Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(113)

Fresh drops fell from the guy's chin onto the treadmill's black band, and John wiped his eyes a couple of times before he looked over. In his face, 290

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anguish warred with the kind of fury that made your balls get tight.

Which made perfect sense. With his history, this was a crusher on so

many levels.

I've got to kill him, John signed. I can't live with myself if I don't take him out.

As Blay nodded, the whys of the vengeance were obvious. Bonded

male with a bad history?

Lash's death warrant had just had PAID stamped on it.

Blay curled up a fist and offered his knuckles. "Anything you need, anything you want, I'm with you. And I won't say a word."

John waited a moment and then met fist with fist. I knew I could

count on you, he mouthed.

"Always," Blay vowed. "Always."

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J. R.Ward

FORTY-TWO

Eliahu Rathboone's house went fully silent again about an hour after Gregg's aborted trip to the third floor, but he waited long after that butler had gone back downstairs before he gave the ascension another shot.

He and Holly passed the time not by f*cking, which was their old

MO, but by talking. And the thing was, he realized the more they said, the less he knew about her. He didn't have a clue that her hobby was something as apple pie-ish as knitting. Or that her larger ambition was to segue into real television news--which wasn't a shocker on the face of things: Lot of bobble-headed females in the reality world had loftier ambitions than introducing amateur high-steppers or commenting on how cockroaches were eaten. And he even knew that she'd given local news a shot in the Pittsburgh market before getting fired from that entry-level position.

What he hadn't had a clue about was the real reason why she'd left that first job of hers. The married general manager had expected her to perform for a different, more private kind of camera, and when she'd told him no, he'd pink-slipped her after setting her up to fail on air.

Gregg had seen the tape of the reporting job where she'd butchered her words. After all, he did his homework, and though her audition for him had gone great, he always checked references.

Guess that was what had started him off with his assumptions about

her: pretty face, great rack, nothing much else to offer.

But that wasn't the worst of his misconceptions. He'd never known she had a brother. Who was handicapped. Who she was supporting.

She'd shown him a picture of the two of them together.

And when Gregg had asked out loud how it was possible he hadn't

known about the boy? She'd had the honesty to tell him the way it was: Because you'd laid out the lines and that was over the line.

Naturally, he'd had the normal male reaction to defend himself, but

the fact was, she was right. He had drawn the boundaries pretty f*cking clearly. Which meant no jealousy, no explanations, nothing permanent and nothing personal.

Not exactly the environment you wanted to make yourself vulnerable

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in.

That realization was what had had him pulling her up against his chest and putting his chin on her head and stroking her back. Right before she'd gone to dreamland, she'd mumbled something in a soft voice. Something like, it was the best night she'd ever had with him.

And this in spite of the monstrous orgasms he'd given her.

Well, given her when it suited him. There had been a lot of dates that he'd canceled at the last minute and phone messages that went unreturned and brush-offs both verbal and physical.

Man . . . what a shit he'd been.

When Gregg fianlly got up to go, he tucked Holly in, turned the

motion-activated camera on, and slipped out into the hallway. Silence all around.

Padding down the corridor, he went back to the Exit sign and ducked

into that rear stairwell. Up the steps, around the landing, another flight, and then he was at the door.

No banging this time around. He took out a thin screwdriver that was

normally used on the camera equipment and got to work jimmying the lock.

It was easier than he'd thought, actually. Just one poke and shift and the thing sprang loose.

The door did not squeak, which surprised him.

What was on the other side, however . . . shocked the ever loving hell out of him.

The third floor was a cavernous space with old-fashioned, rough—

hewn floorboards and a ceiling that sloped at a steep angle on either side.

Down at the far end, there was a table with an oil lamp on it and the glow turned the smooth walls into a golden yellow . . . as well as illuminated the black boots of whoever was sitting in a chair just outside the pool of light.

Big boots.

And suddenly, there was no question who the SOB was and what he'd

done.

"I have you on tape," Gregg said to the figure.

The soft laugh that came back at him made Gregg's adrenal gland go

into overdrive: Low and cold, it was the kind of sound killers made when they were about to get to work with a knife.

"Do you." That accent. What the f*ck was it? Not French . . . not Hungarian . . .

Whatever. The idea Holly had been taken advantage of made him

taller and stronger than he really was. "I know what you did. The night before last."