Deep (Pagano Family #4)(22)

But how had the bomb happened? They had friends on the Providence bomb squad, so he knew they’d get their answers about the bomb itself. Controlled blast radius and timing—triggered, he thought, by the front passenger door opening—spoke to talent and opportunity. Talent made it Church. The only other entity who could afford that kind of talent would be another family, and there was no beef among the families now.

But opportunity—how the hell had the bomb been planted? Jimmy had opened that door to let Nick out when they arrived at Neon. And he’d obviously seen or heard something the second he’d opened it again, because he’d had time to yell them down before it blew. It must have been planted while they were in the club. Jimmy stayed with the SUV. The only time he left his post was if nature called, and then he called in to say so. So when? How?

Beverly moaned and then sighed, relaxing, and Nick knew she’d fallen asleep. He focused on her for a minute, marveling at the twists of the night that had landed her here, in his guestroom, for at least a few days. He needed to find out her last name. And where she worked. With that, it occurred to him to wonder what, exactly, he knew about her and whether she could have anything to do with the bomb. He didn’t know her full name, what she did, where she was from, anything except her first name and that of a few of her friends. And yet here she was, in his home.

It was highly unlikely that she was involved. He got no read from her that was ‘off’ in any way, and he had a keen sense for people. Still, he’d have her checked out at first light. He didn’t like ciphers in his midst.

Her right arm was stretched toward him, her fingers grazing his arm. He studied her tattoo, those two dainty feathers, each with a thick, dark quill and then fading out to seem light as air. The work was first-rate. Wrapping his fingers gently around her hand, he lifted it to look more closely.

The skin under the quills seemed raised, and, curious, he ran his thumb over her wrist. Scars. Two scars, both long, one longer than the other, vertical from her hand. He knew what those were.

He lifted her left arm, careful not to wake her, and checked the underside of her wrist—a single, much shorter, lighter scar there, not hidden with ink. He’d noticed that her right hand was her dominant hand. She’d cut into the right one first, probably thinking that her stronger hand would work better after its wrist had been cut and would be able to open the left wrist. Maybe she’d been wrong. Or maybe she’d changed her mind. Either way, at some point in her past, Beverly had tried to kill herself.

And that changed everything.

He got up and left her alone.





6



Bev slept hard for several hours, waking slowly, her body stiff and heavy with pain. The ache was so bad that it distracted her from the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, and by the time she had the focus to wonder where she was, she knew. She remembered. She was in Nick’s apartment, in his guestroom, apparently unsafe to cross the hall and be in her own place.

Each breath felt as if it got caught in her ribs somehow, and when she sat up, she thought she’d cry—but crying would hurt too much, so she refused herself that release.

Everything hurt. Her face, her head, her ribs, her arm—those were the worst, but she hurt from the roots of her hair straight down to her toenails. And she hurt because someone had bombed the truck she’d been about to get into. Nick’s truck.

Well, she’d spent the night at Nick’s place, but not the way she’d been hoping.

She tried to tell herself that Chris had been right, that Nick was someone to be avoided at all costs, because quite clearly he was dangerous. She’d gotten an early warning this time, and it had come with blood and fire. But those thoughts were stifled by others—his smile that always seemed a private thing between them, the way he called her bella, his hand on her leg, his lips on her mouth, on her hand. The way he’d sat with her last night as she’d fallen asleep. The way he’d helped her change out of her dress and had been a gentleman.

She was wearing his t-shirt right now. Feeling like a besotted schoolgirl, she brushed her hand over the smooth cotton. Another bad boy. She was up to her neck with another bad boy, lost this time before they’d done anything but kiss. She knew Chris hadn’t meant what he’d said last night. He’d be there for her, no matter how big a mistake she had made, or was still making, here. They’d been there for each other as long as they’d known each other.

Oh, no—Chris. The bombing must have been all over the news. Nick had said something about their photo going viral. And she didn’t have her phone. Chris and Sky would be going crazy. She needed to get to her apartment and get their numbers.

Getting carefully and unsteadily to her feet, she saw the sweatpants he’d brought her last night still folded at the foot of the bed. She worked her way into them and then went out of the room.

When she opened the door, she almost shut it again and stayed behind it. The apartment seemed to be full of people. Somebody was cooking with garlic. And there was the kind of conversational hum that suggested several people were talking together.

Bev tried to take a deep breath for strength, but even a normal breath was too deep right now. She resisted the impulse to hide, though, and walked out into the apartment.

An older woman, mid-sixties or so, stood in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot on the range. She was sturdily built, heavier than Bev but not fat, dressed like a lady who lunched—in dress slacks, low-heeled pumps, a patterned silk blouse, and rather a lot of gold jewelry. Her hair was tastefully styled and colored a coppery auburn. When she turned, Bev saw she had a tea towel stuck in her waistband like a makeshift apron.