Annabelle.’’
Her hand trembled as she gently pressed a pad of gauze against the seeping cut in his skin. She was so close, so warm, so soft, her deliciously erotic fragrance teasing his senses. Mark almost threw away the last of his good intentions at that point and bent his lips to taste her.
Even as instincts propelled him forward, she grabbed hold of his hand, of the fingers stroking her skin, and wordlessly moved his hand to the gauze and stepped back. Quickly and efficiently, she tore strips of tape from the roll and fixed the bandage to his skin. Stepping back, she drew a deep breath, then looked him in his eyes. ‘‘To quote Mick, you can’t always get what you want. See you in the morning, Callahan.’’
Then he was alone.
Again.
As always.
Annabelle watched rainwater drip from a stone angel’s trumpet. What an awful day to be standing around a cemetery. Yet better to be standing than lying like poor Jeremy.
The storm had rolled in during the funeral mass and cold, steady rain brought solemn, dampened moods even lower. Frances Russo sat sobbing beneath the shelter of the graveside tent. Her stoic mother-in-law patted the distraught widow’s knee as the priest lifted his hands to the sky and announced, ‘‘Heaven weeps with happiness today to receive such a fine man as Jeremy.’’
Standing beside Annabelle, Tag leaned over and murmured in her ear, ‘‘As long as he’s the only one of us heaven gets today, I’ll be happy.’’
Annabelle’s lips twisted with a rueful smile. Actually, she wasn’t worried about their safety at the moment. Mark had hired private security for this event—extensive private security who had established a perimeter that would make the Secret Service proud.
She was glad of the respite. This was the first time since she’d realized the Fixers had a problem that she felt able to relax, able to mourn. Listening to Russo’s friends and family talk about his plans and hopes and dreams created a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. Hearing them talk about his ‘‘accident’’ made her mad. Jeremy deserved better.
Her gaze drifted to Mark, Tag, Noah, and Colonel Warren, and determination dissolved the lump in her throat. Jeremy would have better, by God. They’d catch the person who killed him if it was the last thing she ever did.
Now, there’s a positive thought.
Annabelle choked back the hysteria-edged giggle that wanted to bubble from her mouth. Her emotions pulsed with turmoil today. Funerals for friends tended to make a woman both cranky and a little crazy.
Having to hang around her ex-husband placed the freaking cherry on top.
And yet, that stubborn part of her psyche made her determined to quash everything but the professional within her. She refused to allow anyone to see her fear or her fury. As far as the feelings Callahan stirred inside her . . . well . . . maybe this contact would help her rid herself of those last few tenacious tentacles of attachment.
Mark Callahan had proved difficult to get over. While she lectured herself against comparing other men with her ex, she found herself doing it every single time she dated someone new. No one measured up, not enough to intrigue her beyond a few dates, and certainly not enough to go to bed with—even after she’d relaxed her standards in that regard. The day her divorce was final, when she’d been weak and lonely and afraid, she’d poured too many glasses of wine and the whole miserable story to her brother, Adam, who’d been visiting with his family at the time. He had promised to keep her secret if she promised to listen to his advice.
Sleep with someone, Annabelle, he’d told her. Just once. I know you have an old-fashioned outlook in that area and I can’t believe that I’m actually telling you to do it, but after listening to you today, I’m afraid it’s going to take that for you to get beyond Mark Callahan. The man is not a god—
He is in bed, she’d drunkenly
Her hand trembled as she gently pressed a pad of gauze against the seeping cut in his skin. She was so close, so warm, so soft, her deliciously erotic fragrance teasing his senses. Mark almost threw away the last of his good intentions at that point and bent his lips to taste her.
Even as instincts propelled him forward, she grabbed hold of his hand, of the fingers stroking her skin, and wordlessly moved his hand to the gauze and stepped back. Quickly and efficiently, she tore strips of tape from the roll and fixed the bandage to his skin. Stepping back, she drew a deep breath, then looked him in his eyes. ‘‘To quote Mick, you can’t always get what you want. See you in the morning, Callahan.’’
Then he was alone.
Again.
As always.
Annabelle watched rainwater drip from a stone angel’s trumpet. What an awful day to be standing around a cemetery. Yet better to be standing than lying like poor Jeremy.
The storm had rolled in during the funeral mass and cold, steady rain brought solemn, dampened moods even lower. Frances Russo sat sobbing beneath the shelter of the graveside tent. Her stoic mother-in-law patted the distraught widow’s knee as the priest lifted his hands to the sky and announced, ‘‘Heaven weeps with happiness today to receive such a fine man as Jeremy.’’
Standing beside Annabelle, Tag leaned over and murmured in her ear, ‘‘As long as he’s the only one of us heaven gets today, I’ll be happy.’’
Annabelle’s lips twisted with a rueful smile. Actually, she wasn’t worried about their safety at the moment. Mark had hired private security for this event—extensive private security who had established a perimeter that would make the Secret Service proud.
She was glad of the respite. This was the first time since she’d realized the Fixers had a problem that she felt able to relax, able to mourn. Listening to Russo’s friends and family talk about his plans and hopes and dreams created a lump in her throat the size of a baseball. Hearing them talk about his ‘‘accident’’ made her mad. Jeremy deserved better.
Her gaze drifted to Mark, Tag, Noah, and Colonel Warren, and determination dissolved the lump in her throat. Jeremy would have better, by God. They’d catch the person who killed him if it was the last thing she ever did.
Now, there’s a positive thought.
Annabelle choked back the hysteria-edged giggle that wanted to bubble from her mouth. Her emotions pulsed with turmoil today. Funerals for friends tended to make a woman both cranky and a little crazy.
Having to hang around her ex-husband placed the freaking cherry on top.
And yet, that stubborn part of her psyche made her determined to quash everything but the professional within her. She refused to allow anyone to see her fear or her fury. As far as the feelings Callahan stirred inside her . . . well . . . maybe this contact would help her rid herself of those last few tenacious tentacles of attachment.
Mark Callahan had proved difficult to get over. While she lectured herself against comparing other men with her ex, she found herself doing it every single time she dated someone new. No one measured up, not enough to intrigue her beyond a few dates, and certainly not enough to go to bed with—even after she’d relaxed her standards in that regard. The day her divorce was final, when she’d been weak and lonely and afraid, she’d poured too many glasses of wine and the whole miserable story to her brother, Adam, who’d been visiting with his family at the time. He had promised to keep her secret if she promised to listen to his advice.
Sleep with someone, Annabelle, he’d told her. Just once. I know you have an old-fashioned outlook in that area and I can’t believe that I’m actually telling you to do it, but after listening to you today, I’m afraid it’s going to take that for you to get beyond Mark Callahan. The man is not a god—
He is in bed, she’d drunkenly
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