Inside

Would that perspective change come morning?

Shifting carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him, she studied what she could see of his face, beautiful in its rawboned masculinity, illuminated by the moonlight slanting through her floor-to-ceiling windows. She had drapes, but almost always left them open. Living on towering ocean cliffs had certain benefits. Privacy was one. No one could see into her bedroom.

Lowering her eyes to his chest, she took particular note of the tattoos on his body and what they might represent. The grim reaper covered one shoulder as if daring death to take him. Or maybe it represented how often he’d stared death in the face? A medusa languished over his heart, the snakes of her hair detailed and real-looking as they slithered across his torso. She already knew he was familiar with Greek mythology. Had he chosen a medusa to represent his mother—someone once beautiful who’d become ugly because of her actions?

There were plenty of scars, too. He’d been shanked several times. How many fights had he been in? And what had the C.O.s done to him as a result? They’d probably vented their anger on a number of occasions, possibly with a few blows of their own. At the very least, they would’ve put him in isolation.

Peyton winced at what he must’ve gone through—a man falsely accused and erroneously imprisoned. It could’ve destroyed him. Maybe, in ways, it had. But it didn’t seem like that. He was a gentle lover. A generous one, too. Surely that revealed as much about him as anything else.

Unable to resist, she pressed her lips to the most prominent scar she could see, two inches of puckered flesh that looked like a slash on the medusa’s cheek.

She knew he’d felt it when he moved. His hand slid into her hair, holding her face above his so he could see her. “You okay?”

He appeared to be genuinely concerned. “Fine.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just watching you sleep. You seem at peace.”

His lips curved into a smile. “Come here.” Guiding her down next to him, he curled around her and, feeling safe and oddly happy despite all the concerns that waited for her, Peyton let her eyelids grow heavy.

Two hours later, she was awakened by the warm, wet sensation of Virgil’s mouth at her breast. He wanted to make love again. And she didn’t mind being disturbed because the second time was even better than the first.

Reality intruded as rudely as Peyton had feared—and even sooner than she’d expected. The sun was barely burning off the morning mist when she heard the vibration of her cell phone. She’d left it charging on the counter in the kitchen, and if she hadn’t known what that sound signaled, hadn’t become so attuned to it after months of conditioning, she would’ve slept right through the soft buzz, just as Virgil was doing. But she could always hear it, almost anywhere in the house, and she knew that if someone was calling her at seven on a Sunday morning, it was important.

Had something gone wrong at the prison? Considering the rivalry that existed between the Nuestra Family and the Hells Fury, there was a constant threat of violence. Should that occur, whichever associate warden was in charge would call her. Warden Fischer lived in Brookings, Oregon, thirty minutes away. He couldn’t respond as quickly as she could, especially on weekends, when he and his wife often traveled to Portland to see their grandkids.

It’s time for him to retire….

Slipping out of bed, she yanked on the first article of clothing she came across on the floor—her T-shirt—and hurried out of the room to see who was trying to reach her. But when she saw caller ID she didn’t want to answer.

The good news: it wasn’t the prison.

The bad news: it was Wallace.

Afraid he’d insist on talking about Virgil, she was tempted to let his call transfer to voice mail. It might help her respond in a more detached manner if she learned what Wallace wanted before speaking to him directly. But the fear that he might be calling about Virgil’s sister, to tell her something terrible had happened, made her hit the answer button despite her reluctance.

“We have a problem,” Wallace announced as soon as she said hello.

The hair stood up on her arms. “Is it Virgil’s sister?”

“No. Laurel and the kids are okay. For now. But I need to talk to Virgil, and he’s not answering.”

Because she’d brought him to her house and had sex with him. She’d compromised her authority, if not her integrity, which was why the department wouldn’t approve. She’d told herself she was doing it for him, that sometimes human need trumped rules, but the fact remained that she’d wanted what they’d shared just as badly as he had. “Maybe he went for a walk.”

“I’ve been trying his room for the past three hours. You think he got up at three or four o’clock to go out in the dark, foggy night and get some exercise?”

Guilt wasn’t a burden Peyton was used to carrying. Chafing under the weight of it, she climbed onto one of the bar stools. “It’s possible he couldn’t sleep. Or that he’s sleeping so deeply he can’t hear the phone.”

“No way. I’ve let it ring off the hook.”

A noise from behind told her that Virgil had gotten up and come to investigate, but she didn’t turn to face him. Now that she was back in her other world, the “real” world so managed by rules and restrictions, she wasn’t sure how she felt about what they’d done. Or him.

“I’m afraid he’s skipped,” Wallace said. “And if that’s the case, I’m screwed.”

“He wouldn’t skip.”

“If he has—”

“He wouldn’t,” she repeated. “He cares too much about his sister.”

“Oh, yeah? We’ll see. Most inmates only care about themselves. Anyway, I need you to drive over there and find out what the hell is going on. I won’t be some stupid-ass patsy he’s using for his own purposes. My wife and I had a huge fight when I had to leave last night. She’s sick of me traveling. But I left, anyway, because I’d made a promise.”

That wasn’t the only reason he’d braved his wife’s displeasure. Feeling a measure of contempt for his self- deceit, Peyton couldn’t let him forget his interest in what Operation Inside could do. “And you want to deliver a devastating blow to the Hells Fury, right?”

“Of course! Someone’s got to do something before our whole society goes to hell.”

This probably had more to do with boosting his career than saving society, but she’d said enough.

“I don’t like being played for a fool,” he muttered.

“Skinner isn’t playing you for a fool.”

“How can you be sure? You don’t know him even as well as I do! So why are you defending him?”

God, it was already starting—her inability to hide that she had a personal interest in Virgil’s well-being. She’d always been far too transparent.

Telling herself to at least try to be more subtle, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the man in question wearing nothing but his jeans, quickly donned and still unbuttoned, and an inscrutable expression. “I’m just saying he seemed committed. But I’ll drive over and call you when I get there.”

“You do that,” he said.

Although Peyton was certain Wallace had disconnected, she pressed the end call button three times, even dialed her own voice mail to be sure. She couldn’t take any chance that he might overhear her talking to Virgil.

“Laurel’s okay?” Virgil asked.

She could tell he was worried. There was so much more at stake here than their attraction to each other. “From what Wallace tells me, she’s fine. But there are some…complications. He wants to talk to you.”

“Which means we have to go back to the motel.”

“That would be best, yes.” They could wait fifteen minutes and have him use her cell phone, as if she’d just arrived at his room. But she didn’t suggest that because she knew she couldn’t continue to spend time with him. Last night scared her. It showed her how easily she could come to care about him—more than she already did.

When he made no move to get his shirt and shoes, she looked up.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Do you regret what happened last night?”