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Authors: Jenna Mills
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dangerously close to picking up the ball the grand jury had dropped.
Saura, apparently, had been caught in the crossfire.
Cain held quiet a long tense moment before answering. The shadows about him, lighter in the months since his lover turned up alive, deepened. “She…” he hesitated “…had a breakdown. It was like she just went away. She was there on the outside, but there was nothing inside. No life. No…anything.”
The image formed before John could stop it, and once again he could see her across the bar. The hurt in her eyes. The aching combination of courage and fear. The resolve.
And then, later, after they’d made love, when he’d lifted a hand to her face, and felt tears. He’d looked at her then, their bodies still wrapped together, and had seen a bleakness that would have sent him to his knees, if he’d not been on his back. “And now?”
“That’s a damn good question.” Cain scowled. “Now I look at her and I see something again. A spark. A…secret. Determination. I noticed it when I got back from Mexico.”
The time frame drilled through John. Cain had returned from Mexico five weeks ago…
“But I know my sister,” he was saying. “And no matter how hard she pretends, she hasn’t healed. Not all the way. She’s still broken inside.”
John wanted to deny it. All of it. That she wasn’t healed. That she was broken inside. That she was hurting—that he’d no doubt made it worse. He looked toward the barred window again and into the light drizzle, but saw only her eyes. As they’d been that night in the bayou. The way they’d sparkled last night, when she’d toyed with him. Then, less than an hour before, the dark glow of passion when she’d pulled back from his kiss and gazed blindly at him. There’d been no masks there in that old kitchen. She’d known who he was. She’d recognized him. She hadn’t yet learned Lambert had not sent him to kill her. And still, she’d lifted her mouth to his and pulled him closer, kissed him with the same urgency she had that night in the bayou—
She was broken inside, he reminded himself. And so incredibly off-limits it defied everything he believed in.
Saura dropped a handful of marshmallows into a chipped mug. Ready to indulge, she crossed the breakfast nook and pulled out a chair, sat. Twelve long-stemmed roses dominated the small round table in the plain vase she’d taken from the cabinet upon returning from the apartment several blocks away. Not quite the color of blood, the deep red buds had just started to open. In two days, they would be breathtaking. A day or two beyond that, they would be gone.
If she kept them at all.
Lifting the mug, she enjoyed the feel of the hot liquid sliding against the serrated edges of her throat. She’d taken a long shower with her favorite lavender body wash, but the smell of smoke lingered. Collette said it could be a few days before the vertigo subsided.
Now Saura glanced at the clock, saw the hour pushing deep into the night. Cain had insisted on taking her home, insisted on making sure she was okay. He’d fixed her a sandwich while she cleaned up. He’d paced while she pretended to nap. He’d read her the riot act once he realized she felt fine. He warned her to leave the dirty work to those trained to handle it.
Such as the hard-eyed detective who’d been nowhere in sight when Saura returned to the waiting room.
Silly man. Her brother had no idea how well trained she was. Slipping in and out of the shadows came ridiculously easily to her. Early on she’d learned the benefit of not being taken seriously. Her uncles would talk about things in front of her as if she either wasn’t in the room or wasn’t capable of understanding what they were saying.
Twenty years had passed since the night her most beloved uncle of all blew his brains out while his children slept upstairs. Saura still recalled the shock of hearing the eyewitness account of her cousin Camille, who insisted two
Saura, apparently, had been caught in the crossfire.
Cain held quiet a long tense moment before answering. The shadows about him, lighter in the months since his lover turned up alive, deepened. “She…” he hesitated “…had a breakdown. It was like she just went away. She was there on the outside, but there was nothing inside. No life. No…anything.”
The image formed before John could stop it, and once again he could see her across the bar. The hurt in her eyes. The aching combination of courage and fear. The resolve.
And then, later, after they’d made love, when he’d lifted a hand to her face, and felt tears. He’d looked at her then, their bodies still wrapped together, and had seen a bleakness that would have sent him to his knees, if he’d not been on his back. “And now?”
“That’s a damn good question.” Cain scowled. “Now I look at her and I see something again. A spark. A…secret. Determination. I noticed it when I got back from Mexico.”
The time frame drilled through John. Cain had returned from Mexico five weeks ago…
“But I know my sister,” he was saying. “And no matter how hard she pretends, she hasn’t healed. Not all the way. She’s still broken inside.”
John wanted to deny it. All of it. That she wasn’t healed. That she was broken inside. That she was hurting—that he’d no doubt made it worse. He looked toward the barred window again and into the light drizzle, but saw only her eyes. As they’d been that night in the bayou. The way they’d sparkled last night, when she’d toyed with him. Then, less than an hour before, the dark glow of passion when she’d pulled back from his kiss and gazed blindly at him. There’d been no masks there in that old kitchen. She’d known who he was. She’d recognized him. She hadn’t yet learned Lambert had not sent him to kill her. And still, she’d lifted her mouth to his and pulled him closer, kissed him with the same urgency she had that night in the bayou—
She was broken inside, he reminded himself. And so incredibly off-limits it defied everything he believed in.
Saura dropped a handful of marshmallows into a chipped mug. Ready to indulge, she crossed the breakfast nook and pulled out a chair, sat. Twelve long-stemmed roses dominated the small round table in the plain vase she’d taken from the cabinet upon returning from the apartment several blocks away. Not quite the color of blood, the deep red buds had just started to open. In two days, they would be breathtaking. A day or two beyond that, they would be gone.
If she kept them at all.
Lifting the mug, she enjoyed the feel of the hot liquid sliding against the serrated edges of her throat. She’d taken a long shower with her favorite lavender body wash, but the smell of smoke lingered. Collette said it could be a few days before the vertigo subsided.
Now Saura glanced at the clock, saw the hour pushing deep into the night. Cain had insisted on taking her home, insisted on making sure she was okay. He’d fixed her a sandwich while she cleaned up. He’d paced while she pretended to nap. He’d read her the riot act once he realized she felt fine. He warned her to leave the dirty work to those trained to handle it.
Such as the hard-eyed detective who’d been nowhere in sight when Saura returned to the waiting room.
Silly man. Her brother had no idea how well trained she was. Slipping in and out of the shadows came ridiculously easily to her. Early on she’d learned the benefit of not being taken seriously. Her uncles would talk about things in front of her as if she either wasn’t in the room or wasn’t capable of understanding what they were saying.
Twenty years had passed since the night her most beloved uncle of all blew his brains out while his children slept upstairs. Saura still recalled the shock of hearing the eyewitness account of her cousin Camille, who insisted two
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