Chapter Seventeen

GRIPPING the guitar by the neck, Custo stood to a smattering of applause. Not that he needed it. God, it had just felt so good to play. To channel his maddening restlessness into a medium that satisfied like a back-alley fight, but without the broken nose or bloody knuckles.

His hands had been itching for murder since the attack at Abigail’s. The trip down memory lane hadn’t helped either. Fucked-up life, fucked-up world. Now that the sensation had receded, he could think. He could be. That dark, angry part of him had finally gone quiet. Like absolution.

The darkness of the club had remained undisturbed while he played. Nothing had moved out of place. No wolf. Just peace. There had been so many opportunities for the wolf to attack, yet none were taken. The wait at Segue, his “outpatient” surgery, the party, the loft, now Jack’s place. To what they owed this reprieve, he had no idea.

Maybe it wasn’t a reprieve at all.

Custo had kept an eye on Annabella in his peripheral vision while he played. Ready to drop Jack’s $20,000 guitar should she twitch in fear. Now he dared to look directly at her.

Annabella sat like a queen in her deep blue gown, always straight, never slumped and easy. She didn’t look so angry anymore. Her eyes were shimmery with tears, which was never a good sign in a woman. But she didn’t seem sad or scared either. He didn’t like it.

He was glad he had already decided not to read her mind. At the moment, he was nervous about what he’d find there. He had wanted her to hear him play, but now he felt exposed. Uncomfortable in his own skin.

He discarded the feeling. It wouldn’t take much to tick her off again. It was what he did best.

The bass player and drummer gave Custo a nod of recognition and Custo thanked them for backing him on the spur of the moment. He got a couple of sincere anytimes.

Then Jack was there. “At least you were playing these past two years, even if you weren’t playing for me.”

Custo hadn’t touched a guitar for years. Somehow in all that time his fingers never forgot the intricate patterns of the song, and the music had obeyed. He probably owed the peak looseness and dexterity of his hands to his altered status, though he was still loath to own the title. Angel.

Jack held up keys and traded for the guitar. “Same room. I’ll send out for dinner. Any preferences?”

A simple question would be a good way to gauge Anna-bella’s real mood. “What do you want for dinner?”

She shrugged, expression transforming from shimmery tears to smug. “I don’t care.”

Also not a good sign. She wasn’t that easygoing. Not remotely. She was the most difficult woman he’d ever known. And what was she so smug about?

“The usual, then,” Jack said, “times two.”

A sax player jockeyed for space on the stage. “Man, that was scary good. I almost don’t want to follow you. Figure I better go up-tempo or out the door.”

Custo thanked him and yielded the stage. He took Annabella’s hand to lead her through the club. She held the skirt of her dress off Jack’s dirty club floor with her other. She still hadn’t said anything, still had a happy sparkle to her eyes. What did she have to be happy about?

The world was at war. She was being stalked by a wolf. Her life was at risk. And here she was about to tippy-toe through the club into which she had to be dragged in the first place.

Who got happy after hearing a blues song? She should be miserable.

They climbed a concealed flight of stairs to an upper level. The key unlocked the door to the apartment directly above the club. Jack’s pad was another flight up. They’d have to sleep to the vibration of the music until two A.M., when the club closed. Not a hardship for Custo; Annabella would just have to deal.

He unlocked the apartment and held the door while she entered.

“Nice,” Annabella said, appreciation in her voice. “Why is the club such a dive?”

Custo took a look around. Mismatched pieces of leather furniture were grouped in a small sitting area in front of an inset gas fireplace. The bedroom was visible through another door. Colorful art, mostly impressionistic renderings of jazz clubs and artists, brightened up the walls. The far side of the room had a brag wall, where Jack had hung black-and-white photographs of himself with music legends. None of the pieces really went together. No decorators. Stuff Jack saw, he bought. And his taste was usually expensive.

Custo threw his tux jacket over the back of the sofa and got rid of the damn cummerbund around his waist. “Club’s the same way it was when Jack bought it. He’s a little superstitious and doesn’t want to mess with his luck—which has been very good since he took over the place. Dive or not, he has no problem bringing people in to hear music.”

“He likes you,” she said, peering into one of the photographs. Her skin glowed against the deep dip of blue, her spine curving deliciously toward her ass as she leaned forward.

“What’s not to like?” Custo loosened his bow tie, and then left it hanging under his collar so it wouldn’t get lost.

Annabella laughed. Not twenty minutes ago she was all nerves, now she didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Custo didn’t understand. The wolf was still a problem. Could be here, in the apartment, right now. What was up with her?

The floor pulsed suddenly with the start of the next song, the rhythm driven by bass and drums.

She turned back around. The dress clung to the curves of her waist and hips before settling. “What were you playing?”

“Civil rights tune called ‘Alabama.’” The guitar felt so right, the song coming out exactly the same as he heard it in his head. He hated himself, but he had to ask, “Did you like it?”

Annabella’s eyes filled with feeling. “I loved it.”

The expression on her face made him take a step back, denying what he saw there, hating her choice of words.

A brow lifted. “Custo?”

He shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Her lips curved into a smile, so she had to know what he meant.

“Like that.” He undid the top button on his shirt so he could breathe better, but still couldn’t draw one good lungful of air.

“Whatever you want.” But the happiness didn’t fade. She brought her hands up to her coil of hair, and the mass tumbled down into curls on her shoulders. Again that smug satisfaction.

He wanted to kiss it off her face. Wipe away the knowledge in her smile.

She knew.

It had to have been the music that changed her. He’d gone too far, revealed too much. But that was the way with music; it demanded everything. No holding back. Denying what he’d played now was like trying to stop something that had already happened. Futile, wasted effort. And a lie.

He couldn’t lie to her again. Wouldn’t.

Fine, then. She knew. He loved her. He’d loved her since he first saw her dance in the Shadowlands.

It wasn’t as if pride had held him back from telling her, or the stupid macho shtick played up on TV and in the movies. He didn’t have the time or patience for any of that shit.

She had to understand.

He said, “I. Ruin. Everything.”

The smile faltered, a dark glimmer of sadness far away in her eyes.

So she did understand. No matter how he felt, he was no good for her. He could play well and fight better, but that was about it. He was a thieving, murderous opportunist. Not too long ago he’d taken all he could get from her, and he would again tonight.

He dropped his gaze to get rid of Adam’s cuff links. Everything borrowed, nothing his. Never his. He threw them on an end table, rolled his cuffs, and forced himself to look up again.

Her gaze was waiting.

“You’ll have to tell me what you’re thinking,” he said. She was smart; by now she had to have guessed that he’d quit trespassing in her head.

She pinned him with dangerous intent. “Fine then. You ruin everything? Ruin me.”

Heat and shock burned away his bitterness. If ever there were an invitation…

“You told me this evening, who knows what will happen tomorrow,” she said.

He hated when people quoted him.

“For some reason, the wolf has left us alone tonight. I don’t know why. Maybe you hurt him badly, or maybe he’s plotting something more horrible than we can imagine.”

Custo could guess where she was going with this. He should have kept his distance, kept his hands off her. There was no white picket fence in their future. Ever.

“I think we should dispense with any and all crap and tell the truth for once,” she continued. “That way, neither of us needs to read minds.”

No house in the burbs. No happily-ever-after. But some offers were just too good to turn down. He pulled his shirt-tails out of his pants and started removing the studs in his shirt.

“Now,” she said, her voice wavering after her speech. “I think you should start.”

Little coward. Custo caught himself from smiling. She wanted truth; she was going to get it.

“I hate your dress.” There.

Her faced flushed, hands going to her flat, little waist. “Well, I—”

Custo flicked the last stud away as he strode over to her. Her scent, sweet and subtly flowery, filled him. He circled to her back and stroked a knuckle down the exposed skin. “It’s been bothering me all night. It really should come off.”

He lifted his hands to her shoulders and brushed away the straps. The blue fabric slid down her body and puddled on the floor. “Much better.”

She turned her head to the side. “I saved for three months to buy that dress.”

“This is much better, trust me.” He skated over her waist to her flat belly to pull her back against his open shirt, skin to skin, then stopped at her breasts. He’d been certain a second ago that she was braless. He turned her to investigate.

Sure enough, a nude bra of sorts covered her breasts. Having no straps, the molded cups were held up by magic. He hated it, too.

“It’s a stick-on,” she explained, a shy version of her smile tugging at her mouth. She stepped out of her gown, stooped to pick it up, then laid it on a wing-back chair. He didn’t stop her so he could watch her move in her high heels with her endless legs in thigh-high stockings and her itty-bitty G-string.

But his attention came back to the bra. “You’re telling me that you have a sticker for a bra?”

Innovative. Brilliant. Somebody must be making millions.

Annabella laughed now. “A self-adhesive, yes. So my bra wouldn’t show with my dress. You can’t just yank it off either.”

She began to apply herself to the task of slowly peeling the silicone from her skin.

“No, no,” he said. “Let me. I thought I had mastered all women’s underwear, but I seem to have missed this one. As always, Bella, you challenge me.”

Her hands dropped to accommodate him, her weight shifting to sit in her delectable hip to let him know how exasperating he was being and how patient she was in return.

“Now let me know if this hurts, and I will kiss it all better.” He tugged a little at the cup, gently, and kissed the bare spot anyway. The skin beneath was warm, dewy, and pinked. Salty. Her fingers threaded into his hair to keep him close.

Her touch had electricity charging his blood, beating in time with the pulse of the music below. Heat pooled in his groin, pulsing and insistent. The task required a tenderness that he didn’t have. Never had. He wanted the thing off. He wanted her pinned beneath him. Pierced by him. So she would know, for certain, that no matter what happened tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, he was hers and she was his, and that’s the way it was going to be forever.

The first breast sprang free, and he sucked hard on the nipple. She arched against him, yanking at his shirt, while he made short work of the cup on the other side. He had to touch and taste all of her. To learn her, memorize every lash and freckle. To know her. Not just for sex—they’d done that already—but for possession. So that every inch of her body responded to his, so that every nerve recognized him. Only him. No wolf.

He was sorry when she kicked off her sexy heels, but he shucked his shoes, too. His mouth grazed her shoulder, thumb sliding the G-string from her hip. She did a little shake of her perfect ass, which jiggled slightly in his hand, and the bit of fabric fell to the floor.

“Bed,” she said. Demanded more like.

He was too far gone, ready to bring her to her knees and take her for the first time right there, stockings and all. Damn, he loved stockings. They made up for the maddening sticker.

She pinched him hard on his pecs. “Bed. Now.”

Brat. The sooner he was inside her, the better. He circled her waist to pick her up and kicked open the bedroom door. He didn’t mean to jar her with the doorjamb, but it was her own damn fault they were going in there in the first place. And he’d kiss that better, too.

He set her on her feet at the bed and worked the double clasp of his pants. By the time they were wrinkling on the floor she was crawling across the mattress toward the pillow.

Grabbing her ankle, he dragged her back toward him. The bed was the only comfort she was getting now. Pillows later, if she were lucky.

Annabella rolled onto her back as soon as Custo released her. She caught a flash of his green eyes, his full mouth, and his incredible physique before he came down on top of her, his tight, smooth skin rippling with muscle and incredible warmth. She expected him to ravage something—anything would be good—but he stopped, pinning her to the bed with his weight to drag a lock of hair from her mouth.

“You drive me crazy,” he said. The vibration of his chest felt amazing against her body. She responded with a deep, petulant ache at her center.

“Right back at ‘cha,” she said, lifting her head to nip at his mouth. She wriggled a little under him to let him know she was impatient.

He ignored her urgency and brushed his lips over hers, the texture smooth, the pressure hard, as if finding just the right angle to settle in. Then he kissed her so dark and hot that she forgot to breathe. It made her heart pound harder. There was only Custo, his body, and the strange climbing rhythm of the bass from the club below. She was liking his music more and more.

When he moved to her neck, stubble rasping as his mouth worked her sensitive skin, she gasped for air. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her gaze blindly casting upward.

He lowered to her breasts, which by now she knew he liked a lot. He couldn’t stop touching them. He nuzzled and sucked; the answering pull in her body was delicious. Her breath came faster as his hands traveled her contours, breast, waist, ass, thigh, branding her all over with finger trails of possessive heat. She blinked rapidly to clear her clouding mind, but his laves and strokes drove away coherent thought.

She couldn’t lose herself yet; he hadn’t admitted the truth out loud. With words.

Far off, a saxophone wailed. She grabbed hold of the sound as his mouth trailed down her belly. He climbed off the edge of the bed, hands sliding up her inner thighs, thumbs parting her.

The things the man could do with his hands.

“What’s this song?” she asked as her vision fuzzed, his warm breath both liquefying her and sending hot sparks into her core.

Custo paused, then kissed her where she ached. “ ‘Footprints.’ ”

The sax trilled up with his touch, as did the pressure rising within her. When the music fell to a lower register, she gripped the sheets, willing it to climb again. “I like it.”

Custo echoed the rhythm, coaxing the music higher against her with his demanding mouth. His kiss was wet, and hot, and hard. Maddening. When the band came together to climax, she did, too, shuddering against him on the last waves of the melody.

Every joint and muscle in Annabella’s body was happy-loose when Custo altered his hold on her, kissing her temple briskly.

“Up,” he growled, pulling her out of her languid pleasure.

Not that she was complaining. She wanted his weight on her, him inside her, moving slow and deep.

He nudged her toward the headboard, lifting her to her knees like an expert dance partner, her back to him. He took her hands, braced them on the wall, and held them there. At her ear, he said, “Arch for me.” His voice, dark with desire, had her coiling inside again. Heart pounding, she tilted her hips back for him, feeling his length behind her.

“More,” he commanded, grasping her at her waist, forcing the curve of her supple spine deeper. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation.

She relaxed into the bend, and he filled her, his clever fingers building her pleasure again. Her hands dropped to the headboard, gripped, and rode the mindless, erratic rhythm from the club with him. The music was near formless, held together by beat and voice, the sax a whine and bellow of wind, all topsy-turvy and endless. Custo wrapped his arms around her to pull her back, joined them hip to hip in his lap. She was protected and claimed, at the brink of something new and frightening, but not alone. He tensed, groaned, and sent an earthquake of dark bliss through her.

He held her when her body gave against him. She gulped for air, her head resting back against his shoulder. Solid, safe. His raw strength came in handy when he expertly adjusted their position, turning her to face him, stretching out on the bed, and tucking her against his chest, heart to heart, heat to heat.

“So are you going to tell me or what?” she said, and bit his earlobe for encouragement.

He grinned. “What? So you can be more of a pain in the ass?”

“You like my ass.”

He touched his forehead to hers. “Yes, I must admit I do.”

“So?”

“This can’t work,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “You and I.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ve covered that.” But she kissed him quick on his lips, because the reality of their situation hurt her, too.

He lifted up a bit, so that their gazes joined. “I love you, woman.”

She laughed. “Woman? Oh you smooth talker, you.”

“My woman,” he corrected, tone now deadly serious.

“You’re mine, then, because I love you, too,” she said, daring him to contradict her.

He sighed heavily, definitively, the movement a deep, changing wave upon her, and answered, “Body and soul.”

Wolf gazed at the old woman sleeping on the bed. A false, cloying scent of flowers tainted her skin, near overriding the sour sweat that dampened her forehead. Her lids flickered and she strained restlessly against her nightmare.

Yes. Now. He growled low to rouse her.

When she gasped into wakefulness, he bared his teeth. Ready.

She had to see him first, had to break with fear, or the trap wouldn’t spring.

The woman pushed up to her elbows, breathing harshly. Blinking to clear her vision.

Wolf felt the weight of her gaze settle on him and grinned more deeply, lowering his head and bunching his great hulk to spring.

The woman screamed. Loud and cracked and perfect.

Courtesy of Jack, the Chinese food showed up not too long after, eight neat white takeout boxes lined up outside the apartment door, smelling like Heaven should but didn’t. Custo could always trust Jack. Chinese and a bottle of good wine.

Custo retrieved the food and they ate it mostly naked in bed. He’d found his briefs; she wore Adam’s tux shirt buttoned once, the cuffs rolled up to her elbows. Her sitting position in bed was a ballerina stretch, one leg long to the side, the other crossed in front of her for balance, and blocking his view. He wanted to see all of her again, but he’d get to that later.

“I have one question for you,” he said.

“Shoot,” she said, picking at her chicken and rice with chopsticks. The smell was sharp with soy and ginger. Her lips were shiny with it, tongue darting intriguingly.

“Your feet.” He lifted the one nearest him to examine her toes. They looked alien, knobby with calluses. With mock severity, he added, “Frankly, I’m concerned.”

She giggled and kicked him. “They’re supposed to be that way, or I wouldn’t last ten minutes en pointe. I’ve worked very hard for my ugly feet, and I won’t hear you say a word against them.”

“In that case,” he said. “I love them, too.” Guitar players got thick calluses on their fingers, so he could relate a bit.

It was amazing, peaceful, to be with her like this. Happy, naked, laughing at inconsequential things.

Annabella was animated as they talked, her eyes shining, denying whatever hell tomorrow might bring, and he let her. They finished eating and made the bed their world, like a white island of happiness away from everything else. Annabella, sex, Chinese food. Couldn’t be more perfect. He wanted these stolen hours to last forever, too, though the club had closed some time ago and once again he was faced with an unwelcome dawn.

Inevitably, Segue came up. Talia and Adam and the babies.

Annabella lounged on the pillows, an arm behind her head, gazing at him with sleepy eyes, though neither of them wanted to actually sleep. “I was too mad to ask before, but what was with all the soldiers in our room?”

Adam’s room. “I was questioning them, trying to get the truth about our failed mission out of them. One of them is responsible for the wraith attack.”

“You were using your Spidey sense?” She flipped to her side, her hip and waist curving beautifully, tantalizingly, and she knew it. The shirt puckered and he could see her rose-tipped breasts, which by the gleam in her eye, she knew, too.

Custo shifted closer, parting the shirt. “Yes. There is someone inside Segue gunning for Adam. One of those soldiers had to have tipped off the wraiths to his position at the theater last night. Adam was almost killed.”

“At my performance?” She looked horrified and sat up.

“The informant’s actions are not your fault, Annabella,” Custo said, tugging at the shirt to bring her back down. “The wraiths would have attacked Adam anywhere.”

She resisted the pull. “Did you find him?”

“Nope. As far as I can tell, none of them went out of their chain of command.” Custo sat up, too. Annabella obviously wasn’t going to cooperate until she knew the whole story. He regretted bringing up the subject at all. “I figured it had to be one of them. There is no one outside the team who knew of our plans for the evening.”

“Except Talia,” Annabella said, a furrow of thought forming between her eyebrows.

“Okay, except Talia.” But she didn’t count. Talia would never betray Adam.

Custo put his hand inside the tux shirt to see if he could get Annabella’s nipples to harden. A couple flicks of his thumb ought to do the trick…

“And her doctor?” Annabella persisted. “Did you question him?”

“Her doctor is a woman, Dr. Powell.” Gillian had been with Segue almost from inception. She’d seen firsthand what Jacob was capable of, and she’d been there when the wraiths attacked Segue en masse. If not for Talia, Gillian would have never survived the day. She, more than anyone, would know how critical Talia and Adam were to the wraith war.

“Okay…did you question her?” Annabella made an exasperated face.

“She wasn’t privy to the details of the security for the night.” Now could they move on to better things? And then much better things?

“Well, did Adam discuss plans with Talia? With Dr. Powell present?”

“He shouldn’t have.” But Custo could picture Adam at Talia’s bedside, entertaining her, keeping her up to date on the goings-on of Segue, to which they dedicated their lives. Maybe he told her about the performance. Maybe he let slip his role in the night’s security.

“But did he?” Annabella pressed.

“It would be a stupid mistake.” Adam was always so careful. He was meticulous in granting access to information, everything coded and double coded with redundant measures on top of that. To speak freely in front of the doctor would negate all that, no matter how trusted she was.

Annabella smiled ruefully. “People make stupid mistakes all the time.”

“You’re saying Dr. Powell is the informant, the traitor within Segue.” Alarm zapped down Custo’s nerves. He’d have looked for a system hack next. Never in a million years would he have considered the doctor. Adam didn’t make mistakes; he would be scrupulous where Talia was concerned. Maybe he thought Talia, with her gift to read emotions, would be alert to Gillian’s intentions. But surgical gloves would take care of that. Of all the times for Adam to start screwing up…

“I think she should be questioned at least.” Annabella sighed heavily, looking forlorn.

Custo wanted to stay, too, shut out the world and be content. But the thought of Talia, helpless on bed rest at the mercy of her doctor, had him scrambling for his pants to get his mobile phone. He had to ask Adam. Now.

Annabella rose and began picking through her clothes in the background, swearing at her bra. He wished he’d asked her before. Some things became so simple from a different perspective.

The traitor had inside information on Segue movements because Adam told her himself.

Custo punched autodial. It was well past four A.M., but he knew Adam would pick up immediately. Adam never slept.

“Here,” Adam said. His voice was low, so Custo guessed he was with Talia and that she was sleeping.

“What about Dr. Powell?” Custo asked without preamble.

There was a long pause on the other end. Too long. Then, “Oh, shit.”