Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(11)

The sound of another train whistle made him want to scream.

That and his cocksucking pager going off.

Hannah Whit. Again?

Who the hell—

Manny frowned and glanced at the headstone. Jane’s younger sister had been Hannah, if he recalled correctly. Whit. Whitcomb?

Except she had died young.

Hadn’t she?




Mad. Pacing.

God, she should have brought her track shoes for this, Jane thought as she marched around Manny’s place. Again.

She would have left his condo if she’d had a better idea of where to go, but even her brain, as sharp as it was, couldn’t seem to throw out another option—

Her phone ringing was not exactly good news. She didn’t want to tell Vishous that forty-five minutes later she still had nothing to report.

She took out her cell. “Oh . . . God.”

That number. Those ten digits that she’d had on speed dial on every phone she’d owned before this one. Manny.

As she hit send, her mind was blank and her eyes filled with tears. Her dear old friend and colleague . . .

“Hello?” he said. “Ms. Whit?”

In the background, she heard a dim whistle.

“Hello? Hannah?” That tone . . . it was just the same as it had been a year ago: low, commanding. “Anyone there?”

That quiet whistle sounded again.

Jesus Christ . . . , she thought. She knew where he was.

Jane hung up and flashed herself out of his condo, out of downtown, out past the suburbs. Traveling in a blur at the speed of light, her molecules went through the night in a twirling, swirling rush that covered miles as if they were but inches.

Pine Grove Cemetery was the kind of place you needed a map of, but when you were ether in the air, you could case a hundred acres in a heartbeat and a half.

As she came out of the darkness by her grave, she took a halting breath and nearly sobbed. There he was in the flesh. Her boss. Her colleague. The one she’d left behind. And he was standing over a black headstone that had her name carved in its face.

Okay, now she knew she’d made the right decision not to go to her funeral. The closest she had come was reading about it in the Caldwell Courier Journal—and the picture of all those surgeons and hospital staff and patients had all but snapped her in half.

This was so much worse.

And Manny looked exactly how she felt: ruined on the inside.

Jesus, that aftershave of his still smelled good . . . and in spite of having lost some weight, he was still handsome as sin, with that dark hair and that hard face. His suit was perfectly tailored and pin-striped—but it had dirt around the cuffs of the precisely pressed slacks. And his loafers were likewise soiled, making her wonder where the hell he’d been. He certainly hadn’t picked it up from the grave site. After a year, the soil was packed down and covered with grass—

Oh, wait. Her plot had probably looked like this from day one. She hadn’t left behind anything to bury.

As his fingers rested on the stone, she knew he had to have been the one to pick the thing out. Nobody else would have had the sense to get her exactly what she would have wanted. Nothing froufrou or wordy. Short, sweet, to the point.

Jane cleared her throat. “Manny.”

His head shot up, but he didn’t look over at her—as if he were convinced that he’d heard her speak only in his mind.

Making herself fully corporeal, she spoke louder. “Manny.”

Under any other circumstances, the response would have been a laugh riot. He wheeled around, then shouted out, tripped over her headstone, and landed flat on his ass.

“What the . . . hell . . . are you doing here?” he gasped. The expression on his face started as horror, but shifted quickly to utter disbelief.

“I’m sorry.”

It was entirely lame, but that was all that came out of her mouth.

And so much for thinking on her feet. Meeting those brown eyes of his, she suddenly had nothing to say.

Manny sprang to his feet, and his dark stare went up and down her body. And up and down. And up . . . to lock on her face.

That was when the anger came. And a headache, evidently, given the way he winced and rubbed his temples. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No.” She wished it were. “I’m so sorry.”

His vicious frown was achingly familiar, and what an irony to go nostalgic about a glower like that. “You’re sorry.”

“Manny, I—”

“I buried you. And you’re sorry? What the f*ck is this?”

“Manny, I don’t have time to explain. I need you.”

He glared at her for a long moment. “You show up after a year of being dead and you need me?”

The reality of how much time had passed weighed on her. On top of everything else. “Manny . . . I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Oh, really? Other than, oh, b.t.w. I’m alive.”

He stared at her. Just stared at her.

Then in a hoarse voice, he said, “Do you have any idea what losing you has been like?” He quickly brushed a hand over his eyes. “Do you?”

The pain in her chest made it hard to breathe. “Yes. Because I lost you . . . I lost my life with you and the hospital.”

Manny started to pace, going back and forth in front of her headstone. And although she wanted to, she knew not to get too close.