Zodius Series Box Set (Books 1-4) (The Zodius Series Book 5)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  He scrubbed his jaw. “I was—I am—trying to protect—”

  “Don’t you dare say, ‘protect me,’” she said, jabbing a finger at the air. “Don’t say it. If you need to believe that to make yourself feel better, fine, but keep it to yourself.”

  Michael forgot distance, stepping toward her. “Cassandra—”

  She retreated backwards. “I said, don’t.”

  A knock sounded on the door. “Room service.”

  “Great,” he mumbled. “Now they get here. An hour after I ordered.”

  “I’ll get it,” she said, turning toward the door.

  He was there in an instant, pressing a solid palm on the wooden surface, stopping her from opening it. “If one of Adam’s spies sees your eyes, he’ll know you’re my Lifebond. He’ll use you to get back at me.”

  She paled and backed away, and he could feel the tension in her. Michael silently cursed his brilliant delivery of that information and quickly got rid of the attendant. He wheeled the cart into the room, his new clothes draped over the top. Cassandra stood in the center of the room waiting for him, a stricken look on her face. He wanted to say something, the right something, but his last effort had gone over about as smoothly as a tornado.

  “So this is my life now? Hiding from Adam?”

  His gut twisted at those questions, because there was no good answer. He had a sudden flashback of that first day they’d met at the elevator inside Groom Lake. Her smile. And that musical laughter he replayed in his head when that dark, empty place he hid in wasn’t big enough to hold all the hell messing with his head. She’d been happy. Before her damn father stole it away. He grimaced at that. Who was he kidding? Until he stole it away. He was just as guilty as her father. He’d known not to get involved with her. She wouldn’t have that mark, if not for him.

  “You’ll be safe in Sunrise City. We’ll charter a plane home and get back without notice.” And then he’d find a way to destroy Adam if it was the last thing he ever did.

  She nodded, hugging herself. “Yes. Safe. Okay.”

  It was all he could do, not to go to her, to pull her into his arms. But touching her, daring to believe they could be together, was the very reason she wore that mark on the back of her neck. He had to fix this, not make it worse.

  “I’m going to shower and change,” he said. “Try and eat something.” He forced himself to walk past her and managed to make it to the bathroom without reaching for her. But he stopped there for just a moment, guilt twisting him in knots. This was why he didn’t do relationships. His life had a way of bleeding onto the lives of those around him. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. I never meant for any of this to happen. I’ll make this right for you. Somehow, I’ll make it right.” And then he disappeared into the bathroom.

  The minute the shower turned on, Cassandra headed for the door and quickly zipped her bag. Of course, half her stuff was scattered and unpacked, but she didn’t have time to worry about that. She’d forget the bag if it wouldn’t look odd to Brock.

  She snatched her purse and her computer case, and she was in the hallway in a flash, easing the door to a silent closure, and then darn near running to the elevator. If this was her life now, then fine, but Cassandra wasn’t going to sit back and wait for Michael, or her father, to make it better. Nor was she going to tuck her tail and hide from Adam. She was going to be a part of the solution. And once she copied the hard drive on Brock’s computer, she’d call Caleb for help.

  Her and Michael…well, that was an emotional subject she refused to think about right now. To say they had history to deal with was an understatement, and she wasn’t sure they could get past it or even if she wanted to at this point. He’d hurt her two years ago, and today in that hotel room. She didn’t want to hurt anymore.

  Halfway down the hallway, Cassandra managed to hoist her computer bag on her shoulder and dig her sunglasses from her purse. She slid them in place as the elevator opened, thankful to find several people inside. Michael would never be able to stop her now without making a scene. She would have been relieved if not for the sudden feeling of nausea that washed over her.

  After a fast trip to the restroom to check her eyes and slap on some makeup, Cassandra nervously scanned the lobby, praying Michael wouldn’t show up. She spotted Brock standing near the bell desk dressed in tan slacks and a button down with a military-issue, tan tie.

  Cassandra walked toward him, forced to endure the far too intimate inspection of a man who wanted to kill her. She held her sunglasses in one hand, ready to put them on at an appropriate moment, because though her eyes were more green than black at present, they were also glossy and dilated. Just barely able to pass as normal. Right. Normal.

  “Morning,” Brock said, pushing off the bell desk as she neared. “You look like walking death.”

  Her jaw went slack at the comment—no doubt about the hidden meaning. And then she got mad, just barely taming her retort to below hostile. “I thought they taught you military men more manners than that,” she said, shoving her sunglasses on her face, her nerve endings prickling with the sudden awareness that Michael was nearby. “Migraine,” she complained. “And no, it’s not a good morning. Not a good night, for that matter.” She crinkled her nose. “I left my drugs at home too, so it won’t be a good ride home either. Pity for you, sitting next to me. I’ll try and use the doggy bag and not your lap.” She was definitely aiming for his lap.

  “You won’t mind giving up the window seat then, I guess,” he commented dryly. God, the man was a bastard. A lying, arrogant bastard. A fool, too, if he thought he would be using her father. No one got anything over on her father. They might think they did, but they always ended up playing his game, his way.

  Brock flagged a bellman and handed him a bill. “We need a cab, ASAP.” He shifted his attention back to Cassandra and motioned her forward. “Shall we?” He inspected her with suspicion. “Were you after pain medication when you went out so late last night?” Brock inquired, setting a duffel bag on the ground. You could take the honor out of a soldier, but never strip him of his duffel bag. Soldiers used them for life.

  She had no pain meds, so she didn’t want to claim otherwise. “Could have sworn I said toothbrush,” she said, casting him a sideways look and offering nothing more, remembering her father’s often spoken warning. Your words can be the enemy’s weapons. In short, keep your mouth shut.

  Well-timed, the cab pulled up in front of them, saving Cassandra from further prodding, and she quickly scooted in to the far side next to the door. If Brock dared sit too close to her, she might just use her foot as a weapon.

  Thankfully, Brock kept his distance and talked on his cell phone for most of the short ride to the airport—to her father of all people; her stomach rolled the entire time, and she was glad for the distraction, to rest her eyes if only briefly.

  Minutes later, standing at the curbside airline desk, she felt a twist in her stomach. She swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth. Cassandra had no idea what was happening to her, but she didn’t think it was lack of sleep.

  It was becoming clear that she couldn’t ignore the implications between her connection to Michael and her illness, not after the eye color change and not when she knew the lifebonding process included a short, violent, physical transition, nausea being par for the course. Much more intense than her random eye color shift and some mild nausea. And she and Michael had most definitely not exchanged blood. But now wasn’t the time to let her worries, or her stomach, get the best of her. She had to get that computer hard drive copied before she keeled over and couldn’t complete the task.

  Inside the airport, Cassandra quickly stepped into the security line that Michael had designated for the laptop switch.

  “That one is shorter,” Brock argued, pointing to the next line over.

  “This one is closer to the restroom,” Cassandra countered, and with a grimace, Brock followed her lead.

  Soon she was tos
sing her shoes in the plastic tray on the conveyer and then setting her computer in one as well. Beside her, Brock did the same thing. Nerves churned her stomach a little harder as she shoved her sunglasses into her purse, her gaze downturned as she worried about what her eyes might look like.

  Quickly, she passed through the metal detector without challenge, but behind her, Brock set it off with a loud buzz. He grumbled, checking his pockets as she retrieved her sunglasses and slipped them into place. The female security guard behind the conveyer gave her a weird look.

  “Migraine,” Cassandra explained as the buzzer on the metal detector went off again.

  “Wand check!” yelled the guard by the metal detector.

  “Oh hell,” Brock complained rather loudly. “I’m army. We protect the nation, not blow it up.”

  “Sir,” the guard said. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. Please step to the side.” He walked to the plastic trays and motioned to Brock’s computer and bag. “Is this yours?”

  “Yes,” Brock said grumpily. “Now can we get on with this?”

  The male guard picked up Brock’s bag and with a quick shift of his body to block the view, snagged Cassandra’s computer rather than his. Adrenaline rushed through Cassandra’s blood as she toed on the shoes she held in her hands and then stuffed Brock’s computer, rather than her own, into her bag and zipped it closed. Shoving her purse and briefcase over her shoulder, she turned to find Brock’s back to her, his arms outstretched as he endured the wand inspection. No doubt this would be when the guard would put her computer inside his bag so he wouldn’t know there was a mix-up.

  “I’ll meet you at the gate, Brock,” she called out. “I’m going to the restroom.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said as the wand buzzed near his knee, indicating a need for further inspection. “You have got to be kidding!”

  “Please raise your pant leg, sir,” the guard said.

  Cassandra didn’t wait to hear more. She was already rushing toward the restroom sign, unzipping her purse as she did and retrieving the flash drive. Twelve minutes. She needed twelve minutes.

  Rounding the corner of the restroom, Cassandra quickly noted the line of six stalls and went to the handicapped one, shoving the door shut and hunching over against the churning in her stomach as she unzipped the computer bag. She shoved the baby changer down and opened the computer, but a sudden need to throw up had her yanking away her sunglasses and leaning over the toilet. Thank God the toilet and floor were clean. Dry heaves followed, her empty stomach wrenching in hard spasms that felt like they were tearing her inside out, her hand still clenched around the flash drive. Finally, the nausea subsided.

  Cassandra hooked her glasses on the top of her blouse and unrolled some toilet paper to dab her mouth, her hand shaking as she did. The flash drive slipped from her grip. Cassandra watched in dismay as it hit the ground and bounced under the door.

  Inhaling a calming breath, she yanked the stall door open only to be greeted by a short, gray-haired woman, wearing a badge and holding a cleaning rag—clearly this was the restroom attendant. She was also far more attentive than Cassandra wanted her to be right now.

  “Is this yours, honey?” she asked, holding the flash drive up between two fingers and peering over Cassandra’s shoulder at the computer open on the changing table.

  “Yes,” Cassandra said, snagging the stick. “Thank you.” She shut the stall door, hating that she had to be rude, but she had no time for politeness. She quickly inserted the stick into the computer, and it started showing progress.

  The announcer’s voice came over the speaker. Her flight was boarding. “Damn it!” she murmured. She was never going to have time to finish. Minutes passed like hours as she watched the computer tick off progress, but not nearly fast enough. Think Cassandra, think.

  She looked at the toilet paper in her hand and placed it over the latch on the computer, so it couldn’t fully close and power off. She shut the lid over the paper and then shoved the computer back into the bag. She’d go straight to the airplane restroom when they boarded and then remove the paper and the stick before she took a seat.

  Cassandra put the sunglasses back in place, wishing she had time to inspect her eyes. She grabbed her things and half jogged toward the exit.

  She rounded the restroom entryway and came toe-to-toe with Brock, all but barreling into him.

  “You have my computer,” he said. “I need it back.”

  Her heart jackknifed. “I do not have your computer,” she said, trying to step around him.

  Brock moved in front of her. “Yes,” he said. “You do. The security guard remembers mixing them up.”

  She motioned with her hands in defeat. “Okay, well, maybe they did.” She patted her briefcase. “It’s not going anywhere.” She motioned to the gate. “And boarding call has already been issued. Besides, I’m way too sick to deal with this right now. You can switch them on the plane where I can sit down, before I throw up yet again.”

  He clenched his jaw, ignored the announcement and her suggestion, then he looked suspiciously at her glasses. “Since when does a migraine make you throw up? I thought it was a headache.”

  “It is a headache,” she ground out between clenched teeth, thinking how offended her mother, a sufferer of migraines, would have been at that comment. Brock just dug himself deeper into jerk territory every second. And knowing that he wanted to take her to bed, she’d hate to think how he’d treat her if he did not. “Migraines are the volcanic eruption of headaches.”

  His probing attention continued, his stare so deep she thought he might see through her glasses. “I have a confession to make,” he said finally. “After you declined meeting for a drink last night, my ego was a bit wounded. Then, this morning with the headache again, I was convinced you were faking a headache to get out of dinner tonight. I apologize. Male egos really can be monsters.”

  His apology reeked of insincerity. “No one fakes being this sick,” she said. “Or looking like ‘walking death.’”

  He grimaced. “Sorry for that, too. Again. The ego monster.” Last call to board sounded over the intercom, saving her from further argument. “We better get going.” He reached for her bag. “Let me carry that for you.”

  “No, no,” she said, trying to hold onto it. “Really. It’s fine.”

  His hand remained on the bag. “I insist,” he said, refusing to let go. “You’re sick, Cassandra. I’ll carry the bag. It’s what any gentleman would do.”

  Cassandra reluctantly let him pry the bag from her hands, aware she’d just been well manipulated. He wasn’t going to let her take that bag to the restroom, so how the heck was she going to get the flash drive out of the computer without him knowing? She was more than sick. She was drowning in trouble.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cassandra followed Brock onto the plane managing to maintain a remarkably calm façade. Relaxed even. As if she were not about to be found out by her wannabe murderer. If she couldn’t get to a phone and call Caleb, Michael would save her. Of course he would. He’d know the flight she was on. He’d wind-walk to her arrival airport and be waiting. He’d be pissed, but he’d save her. And if she was going to deal with two hundred pounds of pissed off, macho man, she was going to have something to show for it. She was going to get that copy of the hard drive. So think. Think! There was a way out of this.

  She passed an enclave where a flight attendant greeted her when a plan hatched in her mind.

  “Hi,” Cassandra said, stopping to chat with the woman. “I’m battling a migraine, and it’s really making me sick. Any chance I could talk you into bringing me a Sprite before takeoff.”

  The twenty-something female was quick to help. “Oh, my sister gets those, and they are hell. We’re running late, so let me give it to you now so you have time to drink it.” She motioned Cassandra out of the aisle so people could pass. She then popped some ice into a glass and filled it with Sprite. “Make
sure it’s empty before liftoff. What seat are you in? I’ll check on you once we’re in the air.”

  Cassandra searched her ticket and showed it to the attendant before accepting the drink. “Thank you very much,” she said and then rushed after Brock, praying she got to him before he managed to open that briefcase. She arrived at her seat just as Brock buckled himself up, her computer case at his feet, ready to open.

  With a silent prayer that this was going to work, she moved to sit, and accidentally, on purpose, dumped her Sprite in his lap. He cursed and jerked in shock, ice and cold liquid all over his pants and shirt.

  Cassandra reacted with instant shock. “Oh no! Oh Brock, I am so very sorry. I am really not myself.” She handed him the glass. “Put the ice in this.” She reached for the computer bag. “I stuffed some tissue in here while I was in the airport restroom in case I got sick.” She partially unzipped the bag and fumbled around, removing the flash drive and trying to conceal it with the tissue.

  “Miss,” a flight attendant said, stopping beside them. “The bag needs to go under the seat for takeoff. Oh no. Do you need help here?”

  Brock crammed the ice into the glass and handed it to her. “You can take this and bring us some napkins.”

  Cassandra discreetly maneuvered the tissue and the stick to her lap and used the briefcase as cover as she slipped the stick into her pants pocket. “Here you go,” she said, offering him the tissue as she zipped the case closed and then slid it under the seat. “I’m really sorry.”

  He accepted the tissue and started wiping down his shirt. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone saying it really wasn’t. “I guess we can change the computers once we are in the air.”

  “I guess so,” she said softly, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She’d dodged a bullet. Now, if she could get away from Brock without getting herself killed.

  With Chin by his side, Powell stood in one of several private PMI labs, their location highly secret. Together, they overlooked a dozen willing soldiers strapped to hospital beds, still several injections from completing their conversion to GTECH. All receiving the original GTECH serum—Grade 1—while Chin perfected a newer, faster-acting Grade 2 version. “You’re certain we cannot use the Grade 2 serum to speed up their conversion?” Powell asked.