Confession Read online

  “You sure it was just a rock?” Luke asked.

  Faith noticed Luke’s arm around her shoulders, supporting her, and shoved it away, then straightened out of her slump.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure of it. May I slow down, sir?”

  Luke pressed his face in front of hers. “Let’s get Dr. Clancy to the nearest hospital.”

  In his eyes, she saw genuine regret, and her body relaxed. She proffered a weak smile. “No. Just take me home, please. I’m perfectly fine, and I don’t want to spend my day in an emergency room.”

  A deep wrinkle formed between Luke’s brows.

  “Please. I’d like to go home.”

  He gave a reluctant nod, and she gave the driver her address.

  “By the time the limousine pulled into Faith’s driveway, the lump on her head had started to throb in earnest. The driver came around, opened the door for her, and she climbed out, still clasping the small blue ice pack Luke had given her against her skull. Turned out the limo contained not only a well-­stocked minifridge, but a well-­stocked first-­aid kit, too.

  “Thanks for the lift . . . I think.” She gave Luke an adios-­amigo smile, but as she’d anticipated, he was already shoving out of the limo and waving off his driver. “No. Really, I’m perfectly fine. There’s no need to trouble yourself any further on my account,” she added hastily.

  He took a step toward her, and the look on his face made her take a step back lest he scoop her off her feet for the second time that day.

  “I’d like to see you inside, make sure you’re okay if you don’t mind.”

  “Not necessary.” Her vision grayed, and she bent her knees slightly to steady herself.

  “But it’s not offensive? Just for my own peace of mind. You look like you might faint.”

  “Fine.” She kept her tone matter-­of-­fact. Her head might be light and her legs soupy, but she had no intention of fainting. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to let him walk her inside. Yesterday, she’d nearly interrupted a thief in her house.

  A thief who took nothing.

  Because he’d seen her spot him and hightailed it out of there before the police arrived.

  She had little of value, certainly not anything that would entice a criminal to risk a return visit. But slice it any way you like—­Luke’s presence made her feel safe.

  Which was the last thing she should feel around a man like him.

  Her breath released, and she tossed the ice pack back to Luke’s driver, who caught it with ease. “Don’t go anywhere. Mr. Jericho’ll be right back.” Luke placed his hand on her elbow, but she shook him off. “I can walk.”

  But her next step was unsteady, and her knees threatened to buckle.

  “Either I help you inside, or I carry you inside. You make the call, because you’re not whacking your head again on my watch.”

  She gave him the eye roll, but let him steer her slowly up the steps and into her home, where she promptly sank backward onto the couch, splaying her limbs like one of those chalk outlines on CSI.

  “I still think we should get you checked out at the hospital. You might have a concussion.”

  “Nothing to do for a concussion but watch and wait. What’s known in the biz as COMI, catlike observation and masterful inactivity.”

  “Then I’ll observe you.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Damn it to hell. I missed my appointment with Detective Johnson.”

  “Just go.”

  “It’s too late anyway. He mentioned he had to leave by noon. I’ll have to reschedule.”

  Luke continued to fuss with her between making phone calls, during which he presumably rearranged his day’s appointments and rebooked with Johnson. She closed her eyes, reviewing the day in her head. First, she’d sat in that hot, smelly interrogation room over two hours, then she’d been forced to view that awful picture of poor Nancy Aberdeen. Next, she’d been dumped in a limo against her will and banged her forehead on the window when said limo blasted off to escape what might’ve been bullets but turned out to be a hurled rock instead. Now she had a goose egg the size of a Chihuahua forming on her parietal bone, and an impossible-­to-­ignore man in her living room. A man who would not stop bossing her around: Put this pillow under your head like so. Prop your feet up here. Don’t take that bag of frozen peas off your noggin for another fifteen minutes.

  All in all, it’d been a truly terrible day.

  Oddest thing though—­she drifted right off to sleep—­with more ease than she had in a long, long time.

  By the time she opened her eyes again, sunset coated the living room in soft pink light. The lace cloth on her dining-­room table looked like a ballerina’s tutu—­what was up with that? She blinked until it looked like a tablecloth again. Her eyes focused on Luke, sitting cross-­legged on the floor, reading a Psychology Today magazine while Chica sprawled in his lap.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead,” he said when she sat up and yawned.

  “Hey there back.” A warm feeling spread across her chest, but it was quickly followed by a pulsatile ache in her head. For a moment, she couldn’t get her bearings. What was Luke Jericho doing in her living room petting her dog . . . and when did she get a dog? She touched the throbbing spot on her forehead.

  Oh yeah.

  Chica.

  The limo.

  The rock.

  “Who do you think threw that rock at the limousine?” Too many things were going on at the same time. Hard to sort out what was important and what was coincidence. A man breaking into her house, a rock thrown at a limo while she was inside. She didn’t know if it was just bad luck or something more.

  “I’m sure the rock wasn’t intended for you if that’s what you’re worried about. Dante’s confession is all over the news, and the limo has a personalized plate: JERICHO ONE. ­People are scared, and they’re looking for a scapegoat. Right, now, my family’s that goat.”

  “JERICHO ONE. How many limos do you have?” she asked, hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be more than the number of pairs of shoes in her closet.

  “Three.”

  She had four pairs of shoes. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. First time she’d seen him do that. He looked . . . very attractive when he laughed. He also looked very attractive when he didn’t.

  “I like this dog.” He scratched Chica under the chin. “She wandered out of that bedroom, right after you fell asleep. Nosed around a little, then once she found you, she wouldn’t leave your side, so here we both are.” Pulling Chica’s face up, he studied her eyes. She mewled and wagged her tail in response. “What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know, really. The vet says she’s most likely been on the streets for a very long time. Prior to that, suffered some abuse. She’s malnourished, pregnant. She followed the little boy next door home from school, but she’s too much for Tommy’s family to manage, so I’m sort of her foster mom.”

  “Lucky dog.”

  “Lucky me.” She patted her knees, and Chica came bounding over to her. “If I hadn’t needed to take Chica to the vet, I would’ve walked in on a burglar, and who knows what would’ve happened.” She shuddered just thinking how close a call she’d had.

  She never saw a man get to his feet so fast. “You had a burglar. When was this?”

  His alarm alarmed her. No one else had seemed impressed by a black-­haired man appearing in her kitchen window. Not the uniformed officer who’d taken the report, certainly not Detective Johnson. But Luke stalked across the room, flexing and unflexing his hands, his brows drawn down into a tight V between his eyes.

  “Last night, but nothing was taken, so I guess all’s well that ends well.”

  “How did he get in? I didn’t see broken windows anywhere in the house.”

  “You didn’t see any broken windows anywhere in the house when?
”

  “When I was checking out the place.”

  “Oh.” Her hand went to her throat. It was only natural he would’ve looked around. But most ­people wouldn’t own up to it. Luke Jericho was turning out to be a very forthright man, and she couldn’t make up her mind whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I don’t know how the burglar got in. The police say there’s no sign of forced entry, but I’m absolutely certain I locked my doors and windows.” She stared at her fingernails. “I do have a hide-­a-­key, but it hadn’t been moved.”

  Luke had his phone in his hand again. He and that phone seemed tight. Very tight.

  “I need a locksmith. I’m at . . .” He looked over at her. “What’s the address?”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “We need to get the locks changed.”

  “What do you mean we need to get the locks changed?”

  “I’m somewhere on Calle De La Cereza, just tell the guy to look for the limo in the driveway.”

  Her chagrin doubled. This was simply too much. Luke’s profile was making her heartbeat launch into outer space, but she no longer cared. “You made your chauffeur wait outside for you this entire time?”

  “Good to know you think I’m a complete ass, but no, another driver picked him up. Left me the limo.” He laid his phone on the coffee table and sat down next to her, touched her hair in a way that had that rocket-­ship effect on her heart again. “You had a break-­in. No sign of forced entry means you either didn’t lock your doors and windows like you say you did, or the intruder had a way in. Most likely he used your hide-­a-­key. Plus you’re renting, right? No telling who has keys to this place.” Without giving her time to respond, he continued, “We’re changing the locks tonight.”

  Her jaw clamped down, and she had to take a few deep breaths before she could open her mouth and respond. “Whether I change my locks is my decision, not yours. You don’t get to just barge in here and take charge of my life.”

  “What life?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t think I didn’t have my guys check you out the moment I found out you were my brother’s psychiatrist.”

  “You had no right.”

  “I have every right to protect my brother.”

  “Well you don’t have a right to protect me. No wonder Dante has a problem with you. You’re an interfering control freak.”

  “And you’re a stubborn, infuriating woman who doesn’t know how to say thank you when someone offers her help.”

  “Oh, did you offer me help? Because I must’ve missed that part. So call your guy off. I don’t need your locksmith.”

  He handed her the phone. “Then call your own. Do it now.”

  “I’ve already had the locks changed,” she ground out. “And you can’t tell me what to do, Luke Jericho.” Even to her, the words sounded silly. “We hardly even know each other.”

  “That’s about to change.”

  She arched a single eyebrow—­high enough he ought to get the message.

  “Look, I owe my brother, and, you said so yourself, you owe my brother, too. That puts us both on the same team, so yeah, we’re going to get to know each other real well, real fast.” He picked up her hand, traced his thumb along her palm, trailing fire everywhere he touched. “And one of the first things you’re going to learn about me is that I don’t mess around. I don’t cajole. I don’t persuade. I don’t seduce. Subterfuge isn’t in my nature.” First his breath was in her hair, fogging up her brain. Then he was whispering close in her ear, melting her like warmed sugar. “When I see something I want, Faith, I don’t apologize. I just go get it.”

  NINE

  Friday, July 26, 7:00 A.M.

  Without finding anything he could choke down for breakfast, Scourge slammed the refrigerator door and sidled along the kitchen wall, one arm covering his eyes. Unable to bear looking at the calendar while its red dates pulsed at him, taunting him like the very blood that surged through his veins, he’d been forced to begin chronicling time in a spiral notebook.

  Twenty days.

  That’s all the time he had left until he was supposed to fulfill his destiny with the Donovans.

  Just last Sunday he’d been itching with anticipation, but now—­he pressed his palms to his eyes—­after all his practice, all his dedication everything was falling apart. Thanks to that incident at the lab, he’d hardly slept in days. The sight of the red vessels fanning across the whites of his eyes sent shivers racing down his back and thick waves of nausea rolling through his gut.

  With determination, he hobbled to the bedroom and pulled the book from beneath his pillow. As he traced its title with his fingers, electric volts shot up his arms and jolted his heart into a terrifying, galloping rhythm. He jerked his hand from the book and fell to his knees.

  Pressure welled behind his eyes. How could he fulfill his destiny now?

  Of all the obstacles he’d prepared for, all the possible complications and hindrances he’d imagined that might keep him from executing his plan, this particular problem had never occurred to him. And so he hadn’t been ready. Not for this.

  Still disbelieving, he tried one last time. Clawing his arm, he gouged his nails deeper and deeper until red droplets began to ooze from his skin. An agonizing scream tore from his throat as a wave of terror swamped him. It couldn’t be true.

  But it was.

  Tears streamed from his eyes.

  He was afraid of blood.

  Faith Clancy had just become an official part of Scourge’s master plan.

  Pleased with himself for coming up with the perfect solution to his problem, Scourge settled himself in the big leather chair on the patient side of Dr. Clancy’s desk and smiled. If he’d had any qualms about choosing a target—­about choosing Dr. Clancy—­off book and for his own pleasure, those points were all moot now.

  This was destiny, plain and simple. No wonder he’d been drawn to her so deeply, so inexplicably, from the first moment he’d seen her face in that brochure. And here she was, the very one who’d turned Dante Jericho over to the police. Dr. Clancy’s fate was sealed. She was meant to be his.

  Though he despised a man who couldn’t regulate his appetites, waiting for this temptress would be the ultimate exercise in self-­control. His release would come, but only at the appointed time. Although this hemophobia he’d developed posed an unexpected problem, he was quite certain he could overcome it in short order and keep to his schedule.

  A great vocabulary word: Hemophobia.

  And Dr. Clancy was just the person to cure him of it.

  Irony.

  Also a good word. He made a mental note to use both words in a sentence at least once today and nestled deeper into the comfy leather armchair. The butter-­soft animal hide felt like living skin as he dragged his fingers over it and imagined stroking the soft hollow of Dr. Clancy’s throat. A space so creamy, so pure—­so exciting. Then he thought about her stroking him, and his dick hardened. His heart beat fast and loud. Too loud. If she heard it, she’d know he was a dirty boy.

  Dirty boy. What’s that in your pants?

  Thwack.

  He could feel the hot sting of Sister’s ruler slapping his dick. She’d seen his erection and taught him a lesson.

  It’s for your own good. You don’t want to go to hell, do you?

  But that was just it. He did want to go to hell. More than anything he wanted to find a place where he belonged. At least in hell, he’d fit in with all the other dirty boys. He looked down at his crotch and saw that his dick had deflated, and his chin dropped to his chest in relief. He’d regained his self-­control.

  “What brings you here today, Mr. Teodori? How can I help you?” Dr. Clancy asked.

  Behind a smile that was all innocence and light, she hid her own dirty heart. Dr. Clancy didn’t see through him, but he cou
ld see through her.

  “Scourge. Please call me Scourge.”

  The corners of her mouth pulled down, and then a neutral expression quickly replaced the look of someone who’d just had an unpleasant surprise. “All right, Mr. Teodori . . . Scourge. Is that your given name, or a nickname?”

  “It’s my name. A friend helped me change it. Would it be on my insurance card if it weren’t my legal name?”

  “Oh, certainly, right. I see.”

  But she didn’t see. He could tell by her frozen face she didn’t think Scourge was a proper name for a man. Probably thought a name like that’d make a person feel bad or worthless or cause some deep psychosocial injury. But she was wrong. Sister Bernadette had fixed him with that name because it was true to his character. To be a scourge upon the earth was a fine destiny, and he had the ambition and the will to live up to his name. He was glad to have a purpose. He was glad to own his name. His back straightened, and he met her eyes—­those sad eyes that made him want to fuck her and then slide a knife across her throat.

  Dr. Clancy didn’t look away.

  She wanted him, too.

  Patience.

  “Scourge . . .”

  Yes. She definitely wanted him—­he could hear it in the throaty dip of her sensual voice when she called out his name.

  “I understand your family physician referred you to me last month. Perhaps you can tell me what brings you here today. What finally made you decide to follow through and seek therapy?”

  “Hemophobia.” A grin tightened his cheeks. Hadn’t been hard to fit that word into the conversation.

  “I see.”

  Was she going to keep saying that all day? He scratched the arms of the chair with his nails, and the leather made an anguished sound. Would Dr. Clancy make that sound when he fucked her?