Stronger Than Sin (3 page)

Given Whittaker’s “need-to-know” instructions, Liliana was hesitant about what to reveal to Mick, but she didn’t argue. It
would only raise more concerns with her ex–Army Ranger brother, who had clearly observed that something was out of the ordinary.

They ordered coffees and then sat down, the table one row in from the window, where Mick could safely see outside but it would
be harder for someone else to discern them.

“I’ve been asked to work on a new project, but I think it may be a big mistake to do it,” Liliana said as she shifted
the cup of coffee back and forth between her hands on the surface of the table.

“You have to do what feels right here and here,” her brother said and tapped spots above his heart and temple with his fingers.

“It feels as if… What if I told you that it would help Caterina?”

Mick glanced away, picked up his cup, and took a long sip, obviously hesitant at her revelation. When long moments passed,
she prompted him again with, “Well? What would you think?”

Mick fixed his gaze on her, his features intense. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

“That’s a first,” she teased, trying to dispel some of the gloom she sensed hanging over her older brother.

It worked. A hesitant smile came to his lips, but only briefly. “I have a vested interest, but the bottom line is—you have
to do what you think is best for you.”

Mick’s answer was not unexpected. In his entire life, her brother had been selfless, always putting family, friends, and country
ahead of himself. He had even been willing to sacrifice his life for both her and Caterina months earlier when a mercenary
hired by Wardwell had tried to kill them all.

It was the realization of that selflessness that made Liliana’s decision a no-brainer.

“Don’t worry about me, Mick,” she said. A second passed and a big black SUV cruised past on the street, its presence surprisingly
menacing.

Mick nodded but reached out and laid his hand over hers. “You know you can count on me to help with anything.
Anything,
right?”

“Right,” she confirmed, but she knew she wouldn’t call her brother. He’d already had too much upset in recent months.

It was time for her to take care of things. And that included finding out why Whittaker was having her followed.

“This Bradford deal may be a mistake, Raymond,” Morales said as he stood before Edwards in their secondary lab facility. He
enjoyed the annoyance that flared to life in Edwards’s gaze at his use of his first name. The superior Dr. Edwards considered
himself above such familiarities, which only increased Morales’s pleasure at goading him.

Edwards leaned back in his chair and ran a long, thin finger across his lips as he considered his partner’s statement. “I
know Bradford is one of your favorites—”

“He’s unstable. The genes create rage he’s barely able to control,” he said.

Edwards laughed, the sound a rough cackle of disbelief. “Seriously? Seems to me he’s quite capable of control, and given the
incentive—”

“What if he finds out about his sister? That she’s not really ill?” Morales asked, truly unhappy about losing his star patient.
There was just something about Bradford’s anger that he enjoyed, possibly even more than his possession of the former celebrity.

Or maybe it was just that—his possession of the jock. For too long he had suffered at the mercy of such muscle-bound idiots.
Having Bradford as his plaything seemed like just compensation for all those years of misery, only his partner clearly didn’t
think so.

“Bradford has no contact with his family. That distance only makes it easier for us to carry out this ruse. Plus, Bradford
is the most stable of all the patients. More reason he should be the sacrificial lamb,” Edwards advised.

Morales wondered how much separation there could be if Bradford was willing to forfeit himself to help his sister, but as
he met his partner’s steely-eyed gaze, he realized his say would have no impact. The plans had already been put into motion
by Edwards and the new associates he had brought into their venture.

“Whatever you say, Raymond,” he replied.

“Don’t screw this up, Morales,” Edwards warned.

“Of course not, Raymond,” he answered and hurried out, smiling as Edwards’s annoyed gaze bored into his back.

Home, and yet still a prison, Jesse thought a week later.

Located on Ocean Avenue directly across from the beach, his home was an immense Wedgewood blue colonial with a large wraparound
porch that opened into a gazebo on one end. Welcoming windows trimmed in white all along the front provided vistas of the
beach and sea. Balconies on a second floor also allowed him to enjoy the multimillion-dollar view.

All around the home were inviting lawns and gardens, winter-dormant now, but he could picture their summer glory.

Despite the home’s welcome, he was still a captive, he thought as he walked around his Spring Lake residence, familiarizing
himself with the things he had left behind nearly a year ago now.

The place had been kept up in his absence. Surfaces dusted. Plants watered. Lawns mowed. Not even an old piece of mail, newspaper,
or magazine in sight to testify to his absence.

Everything was in place as it should be, which saddened him.

The trappings of his life had gone on without him, as if he had been an unnecessary part of their daily existence.

The expensive furnishings; the Game Day room with an assortment of monitors, oversized and overstuffed chairs; shelves filled
with his assorted trophies and awards. All just useless accessories in a life that had lost its purpose, Jesse thought, and
within him came a dangerous spark of anger. Sucking in a deep breath, he willed away the desire to smash the cabinets and
the worthless items within that had cost him so much.

His family.

His freedom.

His humanity, he thought, staring down at his hands and the thick, armorlike skin now covering his knuckles. Rubbing at the
similar patch on his ribs, he wondered how long it would be before the rest of him became as dead and hardened.

But the pain in the center of his chest told him there was still something human left. Something that he might be able to
salvage with the bargain he had struck with the scientists and Whittaker, their new partner: his cooperation in exchange for
help in controlling the bone disease that was threatening his sister’s life. Or at least that they
said
was hurting her, not that he trusted them. But if what they said was true, he couldn’t allow his doubt to jeopardize his
sister Jackie’s health.

The doorbell rang, pulling him from the playroom and back out into the lavishly appointed living area.

Weird, he thought. Whittaker had at least two men positioned on the grounds to ensure Jesse followed their rules. He hadn’t
expected any of them to be ringing the bell if they needed to enter.

Throwing open the door, he was surprised to find a petite young woman there, looking rather prim and proper in a sedate navy
suit but impossibly high heels. Fuck-me heels, he thought, thinking them out of sync with the rest of her businesslike attire.

Her irritated sigh dragged his attention back up to her face. A very attractive face, although he had to revise his estimate
of her age. Maybe thirty, he guessed. Her petite stature was responsible for that initial appearance of youth.

“Jesse Bradford,” she stated, nervously swinging the black bag she held in her hands. A doctor’s bag. As he examined her features
more carefully, he realized there was something familiar about her.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

She released her death grip on the bag and pointed to his left eyebrow. “Patched you up after a bar brawl while I was on call
in the ER.”

He rubbed at the barely noticeable scar and nodded. “Thought you looked familiar. Whittaker sent you.”

She dipped her head to confirm his statement. “I’m here to do an initial exam so we can decide how to treat you.”

He stepped aside to let her enter, but as he did so, he looked around outside.

Stationed at the far end of the large wraparound porch was one of Whittaker’s men. He was dressed casually and sitting in
a chair reading a paper, despite the chill in the air. A wire ran from one ear down to what he assumed was a radio. The man
had been there all morning. Jesse had been warned that someone would be in close range at all times and that any and all communications
would be monitored. Protection against his telling anyone the truth about Whittaker’s operation.

Not that he would.

Without some kind of miracle from Whittaker’s medical team, his sister Jackie’s illness—supposedly a more severe form of his
own—might not be cured. Plus, Whittaker had threatened to kill Jackie if Jesse attempted to speak to her or failed to cooperate
with them.

Which made him wonder about the young doctor who had just walked into his home. How had she become a part of the illegal activities?
Or maybe she didn’t know the truth about the group?

He shut the door and walked to the living room where she stood, once again gripping the little black bag as she waited.

“Nice digs,” she said, perusing the large open space and windows that faced the ocean. Then, “Who’s he?” she asked and motioned
to the man on the porch, visible through a far window.

“FBI,” Jesse lied, unsure of just what she knew. “They said they would keep an eye on me 24/7 until they were able to track
down Edwards and Morales.”

Her full lips tightened with displeasure at the mention of the names of the fugitive scientists.

“Do you know them? The Wardwell guys?” he asked.

“My new sister-in-law was one of their patients,” Liliana replied, omitting her own kidnapping by the two criminals. With
what she knew of Jesse Bradford, he wouldn’t much care about anything that didn’t involve him, so her story would matter little.

Jesse tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. It made the T-shirt he wore ride up, exposing a line of lean muscle
and sandy blond hair that matched the color on his head, although those shaggy locks had sun-kissed streaks of a lighter shade.
She dragged her gaze back up to his face—a very handsome one—and found him considering her with his blue-eyed gaze.

“Why don’t you sit down so we can get started,” she said and motioned to the sofa.

He plopped down onto the overstuffed cushions, his long legs spread-eagled before him.

She sidestepped one muscled thigh, perched on the edge of the low, espresso-colored wood coffee table, placed her bag beside
her and opened it. She was removing her stethoscope and blood-pressure apparatus when he asked, “Is that how you got this
gig? Your sister-in-law?”

“Gig? As in, being your physician?” She slipped the stethoscope over her neck and juggled the blood-pressure cuff in her hand
as she waited for his explanation.

He shrugged shoulders so broad that it looked like he still had on his football pads. “Well, you look a little young.”

“Not that I should have to explain, but I’m thirty and was currently working on my orthopedic surgery specialty.”

“Was? As in, you’re not now?” he pressed, mimicking her earlier statement.

“Now I’m supposed to give you priority according to Special Agent Whittaker and my hospital administrator.” She grabbed hold
of the large hand he had resting on his thigh and pulled his arm toward her. As she did so, she eyed the roughness along his
knuckles and back of his hand.

She ran her fingers along his skin gently, but he jerked his hand away, brought it close to his chest, and rubbed it.

“Football injury?” she asked.

That intense blue-eyed gaze, the same color as the ocean outside the windows, zeroed in on her again. “What did Whittaker
tell you about me?”

“Not much. Actually, nothing that I didn’t already know from the news reports,” she admitted.

He dragged a hand through his shaggy blond hair and looked away. “And what would that be, Dr…. What was your name again?”

“Carrera. Dr. Carrera.”

“So, Doctor. Tell me what you know,” he said, the tone of his voice growing harsh.

“Award-winning college player. Top draft pick. MVP, I think. Hell-raiser. Playboy. Degenerative bone disease that put an end
to your career,” Liliana recited and watched his face harden with each word she uttered.

“Seems you already know all about me, Dr. Doctor—”

“Liliana,” she corrected in annoyance.

“Liliana. How about we get this over with so you can go back to your hospital and forget about me,” he said and stuck out
his arm.

Liliana wasted no time in getting all his vital stats and drawing the blood samples she would need for Carmen to analyze.
Much like Caterina’s blood, Bradford’s glowed
as it was exposed to the light, but the phosphorescence was duller and not as prevalent as with her sister-in-law.

After she was done, she rose, expecting him to walk her to the door, but he just sat there, muscled arms spread across the
back of the sofa. An icy chill in his gaze communicated more than any words could.

“I’ll be back,” she said and left the house.

Jesse watched her go, relieved by her absence. He’d had enough preaching from his father about the sins of his ways. He didn’t
need the prim little doctor reminding him about how he had managed to screw up his life.

As he had before, the heat of rage pooled within him, only this time, he let it grow until it needed physical release.

Surging from the sofa, he stalked through his house to the gym in one of the back rooms. Throwing himself onto one of the
benches, he started pressing weights. One hundred pounds. Two hundred.

It wasn’t enough. He racked the pin into the bottom-most notch and pressed upward, jerking the weight up and down as if it
was light as a feather.

With a loud final clang, he allowed the weights to drop back onto the stack. The noise reverberated throughout the house,
and a moment later, the guard from out front came running into the room.

“Jesus Christ,” the guard said and whipped out a gun from behind his back.