In Plain Sight (Stolen Hearts) (13 page)

He smiled as he bought a gray hoodie and left his jacket behind in the dressing room of a department store. The things he’d learned since Irish had come into his life. One more cab, and he was ready to find her.

Half an hour later, his nerves stretched tight as he entered Honey’s building, he was grateful for the cluster of people leaving for work. He raced up the stairs, praying he’d find Bridget safe upstairs. Maybe he shouldn’t go straight to the condo. Maybe he should wait to see who got off the elevator and came up the stairs behind him.

Maybe he’d go crazy if he didn’t see if she was there,
right this minute
.

After checking the empty hallway, he unlocked the door, stepped into the condo and rammed home all the locks.

Before he could turn around, someone attacked him from behind and took him down.

“Goddamn it.” He rolled back on the person and partially pinned them to the floor. He howled when his attacker gouged his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”

Nearly blind in one eye, he flipped over and body-slammed the person beneath him. Gratified to hear an elongated
ummmph
, he grabbed the hand that flew toward his face. Two seconds later, he caught the second hand and stretched both above the attacker’s head.

“I swear to God I will plow my fist into your face repeatedly if you don’t lay off this minute.”

“Rafe?” The person beneath him whispered.

He stilled in the act of jerking his knee upward. “Bridget?”

Her thin shoulders beneath him started to shake. Was she laughing or crying? “Goddamn it, Irish. I could have hurt you. Hell, I probably did. Are you okay?” He moved to roll off her, but she caught his shoulders and held him in place.

“Just hold me, okay?” Her hands traced his shoulders and dropped to link together in the small of his back. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again when they arrested you. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

“Shhh.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. Oh, God, Rafe.” She started to cry in earnest. “I was so worried about you.”

“Don’t get soft on me, Irish. I need you to—” Her soft lips met his, and he lost track of what he meant to say. Lost track of everything but a surge of overwhelming relief.

He needed her.
Now
. But first he needed to be sure she was okay. “Tell me again you’re okay. No one tailed you? Contacted you?”

“I’m okay now. Just kiss me, please.”

He kissed her hard and deep, and she pushed right back.

He found the bottom edge of her shirt and yanked it open, buttons flying. Buried his face between her breasts and inhaled before he turned his head and gently bit her nipple through the fabric of her bra.

Mayflowers
. That’s what she smelled like. Every spring his mother made a big deal about going to the market and searching for mayflowers. She was always so happy when she found them. He nipped Bridget again.

“I want you, Irish. Right here. Can you handle that?”

He wished he could see her because he couldn’t tell what her strangled laugh meant.

“I’m two steps ahead of you, Lover Boy.” She already had his belt undone.

“Doing my best.” He shoved her short skirt up around her waist, dragged her panties off and thrust her thighs open. He didn’t know how to interpret the fast shift from tears to shoving her hand down his pants, but he could work with that.

She gasped and arched up when he jabbed two fingers into her wet heat. When she wrapped her soft hand around him, he thought he’d explode. He pulled out of her hand with a groan, then drove into her and lost himself in the hot, rhythmic pursuit of release. He couldn’t go deep enough, get close enough. She was his, his, his.

She cried out once and dug her fingers into his shoulders as she tightened around him and came at the same time that he emptied himself into her. He collapsed on top of her, his heart pounding through his chest, straight into hers. Sweat dripped off his face onto the smooth, cool hardwood flooring and landed beside a petal that must have drifted down from the flower arrangement Honey always kept in the hallway. After a minute, he tried to shift his weight off her, but Bridget tightened her arms around him and held him in place.

“Not yet,” she whispered as she planted small kisses on his face.

“Ow.” He jerked his head when she touched his swollen eye.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay.” He rolled to his side and sat up, keeping one arm around her. He didn’t want to let go now that he’d found her again. “It’s nothing a little ice won’t take care of. What about you? Are you okay? Hell, I’m sorry. I lost it when I saw you. Did I hurt you?”

“Never.” With a sigh, she crawled to her feet and switched on the hall light. “Oh, Rafe.”

“Hang on.” He got up off the floor, trying not to grunt as various aches and pains made themselves known. He pulled up his jeans and zipped, then refastened his belt. “I can’t see so well. Are those tears in your eyes, Irish? Twice in less than an hour. That’s gotta be a record.”

His heart twisted as she stood in front of him, tears streaming down her face. His beautiful, strong, fearless woman was falling apart, and he hadn’t a clue how to put her back together. Feeling helpless, he pulled the edges of her shirt together and did up the one button left. He picked her up, strode into the living room and sank onto the couch, his arms locked around her.

“It’s okay, Bridget,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got you now. It’s okay.” And then he felt it again. A bigger something broke inside him this time. Goddamn if he wasn’t losing his heart, piece by piece, to Bridget O’Neill.

***

Bridget couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt cherished. She snuggled closer to Rafe. He smelled so good. Clean and…manly. She supposed she should get some ice for his horribly swollen face, but if she could have one more minute of being held with…not passion, really. Not at the moment. Affection. Regard. Love?

The word propelled her off his lap. Bad enough she’d dissolved into tears. No reason to get maudlin. “I’ll get some ice for your face. Tell me everything. What happened?” she called from the kitchen.

“I saw Darcy.”

“Before or after you were arrested?” She hurried back into the living room and straddled him, gently setting an icepack on his swollen eye.

His right eye was swollen shut and turning a violent purple. Feeling another rush of tears, she kissed his forehead. Her poor, poor Mr.
GQ
.

“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened, Rafe. I never intended—”

He turned his head, and his breath brushed against her cheek. “I know that. I’ve been thinking about you, Irish. You’re a loner and used to working by yourself. Sometimes it’s good to be that way. Probably even necessary.”

He held her gaze with his. “But if you’re going to get through whatever trouble you’re in, you have to trust someone and let them help. I might not know much, but I know I’m on your side. I propose a partnership. You and me, babe. How about it?” He laced his fingers through hers and raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

Partners
. Her heart took a wild loop. It had been so long since she’d trusted anyone other than her brother, and even with him, that trust had been tested. But what did she really know about Rafe? Yes, she’d done her homework, and he checked out. But was there a subtle hint of manipulation going on in the background? As if she were slowly, but surely, being eased into a corner. Was Rafe a brilliant part of someone else’s plan or the white knight she wanted him to be?

“I have a hard time trusting,” she said.

The spark of curiosity in his eyes died. “No kidding. Let’s start small. I’ll tell you what happened to me, and in return, you tell me something I need to know.”

He leaned his head against the couch. “Darcy told me to mail the stones to 515 Washington Street, so I did. Do you know that address?”

She climbed off his lap and settled on the couch beside him. She could lie to him. She was good at telling lies. She could agree to become partners, milk him for everything he knew and leave. There was still time. Not much, but she wasn’t backed into that corner yet.

Panic fluttered up her throat. And she’d never get to see him again. She wasn’t ready to let go, although the time was approaching when she’d have to.

“Washington Street? It must be the coffee shop we used to hang out at. What was the point of sending them there?”

“He’s going to tell Claire he got a tip the stones had been mailed to that address. If the cops show up to confiscate them, then we know for sure Claire can’t be trusted.”

“I already know she can’t. I suppose Darcy had a hard time accepting Claire’s gone over to the dark side.”

“Interesting choice of words. Let’s talk about the dark side, shall we?”

“I will. I promise. But first tell me about the arrest and how you got out.”

He watched her for a second, his one good eye dark with worry. “The FBI arrested me as I came out of the jail—”

“Gage arrested you?”

“No. Nick DeMarco, a friend of Gage’s. He’s a fed, too.”

“Did they ask you questions?”

“DeMarco handled the interview. He wanted to know where you were and what I know about you, which turned out to be dick-all. But that’s not the most interesting part.”

Bridget sifted a couple inches away as his voice hardened. Between the FBI and her cunning, old mentor, heaven knew what they’d come up with.

“Apparently you’re a multinational citizen. France, Serbia and the US. They found three passports planted at Darcy’s apartment, along with a sack of money.”

“Claire tipped them off.” She tried to judge his mood. Usually, she could tell exactly what Rafe was feeling, and she loved that about him. But right now he looked as closed down and bleak as a summer cottage in November.

She didn’t want to lose him. If she did, she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to face what she feared may be waiting for her outside the door. When had he become so important to her? How had he snuck under her defenses? Was it too late? Could she back things up, erase her feelings?

“That’s what I told them, that their anonymous tip came from Claire” he said. “I also told them you’d been set up. That you’d never leave old passports lying around, and the money definitely wasn’t yours because you’d been bumming off me.”

“You told them that?”

“It didn’t take DeMarco long to realize that’s all I know.”

If only she could keep it that way. “How did you get out of jail?”

“Yeah, about that.” He raked a hand through his hair, making it stick up erratically. Between his hair and his bruised face, she barely recognized him.

“Middle of the night, a guy sneaks into my cell, slaps tape on my mouth, cuffs me and throws a hood over my head. Drags me out of the jail, shoves me into an SUV and takes me to my old neighborhood and lets me escape.”

“You’re making that up.”

“He was small and wiry. I couldn’t see his face, but he swore in French and smelled like French cigarettes. Someone looking for you, I presume, hoping I’d lead him to you.”

“Did you?” Armand was here in the US, looking for her. Up to this point she hadn’t been certain, had thought maybe it was her imagination getting away from her. In the first few years after Armand had dumped them, she’d wake up in the middle of the night, sure she’d heard a door closing somewhere in the apartment. She’d wander through the rooms, wondering if he had come for her again or had been spying on her.

“At this point, anything’s possible. I did my damnedest to lose anyone who might be following me. Spent three hours at least, changing taxis, buses, whatever. Still, half the FBI, plus my kidnapper, could be standing across the street waiting for us.”

She glanced toward the windows.

“At first I wasn’t going to come,” he continued. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

She leaned into his side and drew comfort from the solid feel of his body. “I’m glad you’re here. If he had followed you, he’d be at the door by now.”

“You think?”

“He’s running out of time.”

“This is where you tell me exactly what’s going on.”

She stood, ran her hands down her sides. “I’ll make us some coffee first. You need some fresh ice on that eye, too.”