A Deep and Dark December(74)

“She shot you.”

He self-consciously rubbed his side where the bullet had hit. That had been the biggest surprise of all. If he hadn’t had seen Franklin’s reaction to Patricia pulling her gun in that last split second before she fired, he might not be here right now, calmly discussing the whole f*cking mess with Erin.

“Yeah.”

“The other guy shot her.”

“Franklin. I think he thought she was shooting at him.”

“And then you shot Franklin and made it look like Patricia and Franklin had shot each other.”

“He would’ve shot me if I hadn’t beaten him to it. It’s my fault she’s dead. I pushed her into that deal, pushed her to get out. She didn’t want to do it. But I promised her… Ah, shit.” He got up from the bed and moved to the window. He couldn’t look at Erin when he told this next part. He hooked a finger in the curtain and pulled it aside. The night was still and solemn. A cruel contrast to the blackness that roiled inside him.

“I told her I’d tank the IAB case,” he said, his breath fogging the window and obscuring the view. “I told her I thought we should get married.”

“Why?”

“Spouses can’t testify against spouses.”

*

Erin could hardly believe it. The blow of how much Patricia must have meant to Graham hit her hard. It was stupid to be jealous of a dead woman, but the burning ache had settled in her chest and no amount self-chastisement could loosen it. “You would’ve married her to save her? You loved her that much?”

Graham turned from the window. “I owed her that much.”

“So it was obligation, then?”

“Does it matter what it was?”

“I suppose it shouldn’t. Why did she have that recorder on her?”

“I found out later she’d gone behind my back and tried to make a deal. She’d offered me up, said I’d been in on it with her from the start, that I’d been playing IAB. It might’ve worked if she hadn’t died. If I hadn’t found that recorder and the other evidence she’d manufactured against me.”

“Is that why you left L.A.?”

“My dad’s heart attack gave me a good reason.”

“Did you go to her funeral?”

“Yeah.”

Erin could see now how much what he’d gone through had stripped from him. He stood by the window, swallowed in grief, obligation and blame. So much blame. As though he were solely responsible for the choices Patricia had made. Her death hung from him, a weighty sacrifice in the war he waged with his conscience. She couldn’t relieve him of it, but maybe she could help him forget, at least for a little while.

And maybe she had some things to forget too.

She rose from the bed and went to him, her damp nightgown sticking to her. He watched her, his body stiff and unmoving.

She slid her hand in his and gave it a little tug. “Come back to bed. It’s late.”

Cocking his head to the side, he frowned as though he didn’t quite understand what she was saying.

She pulled on his hand again. “Come on.”

He allowed her to tow him back to the bed and climbed in next to her. She peeled off her wet nightgown and threw it on the floor. He continued to watch her, his gaze hot and wary. She placed a hand on his chest and leaned in to kiss him.

He pulled away. “What are you doing?”

“I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Why?”

“I want something outside my head, something real and tangible and immediate. I just want to feel.”

He reached out to brush the backs of his fingers over her cheek. She caught his hand and held it in both of hers against her bare chest.

“Can you understand that?” she asked. “Can you do that for me?”

He stared at her for a moment, his expression giving away the rapid play of his emotions. And then he reached out and gripped the back of her head and brought her down for a kiss. Light and restrained, he tasted, testing. She let him go slow, let him feel his way to her.

Her skin felt feverish and prickly against his. Her senses spiraled into overdrive, the sensations piling up, one on top of the other and still he kissed her as though he had all the time in the world or was committing this moment to memory. Oh, my God that was it. She pushed back, breaking the kiss to look down at him. He was ending things. She could feel his withdrawal as though it was a string he pulled, unraveling everything between them.

Reaching down, she grabbed the sheet and drew it around her. She couldn’t speak, could only watch and wait while he settled their fate. He leaned up on his elbows. The late hour and all she’d been though tonight must have messed her up more than she thought. That couldn’t be a smile. He wasn’t the kind of guy to grin while he busted her heart into unrecognizable pieces. Crooked as it was, it was a smile. The self-deprecating, it’s-not-you-it’s-me kind of smile that locked her lungs.

“Just say it,” she dared.

“We’re going to do it my way this time.”

“What?”

“Slow.” He rose up and stalked toward her on hands and knees. “Torturously slow.”

She backed away on instinct. “Wha…what will you do?”

He had her against the headboard now. “You wanted mindless.” He hooked a finger in the sheet and drew it slowly down. “You wanted to feel.”