rode his motorcycle to her place and hid it in the back—the Ferrari sitting in her driveway was a dangerous red flag—but tonight he had been in too much of a rush. He was willing to risk it, leave before the sun came up.
This sneaking around shit was starting to wear thin too.
The front door opened and he felt some of the stench of the evening wash away. Just looking at her had that effect. She held his gaze as he walked along the path and up the steps of her porch. Smoke from the fire she had burning drifted down from the chimney, and he regretted not being with her to help start it, sipping wine as the flames slowly built.
"Bruce told me you left shortly after me. You okay?" he said, taking the final step up into the house. "Tell me it wasn't Louis and his big mouth. He feels really bad already."
"It's not his fault." She drew in a deep breath, the exhale sounding a little shaky. It was obvious she had something more to say, so he waited, letting her take whatever time she needed.
"I don't want to have to choose between you and my job." Her shoulders sagged as though they had been carrying the weight of that statement.
"I would never ask you to do that."
"You don't worry about this tightrope we're walking? Don't think about what we can do to each other?"
Mark moved closer. The urge to touch her, to reassure her, was overwhelming, but his instincts told him to take it slow. "I like thinking about what we can do to each other. In fact"—he grabbed her hand and drew it to his lips—"I was thinking just that as I was driving up my driveway, until Bruce told me you weren't there." He took his time kissing each one of her knuckles.
She laughed and shook her head. "Do you ever think of anything else?"
Yes. His frustration returned. He wanted to tell her how important she was to him but knew she wasn't ready for that, especially after the skittishness she had exhibited tonight.
She glanced down when he laced his fingers through hers, and her face fell. "You're hurt." She reached for his wrist with her other hand.
He saw the blood just in time and twisted away from her touch. "Don't!" As she recoiled, he put his hand up. "It's not mine . . . let me go wash up."
Her eyes flared wide as he left her standing alone in the hallway.
"Damn it," he muttered over the sink, leaning down to let the water wash away the soap and stain. He wasted no time, yanking a paper towel off the roll to take with him as he walked out of the bathroom.
Expecting to find her somewhere else in the house, he was surprised to see her still by the front door, staring at the ground in front of her. She didn't look up as he approached. Leaning against the archway to the living room, he studied her. She looked conflicted and sad. Your fault asshole, he told himself.
"Ginny, don't think about it."
"Comes with the job I'm afraid."
"Not everyone is deserving of your concern you know."
"Oh, really? And it should be up to the Chilvatis to decide who is worthy? Where would that leave us?"
"With a lot more people doing as they're told." He chuckled.
That got him a glowering stare.
"Sorry," he muttered, kicking a heel into the toe of his other shoe. "Nobody was seriously hurt." He shrugged. "Imagination is a powerful weapon. The threat is usually enough in these situations."
"And that's where you come in? As 'the threat'?"
"Comes with the job I'm afraid." He smiled, hoping to coax one out of her—didn't work.
After a stretched out silence, she released a long sigh. "One of our students was beat up yesterday, a threat issued against the gym."
Shit. This wasn't leading anywhere good, but he wasn't going to lie. Not to her. "I know. I heard about it."
Her eyes shot to his with a look he had seen before—a doubt-filled glance that would occasionally appear, as if to reassure herself that she was still a cop. It was always brief, but he noticed it every time. He knew she would never fully be his as long as she still had that look in her eyes.
"Before or after," she grilled, the unspoken accusation hovering between them like a taunt on a school's playground.
"Today," he bristled.
Her gaze returned to the floor as the tension eased, most of it anyway.
Frustration had him pushing a hand through his hair. Perhaps he should leave, get out of her house, her thoughts . . . her life. She would find someone else eventually. Someone more compatible, more—
Who are you kidding, Spinelli. Even the thought of her with someone else was enough to curl his hands into fists. You are in love with this woman, stop denying it. Before her, life had been simply about getting the job done, numbed-out by a cold existence and surrounded by shadows. Now he had a purpose, an end game. She was the light at the end of his dark tunnel.
He straightened his stance and walked toward her. "Do you want me to go?" Please say no.
She looked up, the pained expression displaying the internal conflict raging within. "Do you want to go?"
"Hell, no."
The briefest of smiles appeared, along with a flicker of relief in green eyes. "Then no, I don't want you to," she said softly.
Thank God. "Let's focus on something else." He grabbed her hands in both of his and nodded over his shoulder. "I think that fire needs our attention." He pulled her out of the front hallway into her living room. "Romantic," he whispered in her ear as he guided her body closer. She came willingly into his arms, hands sliding up his chest and around his— Shit.
She yanked her hands away and stepped back.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He cursed his own stupidity. He should have gone into his house to change, but being worried about her state of mind, everything else had escaped his.
She moved behind him without a word and reached up to his shoulders, tugging on the jacket. Mark shrugged it off, and it landed on the chair beside him. She circled him once, studying his back and chest for signs of what she had touched.
"Take it off," she demanded, pointing at his T-shirt. Before he even had a chance to move, she reached out and grabbed the bottom of it. With one quick yank, she had it up and over his head. It, too, got tossed on the chair.
She was hard to read as she studied the shoulder holster. It was similar to the ones the police used in the way it came down from the neck and looped under the arms, the straps on both sides of the body held down by the belt worn around the waist of his jeans. There was no gun, however, and it was much sleeker in design, custom made to hug his body.
"Can I see it?" she whispered.
"No."
"Please?"
Damn it. He wanted to keep her insulated from this part of his world—the violent part.
"I've seen a knife before," she said, her voice hard, impatient.
"Ginny . . ."
She widened her stance and crossed her arms. Going nowhere.
"One quick look," he growled, reaching up with both arms to the back of his neck. A soft scratching sound echoed in the quiet stillness before his hands descended with a knife in each.
She seemed mesmerized by the one with the gut hook. "I didn't know there were two of them. They are bigger than I thought," she murmured, reaching forward.
He pulled back. "Uh-uh, they are very sharp." Deciding she had seen enough, he repeated the process to put them back in their sheaths.
Her hand touched his stomach, making him clench. She moved, her fingers leaving a hot trail as they slid across his abs to his side before brushing along the brown leather of the strapping, continuing on with the slow glide until she ended up behind him.
The sheaths lay in the shape of an upside down V, tucked just below the hills of his shoulder blades, the buckskin lying smooth against his skin. The tips of the two handles came together near the base of his neck. They were wide but flat, making the whole contraption undetectable under loose clothing.
He could feel her tentative touch as she explored the ridge of leather along one shoulder. It reminded him of their first night together, that first shy stroke of her fingers along his erection.
Shit. Normally quite fond of the gift God had bestowed him with, he now silently admonished it. Not the time, fucker. Not the time.
"Why knives?" she asked, her touch now tracing along the sheaths themselves.
He stayed silent, contemplating. Knives offered a slower and more torturous type of pain, better for extracting confessions, but that was not something she needed to hear. "Quieter," he said instead.
Her hand had reached the other side strap. Fingertips slid their way down to his jeans and dragged along his belt until she made her way around to face him again.
Her breath hitched when she got a look-see at what was waiting for her.
He froze, staring over her head. There was no point in trying to explain. He was an animal. The evidence was right in front of her.
Rock-hard evidence, that is. You just keep fucking up, Spinelli.
She moved so fast, he didn't have time to prepare. Suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth while her hands fumbled with his belt buckle. With an irritated groan, she pulled back to give her full attention to the thing, getting the job done and then yanking hard. The belt cooperated, gliding through all the loops before joining the jacket and shirt on the chair.
Planning to shed the freed holster, he grabbed the straps and—
"Leave it," she demanded roughly.
He blinked, a few times, trying to figure out the mixed message. "Ahh—"
"Don't speak."
Interesting. He dropped his hands, deciding to let her do . . . whatever. When she flicked open the button of his jeans and ripped the zipper down, he sucked in a ragged breath. She looked damned determined as she pushed at the clothing, slid her hand inside, and—
Fucking hell. He closed his eyes and groaned as his hips surged, meeting each of her strokes, his arousal pulsing. He hadn't even touched her yet and was already about to lose it, loving the fact that she was in total control of his body. "Ginny, I won't last if you keep doing that," he said, hearing the guttural edge to his own voice.
A brazen smile was all she gave him as she paid special attention to the sensitive tip.
With agonizing willpower, he captured her wrist to still her movements and set her away from him. Her mouth formed a pretty pout, but despite the fact that those perfect lips could be quite convincing and enticing, she wasn't getting her way this time.
Swinging her into his arms, he relished the small excited shriek she made. "Oh, so you like to squeal?" He went over to the fire, knelt down, and placed her on the area rug in front of it. "Well, let's just see how loud you can squeal."
Her eyes grew heavy with his words and she squirmed, shoulders pushing down into the carpet and forcing her breasts up, the soft blue silk of her blouse tightening, straining, accentuating.
"Jesus." In a rush, he ripped off the holster and tossed it on the floor. What he was about to do required full body contact and he wasn't taking any chances.
The small buttons of her blouse were annoying, and she saved him from having to buy her a new one when she pitched in and helped. In no time he was covering her from head to toe with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and then his body. Whispers and sighs blended together in the quiet night, flowing like the melody of a romantic song, building slowly—until her crescendo of pleasure culminated with a cry of his name.
There would be no more denial. He had found the woman meant for him.
Now he just had to keep her safe.
END OF CHAPTER FIFTY
That last line still gives me chills. Hot to cold in just one sentence. What do you think? Are they in danger? Has Mark lost his edge? And if so, is that a bad thing?
Please vote if you like a little fire by the fire. I know you do ;)