Vows of Vengeance. Rita Herron

muscle tightened in his jaw, his agent instincts battling with the memory of her in his arms. He almost believed her. Almost.

      Too much circumstantial evidence pointed to the opposite.

      He knelt and touched her hands, ignoring the stab of desire the movement cost him. She was shaking, her eyes glued to the crimson stains on her fingers and nails.

      He slowly turned her hands over, and saw the powder burns.

      Powder burns didn’t lie. Only people did.

      “STELLA’S OUT of control.” He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bar in Sutton’s office, swirled it in circles, then downed it in one swooping gulp. While he waited on Sutton’s response, he savored the taste for a moment, the slow burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat and warming his belly.

      “I have the situation in hand,” Sutton barked. “She told the police nothing.”

      “You lost her a long time ago, Sutton. You should have disposed of her when she first betrayed you and attempted to escape.”

      “My plan will work. Just be patient.”

      “Patient? Devlin won’t let go. And we’ve put too much into this project for you to go soft.”

      “Soft?” Sutton’s voice rose. “If I’d gone soft, how the hell did I pull off what I just did? My plan is a stroke of genius.”

      He tapped his nails on the smooth marble bar. “What if it doesn’t work? You’re taking a chance just letting her near the cops. And that bastard Devlin—he’s no fool.” He paused and poured himself another drink. “He didn’t let the hype about his partner being corrupt deter him.”

      “It did for a while. He got sidetracked with Stella.”

      “You think we can use her to do the same now?”

      “It’s worth a shot.”

      He harrumphed. Sutton might think he had things under control, but that was near impossible now. Stella was like a pipe bomb—unpredictable. “Know that I’m monitoring your ever movement, Sutton. If Devlin gets too close, if Stella starts remembering and talking, then I’ll kill them both.”

      “I understand.”

      Did he really? Sutton might be riding the line, but he wasn’t. He was the same ruthless man he’d been trained to be. He took without mercy. Trained the others to do the same. And he hadn’t gone soft.

      Soft meant forgetting what he had learned from the Master. The Master who had led him down the path years ago, just as he continued to lead the others.

      Stella had been one of them. One of the hardest to break. One of the ones who’d tried to get away.

      But there was no escape. Only a price to pay for trying to do so.

      And Stella would learn just how high that price could be.

      Death for her lover. For herself.

      But first…first, she would know the pain of betrayal.

      And if Sutton couldn’t handle it, he’d meet death himself.

      Chapter Two

      Luke’s gaze rose from Stella’s bloodstained, powder-burned fingers to her heart-shaped face. The bruise stood out, stark now, making his gut clench.

      As their gazes locked, the undeniable spark of sexual energy that had zapped him the first time he’d met her rippled through him again, as strong and potent as before. The pull of those green eyes, luminous with fear and confusion, tugged at emotions he refused to acknowledge.

      Sweat beaded on his forehead and hands, and his heart pounded. The air was sultry, the room cloying with the stench of death, yet she still had the power to touch some unreachable place that he hadn’t even known existed. A weak place that wanted and needed her in spite of the fact that she had deceived him.

      Every protective instinct he’d ever possessed reared itself, taunting him with what-ifs.

      What if Stella were telling the truth? What if she were innocent? What if this were some bizarre case that was more complicated than a wife having skipped out on her husband? What if the dead man had tried to hurt her, and she’d been acting in self-defense?

      What if she hadn’t wanted to leave you?

      Hopeful, stupid thoughts that no jaded cop or federal agent was supposed to think, much less allow himself to believe. Not even for a second.

      After all, he’d seen the worst of mankind, witnessed deplorable acts and betrayals that had destroyed his trust in the human soul. And years ago, he’d steeled himself against falling for a wounded woman.

      Until Stella had stepped into his life.

      Then a part of him had gone soft.

      He hated softness of any kind. Had been trained not to tolerate it.

      He glanced at her hands again, registered the absence of her wedding ring, and he won the war with his primal instincts. Humiliation and anger raging inside him, he wiped the sweat from his brow and spun away from her, leaving her to face the cops alone while he spoke with the crime scene unit. The medical examiner, Dr. Yates, studied the body, making notes. A sandy-haired man in his twenties and a red-headed female CSI tech were collecting evidence, combing for fingerprints, picking hair fibers from the bed and carpet, lifting prints from the water and wineglasses on the end table. The sheets were soaked, hanging askew, the white pillow-case marred with a crimson stain in the shape of a hand. Stella’s hand.

      Luke swept his gaze over the victim. Noticed not for the first time that he was naked. He had brown hair, was average height, no distinguishing marks on his face, except for a scar by his right ear. He was lying on his back, his legs partially dangling over the side as if he’d tried to get up and run. One hand was thrown over his head, the other on his chest where the bullets had pierced his heart. His body was lean, but not muscular. Hairy. And his jewels… They were limp, hanging in plain sight.

      Not a man he’d have thought Stella would have been attracted to.

      Luke’s hands knotted by his sides. Had Stella slept with the man, then killed him? And if so, why hadn’t she tried to cover up the murder? Why had she screamed as if she was calling for help? She hadn’t even attempted to hide the weapon.

      Or maybe her amnesia act was part of her plan…a self-defense ploy to keep her from jail.

      He scratched his chin, assessing the rest of the room with a trained eye. There were no suitcases. No bottle of wine to go with the wineglasses. No…clothing.

      No woman’s purse.

      The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit. Where were the man’s clothes?

      He stalked to the bathroom and found one of the investigators bagging a pair of slacks, so he introduced himself to both the techs. “Any ID in there?”

      “No. So far, we haven’t found any for him or her,” Doug, the male investigator, said.

      “Condoms?” Luke gritted his teeth while he waited.

      The female, Jill, shook her head. “None in here.”

      “I didn’t find any in the bedroom, either,” Doug added.

      Luke frowned. Stella had always insisted on condoms. So had he, for that matter.

      Then again, maybe she and the dead man hadn’t gotten to the nitty-gritty yet.

      Luke rushed to the bedroom, checked the nightstand. Empty except for the motel Bible.

      He closed the drawer with a scowl, then approached the body again, parking himself by the M.E. “What do we have so far?”

      “It appears he died of multiple gunshot wounds. Two to the chest. Close range. My guess from the size of the wound, a .38.”