A. Arthur - Passion's Prey

“Let’s go,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her up.

“I’ve already showered,” she said when she saw that’s where they were headed.

“Yeah, but you need another one now.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” she replied snidely, taking the loofah she’d just used and reaching for the soap as he turned on the water.

Like her, he liked the water hot, almost to the point of pain. There were more than a few things she and X had in common, but Caprise wasn’t about to comment on them. Saying them aloud might allude to something … something she didn’t want to think about.

“You’re too thin” was his next compliment.

She tried not to bristle, really she did, but it just wasn’t in her nature. “You’re just full of nice things to say to me tonight. Is that how you usually treat a woman you’ve had sex with?”

Turning her back to him, she lathered her front and waited for his response.

It didn’t come in the form of words, but his strong hands grabbing her shoulders, turning her to face him.

“You’re not like them” was all he said.

Caprise didn’t take that to mean a good thing, but didn’t reply, either. To keep this line of conversation going would mean she cared what he thought of her, or of what they’d done together. And she definitely did not want that. Caring would make this so much more than it was. So much more than Caprise figured she was ready for. Her get-it-together plan didn’t include falling for a man, especially not for X.

He’d never slept with a woman before, never wanted to. Having sex with them was like a ritual he’d practiced over the years. Whether it was a hard intense session, or a quickie, X always left first and he always returned home to his own bed where he slept alone.

Yet here it was, a little after two in the morning, and he was lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Beside him Caprise slept with her long, lithe body curled into a fetal position facing him. Her hair was only partially dry, spreading across the pillow like tentacles. She was lovely when she slept—and that was a thought X had never had before. With only his night vision to go on she had a soft glow to her skin; thick eyebrows were arched perfectly, framing alluring eyes even in sleep. Her nose was small, lips pert; she had high cheekbones and a soft jawline.

Something inside X shifted, as if his cat, too, was trying to acclimate itself to this new experience. A thought crossed his mind—he could touch her. Right now, at this moment, as thoughts of her filled his head, he could reach out and touch her cheek, or her arm, or her leg and she would feel him. She’d probably awaken hurling smart-ass words or cursing at him, her eyes sparking with anger. X’s dick hardened at the thought.

Her anger, as well as her angelic sleeping trance, intrigued him, touched him on some level that was probably foreign to them both.

With a grunt, X abruptly turned his head so that he couldn’t look at her. He remembered the text he’d seen on her phone and the fact that he’d been so distracted he’d forgotten to ask her about it.

More predominantly, X remembered … he remembered everything about his life. Every moment that made him the man he was. And he cursed because that man could never reach out and touch a woman like Caprise, or any woman for that matter. He could never afford to simply lie and watch her sleep, to even dream about a life with her.

It simply wasn’t possible with a man like him.

A man like Xavier Santos-Markland should never have been allowed into the Bureau.

He was a liar and a fraud and now, Special Agent Dorian Wilson had reason to believe, a murderer. As a professional courtesy he’d tried calling Markland a couple of times yesterday and last night. Dorian figured he’d set up a meeting, toss out a few questions, and get a feel for where Makland’s head was. But he’d never reached him; voicemail picked up every time. If he was a guilty man, that was probably on purpose; if he was innocent … well, Dorian wasn’t really considering that.

Admittedly the evidence he had against Markland was circumstantial. Still, his gut told him whatever had happened to Diamond Turner was connected to Markland. It was also likely connected to the murder of Senator Baines and his daughter months ago, and those two prostitutes. In addition to these brutal killings, there had been half a dozen other deaths in the last three weeks involving an unknown drug. The DEA wanted to know if Roman Reynolds was somehow linked to the development and distribution of this killer substance. After their initial investigation into Reynolds’s law firm they’d found nothing connecting him directly to any cartel in Brazil. But there was definitely a lot of movement coming out of South America. One cartel they were specifically watching was Cortez, even though informants couldn’t pin this new drug to that long-running drug empire. It had to be Reynolds, and Markland was one of Reynolds’s most trusted confidants.

Some would say Dorian was obsessed. He wouldn’t quite take it that far. So what, he’d had this growing file on Roman Reynolds and the law firm he owned, Reynolds & Delgado, for almost three years now. It didn’t matter that he’d made a point to get a copy of the Metropolitan Police Department’s file on every murder that had occurred in the city in the last twenty-four months. Hell, it was a stroke of luck that his sister was married to a lieutenant in the homicide division or that wouldn’t have even been possible. And just because he worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency didn’t mean he couldn’t also investigate a murder, especially if that murder may very well be connected to a homegrown drug cartel. But none of that meant he was obsessed. Just really, really interested in what Reynolds and his crew were doing.

He parked his car across the street and walked toward the high-rise condominium building that had only been built about three years ago. It was twenty-five stories of glass and steel and futuristic in its crisp and angular design. Reportedly it had cost more than ten million to build and was touted as the new direction of the city. Dorian thought it was a waste of space and money. Why couldn’t they have built another school or a recreation center? In his mind there were at least ten million other more sensible things to do with this space and that type of money than to build more homes for the rich.

That fact, to Dorian, solidified Markland’s unlawful involvement with Reynolds. He lived here, on the top floor. How did an FBI agent afford such sweet digs? he thought, slipping one hand into his pocket, using the other to open the double glass doors at the entrance.

His shoes made a clicking sound as he crossed the glossy marble floor. He liked dress shoes, liked dressing up for work, period. That was something that had been instilled in him when he was younger. Yolanda and Stuart Wilson made sure he and his two sisters dressed impeccably for church and wore only the cleanest starched uniforms at the strict Catholic schools they’d attended. Besides, Dorian knew he received more respect than a lot of the other agents because he was always professional about his work and his appearance. This morning, visiting one of his own on suspicion of murder, was no different.

Flashing his badge at the young attendant, he said simply, “Xavier Markland.”

The attendant was shaking his head negatively before Dorian could finish saying his name. “No guests after midnight or before eight AM.”

Dorian almost chuckled, but he wasn’t really in the best of moods right now. “What’s this, a frat house?”

First response was a shrug, then he said, “Rules. Besides, you’ve got to be on Mr. Markland’s approved list of guests or we’re not to let you upstairs anyway.”