Baddest Bad Boys(16)

Their gazes stayed locked to the last, until they led him away.

So she had a task to accomplish. The huge responsibility had electrified her, kept her awake for the long drive home. But he hadn’t told her that he was going to leave her alone forever. That was cruel.

Julia squeezed her eyes shut to block out the blinking answering machine. Those bloody letters were carved into her brain. AMENDOLA.

She went into her bedroom, removed her clothing. Paced into the room that she and William had used for their special, private rituals. She lit the candelabra, and stared at her nude body in the mirror, the intricate beauty of her scars. She was a living work of art. William had sculpted her, with knives and fire. She was his legacy, his masterpiece.

Amendola would pay. Double. She would take his wife, or his girlfriend, and perform the ultimate tribute to William’s memory upon her. She would toss the limp, broken body back at him like garbage. And when she finally did kill him, he would already be dead inside.

William’s face took form in her mind, giving her a burst of joy. She realized, in a blinding flash of insight, that he was free now. Really free.

Free of the burden of his own body. Free to guide her.

Make it hurt. She’d been tutored by a master in the intricacies of pain. Levels upon levels of agony that transformed the soul.

Make it hurt.

Oh, yes. She would. And inside her head, William smiled at her.

4


Flapping wings, beating. Glaring eyes, hooked beak, a shriek that froze his blood. Rending claws, plummeting like a missile—

And he was looking down at the girl, staked out, her naked body scarcely recognizable as human. Her jaw gaped. In her slack mouth was that telltale gleam of a delicate blue ovoid. The robin’s egg.

The girl’s eyes snapped open. Horror stopped his heart.

Robin’s huge brown eyes. Whites showed all around. They stared out, weeping tears of blood that streaked down her distorted face—

Jon jerked upright, choking off a scream, and stared around, trying to orient himself. The cabin. The kitchen. Robin. Geddes and his hand gel. Jesus. Just a dream. One of the worst.

It wasn’t getting better. He didn’t get it. He was thick-skinned. He bounced back from whatever plowed into him. Growing up in foster homes had made him tough, resiliant. He knew how to look out for himself. He knew better than to let anyone or anything get too close. He kept the world at bay, by habit. It worked for him. It always had.

That had worked for him as a cop too. He wasn’t cold or uncaring. He was just detached. Victims had counselors to be empathetic to them. Empathy wasn’t his job, thank God. His job was to hunt those f*ckers down and haul them in. To make them stop.

So how was the Egg Man messing with him from beyond the grave? It made him feel violated. Helpless. A feeling he hated intensely.

He forced himself to consider all the possibilities, however unpalatable. Maybe he was having a breakdown. Accumulated job stress. He’d never dreamed it could happen to a cast-iron bastard like himself, but how else would he let himself get snookered into fooling around Robin? He was losing his mind. It was the only explanation.

His heart still galloped from the dream. He tried to breathe deep, calm down, but it wasn’t happening. He twisted around, stared at the bed, dimly visible in the light of the dying fire. The virgin sacrifice.

What the hell. She wouldn’t know he was gawking. He padded into the other room and stared at her, curled up in her nest of puffy nylon. Her shoulder had slipped out of the sweatshirt. So soft, and pretty. And sweeter than sweet. That made it so much worse somehow.

He went back to the kitchen and snagged a chair, carried it back with him. He sat down near the bed. Hell, he couldn’t sleep anyway.

It made him breathe easier. As long as he was watching, no stinking bird of prey could swoop down on her and start rending.

The dream was deliciously erotic. Rocking bursts of delight pulsed through her as she twined herself around Jon’s body. But she knew it was only a dream. Something was pulling on her from the outside, tugging at her mind. An urgent, anxious feeling. Someone needed her.

She drifted into a near-waking state, smelled mothballs and mold, woodsmoke and pine resin. And that feeling between her legs. Oh, boy.

It flooded back. Her eyes popped open, and the source of that urgent pull at her mind was abruptly revealed.

Jon was sitting next to the bed in a straight-backed chair. He wore only jeans and a small gold medallion that dangled at his throat. His chest was breathtaking. Thick slabs of muscle, dark hair arrowing down towards his groin. His feet were bare, his dark hair spiked out every which way. His eyes bored into hers. A shiver racked her at the fierce intensity of his eyes. No smiles. On the contrary. He looked tense.

Robin sat up. “Jon? Are you OK?”

He shook his head.

Robin studied him. She ached to reach out to him, but she still smarted from all his previous rejections. And yet, he seemed to be coming around. Not in any sort of playful way, that was for sure. But he looked like he needed something. She did too.

Though she had a feeling that what she got wasn’t going to be anything like her girlish fantasies. But whatever. She was flexible.

She slid her legs out of the bed, unzipped the bag completely, smoothing so that it covered the entire, red-striped sofabed mattress. Then she padded to the armchair where she’d dumped her tote, and rummaged til she found the bag with the condoms. She pried it open, pulled one out and marched back, waggling it. She was prepared.