Enemy Lover Read online

  “Come at me again, I’m going to hurt you,” he growled low.

  Collecting herself and her thoughts, Jax considered her current tactics. They weren’t working. She was strong. He was stronger. She eyed him covertly from beneath her long, dark lashes. Power radiated off him in waves. He reminded her of a big, sleek, predatory panther. From his stylishly cut jet-black hair, his arresting face and full, mocking lips to his impeccable black suit and the way it hung effortlessly from his big, muscular body down to his custom black-leather Italian shoes, she didn’t miss a thing. Most especially the harsh glint of his unusual blue eyes.

  She nodded, mentally shifting gears, then pushed off the wall.

  In total op mode, Jax slowly stalked her nemesis. She smiled slightly. His eyes burned with anger, but he couldn’t hide the heat flickering behind them. She shook her head and was rewarded with his gaze raking her from her naturally thick mahogany-colored hair to her fitted black turtleneck to her short black-leather skirt down to the tips of her black, thigh-high stiletto jackboots that clicked on the hardwood floor.

  She stopped two steps from him, planted her feet wide, and set her hands on her hips. “What if I like it to hurt?”

  KARIN HARLOW

  ENEMY LOVER

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Star Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

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  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Karin Tabke

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Pocket Star Books paperback edition June 2010

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  Cover design by Lisa Litwack, art by Gene Molica

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-0982-3

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7796-9 (ebook)

  To Virna

  Thank you for all of your help with this story. Your willingness to drop everything to read and critique for me at all hours of the day and night was invaluable. I could not have done it without you.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, my thanks to Kimberly Whalen for her expertise, guidance, and also for being there when I need her most. To my editor Lauren McKenna: I aspire to become your dream writer and therefore save your editorial hand from permanent disfigurement. In the meantime, thank you for being the best and hardest working editor in New York.

  To Captain Barry Barber of the Baltimore County Police Department, and godfather to my youngest son, thank you for dealing with those you-know-who’s down at Central-you-know-where.

  To my home girls! Jos, Tawny, Syl, and Sharon. Ladies, you keep me real. Thank you for that. To the real Jax Cassidy, for such a cool name!

  And last but not least, to my husband, Gary, for his never faltering patience and willingness to help me with everything from the little questions to the big scenes and for fixing all those last-minute dinners when the muse was so damn hot my keyboard was smokin’! Thank you for all the pots of your special coffee and calmly dealing with me when I morphed into the writer from hell. And for allowing me to wake you in the middle of the night after you were asleep for hours because I was just coming to bed and had to tell you how many words I wrote. And finally, thank you for all the errand runs, grocery runs and for getting me dark chocolate when I needed it most.

  I love you.

  ONE

  January

  Baltimore City Courthouse

  Sally port prisoner transfer section

  Irony was one fickle, messed-up bitch, Angela thought. A year and a half ago she was the fair-haired darling of Charm City. Baltimore’s hottest get-the-hell-out-of-my-way-I’m-going-to-the-top cop. Today, in the icy rain that bit at her skin like shotgun spray, two female deputies escorted her, hobbled and cuffed, clad in prison orange, from her courthouse holding cell into the sally port.

  The anger she’d kept tamped down since her assault, subsequent arrest, and trial—even when that asshole prosecutor had twisted the facts and her sergeant had trashed her on the witness stand—finally erupted. Yeah, she’d made it too damn easy for them. It was a given there was no honor among the criminals she’d spent most of her adult life putting behind bars. You never trusted them. Never turned your back and never gave them an opportunity to do you. Never had she thought her squad would betray her in such a vicious, public way as they had. If you couldn’t trust your partner, who the hell could you trust?

  How the hell had she let this happen? She hadn’t let this happen. Her squad had sold her out. And what had happened afterward? She clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth. She was only human, and, in the end, justice had been served. The price? Her freedom.

  Involuntarily, she jerked against the hands grasping her biceps and shivered as a harsh jag of frigid air slapped her in the face. She was going away for life with no chance of parole for at least two decades. Mild hysteria began to seep into her pores. Soon, it would sink deeper into her muscles, then her bones and her organs, before it ate her up. Her chest rose and fell in quick, harsh puffs. She felt like she was walking a gangplank, the shark-infested waters below swirling, churning—waiting.

  Angela expelled a long breath into the cold air and watched it curl, then disappear when another harsh blast of air caught it, immediately turning it into nothingness. She refused to become nothing. She was tough. She could handle prison, even though she wasn’t going to get the preferential treatment she had received in the Women’s Detention Center here in the city. She was a trained professional. It was the damn cell, that eight-by-eight space that caused her more concern than a shank-carrying inmate who wan
ted some fresh meat for the night. Ange hated small spaces. As a little girl, her cousin had locked her in an old refrigerator in the abandoned field behind her house. She’d panicked, her screams for help unheard. She’d woken up in the arms of a policeman. He’d smiled and told her she was going to be OK. She’d known then what she wanted to be when she grew up.

  Now she was going to prison and probably never coming out. She was glad her mother had died before Angela had been sentenced. Her dad? Long gone. He didn’t matter. How could he, when she and her mom had never mattered to him?

  Angela balked, the muscles in her arms and neck tightening. The guards yanked her along, and this time she offered no resistance, not even when she heard a bus engine roar to life. Inhaling the cold air deeply into the warmth of her lungs, she exhaled it slowly, refusing to watch it disappear without a trace.

  She blinked against the shards of rain, wanting, despite the foul weather, to stand in it rather then step on that bus. The bus to Jessup. The bus to the Maryland Correctional Institution for Women. The bus to hell.

  Angela shook her head, forcing herself not to focus on what was ahead of her. But as one thought hijacked another, she came full circle, thinking what a cluster fuck her life had become. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to change it. Not now. Not ever.

  “Giacomelli, I hope you have some friends over at Jessup. If you don’t, make some fast,” Deputy Alvarez said as she steered Angela toward the bus. “Those girls in Jessup are gonna want a piece of you the minute they find out you’re in the house.”

  Angela’s head snapped back and she looked Alvarez straight in the eye, nearly tripping in the short shackles. Alvarez tightened her grip, as did the other guard. “They’ll have to get to me first,” Angela said. And she knew they would. Eventually.

  “I can’t believe I’m hauling you off for murder one, Giacomelli,” Alvarez rambled. “I thought you were a lot smarter than that.”

  “Yeah, well, walk a mile in my shoes.”

  Alvarez shook her head and tsked tsked like Angela was some kid who’d gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  “Fuck you, Alvarez.”

  Smyth, the other guard, grunted and tightened her grip on Angela’s arm. “You think that mouth of yours is going to keep the boogeyman away?” Smyth shook her head. Pity radiated from her deep hazel eyes. “I’m scared for you, Giacomelli.”

  “Don’t waste the energy, Smyth.” Angela threw her shoulders back, commanding herself to show no fear. Where she was going, the predators fed on fear. When word got out who she was and what she’d done, she’d be an instant target. And even though she’d be housed away from the general populace, they could still get to her. And she’d be ready.

  She’d get no help from her ex-colleagues. Not after all the dirt that had come out during the trial. They were funny that way. Back in the day, when cops had been allowed to be cops and not PC pansies, the blue shield had protected its own even at a cost to the rank and file. Now? Every prick in the department walked the PC line. The thugs ruled the streets and the cops were screwed, with their hands tied behind their backs.

  Just as she’d been totally screwed by that pimp, human trafficker, and all-around piece of shit, Carlos Montes. And her backup? Nowhere to be found. They should have been there, but they hadn’t been. When she’d gone after her sergeant and her partner for answers, they’d had none. And then the shit had really hit the fan. There was no love lost between ex-cop, now convicted felon Angela Giacomelli and BCPD.

  Angela let out a long, pensive breath as a sudden wave of guilt, laced with self-directed anger, washed over her. Not for what she’d done. Not because she’d made it easy for them to send her to prison for the rest of her life. But that in the end, she had let down her mom, the only person who had loved her unconditionally. It was her only regret in life.

  “C’mon,” Alvarez grumbled, yanking her along. Angela ignored her, keeping her steps deliberately slow, almost casual. She’d get on the damn bus when she got there: in her time. The guard leveled her black eyes on Angela and paused in her step, causing the other guard to yank her forward as if she’d been a rope in a tug-of-war. “You’re not my only prisoner, and just because you used to wear a uniform doesn’t give you special treatment.”

  “Where’s the love, Juanita?”

  “I got no love for felons.”

  Angela smirked. “Yeah? What if that slimeball Montes sold your little girl to the highest bidder?”

  Juanita shook her head, refusing to answer. But Angela saw the fury spark in her dark eyes. Alvarez could act like a holy roller, but in the end, she’d do what she had to do, badge or not. Just like Angela had.

  “Don’t tell me when he skipped away free as a bird you’d be OK with that.”

  “God will be his ultimate judge.”

  “God works too slow for me.”

  “He might work slow, but His vengeance is mighty. You’ll have lots of time to read all about Him where you’re going.”

  “Great, can’t wait,” Angela muttered as she was pushed toward the correctional officer standing like a brick wall in front of the open doors to the prison transport. She met his piercing eyes, staring back unwaveringly. She took exception to the calculating glare in his eyes. “You have something to say to me, Officer?” Angela challenged.

  A slow half smile twisted his lips. He towered over her five-foot-five-inch frame. Not many men intimidated her, but this one? Maybe. Just a little. He was broad and muscular, and there was something primal about him that made her very aware she was a woman. He looked around to make sure no one of significance was watching and leaned a little toward her. “What if I do?” he taunted.

  “Get me out of this hardware and I’ll teach you to keep that mouth of yours shut.”

  “End it, Giacomelli,” Alvarez said, pushing her forward. Angela stumbled, the hobble giving her barely a six-inch step, and slammed into the wall of the guard’s chest. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her. She jerked out of his grasp and hissed.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Doing the opposite, he spun her around and slammed her, face-first, against the side of the bus. Pressing his big body against her, his fist bore into the small of her back. Angela gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling suffocated and weak at the knees. Since her assault, she could not stand to be touched by anyone, especially a man.

  “You have no rights, prisoner,” he softly said against her ear. “I’m bigger and badder than you, so you decide now how you want this to go down.”

  “Let. Go. Of. Me,” she ground out.

  “Are you going to play nice?”

  “Let go and find out.”

  He chuckled, but damned if he didn’t back off, yanking her with him. He spun her back around. Angela caught the surprised look on Alvarez’s and Smyth’s faces. While an unruly prisoner was often at the mercy of the guards, this type of conduct was what lawsuits were made of. Yet they did nothing to stop the guard’s behavior. She glanced at them with a sneer, then looked up at the brute. “So you get off roughing up helpless women?”

  He threw his head back and laughed in genuine humor. “There is nothing helpless about you.”

  Angela eyed him angrily. She never could stand being the brunt of someone’s humor, however innocently intended. One of her many character flaws.

  Alvarez handed him the file folder she had been carrying. “Inmate 24-417-9327, Giacomelli, Angela, Celeste. She’s all yours, Officer”—she squinted at his name tag and looked back up at him—“Brinks. You’re new.”

  “I’m filling in for Horner.” He took the file and grabbed Angela by the arm, his fingers biting deep and hard, forbidding resistance.

  “Prick,” she hissed and preceded him up the narrow steps she could barely climb, the shackle chain was so short. She glared at the driver sitting in his cage and took umbrage at the soft shove Officer Brinks gave her, pushing her to the back of the bus.

  Great. Right next to hi
s cage at the very back of the box.

  Once she was seated and locked down, Brinks stalked back to the front of the bus, where he brought in another prisoner, locking her in before going for another. By the time he was done, six other women were up front, while Angela got the preferred seating in the back.

  She looked up and squinted against the struggling ray of sun that filtered through the gray clouds. She lowered her gaze and looked out the window to the concrete sally port. She’d stood in it many times, watching shackled criminals file into this very bus like cattle. Animals being hauled off to the big house. Off to do time for their crime. Too many of them came back, only to repeat the process. No lesson learned.

  She would never know if it would be the same for her. It didn’t matter that she’d be up for parole in twenty. Her gut told her: Once she stepped through the prison gate, she wasn’t coming out.

  She pushed back into the stiff, torn cushion. The panic that had seized her earlier began to snake up from her belly. She swallowed hard and took deep cleansing breaths. The bus smelled like piss and shit, and there was no air circulating. A short, harsh wave of nausea rolled through her. Her stomach tightened and a dry heave spasmed. Her back clenched in pain from the tightness and she tried to puke, but nothing, not even bile, came up. Closing her eyes, Angela hung her head between her knees, trying to get her bearings. She took a deep breath. The stench of the bus was too much.

  She jerked up and fought another heave, but this time she did puke. She spit the yellow bile onto the floor next to a dried loogey. Turning her head, she wiped her mouth on the shoulder of her jumpsuit. Angela caught the contemptuous stare of one of the prisoners seated several rows ahead on her left. The woman spit, then grinned, showing off her four teeth. She made a smacking sound, then slurped, eyeing Angela up and down. “I haven’t had fresh meat like you in a long time.”

  “I hope you like a little AIDS and a few cankers to go with it,” Angela said, staring down the Amazon.

  Brinks coughed beside her where he was messing around with his equipment.