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Too comfortable. Too familiar, he thought. Way too good.
He held on to her anyway.
And even as he did, he wished he could take back what he'd said to her on that sidewalk. About her being his.
Because that wasn't true. He didn't want to take her as his shellan. He'd been worked up, jealous. Picturing that cop's hands all over her. Pissed off that he hadn't killed the human after all. The words had slipped out.
Ah, hell. The female did something to his brain. Somehow managed to unplug his well-developed self-control and put him in touch with his inner fricking psycho.
It was a connection he wanted to avoid.
After all, fits of insanity were Rhage's specialty.
And the brothers didn't need another hair-trigger loose cannon in the group.
Beth closed her eyes and leaned against Wrath, trying to shut out the picture of that gaping wound. The effort was like blocking sunlight with her hands: Parts of the image kept seeping through. All that bright red, shiny blood, the raw, dark pink muscle, the shocking white of bone. And that needle. Puncturing the skin, pulling the flesh out to a point, breaking through with the black thread -
She opened her eyes.
Open was better.
No matter what the man said, that was no little scrape he was dealing with. He needed to go to the hospital. And she would have argued the point more strenuously, except she'd been a little busy trying to convince her pad thai to stay put.
Besides, that guy seemed pretty darned competent at fixing himself up.
He was also one hell of a looker. Even though the gore was distracting, she couldn't help but notice his dazzling face and body. Short blond hair, iridescent blue eyes, a face that belonged on the big screen. He'd been dressed as Wrath was, in black leather pants and shitkickers, but his shirt had been cast aside. The muscles of his upper torso had stood out in sharp relief beneath the overhead light, an impressive display of strength. And the multicolored tattoo of a dragon that covered his whole back was a total stunner.
But then, it wasn't as if Wrath were going to hang out with some scrawny tax accountant-looking nancy.
Drug dealers. They were clearly drug dealers. Guns, weapons, huge amounts of cash. And who else got into a knife fight and played doctor on themselves?
She recalled that the man had borne the same circular-shaped scar on his chest that Wrath did.
They must be in a gang, she thought. Or the mob.
She suddenly needed some space, and Wrath let her go as they walked into a lemon-colored room. Her feet slowed. The place looked like a museum or something she'd expect to see in Architectural Digest. Thick, pale drapery framed wide windows, rich oil paintings gleamed from the walls, objets d'art were tastefully arranged. She glanced down at the carpet. The thing was probably worth more than her apartment.
Maybe they didn't just deal in crack, X, and heroin, she thought. Maybe they worked the antiques black market as well.
Now there was a combo you didn't run across very often.
"This is nice," she murmured, fingering an antique box. "Very nice."
She eyed Wrath when she got no response. He was standing just inside the room, arms folded across his pecs, at the ready even though he was home.
But then, when did he ever relax? she thought.
"Have you always been a collector?" she asked, trying to buy some time so her nerves could settle. She walked over to a Hudson River School painting. Good lord, it was a Thomas Cole. Probably worth hundreds of thousands. "This is beautiful."
She glanced over her shoulder. He was focused on her, paying no attention to the painting. And there was no expression of pride or ownership on his face.
Which was not the way someone looked when their things were admired.
"This is not your house," she said.
"Your father lived here."
Yeah, sure.
But what the hell. She'd come this far. She might as well play along.
"Then he obviously had plenty of money. What did he do for a living?"
Wrath walked across the room, toward an exquisite, full-length portrait of what looked like a king.
"Come with me."
"What? You want me to walk through that wall - "
He pushed one side of the painting, and it swiveled outward to reveal a dark corridor.
"Oh," she said.
He gestured with his arm. "After you."
Beth approached carefully. The glow of gas lanterns flickered over black stone. She leaned in, seeing a set of stairs that disappeared around a turn far below.
"What's down there?"
"A place where we can talk."
"Why don't we stay up here?"
"Because you're going to want to do this privately. And my brothers are likely to show up soon."
"Your brothers?"
"Yes."
"How many of them are there?"
"Five, now. And you're stalling. Go on. Nothing will hurt you down there, I promise."
Uh-huh. Sure.
But she put her foot over the gilded edge of the frame. And stepped into the darkness.
Chapter Eighteen
Beth took a deep breath and hesitantly put her hands out to the stone walls. The air wasn't musty; there was no creepy coating of moisture on anything; it was just very, very dark. She went down the stairs slowly, feeling her way. The lanterns were more like fireflies, lights unto themselves rather than illumination for someone using the stairwell.
And then she reached the bottom. To the right there was an open door, and she caught the warm glow of candlelight.
The room was just like the passageway: black walled, dimly lit, but clean. The candles were soothing as they flickered at their posts. While she put her purse down on the coffee table, she wondered if Wrath slept here.
God knew the bed was big enough for him.
And were those black satin sheets?
She figured he'd taken a lot of women down to this lair of his. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what happened once he closed the door.
A lock clicked into place, and her heart seized up.
"So about my father," she said briskly.
Wrath walked past her, taking off his jacket. He was wearing a muscle shirt under it, and she couldn't ignore the raw power of his arms, his biceps and triceps rippling as he put the leather aside. The tattoos running down his inner forearms flashed as he peeled the empty holster from his shoulders.
He went into the bathroom and she heard water splashing. When he came back out, he was drying his face with a towel. He put his sunglasses on before looking at her.
"You're father, Darius, was a worthy male." Wrath casually tossed the towel back into the bathroom and walked over to the couch. He sat forward, elbows on his knees. "He was an aristocrat from the old country before he became a warrior. He's... he was my friend. My brother in the work I do."
Brother. He kept using that word.
They were in the Mafia. Definitely.
Wrath smiled a little, as if remembering something that pleased him. "D had skills. He was fast on his feet, smart as hell, good with a knife. But he was cultured. A gentleman. He spoke eight languages. Studied everything from world religions to art history to philosophy. He could talk your ear off about Wall Street and then tell you why the Sistine Chapel ceiling is actually a Mannerist work, not from the Renaissance."
Wrath leaned back, running a hefty arm across the top of the sofa. His knees fell out to the sides, his thighs spreading.
He looked damn comfortable as he pushed his long black hair back.
Sexy as hell.
"Darius never lost his temper, no matter how nasty things got. He just stuck to the job at hand until it was finished. He died with the full respect of his brothers."
Wrath actually seemed to miss her father. Or whatever man he was channeling for the purpose of...
What exactly was he trying to pull here? she wondered. Where did it get him to throw out this crap?
Well, she was in his bedroom, wasn't she?
"And Fritz tells me he loved you very deeply."
Beth pursed her lips. "Assuming I even buy any of this, I've got to wonder. If my father cared so much, why didn't he bother to introduce himself to me?"
"It's complicated."
"Yeah, it's really hard to walk up to your daughter, stick your hand out, and say your name. Real tough stuff." She walked across the room, only to find herself next to the bed. She quickly paced elsewhere. "And what's up with the warrior rhetoric? Was he in the mob, too?"
"Mob? We're not the mob, Beth."
"So you're just freelance killers as well as drug dealers? Hmmm... Come to think of it, diversification is probably a good business strategy. And you need a lot of cash to keep up a house like this. As well as fill it full of art that belongs in the Met."
