Sinner (The Hades Squad #1) (13 page)

All the blood drained out of her brain. Marriage? Marriage?
Marriage?

“Yes, marriage, Destiny.”

Had she said the words aloud?

“My mom will brain me if you don't have a ring on your finger when we show up for Thanksgiving. Not to mention the shitload of lectures I'll get from my sisters and a couple of my brothers. Hell, Van's been hounding me to settle down ever since he got married.”

Marriage? She searched his face, taking in the gleam in his eyes, the solemn expression, and the gentle the thumb caressing her skin.

“Cat got your tongue, Destiny?”

Even her fuzzy flamingo slippers couldn't ward off the arctic chill crawling up her body. Fear and apprehension and insecurity banded together to squeeze all the air from her lungs. She shook her head, her lips trembled, tears sprouted, and she burst into a sob.

He gathered her close and stroked her spine with his large palm. The weight of his chin resting on her hair acted as a fulcrum when the room rotated in tandem with her spinning mind.

She drummed his chest and stammered in between hiccups. “I. Don't. Cry.”

“I know, I know. You've kept it in all these years. It was your way of surviving. It made you strong—made you the woman that you are. But you're not alone anymore. I'm here. Let me carry some of the burden.”

Destiny pushed off his torso, seeking verification through the blur of her tears. “Why? Why me? I'm not really pretty. I know I'm attractive, but parts of me jiggle. You're hard and a poster boy for one of those nude male calendars. You could have any woman you want.” She remembered Nadine and a frisson of temper seeped into her voice, gravelling it. “And have had.”

“Ouch.” He pressed his palm over his heart. “A mortal wound, Destiny Driven. I love your jiggly parts.” He kneaded her ass. “I love that you're all voluptuous woman. The way your hair caresses your skin and gives the olive hue a gold sparkle. Why not you? I know you feel the chemistry between us, the static crackling. It's not just sex. It's what makes you and me unique.” He tapped a finger on the side of her skull. “This in here.”

“And this beating here.” His hand pressed her breast.

Blindsided and stunned, she simply stared at him.

“Your heart and soul harmonize with mine. And that makes the sex explosive, adds that emotional edge I've never felt before.”

Mesmerized, she shook her head, a slow side-to-side motion. “Is it your love of music that makes you so poetic? I don't get it. You're so earthy and carnal in bed, so all male and grunty and gruff. Yet you don't hesitate to talk about your emotions.”

“I have three older sisters.” His mouth formed a moue. “I've been bullied and battered into facing my—quote, unquote—feminine side. I've gone through every crush, every puppy love, every this-could-be-the-one with my three older sisters a zillion times. I've watched assholes break my sisters' hearts. But not once did they give up. They had faith in the ultimate goodness of people. I was lucky enough to be there when my oldest sister met her soul mate. And now I've met mine.”

“How can you be so sure? How can you decide like that?” She snapped her fingers.
How can you know? Be so certain?
His absolute confidence made her worry more than ever.

“I trust my instincts. You don't. And for good reason. Your father betrayed your trust, and from what you've told me, this Juanita took you for a ride too.” The palm cupping her ass squeezed her cheek, and he butted her forehead with his. “Destiny, I'll always look after you. You come first. You come before me.”

The raw emotions skidding through his eyes, the searing intensity, proved too much. Confused, bemused, yearning to surrender and trust him, she ground her teeth together and deliberately lowered her eyelids. Too much. Too soon.

He kissed the tip of her nose, caressed her shoulder, and said, his voice all growly and rumbly, “I promise, Destiny Driven, I'll keep you safe and warm and happy.”

She leaned into him, so wanting to believe. “You've discombobulated me. I don't know what I think or feel anymore.”

Weariness sapped her remaining energy. Cinderella stuff didn't happen in real life. Real life came at you hard and fast; she should know after Juanita and Kenny. Real life meant not trusting a soul.

“Tell you what—why don't I run you a bath. Hmm? You have a nice long soak. While you're relaxing, I'll contact Satan and get an update. After that we'll tackle dinner, and later on we'll do the tree. Sound good?”

Her insides turned to molten lava when he knuckled the side of her cheek, a haunting tenderness in the touch, his gaze. Fighting the urge to concede, to surrender to his strength, to his keeping, Destiny protested, “I think I can manage to run a bath all by myself.”

“And deny me the pleasure of taking care of you? Uh-uh, Destiny.”

Too good to be true, Lincoln Chapman. Way too good to be true.

She squeaked when, without warning, he scooped her off her feet and stalked through the bedroom. “What is it about you not liking my feet touching the floor?”

“I like having you in my arms.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “The skin-to-skin contact. When you lay your cheek on my shoulder, I can smell the lavender from your hair. It feels right. All my senses do a happy dance.”

“Your very erect sense seems to be doing a salsa,” she quipped.

He waggled his brows. “Yeah, my dick's a real happy trooper. He's anticipating the plunge from the plane, a fast and furious free fall, and then a languid floating to an explosive connection.”

She couldn't stifle the giggle bubbling up her throat.

“Like the analogy?” He winked a couple of times, then pinched her bottom.

“Ouch!” she yelped.

“Faker.” He flashed her a devilish grin. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“You really do have a poet buried inside.” He gently deposited her on the counter adjacent to the sink. She tugged the T-shirt under her bottom, lifting first one leg, then the other. “Have you ever tried composing?”

“I'll leave the words to you, sweet Destiny.” The echo in the room made the sound of the tap running flow and ebb. He tilted his head, fixing her with an intent stare. “When're you due to fly out?”

“Why do you always do that?” She narrowed her eyes and shook her finger at him. “And don't give me that innocent ’do what?' look. You know exactly what I mean. Is it some sort of interrogation technique? Throw the suspect a curve by changing topic on a whim?”

“You're so cute when you're mad.” Linc tweaked her nose. “Jesus, I'd love to have you in lockup, make you the suspect I'm working over. I can see the sparks flying. You're so adorably teasable.”

She clamped her lips together, both annoyed and pleased he read her so easily.

Did he have to be so gorgeous and so charming?

“I want to maximize our time together, Destiny. I'm figuring on discovering your every sexual fantasy and fulfilling each and every one. So when're you due to leave?”

“I'm supposed to be here for five full days working with Nadine. If we get out of here soon, I still may be able to stick to the schedule.”

If Nadine hadn't cooled off, Destiny could be stuck in Healy for the duration. The editing deadline loomed, and after Lorcan's proposition, Nadine’s cooperation certainly wasn't guaranteed. Her return flight went through Toronto, and she had to overnight to catch the flight to New York. Destiny had scheduled a late-evening departure, hoping she could take a tour of the provincial capital of Ontario. Toronto, Canada's largest city, was the headquarters for the publishing bastion of romance, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, and she was supposed to have lunch with an editor she'd met at a conference earlier in the year.

Would the Canadian authorities have a problem if she stayed longer?

Another thought popped into her mind—how long was
he
here for? “When do
you
leave?”

“When the fire's out.” Lincoln twisted the tap shut, snapped the cap off a jar of lilac-colored bath salts, and emptied a couple of tablespoons of the crystals into the steaming bathwater.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the pungent lavender fragrance.

“That's it.” He trailed a finger from her temple to her chin. “You look relaxed already. The lavender's working its magic.”

Destiny opened the bathroom cabinet, plucked out the hair clip she’d left there earlier, and gathered her hair into one hand. “Don't take this the wrong way, but how does a macho paratrooper know about the relaxing properties of lavender?”

“My third sister does aromatherapy massage.” His eyes twinkled like an emerald forest haloed by sunlight. “We reaped the reward when she had to build up her practical hours. I'll never forget the time she was all stuffed up and could barely breathe—she mistook sesame cooking oil for patchouli massage oil.”

She twisted the thick mass of hair on top of her head, inserted the clip, and snapped the metal shut. Three stray locks tickled her cheeks, but she couldn't be bothered to repeat the process, had long ago surrendered to her unruly waves.

Linc chortled. “Van had tricked me out of my turn and did he fucking regret that. He smelled like an Asian fast-food restaurant for two weeks.”

His family sounded like a Disney-fied version of the Brady Bunch, if that was even remotely plausible.

“Is Van older or younger?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

Such a strange comment, and he seemed so pleased by her question. She scrutinized his face but didn't find any answers to a question she couldn't voice. “I don't get it.”

“First step, Destiny. You're beginning to trust me, trust us.”

“Because I asked about your family?” She shook her head and glowered at him. “That doesn't make any sense. Is this some sort of paratrooper test?”

He blew out a long sigh, captured her chin with one hand, and gave her a smacking, hard kiss. “I’m both a paratrooper and a SEAL. And no, it’s not any kind of test. You are so cute and adorable, Destiny Driven.”

Whaaat?

“The siblings, here goes. My brother McKinley is first, followed by Susan Brownell Anthony, then Arabella Mansfield, Jackson, Susanna Madora, me, Pierce, Monroe James, Ellen Swallow, then Van Buren, and last, but sure as hell not least, Amy Marcy Cheney.”

With each successive name he uttered, she folded a finger, counting silently. Destiny knew her eyes were bugging out of their sockets by the time he got to sibling number nine, Van Buren. She'd never get his brothers and sisters straight. Van seemed to hold some treasured spot. Linc couldn't mention his brother’s name without sporting a grin.

“Are you and Van Buren”—she stumbled over the name—“close?”

“We're all close, but Mom had a hard time birthing Van. She couldn't really take care of him like she normally would afterward, so Susanna and I sort of adopted him. You know, diaper and bottle duty, walking corridors until he fell asleep.”

She didn't know, hadn't the foggiest notion what taking care of a baby meant. Not sure she even had the normal maternal instincts a female should have. Destiny knew without having to ask, knew deep in her soul, this man wanted kids, wanted a family.

Did she?

Could she be a good mother?

“In you go.” He brushed his lips over hers, an ethereal quicksilver caress both soothing and inflaming. Befuddled by her wayward musings, doubtful she could come close to being the kind of mom his had been, she stared at him, at the square line of his jaw.

“You should see the stun-gunned look on your face. I didn't think your eyes could get any wider. You look like a newborn doe seeing the world for the first time, struggling for balance on wobbly legs.”

Her mind kept replaying his siblings' names, and all at once, a pattern jumped out. “Why do some of you have two or three names and the others only one?”

“We all have at least two names. Mom wanted us to know the standards she expected us to uphold, so she made sure no one had to guess who she named each of us after. I'm Lincoln Abraham Chapman. Mac is McKinley William Chapman.”

Presidents, the boys were all named after presidents. Susan Brownell Anthony, Susan B. Anthony. Brilliant, simply brilliant.

“I get it. Susan B. Anthony. I know some of the female names but not all. Who's Amy Marcy Cheney?”

“The first female composer of a symphony. She published under the name Mrs. H.H.A. Beach.”

And her mother named her Destiny Driven.

Or had it been her father?

Why?

The spring she'd turned ten, Mona, her stepmother, had bought her first bra, a B-cup cotton utilitarian harness that hurt her budding breasts. She grew into a C-cup before Christmas. Her stepmother had snapped something about the hormones in chicken, taken her to the doctor who pronounced her an early developer, and told Mona not to worry.

Just after her thirteenth birthday, a grown man, tall and bearded, asked her if she'd like to grab a cup of coffee. Destiny hadn't really understood he was trying to pick her up, but her stepmother sure had, and she'd hit the roof.

When they got home, her stepmother threw a hissy fit, accusing Destiny of behaving like a tart, a common slut. When her boobs graduated to a D-cup, Destiny had been mortified.

In her second year of college, she took Psych 101 and discovered a phenomenon called “self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Why had her mother given her a stripper name, not the name of a female pioneer like Linc's sisters? What would his family think when they heard her name?

“Okay?” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, and smoldering desire throbbed between her legs, the bathwater sweet friction to suddenly sensitive labia.

Sex was definitely addictive.

“Yes.”

“I'll bring in a couple of fresh candles in a few. Relax.” He kissed her forehead, and his thick quadriceps bunched and lengthened when he straightened and stood.

Destiny's gaze trailed Linc's tall, muscular body, sleek ripples curving with each swing of his arms, each long stride of his powerful legs. What happened when the snow stopped falling? Would Nadine, aka Angel, cooperate? Destiny knew her own career had tanked, and Nadine’s book would be her last shot at the brass ring.