Gia rounds the hood of the vehicle and I lace my fingers with hers, leading her forward. “Chad—” she begins urgently.
“Kevin, while we’re here,” I tell her softly. “And you’re Ashley, but I’d prefer you just not speak.”
I don’t have to turn to look at her as we enter the elegant boutique hotel’s lobby to feel her glower. She steps in front of me, her palm flattening on my chest, and damn it, my skin burns beneath her touch. “What about a trap?”
I cover her hand with mine. “You’re asking for attention we don’t need. We’ll talk upstairs.”
Her expression tightens, but she steps to my side and we walk to the high marble counter.
“Good evening,” the sixtysomething, gray-haired attendant offers.
Giving the man a nod, I pull my wallet from my jeans pocket, sliding a credit card and a fake ID onto the counter. “We’ll be staying two nights.”
“All we have available is the executive suite.”
“Fine.”
“The cost—”
“Is fine.” I look him straight in the eye, letting him see the various bumps and bruises on my face. “And yes to everything you’re going to offer. We had a car accident two days ago, and my wife is feeling under the weather. I’m eager to get her to a room, where she can rest.”
The man’s eyes widen and flicker to Gia. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ll get you checked in quickly. I’m glad you’re both okay.”
“Thank you,” Gia says, going along with the story. “I—we—do appreciate that.”
I grimace at the jab but say nothing, and true to his word, in all of five minutes, the man has us on an elevator. Gia turns to me, and I to her.
I stare down at her, this woman, this stranger who could be an enemy, and while I do not want to be a fool, I don’t believe that to be true anymore. And there is something about her and us I don’t understand. I only know that whatever it is she stirs in me, it is raw and ripe with some kind of deep, cutting hurt, and yet somehow sweet, when I’d thought nothing could ever be sweet again. She is also the only reason I detoured to a hotel before going to my sister’s apartment.
“Chad, we—”
“Kevin,” I remind her, lacing my fingers into her hair, and without conscious thought, I am pressing my mouth to hers, and for a moment there is just her, us, and a caress of lips that could so easily, too easily, turn to white-hot passion.
The elevator dings softly, destroying those few seconds of peace I’d found in Gia, and that I’d needed more than I’d realized. I lean back, refusing to look at her, refocusing on what is important, on why I needed that moment of peace, on the possibility that I may soon discover my sister isn’t here.
Lacing my fingers with Gia’s, I lead her with determined steps to the end of the hallway and open our door. The executive suite contains a living area with a flat-screen TV above a fireplace and a bedroom on either side.
“What is the plan?” Gia asks. “What are we doing?”
“We aren’t doing anything. And you know the plan. I’m here to get my sister.”
“Now? Where? How?”
“You know I’m not telling you that.”
She makes a sound of frustration. “You have to have a plan that doesn’t include charging in and grabbing her.”
“I’m not grabbing her. I’m taking her to safety.”
“Oh, God. You don’t have a plan. I’m repeating myself here, but they could grab you and her together. Maybe that’s the idea. Maybe they didn’t have her, and they want her. Maybe they’re following us.”
“The only way that would happen is if you’re involved, and I’m hoping like hell that’s not true.”
“I’m not involved, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching her. Maybe they left her free in case you escaped, or they planned to show you pictures or videos of her to threaten you, but you escaped before they could. Please, Chad. Think about this. Don’t go and get killed.”
“Because I’m all that’s keeping you alive, right?”
She flinches. “Asshole. For your information, right now I feel like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”
I shrug and turn. “I’ll be back.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
I don’t have time to argue with her. I drag her to the bathroom and shove her inside. “If I’m not back by the time the maids find you, I’m dead. Take that bag of cash strapped over your shoulder and the rest in the duffel I’m leaving behind, and get the hell out of here. I’m not taking the Escalade, so it’ll be here if you need it. And don’t scream to get attention. It might be the wrong kind of attention, the kind that gets us both killed.”
“Don’t do this,” she demands, and I shut the door, grab a chair from the desk behind me, and shove it under the doorknob.
“I’ll be back,” I promise, silently swearing to myself that it will be with my sister by my side.
“Chad! Wait! I need to tell you something.”
I pause. “Yes?”
She’s silent several beats before she says, “Please don’t get killed. Please come back.”
The plea is desperate, passionate, as if she really does give a damn about me. And damn it to hell, it’s hard to leave her behind, when I’m not sure I’ll ever see her again.
WHEN I EXIT the hotel the doorman is quick to turn in my direction, but I hold up a hand, waving him and the use of the Escalade off. My walk through the high-end neighborhood is short. I travel a few blocks past little shops and a busy cross street filled with restaurants and a towering new high-rise under construction. This, like another half-dozen locations where I’ve acquired properties across the country, is meant to allow me the option of a safe haven if needed, while I slowly amass resources using the deeply disguised holding companies I’ve always known we’d need to stay off the radar of Sheridan and his cohorts.
With each step I take, I think of Amy. I haven’t seen my sister, really seen her face-to-face, in six years. The idea of holding her and telling her that I love her has me shaking inside. The range of emotions we’ll both feel if she’s in the apartment I set up for her will be extreme and surreal, and while there will be relief and happiness for us both, I know her anger will come hard and fast. But I’ll deal with it. If she’s alive and well and I can touch her, hold her, if I can know she is safe, she can bust my chops all she wants. Please be there, I think. Please be angry and give me hell.
My heart races as I cover yet another block, and I start to relive that moment almost two months ago now when Jared called me from overseas. He’d intercepted chatter from Sheridan’s camp that had made it clear that the job Amy had taken in a New York museum had attracted their attention and tied her to our past. I’d missed that communication myself, and I still don’t know how. But Jared had found it, and he was too far away to help. That one problem had forced me to tell Meg about Amy for the first time. I wonder now if the timing was all a setup, a way to get me to expose Amy’s location, but I refuse to believe Jared was involved.
My pace quickens, the certainty that I’m about to find out if Amy survived my captivity turning seconds into what feels like hours. I enter the apartment complex foyer and skip the elevator, opting for the service stairs. I’m on the second floor in a flash, bursting through the doors and charging to the door that should be Amy’s. I knock when I want to kick the door down. I knock some more until, with a shaking hand, I reach in my pocket and find the key I’d made years before. When I stick it inside the lock, it doesn’t move.
Cursing under my breath, I dig in my pocket again and pull out a picking tool I’d grabbed from my bag somewhere in New Mexico and make fast work of opening the door. Before entering, I arm myself with my gun, and step forward. Shutting the door behind me, I stand there and listen for any noise, any sound that might tell me someone is here. I hear nothing. Not a damn thing. Inching forward, I bring the completely empty apartment into view. I’d had it furnished in case Amy
needed it, but those items aren’t here now, and neither is she. Where the hell is the furniture? Where the fuck is my sister?
I scan for clues, anything to tell me where Amy is, and my gaze catches on a note pinned to the wall. Rushing toward it, I stare at the plain white sheet of paper that contains only a typed phone number—as good as a ransom note.
I growl, pounding the wall over and over until my knuckles bleed. Time ceases to exist until I somehow come back to myself, to the room, and to my senses, and search the rest of the barren apartment. When I’m sure I’m alone, I shove my gun in the waistband of my jeans under my shirt and snatch my new phone that I picked up on our way to Denver, dialing the number typed on the piece of paper, pacing as the line rings. Once. Twice. Four times, and then a voice mail beep, with no outgoing message.
“Call me back, motherfucker,” I order roughly. “And if you hurt one hair on my sister’s head, I swear to you I’ll scalp you and bring popcorn to snack on as I watch you bleed to death.” Ending the call, I stand there, inhaling heavily, as if my sense of smell might tell me if my sister was ever here. Logic overcomes me and it hits me that smell can’t, but neighbors could.
Aware that I’m in danger, practically inviting Sheridan to grab me again, I can’t seem to give a damn. Even if Amy wasn’t here, Meg would have told Sheridan that this is where I’d planned to take her.
Still. Don’t. Give. A damn.
Exiting the apartment, I start knocking on doors, and two apartments down, a little old lady answers. The woman, who can barely remember what her own apartment number is, offers no help. I’m fucked.
Giving up this strategy, I take the stairs, exit the apartment building through the foyer, and cut to my left, stopping at a cell phone store. Hesitating only a moment, I decide a few stops will give me a chance to find out if I’m being followed. Quickly, I cross the road, hitting up the retailer for several more disposable phones, which I buy with yet another fake credit card and ID. I’m out of the door and walking again, taking a different route to the hotel than I’d followed on the way to the apartment.
My nerves are jumping, my skin crawling as if eyes are on me, though I find no signs that I’m being tracked. Trying to find the source of my discomfort, I weave through the neighborhood, walking inside several stores in a mall, where I intend to let darkness fall before I depart. With a new hat on, I finally exit back onto the street, and that sensation of being watched has eased. Returning to the hotel, I enter through its restaurant and a side door into the lobby.
It’s nearly eight in the evening when I take the elevator to our secure, key-coded floor and enter the suite, where I immediately hear “Chad! Is that you?”
“Yes. Who do you think it is? The bogeyman?”
“If his name is Sheridan then yes.”
Damn. I pace a few more times. I seem to be good at pacing. I’m good at a lot of things that don’t mean shit right now. I need to fix that, and fix it now. I need to find my sister. I need to destroy Sheridan. Angry, I grab the chair in front of the door and shove it aside.
“Oh, thank God,” Gia gushes, flinging her arms around my neck. “You’re in one piece.”
Stunned by her greeting, by the way her sweet curves meld against me, I fight the heat that rushes through me, untangling her grip and pressing her hands against the wall. “Tell me what you know about my sister,” I demand.
“Nothing, Chad. I told you that. Is she—was she—”
“You know I didn’t find her.”
“I wanted you to find her. I was terrified for you.”
Anger expands in me, seeping into my veins, and on some level, I know it’s not about Gia at all, or maybe I just fear it will be about her. I don’t want to trust her and be wrong. “You barely know me.”
“I know you’re in pain. I know what being alone feels like, and I know that’s what you feel right now.”
Alone.
It’s a word that pierces my heart with guilt. It’s what I know my sister has felt for six long years. I was all she had, the only one she could count on, even if she didn’t know I was there—and I failed her. The pain is a seed that grows and expands inside me in an instant, and suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, the idea of being betrayed by Gia is not as biting as the idea of failing her as well. My hands come down on her face, and I stare at her. “I have money and resources to hide you, and I promise you, no one will find you. But I won’t be there with you. I’m poison to anyone near me. You can’t forget that. I can’t forget that.”
I don’t give her time to reply. My mouth closes down on hers, my tongue pressing past her lips, stroking and stroking again, in what is instantly an aggressive, searching kiss. She moans, and I swear the sound of her moan shatters a piece of my soul that is already bleeding for my sister. In this moment, it feels like all I have left is this woman.
I let go of her wrists and her arms wrap around me again and she is small and delicate and somehow brave and bold at the same time. The touch of her, the taste of her, it’s like a rush of anger, passion, and need combusting inside of me, feeding the same in her. One minute I’m kissing her and she’s kissing me. The next we are naked and on the bed, her pretty pink nipples in my mouth, my cock buried deep in her sweet, tight pussy, and I am thrusting into her. There was no beginning to this. I don’t want there to be an end. There is just us, and I’m kissing her and fucking her and she’s just as ravenous. Just as needy. I am lost in this woman and her moans and soft touches, and she has become the only piece of heaven I have left.
“Chad,” she whispers, and in that instant my name matters more than her moans. It tells me that she knows who I am, really knows, because I’ve hidden nothing from her, shown her all of my good and bad and terrible self.
I answer her by licking into her mouth, softly murmuring, “Gia,” letting her know that I too am lost in the moment, but I know who I’m lost with.
Her leg wraps around mine as if I’ve given her the answer she seeks and now she’s fully committed, no holding back. My hand slides under her perfect little ass and I squeeze, lifting her, thrusting into her. Once again, I’m different with her than with the string of nameless women I’ve known, kissing her, unconcerned about the emotional bullshit that too much intimacy is to me. Gia tastes like the indescribable flavor of escape wrapped in sweet honey. And when she locks up around me, arching upward, her fingernails digging into my shoulders, her sex clenching around me, I am beyond control. I thrust into her, pushing deeper, and when her body clenches around me, spasms milking me, I too am tensing, shuddering with release. Time and space fade in and out, and I cling to that hazy, wonderful place where nothing but pleasure exists.
Like a hard slap in the face, the room returns, and with it the moment I wanted to escape that seems eternal. Reality is here, and so is the wet, wonderful feeling of being buried inside her that represents a huge mistake. “Fuck,” I whisper. “We didn’t use birth control.” I am off her in an instant, closing the space between me and the bathroom, and grabbing a towel that I toss at her before I’m back to pacing. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She says nothing, and I glance at her unmoving, sitting with her back to me on the edge of the bed. “Why aren’t you saying anything? The last thing either of us needs is to bring a baby into this hell.”
Still she says nothing, calmly standing to retrieve her jeans. Frustrated, I close the distance between us, my hands on her shoulders as I turn her to face me. “What about this being a problem don’t you get? I am a target. I can’t raise a child.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Like hell. If you’re pregnant—”
“I’m not. I can’t . . . be pregnant.”
I blink and shake my head. “What? What does that mean?”
“It means,” she rasps, her voice quaking with barely contained emotion, “I had an infection when I was eighteen. It left me infertile.”
The pain in her confession is palpable, a deep cutting blade that clearly inflicts itself on her over and over,
the way my guilt does me. And on some level, it’s the same, that sense of not having a family, of never being able to even try. “Gia—”
“Don’t offer sympathy that you know doesn’t help. I don’t want to bring kids into the hell that’s become my life anyway.” She jerks away from me and I reach for her, turning her to face me again, but somehow I lose whatever I intended to say. What am I supposed to tell her? That alone is better, when I know it sucks? That it gets easier? Because it doesn’t. It never gets easier.
“Gia—”
“I said don’t,” she snaps. “This isn’t new to me, and if anything, the ‘why me’ I’ve asked myself too many times now has an answer. A child would have made this so much more complicated.”
There are no words of comfort I can give her. They’d be false promises, lies. They’d be hope, the kind I have for my sister, despite the doubts I have of her safety. “You are going to survive,” I vow. “I’m going to make sure of it.”
“Yes. I will survive, but we both know it’s not because of you. You’re going to get what you need out of me, and then send me away with cash and a new identity. Let’s keep this real. The sex is just sex, a way we’re both coping with our situation.”
I despise every word she’s just spoken, when I should embrace them. Instead, I want to make us both forget they exist. I need, and I don’t even know what I need anymore. I grab her pants and toss them aside, tangling fingers in her hair. “Sex is how we cope?”
“You know it is.”
“Then let’s do a little more coping.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Let’s.”
My cock thickens with her approval, my body hard and hot. I can’t get enough of her but I’m damn sure going to try. I lower my head, anticipating the taste of her, the moment I will once again be inside her, when suddenly my cell phone rings. I pause, lost in a haze of lust, in a burn for this woman, but the ring sounds again, jolting me back to reality.
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