Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(69)
Author: J.R. Ward

At the archway into the hall, Mels stopped. “I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s answering smile struck her not as weak, but as accepting.

Huh. It wasn’t until now that she realized the two were very different—and she had to wonder why she’d mistaken the latter for the former.

“It’s okay, Mellie.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Mels said as she turned away and headed for the stairs. “Not at all.”

Generally speaking, Matthias wasn’t in a situation where he should be making dinner plans of any kind.

It was just impossible not to want another hit of Mels naked with him in bed.

Or on the floor. Against the wall. Over the bathroom sink.

Wherever.

The bottom line was that it was time for him to get going. He’d been too long in Caldwell, too exposed in this hotel…and too close to Mels.

Time to take off.

And it was in the dour spirit of having to leave Caldwell that he walked out of the Marriott, Jim’s gun with its silencer packed at the small of his back, a baseball cap he’d bought at the gift shop pulled down tight to the sunglasses.

The day was warmish, and with the spotty cloud cover that had rolled in overnight, the temperature probably wasn’t going to improve much—

“Out for a morning stroll to the candy store?”

Matthias stopped and turned around. Jim Heron had magically appeared behind him, and somehow, that wasn’t a surprise.

What was a shock was the emotion that hit as he looked into the other man’s eyes.

Jabbing his palm out, he said gruffly, “Thank you.”

Dark blond brows popped, and Heron went preternaturally still as pedestrians broke pattern and swung wide to avoid them, the herd of rushing people re-forming on the far side.

“What,” Matthias said, keeping his hand where it was. “Too proud to accept a little gratitude?”

“You’ve never thanked me or anybody else before. For anything.”

In the silence, a moment of clear resonance set up shop in the center of Matthias’s chest, the kind of thing that told him that the statement was true.

“New leaf,” he muttered.

As Jim clasped what was offered, he said, “What’s the gratitude for?”

“Taking care of my girl last night. I owe you one.”

After a pause, Jim said in an equally rough way, “You’re welcome. And I can take a guess about what’s gotten you up and moving. Come back to my place—I’ve got plenty of ammo there.”

Considering that would conserve cash, Matthias gave the idea a big fat yes. “Where you parked?”

“Over here.”

A quick trip across the street, and then he was sitting side by side with the guy in a black Explorer.

As they hit the main highway, for some reason he kept having the urge to look into the backseat, and he gave in to the paranoia from time to time. There was nothing/no one back there, however.

What the hell—

“So how’s your memory doing?” Jim asked.

“Same as.” Matthias left things there, because the whole back-from-Hell theory seemed too weird to put out there. It was one thing to share that shit with Mels. Spouting it to Jim seemed…like he was dropping his trou in front of the guy.

Not going to happen.

Matthias reached out and put the radio on. “—body of a woman found at dawn on the front steps of the Caldwell Library. Trisha Golding, second wife of Thomas Golding, CEO of CorTech, was discovered with her throat cut and some of her clothes removed early this morning by a street sweeper. CPD units responded immediately, and are still on site. Officially, the homicide department is downplaying the possibility of another serial killer in the city, but a source inside tells WCLD exclusively that the term is being used in connection with this victim and the case of another young blond woman found…”

As the report droned on, Matthias noticed that Jim’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn the knuckles white.

“What’s the matter?” he asked the guy.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, right. But it wasn’t his job to pry, and besides, he had enough shit on his own plate.

Just one more night here, he promised himself. One final night with Mels, and then he was going to take his last hundred dollars, spring for a bus ticket, and…go down to Manhattan.

There was something he needed there. He could feel it.

But man, what a tall order. New York City was how big? And he had how little cash left? And yet he had the sense that if he got to the Big Apple, he was going to be directed to…whatever the f**k it was.

Which was why he had to ammo up—he wasn’t taking any chances on what might be waiting for him.

Hadn’t been a lot of nice surprises lately.

Except for Mels Carmichael.

33

Mel didn’t make it into the CCJ.

Her phone rang just as she left the house, and as she got it out of her purse to answer, she groaned. There were three voicemails that she hadn’t picked up over the course of the night, and this was Dick the Prick.

Something had happened while she had been…otherwise occupied.

“Hello?”

“Don’t you check your damn phone.”

“I’m sorry.” And no, she was not going to explain that she had been “busy” or Dick might jump to the conclusion as to why—and be right for once. “What’s up?”

“You know, a reporter’s job is twenty-four/seven, Carmichael.”

Well, the last two days were the first time he’d really treated her as one. “Has something happened?”

“Didn’t your radio wake you up this morning?” When she said nothing, he cursed. “There’s another dead blonde—found on the steps of the Caldwell Public Library. I wanted you there an hour ago—”

“I’m on my way now.”

This got her a heartbeat of silence—like he’d been looking forward to shanking her on a get-moving rant. “Don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t.” Mels smiled to herself. “By the way, I’m working a special angle on that prostitute with a source at the CPD. I know something no one else does.”

Now he actually sounded a little impressed. “Really?”

“More later.”

As she hung up on him, she left out the “hopefully” part, because she didn’t want to be equivocal with her boss—and besides, there was no way Monty wasn’t going to let her come forward. He was going to need the hit that snitching provided him.