Since he'd installed her in his house, the need for him had only deepened … or worsened. She didn't want to want him. Passion led to convincing the heart it loved. Loving led to pain, to vulnerability, to betrayal. The night before proved she possessed no self-preservation. One kiss had almost led to sex. If she let him inside her again …
She didn't fear the mind-shattering pleasure or moments of oblivion as much as the deceitful sense of safety. Of having reached a port of harbor where nothing or no one could harm her.
Of the three-pleasure, oblivion, a safe haven-the latter presented the most danger.
She almost whirled around and retreated up the stairs, but he glanced up from the movie, pinned her to the spot. Caught. And she couldn't state for certain if it annoyed or relieved her.
"I thought you were asleep." He pointed the remote at the television, and the volume lowered from bleeding-ear level to tolerable.
"I've been up. Couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams again? From earlier today?"
She shook her head. No nightmares, because just the thought of closing her eyes and what awaited her behind her closed lids scared the hell out of her. Between the resurfacing memories, the latest acts of harassment, nearly being kidnapped at gunpoint, and dormant memories already trying to resurface, her psyche had a smorgasbord of fears to pick from for night terrors. She didn't dare sleep.
He rose from behind his desk and dragged over a dark-red club chair from his "play" area. Setting it down next to his leather office chair, he patted the high back and dipped his chin in its direction. She accepted the invitation and sank onto the comfortable, overstuffed cushion. Curling her legs under her hips, she propped her chin on her palm and peeked at his computer monitor. The screen was split in two. On the left, lines of information streamed, reminding her of The Matrix. On the right, pictures flashed and flickered at lightning speed.
"What are you doing?"
He dropped into his chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He had traded the long-sleeved knit shirt for a vintage black T-shirt with a Metallica logo emblazoned across the front, leaving the gallery of tattoos on his arms visible. The same jeans encased his strong thighs, and his feet remained bare like hers. Except where hers were on the small side, his were broad, tough. Strong. Gavin used to have weekly pedicures. She couldn't imagine Raphael plopping his feet in a soapy basin to be scrubbed and buffed. As the incongruous picture popped into her head, she snickered.
He arched an eyebrow in question. "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not."
He snorted. "To answer your question, I'm cross-referencing the information I have-as limited as it is-with the police database. See if I can find the bastard who tried to grab you today." He grunted. "Unfortunately, with just a name, tattoo, street name, and very vague date of birth, there are tens of thousands of hits to sift through. Hopefully, if Leah can come up with something from her sources, I can narrow down what I find. Tag." He snorted. "You'd be surprised how many enterprising criminals have chosen that original name. Does the name sound familiar to you?"
She shook her head. "No. But you might want to add defacement of property to your cross-check variables. Could be where the name came from in the first place."
A slow smile spread across his mouth. "Look at you, all Criminal Minds 'n' shit," he drawled. She blushed, searching his grin and eyes for mockery, but found none. Just teasing humor and admiration. "Good idea. I'll add it to my parameters." His fingers danced over the keyboard, and several clicks later, turned back to her.
"I thought you gave the police a description of the man." She frowned. "And I know arrests are public record, but are the police departments' files open, too?"
"I did, and they are if you know how to access them," he said, voice bland.
"Do you do this" -she waved toward the computer monitor- "often? First there was the not-so-legal search of the DMV records, and now you're hacking the police department's system."
He held up a finger. "You say hacking. I say cracking. And to answer your question, no. This is not a customary practice for me. It used to be, but that was before I started to use my gifts for good. Y'know how it is. With great power comes great responsibility?" His mouth kicked up at the corner, emphasizing the biteable curve of his bottom lip. She should know-she'd bitten it before. And licked it. She deliberately switched her attention from him back to the monitor.
"So what has brought you out of retirement?" she asked, cursing the hoarseness roughening her voice.
Rafe grunted. "Some things you don't leave to other people to do. Not if they matter-and the risks don't." He swiveled in his chair, rolling it closer to the desk.
She curled her fingers into her lap to prevent her from whirling him around and demanding what he'd meant by "Not if they matter." Did she? Did she rate important enough to counterbalance the risks?
"I gave the cops the info I had, but that doesn't mean I'm going to sit on my hands and do nothing in the meantime. And besides," he drawled. "The DMV search worked, didn't it?"
"Wait." She straightened. "It did? When? What did you find out?"
Rafe relayed how he and Chay had located and confronted Justin Durrin, as well as his connection to a dealer named Tag.
"I know you said Tag doesn't ring a bell, but what about Justin Durrin?"
"No. I don't do drugs. And neither does anyone I know."
"That you're aware of," he added.
She twisted her mouth, made a sound of part disgust, part exasperation. "You're so cynical. Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"Princess, what you consider cynicism I call realism."
"See?" she murmured. "Princess." The nickname that foolishly caused her heart to flutter was an indictment on her upbringing and background to him. "There's that skeptic streak again."
"Newsflash, Greer. ‘Princess' is not an insult but who you are." He faced her again, propping his elbows on his thighs. "It's what you are. Regal. Poised. Intelligent. Beautiful as fuck. For a plebeian like me, unreachable … untouchable." A smile 50 percent admiration, 50 percent sexy, and 100 percent wicked curled the corners of his mouth. His hooded gaze lingered on her lips, dropped to her breasts before returning to her eyes, leaving her speechless and aching. "Which is why I always want to … touch. I have a confession, princess," he murmured, leaning forward, and damn if she didn't shift toward him, too, desperate to catch whatever inappropriate, erotic, naughty statement he was sure to utter. "From the moment I saw you sitting all prim and proper in Chay's office, all I've wanted to do is dirty you up. Put my hard, rough hands on your soft skin, mark you, see you sweaty and messy and know I did that to you. I made you come undone-shit, just come. And while everyone else sees the composed, gorgeous lady, only I know what lies beneath. Only I know how wild you get. How loud you get. How wet you get." His smile had disappeared, and a hard need replaced the teasing sensuality, tautening his features, darkening his eyes. "Our secret. So ‘princess' isn't a slight. It's a reminder. Of what I want, what I had, and no matter how fucking stupid it is, what I crave more of."
Her lungs ceased inflating, but her mind worked just fine. Memories of his fingers inside her, his cock pounding into her, his lips tugging on her nipples, assailed her like a tidal wave of erotic images. The erect tips throbbed as if he sucked on her now, pulsing in time with the tiny quivers and spasms in her empty sex. She needed all he'd described in raw, vivid detail. More. She hungered for more. She longed to finally discover the pleasure of being covered by him from head to toe. Yearned to find out if her recollection of that sex-soaked night in the backseat of his truck lived up to reality.
"Now," he fell against the chair, palming the arms, all signs of desire wiped clean from his expression and stare. If it weren't for the slight rasp in his voice, she might've questioned whether she'd imagined the whole "dirty you up" scenario. "That mother of yours? There's a real piece of work. A real student of the you're-not-our-kind-dear school of snobbery."
"You overheard the phone call today," she stated, not asked. Humiliation crawled through her, leaving a shamed sludge over her pride.