Julie Beard - Touch Of The White Tiger

“Did you just ask me if I want to make love?” His husky voice vibrated in his chest. His gaze skewered me with a “You’d better not be joking” look.

I spread my hands over his day-old beard and up through his thick, natural dark curls of hair. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

A touch of gray distinguished his temples, and his long-lashed, bedroom eyes ended with a trace of crow’s-feet, the legacy of too many deep smiles in the sun. He was all man, and he was mine. And he was just mature enough to make a relationship dangerous. I craved opening up to him, and dreaded it at the same time. If he really knew me—and he was smart enough to do that in time—would he still want me?

“Yes.” A simple reply. The last nail in the coffin.

He roughly grabbed my nape and pulled my lips to his. They were briefly tender, like silk, but soon parted and we melded in a mind-blowing French kiss. I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling like I’d fallen into the eye of a hurricane. Everything around me was chaos. But something in me knew this was where I was supposed to be, and I grew calm, intent on consuming him.

I hadn’t realized he was walking, but we dropped together onto a mattress laying on a low platform in the back of the loft. We scrambled together, still kissing, as we tugged off our clothes. Jeans and leather gave way to the rub of taut muscles and slick skin. I was like a champagne cork ready to pop and nearly did when he stretched out on top of me, his long, strong legs entwining with mine.

I was ready. He was ready. Then I made the mistake of talking. Pulling from his lips, I said, “I guess your answer is yes.”

It was a joke. He smiled. But the ironic gleam in his eyes turned cloudy. He didn’t move, but I could almost see his emotional retreat, like one of those fancy camera moves in old-time horror flicks, when the dolly holding the camera retreats fast while the lens zooms in.

His interest slackened in the most obvious place. I gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer. No, I wanted to say, don’t stop now. But I wouldn’t beg.

He drew up and sank on his knees, straddling me. He put his hands on his bare hips and tugged his lips into a rueful smile. “Now that you mention it, Baker, the answer is no. I don’t want to make love.”

I was speechless. “I don’t…understand.”

He rose from his knees to a stand in one graceful swoop, then started pulling on his jeans. “I told myself that when the time came I would say no. But I let my desire get the better of me.”

I sat up, crossing my arms over my bare breasts. “Why? Am I so appalling to you?”

“Obviously not,” he said wryly as he zipped his pants. He raked both hands through his hair, looking older than he had a few minutes ago. “Get dressed. I’ll make some coffee.”

Reluctantly, I dressed, my humiliation slowly turning to anger. By the time I found his galley kitchen, which was ultrahigh-tech and gleaming with silver, I was ready for a fight.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I declared. He tried to hand me a cup of java. I crossed my arms, so he placed it on a small round table.

“Cream and sugar?” he asked calmly as he returned to pour a second cup.

“You can’t make love to a woman like you did with me, Marco, and then just expect her to forget about you! What am I saying?” I laughed bitterly. “You probably do it all the time.”

He balanced a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar in one hand, and a second cup of coffee in the other, placing them nonchalantly on the table like a restaurateur making the final touches before opening the doors. Then he turned to me with a look of bored patience.

“You’re still angry?”

“I’m pissed as hell.”

He pulled me close with a grip on my upper arms, cocooning me in a bearish embrace that was now distinctly brotherly in tone. With a firm grip that was neither rough nor gentle, he lifted my chin and kissed me as if he was teaching me a lesson. I stiffened, but soon my lips succumbed to his sensuous rotation. I resisted as long as I could, but the truth was his kisses were better than drugs.

When he was done, he pulled back and gazed at me assessingly. I dropped my head on his chest, undone again. He scooped up my head with hands on my cheeks and looked at me intensely.

“Do you think I kiss just any woman like that?”

I groaned pathetically. “Yes.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

My swollen lips tugged wryly. “Gee, thanks. You do wonders for my esteem.”

“I care for you, Angel. Too much. I haven’t allowed myself to do that in a long time.”

That implied yet more personal history that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know about. “You’ve been hurt?”

I saw it for an instant in his eyes—pain so deep it gave me a chill. He poured cream and sugar in his coffee, then sat in a little round chair too small for him, crossing his legs casually. “Anyone over the age of thirty has been hurt.”

“I’m twenty-eight. Age doesn’t have much to do with it.”

“The older you get, the tougher you are. The harder it is to hurt. But when someone does manage to do it…”

He trailed off and frowned seriously as he took a sip of the steaming coffee.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Marco.”

He looked me up and down as if he was logically considering whether that was true. “You’re a beautiful woman, Angel Baker. Fit and energetic, brave and yet grounded. Your heart is…very tender. I know you’ve been hurt, and I know you would never intentionally harm me. But I can’t watch you die. I’ve done that too many times already.”

“Watch me die?” I said with a disbelieving laugh, taking the seat opposite him. I grabbed the cup I’d earlier rejected. “You don’t have much faith in my abilities if you think I’m going to die.”

“You’re a retributionist, kiddo. Do you know what the mortality statistics are for your profession?”

“I’m careful,” I said soberly. “And I’m good.”

“Have you thought about your responsibility to Lin? What if something happens to you? Where will she be then?”

I shut my eyes and laughed ruefully. “You really go for the jugular, you know that?” I took a fortifying breath, folded my hands and pinned him with my robins-egg blue eyes. “I’m not going to abandon my foster child—not to death, not to the state foster care system. Not to anyone.”

“Then you’d better quit while you can. While you’re still alive.”

“Is this about your police committee that’s trying to get the state legislature to outlaw my profession?”

He shook his head. “No. This is personal.”

“I’m not going to do it, Marco.”

“Do it for Lin.”

I shook my head. “I rescued Lin. Remember? I couldn’t have done that without my training as a retributionist.”

“Then do it for me.”

My heart did a funny little somersault. Was he asking me for a commitment? I heard a muted police siren wail down the street in the thick silence that followed. My heart pounded. I wanted to commit, but at what price? I felt like I was trapped in a burning building with no easy exit.

“You’re asking me to give up my career to love you? That’s not fair, Marco.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not. But death isn’t fair, either. Do you really know what death is?”

I blinked, stunned by the question. I’d spent my life defying death, even ignoring its existence. I had a feeling he knew much more about it than I, but that didn’t mean he could make such an important decision for me.

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“Well, I’m not,” he shot back, anger giving his low voice a bass tremor. His fist came down hard on the table. “If you want to make love to me, you have to hang it up, Angel.”

“Fuck you!” I yelled and slammed my palms down so hard coffee jumped out of both mugs. “This is my life! Being a retributionist is who I am. It’s me. You’re rejecting me. Why don’t you just call it like it is?”

“No,” he said, softening his voice. “You are not a retributionist. It’s what you do. It’s not who you are. And until you realize that, we can’t have a relationship.” He raised both palms up in acquiescence. “That’s not quite true. We already have a relationship. But we can’t have sex.”

I blinked slowly. “You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“That’s just great.” I stood abruptly. “You’re a sadist, you know that?”

“Don’t slam the door on the way out, Angel,” he said matter-of-factly.

I shook my head in disbelief and left. When I reached the sidewalk, I turned back and slammed the door with every bit of flare and might I could muster. Feeling perversely satisfied, I whirled and stepped right into the methop junkie. His grimy, open palms fit snugly around my breasts. He grinned and guffawed in triumph, nearly bowling me over with his rancid breath.

“Like I thought,” he said, chuckling, “these melons are just ripe enough to eat.”

“How ironic.” With lightning speed and force, I jammed my hand down between his legs and gripped hard. While his eyes popped and his throat pumped with unspeakable pain, I added, “The melons might be perfect, but these grapes are way too shriveled for me.”

I couldn’t sleep that night. I tried to relax by watching an old black-and-white flick. I loved the early twentieth century Hollywood classics. Still, I tossed and turned. I told myself a hundred times to forget about Marco, but he was the kind of guy who made you think. Damn him. Was he right about my responsibilities to Lin? I swore I’d be there for her. She was seven years old. Old enough to know whether I held up my end of the adoption bargain or not.

When my mother went to prison—when I was seven, ironically—I’d certainly felt abandoned. While I had no plans to go to prison, I never considered that getting killed on the job would be, in effect, abandonment of my motherly duties. Was I willing to give up a dangerous career for a child? When I’d told the social worker a month ago that I wanted to adopt Lin, I hadn’t thought through all the ramifications. Love was more than a feeling when it came to parenthood.

I’d never before considered myself motherhood material. But my outlook changed a month ago when I stumbled onto a plot to sell a dozen Chinese orphans, including Lin, on the black market.

The Mongolian Mob had literally been breeding girls outside Barrington, a northwestern suburb, in a downscaled replica of the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City. Comfortably imprisoned, Lin grew up thinking she was in China. She had been lovingly cared for by an older sister, but her only kin had been slain when it was time for Lin and the other seven-year-olds to be sold at market.

Pure-blooded Chinese girls were highly prized here and abroad. They were scarce because of China’s twentieth-century one-child birth control policy. Back then, parents favored boys, so females were often aborted or sent abroad for adoption. That led to a shortage of Chinese brides, and many of the men had been forced to marry immigrants.

Lin and her friends would have netted the Mongolian Mob millions of dollars if I hadn’t rescued them. The other girls were put up for adoption, but I had kept Lin as a foster child. We bonded quickly, even though I practically had to fight for time alone with her. My mother, who now lived in my downstairs flat, and my Chinese martial arts instructor, who lived in my garden carriage house, occupied most of Lin’s time. They doted on her and babysat when I was away.

Still, Lin knew I was her savior. I was her new mother. When I realized I couldn’t let her go, I set the wheels of adoption in motion. But now that decision was forcing me to consider radical changes in my lifestyle. Could I give up my career for Lin?