Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(96)

“H-huh?” she stuttered, completely taken aback, completely confused. Those were not the first words she’d expected to hear from him should he ever deign to be in her presence again.

“The tattoo on the back of your neck,” he said, rocking slightly on his heels. “The rose. It doesn’t have anything to do with your profession.”

Of its own volition, her hand jumped to cover the ink on the back of her neck, visible because she had her hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. “M-my tattoo?”

“Sí.” He nodded. And then, oh, jumping Jesus! He started stalking in her direction.

One step. Two. Three in that lazy, loose-hipped walk of his. She stopped counting when he was close enough for her to feel his heat, smell the soap on his skin, hear the low murmuring sound he made deep in his chest when he removed her hand. His palm was so warm, so deliciously familiar. And his touch brought back a thousand wonderful, painful memories. She closed her eyes, and two more fat tears raced down her cheeks.

“Just as I thought,” he said, having bent to study her tattoo. His hot breath puffed against the back of her neck causing every inch of her skin to erupt in goose bumps. “I didn’t get a good look at it in the hut, but I wondered if this twining bit of vines running up beside the rose spelled something.”

She opened her eyes, her breath sawing from her lungs on a noisy exhale. He was right. It did spell something. It spelled…Rosa.

“It w-was a way for me to p-pay tribute to her,” she admitted. “For years afterward, whenever I would smile or laugh or whistle or get lost in a movie, I would feel awful. Like I’d forgotten about her, even if it was only for those few minutes. And so I…” she had to swallow as more tears threatened to choke her. “I got her name tattooed on my neck. A daily reminder of her, the woman I loved like a sister. The woman I k—”

The hand he still had wrapped around her wrist tightened. “Don’t say that again,” he warned. She sucked in a breath, her eyes snapping up to his face. It was still so…unreadable. “I don’t want to hear you take the blame for Rosa’s death ever again.”

“B-but—”

“I know what happened. Your father told me everything on the flight from Chicago. And how awesome is Air Force One, by the way?”

She didn’t hear his question; she was so focused on the first two things he’d said. He couldn’t know what happened. If he did, he’d know she was to blame.

“Carlos,” she whispered. He heart was raw and burning, like a papercut doused in rubbing alcohol. I mean, really, was she going to have to take him through it, step-by-step? Wasn’t it enough that—

“So, then let’s move on to another matter.” He slid his hand down to lace his fingers through hers. It was so unexpected, so simultaneously wonderful and awful that she had to lean against the back of the couch or risk a very ungraceful ass-plant straight into the carpet.

“No,” she told him, sniffling. “No, we can’t move on. Not until you tell me exactly what my father told you.”

His chin jerked back, his brow furrowing. “He told me what really happened with the bombing.” His tone was all about the well, duh.

Some of her tears dried up as she frowned at him. “This is one instance where you need to go into detail. Please.”

He smiled down at her then, shaking his head. “Dios. You people and your need for details.”

And it was a good thing she was already leaning on the sofa, because that smile, directed at her when she never thought she’d see it again, would have brought her to her knees otherwise. “I’m serious,” she told him.

“So am I.” He was still grinning.

“Stop it, Carlos,” she said. But he continued to stand there, killing her with that smile, with that dimple. “I mean it,” she stressed. “Stop it.” And maybe it was habit—because she had no right to touch him, much less slug him—but she used her free hand to swipe at his arm.

“You stop it,” he told her, tapping her shoulder in retaliation.

And, oh, God! It was so wonderful and so…so awful! She buried her face in her hands and that was all she wrote. The waterworks had totally and irreversibly burst the dam.

*

Steady looked down at the bowed head and trembling shoulders of the woman he loved. His heart felt too huge and too hot for the confines of his chest. She was just so sweet. Too sweet. Taking on the responsibility and guilt of…Jesús Cristo…it seemed like the whole frackin’ world. Well, that stopped. Now.

He pulled her into his arms and, delight that she was, she struggled. For an instant. Which caused him to tighten his hold. Then, surrendering as only Abby could, so softly, so gently, she wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight, sobbing into the cotton of his T-shirt.

“Shh, cari?o,” he murmured, laying his cheek atop her head, breathing deep the smell of Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion. His dick twitched with interest at both her nearness and those ever-captivating smells, but he told the stupid prick—literal prick; ha!—that now was not the time. Now was the time to prove to her, once and for all, that she was not the one to blame for his sister’s death.

Being careful to keep his voice low, soothing, he recounted the details her father had given him. “I know the bombing of the coffee shop wasn’t coincidental, that the explosion was really meant for you.” Her arms loosened slightly, and he pressed her closer in response. “I know the terrorists knew you’d be at the coffee shop because they hacked into your cell phone and intercepted a text message you sent to my sister, telling her the time and the place to meet you. I know they targeted you specifically to try to make a point to your father, because he’d always been so vocal in his vow to go after extremists with the full might of the American military should he ever become president.” Her trembling had softened, her sobs reduced to sniffles as she listened. “And I know your father and his party decided to keep the truth of all of that under wraps, out of the press, because they thought it would hurt his chances of winning the election. Because they thought the American public, in light of the incident, would view his outspokenness as a giant come and get me to terrorists the world over.” Her little fingers bunched the material of his shirt into fists. “I know the only reason you were saved from sharing Rosa’s fate was because you were running late. And I know”—he ran a hand over her ponytail, reveling in the silkiness of her hair—“that your father made you promise to tell me none of this.”