Bad Deeds (Dirty Money #3)

“I’m not responding to anything else until we get Ted back,” I say.

“He’ll know you read the e-mail,” Seth points out. “He has tech resources.”

“Good,” I say. “Then he knows my lack of reply is a choice.”

Fifteen minutes later, Nick has e-mailed the list of consortium members to his best hacker, while he, Seth, and I dig through it ourselves as well. An hour later, it’s nearly midnight, and Nick is in touch with his field operation but has no word on Ted. For my part, despite the interesting, and yes, impressive list of consortium members I can focus on, I find myself typing out a personality profile on Adrian. His strengths. His weaknesses.

My cell phone rings, and I glance down to find Emily calling again. Inhaling, I decline the call a second time, not sure why I can’t hear her voice right now. That’s not true. I do know. A man could be dead, directly related to Martina being in our apartment tonight. She will hear that in my voice when no one else would. I send her a text: Is everything okay?

Her reply: Are you okay?

Me: I’m with Seth and Nick, doing research. I won’t be home soon.

There is a long pause in which I find myself staring at the screen and waiting for her reply that doesn’t come. Finally, I type: Are you okay?

Her reply: Yes.

Nothing more. And damn it, I need more, when I’m the one who didn’t answer the phone. I set my cell down on the table next to me and turn it over, and when I intend to look at my computer screen again, I find myself replaying something Martina said tonight. You’re protective of her, as I am of my sister. But know this, Shane Brandon. If you are loyal to any agreement we make, now or later, as I assure you I will be in reverse, I will protect her, even kill for her.

I key in a name: Teresa Martina. The woman in my brother’s bed.





TERESA


I jolt awake and sit up, tugging the blanket over my thin pale pink gown, my gaze swinging wildly around my bedroom, sensing I’m not alone. “Teresa.”

At the sound of Derek’s voice, I yelp and then turn toward him, my gaze cutting through the shadows to find him sitting in the leather chair in the corner directly to my right. I recover quickly from the surprise of him being here, but I’m also shocked and pleased that he has actually used the key I gave him weeks ago. Rotating, I let my feet dangle over the side of the bed, and blink into the darkness, slowly having his outline become clear, seeing a glass of whiskey in his hand, his usual tie absent. I glance at the clock and note the two A.M. hour, aware now that he has not been home, but he has not been here either.

Inhaling, I don’t speak. I just sit there and he sits there, with those now familiar waves of torment rolling off him, telling me that he is once again fighting those inner demons of his that both draw me to him and warn me away. He’s headed for trouble with my brother, the kind I’m trying to escape. And while I know this, I can’t seem to turn him away. I can’t. Somehow, despite all of the many flaws he presents, I fell in love with him.

He downs his drink and then throws the glass against the wall. I jump but don’t make a sound. I know he had dinner at his parents’ house earlier, and I know that every demon he battles is clawing and biting him tonight. And I know why he is here and what he needs. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “My father got into a drug trial in Germany.”

I am on my feet in an instant, crossing to stand in front of him. His hands go to my hips, and he presses his head to my belly. My hands settle on his head, fingers threading through the dark locks. “No one understands what it’s like to be conflicted over your father more than I do,” I say. “I’ve told you what a monster mine is, but yet … I still love him.”

He looks up at me and then sits back, pulling me onto his lap, my legs straddling his hips. “And if your father died? How would you feel?”

“Confused. Hurt. Scared. Relieved for the world and guilty for feeling that as his daughter.” I lean forward and cup his face. “I told you. No one understands what you’re feeling more than I do.” I press my lips to his and he cups my head, claiming that control he so needs and always demands, his tongue pressing into my mouth in a deep, tormented kiss. He hates his father. He loves his father. He hates himself right now, and I know that feeling and it’s a lingering feeling, because you can’t escape yourself or your family. Lord knows, I’ve tried.

“Teresa,” he murmurs softly, and I answer by sitting back and pulling my gown over my head. It’s barely left my skin before he’s dragging me to him, kissing me again, his hands caressing my skin, his fingers reaching up and pulling away the tie binding my long dark hair. He strokes it free, touching me everywhere, like he can’t get enough of me, his caresses tender and yet wild. I lose myself in his demands and needs. In the way he touches me, holds me, demands more of me, and I do so knowing that the only place he lets go, the only person he lets see the vulnerability he shows in these intimate times, is me. And for this reason, I can be vulnerable. I can be wild, and I don’t even care that he is not undressed. I just want him inside me, and somehow we get his pants down enough for me to make that need a reality.

I slide down on him and he molds me closer, and then we are kissing, swaying, and escaping both of our worlds that have somehow become one. And when it’s over, when we’ve collapsed and I’m lying on top of him, my head on his shoulder, neither of us is in a hurry to move. Eventually though, Derek stands and carries me across the room and into the bathroom. He flips on the light and sets me on the tiled navy countertop, pulling out of me and pressing a towel between my legs.

I quickly clean up and I hate that he’s dressed, perhaps ready to leave, but that isn’t what happens at all. I toss the towel in the sink behind me, and when I face forward again, his hands come down on the sink on either side of me. One is bandaged and I don’t ask about it. One thing a Martina woman learns is, just don’t ask. You wait until they tell you, if they ever tell you. But he doesn’t tell me anything. He just stares at me, his eyes murky with shadows, his lashes lowering. My hand goes to his jaw. “You came here for a reason. Talk to me.”

His gaze lifts and finds mine. “I came here for you. Just you.” He inhales and shoves off the counter. “And that will matter more when I get the filth of this day washed away.” He turns away from me, undressing and walking to the shower, turning it on and stepping inside. Staying here with me, which speaks volumes about his state of mind. He needs me and he’s willing to admit it.

I climb off the sink and walk to the shower too, where Derek is now standing under the spray of water, his back to me. I open the door and he doesn’t turn, but I am not dissuaded. I walk to stand in front of him, and in a blink, his hands are on my waist and I’m in the corner, his big body shielding me from the water.