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Rejecting the many places those words could take me right now, I quickly grab his other arm and study the ink there. Just words that read:An eye for an eye.
“That one, I got in college,” he says, but I barely hear him speak, the phrase replaying in my mind:An eye for an eyeclawing at me to the point that I feel like I’m bleeding inside. I can feel the rise of emotions, when only yesterday I was afraid because I could feel nothing. I jump to my feet and try to escape Nick, but he grabs my arm and turns me to face him.
“What just happened, Faith?”
“I don’t know if I should admire you or fear you, Nick Rogers.Tiger.”
His eyes narrow, his energy sharpening, and he pulls me between his legs, hands on my hips. “Why would you fear me, Faith?”
Chapter Twelve
Tiger
I stare at Faith, waiting for her reply, and while I do not share my father’s name, I cannot dismiss the possibility that her reaction to my tattoo is about her knowing who I am. That she always knew and she’s a damn good actor. That she knows that the words “an eye for an eye” etched in my arm motivated me to come for her and she’s trying to manipulate me as I suspect her mother did my father. And the idea that he and I, men who do not get manipulated, could be manipulated by a mother and daughter grinds along my nerve endings. Or maybe my tattoo and the words it spells out simply stir guilt in Faith over the sins I suspect her of, which isn’t much better. Or it could be something else entirely, and considering the way she’s rocked my world, I hope like hell it is.
My fingers flex at her hips where I’ve pulled her between my legs. I repeat my question. “Whywould youfear me, Faith?”
“I said admire or fear.” Her hands close down on mine. “Why are you honing in on the fear?”
“It’s a strange thing to say, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart with that condescending tone. And you’re shocked about the word fear? Really? This from a man who admitted to me in the gallery bathroom that people fear you?”
“But not you. You said not you.”
“I don’t fear the Nick Rogers with me now. But the words ‘an eye for an eye’ imply that you might love hard, but you hate harder. That’s who you are, right? You’ll tear my throat out if I ever cross you? Which I guess makes it a good thing that I have that hard limit. We fuck. You leave.Now, if you want.”
Relief washes over me, and the intensity of it—my desire for her innocence—shakes me to the core. I do not get personally involved, but then, I don’t fuck my friends or enemies, either. I fuck for release. For pleasure. And she’s personal. In more ways than I expected. “I don’t want to leave, and until you saw my tattoo, you didn’t want me to leave.”
“I don’t want your kind of viciousness in my life.”
“You knew I was Tiger before you ever invited me here. But let’s clear up who Tiger is. WhoNick Rogersis. I don’t hate. It’s a dangerous emotion that feeds irrational actions. And as for ‘an eye for an eye’…I began my career in criminal law and, in fact, did a two-year stint in the DA’s office that started when I was a law student. I got my tattoo after putting a man on death row for brutally raping and killing a fifteen-year-old girl. So, fuck yeah. An eye for an eye. Only, he’s not dead yet, but you can bet I’ll be in the front row when he does.”
She breathes out. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” I fist my hand and show her my forearm again. “Those words,” I say. “They do matter to me. I read them often when I’m protecting someone who’s been done wrong. I deliver justice.”
She stares at my arm for long seconds before she reaches down and covers the tattoo with her hand, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I reacted prematurely and convicted you for someone else’s sins.”
“Him,” I say, referring to the man in her past who I have a good idea is the artist she lived with in L.A.
“You keep going back tohim.”
“Because he’s in the room now, and he was with us when we were fucking, Faith.”
“This is one night,” she argues.
“This is whatever it turns out to be,” I amend. “And for the record, I don’t stay the night with women or have them stay with me, but I’m not leaving without a fight and at least three more orgasms. Yours. Not mine. And as forhim, I keep going back to him because he’s the reason you might try to insist that I leave. He’s the reason you just tried to push me away over my tattoo. And if I’m right, he’s the reason you keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make a statement like that.”
I’ve studied her for three weeks, obsessed over the details of her life like I do every case I take on, because I win. I always win. I know her better than she thinks. But I settle for, “I know enough.”
She studies me for several long beats, her expression tight, her voice tighter as she says, “Macom Maloy. That’s his name, and ‘an eye for an eye’ was his justification for doing something I consider unforgivable.”
“Unforgivable,” I repeat. “That sounds personal.” And, I silently add, perhaps like murder and blackmail.
“I’m not going to talk about this or him,” she says firmly, her gaze meeting mine, no coyness. No cowering, no lowered lashes and turned head. Just straight up. No more conversation. She’s not having it.
