She wasn't going to argue with him, try to make him see reason when she couldn't explain Rafe Cordeau to him. She couldn't mention his name. A man like Ridley would go head-to-head with Rafe, and Ridley would lose. She wasn't losing him. Not like that.
She snuggled into Ridley's warmth so she wouldn't have to lie to him. He was adept at reading lies, and she wanted him to think she'd wait.
"You're a pretty good kisser, Ridley," she said, touching her fingers to her lips. "Just in case none of your many women failed to mention that to you."
She felt him relax. He thought he'd won. The tension went out of all that corded muscle. "Baby, if I'm your first kiss, how would you know?"
Amusement tinged the velvet smooth of his voice. Affection. She let it wash over and into her, pulling the memory into a secret part of herself she would hold on to forever.
"I know," she said firmly.
He shifted her to the bed. She curled onto her side and was a little surprised when he stretched out beside her. He seemed to take up the entire bed. It was only a twin and he scooted her over to the edge, laid back and then tucked her into his side. His hands slid up behind his head, as if he couldn't trust himself not to touch her.
"Your bed's too small."
"I fit in it," she was compelled to point out.
"Yeah, Kitten, I know. But it's not big enough. When we get to the point where I'm staying here and you're staying at my place, we'll need a bigger bed."
She closed her eyes, wishing there was that possibility, knowing she'd never have another time of sharing a bed with him. She wanted to savor every second.
"Okay." That was the best she could do. Even then her voice shook.
Ridley shifted position again, turning on his side, sliding one hand around her waist to pull her into him, and then he settled his hand, fingers splayed wide, on the strip of bare skin not covered by her tank. She felt his palm and every one of his fingers like a burning brand. Her breath hitched in her lungs. Her throat felt raw. She closed her eyes to keep any burning at bay.
She wanted nothing to spoil this moment for her, not even the knowledge that she would never see him again. She let herself have her fantasy. She belonged to Ridley Cromer and he was madly in love with her.
"Don't go to sleep on me yet, baby," Ridley said softly. His hand began to move in slow circles on her belly. "I want to make certain you understand where this is going."
She turned her head and looked at him. His eyes were strange. Different. He had the same focused stare that made her feel as if she were the only person on the planet. The only one on his radar. Still, his eyes were different. The irises were wholly gold. They even glowed a little as if his night vision was every bit as good as hers.
"I don't understand."
"This man you're running from. The cops. They have nothing to do with you and me. Whatever happens, Kitten, it's still you and me. We'll find our way through it all together. I have no problem going with you to the police. I can find you a good lawyer. I don't care what it takes, Cat, I'm not losing you over this."
She swallowed hard and turned her face away from him. His hand moved to her chin and he turned her face back.
"I mean it, Catarina. I know you think whoever this man is that won't get out of your life is bad. Invincible. But you only know my sweet side. You deserve sweet so I give it to you, but that's not who I am. Look at me, baby. Really look at me. I have scars for a reason."
Her gaze slid over his face. She'd memorized it of course. Every line. The little laugh lines around his eyes. The scars that only served to make him all the more handsome to her. He had a man's face, not a boy's. Even when his eyes went soft, his face was hard, carved of stone. He had a strong jaw and always a bit of scruff, as if no matter how often he shaved, his hair insisted on growing.
"I'm not sweet and gentle with anyone else, and I never will be. I can get this man out of your life, but you've got to let me in so I can do my job."
"I let you in," she said softly. She leaned into him and brushed a kiss across his mouth. "I've never let anyone touch me. Get inside. Only you." That was all she had to give him, because she wouldn't give him death.
Talking to him about Rafe would do that, and Ridley Cromer needed to be alive and well somewhere in the world in order for her to keep going. Now she had a reason for being alone and lonely. Now she had a reason to stay in the shadows. And that reason was stretched out beside her, tough as nails, as sweet as the beignets she loved from her home state.
"So talk to me."
"I need more time. I can't just make a decision without considering all the ramifications. And I'm tired. I don't make decisions when I'm tired." She had to let him go before she did do something like talk to him about Rafe. That was how far gone she was. That was how much she wanted him. But even halfway in love, or maybe because of it, she wasn't going to risk his life.
He sighed, but the resignation was in his voice and on his face. "I'll give you a few hours to sleep and then I'm coming back, Cat, and whether you like it or not, we're going to talk."
"Kiss me again."
He shifted his body to half cover hers, his hands framing her face, and he brought his mouth down hard on hers. This was a different kiss entirely. This one said no way was she leaving him. He'd never let her go. This one said she belonged to him and no one else and there were so many more firsts he could give her.
Catarina kissed him back as best she could, following his lead, all the while committing every detail to memory. He stayed beside her while she drifted off, feeling warm and safe. She barely woke when he extricated himself from her and brushed his mouth across hers.
"I'll see you tonight, Cat."
She murmured a soft response and turned over to let sleep and her dreams of him take her away.
She woke sometime later with her heart pounding. She knew instantly she wasn't alone. Someone was in her warehouse and it wasn't Ridley. He had brushed another kiss across her forehead and left her already drifting off. She'd been wrapped in a cocoon of safety, of something close to love, and now she felt threatened on every level.
Her hand went under her pillow to get the gun just as she turned toward the monitor to check the cameras. The monitor was dark. There was no gun. Cursing softly, she slipped off the bed and felt around on the floor for her weapon. She'd more than once knocked it off the bed when she was moving around in her sleep. Before she could find it, lights burst through the warehouse, nearly every bulb turned on.
She leapt to her feet as men poured into her room. Guns pointed. Vests on. Grim faces. She was caught by the lead man and thrown facedown on her bed. She fought, trying to turn over, but he jammed a knee into her back and dragged first one and then the other hand behind her. She felt the bite of the handcuffs. He put them on tight. Still, the adrenaline coursed through her body and that monster inside of her woke.
Catarina lay facedown as the men went through her warehouse, tearing it apart, throwing her things, tossing clothes from her drawers.
"Catarina Benoit? We have a search warrant for this warehouse and your car. We're taking you downtown for questioning."
She recognized the voice. Frank Tuttle. Of course. She'd made him as a cop. They couldn't have anything on her.
"What am I being charged with?" Her voice was muffled against the mattress. Her hair was everywhere. She couldn't see him through the masses of strands falling into her eyes so she forced herself to lie still. Her skin itched horribly and panic was close. She couldn't stop the movement of her hands, trying to find a way out of the cuffs.
Tuttle caught her arm and yanked her to her feet. "Were you going somewhere?"
"To visit my mother," she snapped. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Your mother's dead," he snapped back, and shoved her toward the door.
Catarina deliberately stumbled and went down. She didn't have hands to break her fall and she landed hard. The side of her face hit so hard that for a moment she saw stars and her cheek
felt like she broke something. But her handcuffed hand found the small pen lying on the floor beside her overturned bag. She closed her fist around it.
"Damn it," Tuttle said. He crouched beside her. "Are you all right?"
She didn't deign to answer. Silence was a powerful weapon, she'd learned that lesson early, and she closed her mouth, refusing to look at him even when he helped her up. His hands were much gentler, but the horrible monster inside her detested his touch and clawed and raked at her belly, demanding she retaliate.
Catarina kept her eyes on the floor as Tuttle helped her to stand. Retaining possession of her arm, he walked her right out of her safety zone into broad daylight. She could see the police cars around her warehouse. There was no way this wasn't going to make the papers in one way or the other. Her heart started pounding hard and her mouth went dry. She wasn't in the least afraid of the police. But the police had drawn attention to her. And attention was bad. Very, very bad.
5
CATARINA rubbed at her wrists under the table, keeping her eyes down. Her wrists hurt horribly, as did her face from when she had fallen. The cuffs were off, but she kept the pen hidden for two reasons. It was a weapon if she needed one and she could use it to get out of the cuffs if they put them on her again.
She'd been patient, not tipping her hand that she could get loose. She was bruised because she couldn't keep her hands still with her wrists locked so tightly in the metal. Tuttle had deliberately left her sitting alone in the interrogation room for some time. She knew he thought she would become more agitated and frightened. Unfortunately for Tuttle, he didn't scare her. She knew monsters, and he wasn't one.
The door opened and he slipped into the room. She didn't look up. What was the point? She had nothing to tell him, so as long as this was going to last, and she figured it would be a very long time, she would endure.
They hadn't allowed her to grab a sweater and she was cold, and feeling a little exposed, which she figured was also part of the plan.
"Ms. Benoit? I'm Detective Frank Tuttle. We're investigating a man named Rafe Cordeau. I believe you know him."
Tuttle was dressed in slacks and a jacket and he looked far too slick to be anything but DEA. Not that it surprised her. He carried a folder and set it on the table, making a show of it. The thing was, no matter what he said, he had nothing on her and he would have to make something up, or he would have to let her go.
She remained silent. There wasn't a question in his statement.
"Ms. Benoit?" Frank's voice had gone sharp.
"I'm sorry." She sent him a brief look from under her lashes. "I didn't know that your statement required any response on my part."
"Are you acquainted with Rafe Cordeau?"
"You obviously think that I am. Enough that you turned the place where I live upside down. I have no idea what you were looking for because no one had the courtesy to tell me."
"That isn't an answer."
She shrugged. "As I don't know what you're looking for in the way of answers, I can't help you."
"Do you in fact know Rafe Cordeau?" he thundered.
"Is this where I'm supposed to wince and burst into tears?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice. Rafe could make her wince without even raising his voice, but even he couldn't make her burst into tears. Certainly no cop could.
She pushed the heavy fall of hair over her shoulder and for the first time looked Tuttle in the eye. She even leaned toward him. "Everyone who grew up in Algiers knows Rafe Cordeau or at least of him. If they say they don't, they are lying. Yes. To answer your question, I know Rafe Cordeau."
"And you lived with him for a number of years."
She stared him directly in the eye and she was very focused. Intense. She waited. She was good at waiting. Good at the silence game. She'd been taught by a master and she'd followed up those lessons with experiences. She could tell Tuttle was buying into her age. She was young. Barely twenty-one. She'd had her birthday just last month. She didn't look hard, she looked vulnerable. He had no idea the experiences she'd been through had aged her fast.
He sighed. "Ms. Benoit, I'm trying to ascertain how you know Cordeau."
"I'm sorry. You're not very good at this, are you? Again, there was no question for me to answer, and I can't guess at what you want from me."
Tuttle winced. She kept her gaze from the camera, where she was certain other cops were watching on a screen in a control room. Tuttle was going to take some ribbing over that remark.
"I was given to him when I was eleven years old."
"Given to him?"
She nodded. "I'm his ward. I was raised in his house."
"And you're engaged to be married to him."
For the first time her heart went crazy, hammering in her chest so hard she feared it would actually break through--or he could hear it. She forced herself to keep her eyes steady on his.
"Why would you think that?"
"There was a write-up in the New Orleans newspaper in the society section that states you are engaged to Rafe Cordeau. Are you saying that information isn't correct?"
No one would dare write an article about Cordeau without his consent. No one. Not even a reporter who wanted a name for themselves. Rafe had planted that article and he was making a statement directly to her.
She shook her head but didn't speak, her mind racing.
"Are you his fiancee?" Tucker asked, his voice a whip.
She shrugged. "If that's what someone wrote in a newspaper, I suppose it must be true."
Irritation crossed his face. He scowled at her. "You aren't helping yourself by being a smart-ass."
She raised an eyebrow. Her wrists throbbed. Her pulse raced, and she had a hell of a headache from falling on the floor. She didn't want to sit for hours in the interrogation room. Every minute that passed was a minute she should be on the road.
"I'm not trying to be a smart-ass, Mr. Tuttle . . ."
"Detective," he corrected.
She took a breath and heaved a sigh. "Detective Tuttle," she said. "I just want you to get to whatever this is about so I can go."
"This is about your relationship with Rafe Cordeau," he snapped.
"I've told you what my relationship is. You seem to have the information already anyway. If that's all you wanted to know, I'd like to go."
His fist banged on the table. She could have told him silence was far more effective. Silence. Staring. And ice-cold eyes. Banging on the table got you nothing. She held still and watched him.
"When was your last contact with Cordeau?"
"I left when I turned twenty."
"So a year ago."
That didn't deserve an answer. He could do math. She just stared at him. Waiting for him to get to it.
"It wasn't the first time you left."
Tuttle knew more than she thought anyone else was aware of. Someone was feeding the DEA information about Cordeau--a very dangerous game to play. She had to go carefully because that meant they had someone in his organization.
"No, it wasn't."
He waited a few moments but when she wasn't forthcoming, he leaned toward her. "You ran away when you were fourteen years old. A woman by the name of April Harp helped you. She was murdered along with her entire family, and you were safe back in Cordeau's house."
It was an accusation. She knew her face had gone white. Her stomach lurched and beneath the table she twisted her fingers together. There were some memories that would never go away and some deeds there was no redemption for.
"Yes, that's true," she whispered.
"Why did you run away?"
"I wanted to see my mother."
"She was already dead."
"I didn't know that," Catarina said. "He didn't tell me."
"He had her killed. Two days after she delivered you to him, she died of an overdose that the coroner said she didn't give to herself."
"That isn't news, Detective Tuttle. I was given that information after I was taken back to Cordeau, although how y
ou can attribute my mother's death to Rafe, I don't know. Again, you seem to have information I don't."
"Taken back? You didn't go voluntarily?" He pounced on that.
Now they were treading on dangerous ground. She said nothing, just watched him. He would want to bring kidnapping charges against Cordeau.
"Did Cordeau kill April Harp?" he demanded. "Did he order his men to kill her and her family?"
She remained silent.
"Did you help Cordeau kill her?"
Her stomach lurched again. "If you're asking am I responsible for her death, I believe I am, yes. I didn't kill her, but I left. I knew there would be consequences but I stupidly thought they would be for me, not someone else."
"Were you there when she was killed?"
There was no statute of limitations on murder. She saw where this was going and shook her head. "There is no way, under any circumstances, that I could, or would testify against Rafe Cordeau. None. If that's what your desired end result is, then we're finished here."
Tuttle sat back in his chair. "You know what he is. You know he's killed people. Many people. He runs drugs. Prostitutes. Guns. Still, you aren't willing to help us put him away."
"You've had how many people willing to help you put him away? They're all dead, Detective Tuttle. You can't protect them from him. You certainly won't be able to protect me from him. He owns men like you. He has connections everywhere. You aren't going to bring him down and certainly not with my testimony."
"You saw him kill April Harp. You were there."
"I was held there," she spat back. "Fourteen years old. All I wanted to do was see my mother. That was all. I saw a knife go into my friend's belly and she was slit all the way to her breastbone. Then my hands were pushed into the gaping wound so that I would always remember her blood was on my hands. I heard the shots that killed her family, but I didn't see anything else. I couldn't see anything else. I was on my knees screaming and I couldn't even cover my face because my hands were covered in her blood."
She would never forget the horror of that moment. Rafe holding her in front of him. His man, Marcel, holding April. Catarina had been unable to look away, not even when Rafe plunged the knife into April and sliced her open. Blood sprayed all over her, but that wasn't enough for Rafe. He wanted her to learn a lesson.