Cry No More Read online

  “Thank you for bringing me home,” she said as she unfastened her seat belt and opened the door.

  He shoved the gear lever into park and got out of the big SUV, but he wasn’t fast enough to make it around before she got out. His hand closed around her elbow as he walked with her to the front door.

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll back off. But if you need anything, call me. Day or night. I mean it. No strings attached.”

  The offer touched her, and she smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  He stared down at her; then he swore softly again and before she could step back she was in his arms. Even with her three-inch heels he was about six inches taller than she was, and when he bent over her, she felt overwhelmed. His hand flattened against her back and his mouth covered hers.

  She put her hands against his shoulders and pushed, trying to lever herself away from him. Under other circumstances, she might have liked his kiss, might have returned it. He knew how to kiss; his mouth was warm, his breath was pleasant, his tongue intimately teased but didn’t intrude. Where her hips were molded to his, she felt his erection grow.

  She pulled her mouth away and shoved even harder; he dropped his arms and stepped back.

  “I thought you said you’d back off,” she said, angry that he evidently wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “I am backing off.” His expression was hard, his eyes narrow. “But I wanted a taste of you, and I wanted you to taste me. If you change your mind, all you have to do is tell me.”

  That male arrogance wasn’t completely unattractive, but his intensity made her wary and she wasn’t at all tempted to linger. She took out her keys and unlocked the door. “Good night,” she said as she stepped inside, and she closed the door and locked it in practically one motion.

  She was so unsettled that it took her a moment to realize the lamp wasn’t on. She froze, and as the darkness pressed down on her she realized that she wasn’t alone.

  13

  Instead of going home, Rip had the cabdriver take him to the hospital. He used his parking card to gain entrance to the physician’s parking lot, and he told the driver to wait. As he got out of the cab, he checked the vehicles in the lot, and wasn’t surprised to see that his own car wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Still, he clipped on his identity badge and went inside to the emergency department.

  “Has Felicia D’Angelo checked in?” he asked the admissions clerk, who checked the computer.

  “No, sir, we have a Ramon D’Angelo, but not a Felicia.”

  Just to be certain, Rip had the driver take him to the other hospital where he and Susanna had privileges, and he went through the same routine. His car wasn’t in the parking lot, and Felicia D’Angelo hadn’t been admitted to the hospital.

  He hoped like hell Susanna would be at home when he got there, that the false page and her story had just been part of her misguided effort to throw Milla and Gallagher together. Despite everything, he still hoped.

  But when he got home, the windows were dark. He paid the cabdriver the rather hefty fee, then trudged up the sidewalk and unlocked the front door. He automatically turned off the alarm and flipped on the light switch.

  He wondered what tale Susanna would have when she got home. He wondered where she was. And he wondered what in hell he was going to do.

  True might not have gotten into his truck yet; he might hear her scream. The thought burned through her mind as Milla tried to force air past her constricted throat, but it was like in a nightmare, when you try and try to scream but can’t. All she could manage was a strangled sound that was cut off when a hard hand clamped over her mouth and a steel-muscled body pushed her against the wall, holding her there.

  “Hush,” said that low voice. “Don’t scream. It’s just me.”

  Just him? Even knowing it was Diaz didn’t lessen her panic a lot. Her heart was slamming against her breastbone so hard she felt ill from the force of it. She was almost grateful he was holding her against the wall, because otherwise she didn’t think her knees would have supported her.

  She felt him lean to the side, heard the click as he switched on the lamp and mellow light flooded the foyer. From outside came the sound of an engine starting, then the whine of tires on pavement as True drove off.

  Diaz took his hand away. His face was expressionless, his eyes cold. “You got something going on with Gallagher?”

  She hit him. She slapped his arm and his shoulder; then she took her purse and swatted him on the side of the head. “Damn it, you scared the life out of me!” she shrieked, and tears of fright and relief trickled down her cheeks. Trembling, she sank down in the chair beside the lamp table while she fumbled in her purse for a tissue.

  Diaz was no longer expressionless; he looked absolutely floored that she had hit him—and, probably, that he had let her. She couldn’t believe it herself, not only that she had so lost control, but that he’d just stood there instead of breaking her arm or at least tossing her to the floor. She opened her mouth to apologize, and instead found herself swatting him on the knee. “Damn it,” she said weakly, as more tears trickled down. She scrubbed at them with a tissue. Her makeup was probably a mess, and that made her want to swat him again.

  He crouched in front of her, his eyes almost level with hers. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.” Cautiously he reached out and took her hand, as if making such contact wasn’t something he normally did and he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. His fingers were hard and hot, his palm was callused; he cradled her hand in his and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “Are you okay?”

  “You mean if my heart ever starts beating normally again?” she snapped, then abruptly found herself laughing. She was so weak from adrenaline overload that she couldn’t stand up, so she just leaned her head back against the wall and chuckled while she wiped her face with her free hand.

  An incredible thing happened. The corners of his mouth moved upward.

  She was so astonished at the sight of Diaz smiling that she stopped laughing and stared at him. Her heart had begun to settle down, but now it started thumping wildly again, and this time it wasn’t because of fear. Her entire body flushed with heat and she began trembling again. Diaz holding her hand, smiling—now was when she should scream, because she was in far greater danger than she’d been a moment ago.

  “What?” he asked, bewildered by the way she was staring at him.

  “You’re smiling.” It was as if he had dropped part of his mask and was letting her see past the blankness he usually presented to the world. Astonishment, bewilderment, concern, amusement had all been visible in his expression during the past minute. The one thing she was most terrified she would see was desire, so she pulled her hand from his and began making the feminine motions of neatening herself: pushing her hair out of her face, straightening her skirt, blotting under her eyes to remove any melted mascara.

  “I smile,” he said, as if he couldn’t understand why such a small thing would startle her.

  “When?”

  “Hell, I don’t keep a log. I laugh, too.”

  “This year?”

  He started to say something, then reconsidered and shrugged. “Maybe not.” Amusement began curling the corners of his mouth again. “You hit me with your purse.”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I was so scared, I lost it. Did I hurt you?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not really. I mean, I hit you in the head.”

  “Those were girl slaps.”

  They had been. She felt a twinge of despair. She trained and trained and trained, trying to get herself in a sort of warrior state of mind so she could handle situations exactly like that, and instead of doing anything effective, she had automatically fallen back into a purely feminine response. If this happened with, say, Pavón, then she was a dead woman.

  He was still crouched in front of her, so close she could feel his body heat against her legs. His short black hair was