Hard Night (11th Hour #3)

by Jackie Ashenden

  It took her a moment to process that she was free.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, sitting up slowly.

  “You wanted me to get off you. So now I’m off you.” He folded his arms over his impressive chest. “My brother. Is he dead or not?”

  She swallowed. Her body still felt hot, an ache pulsing between her thighs. Damn him.

  “No,” she said. “Not when I left him.” It was a lie, of course. She had no idea whether he was alive or not. She had no idea why she’d lied either, it just . . . slipped out before she could stop it.

  Jacob’s expression didn’t change, though she thought she caught a slight shift in the set of his wide shoulders, as if the tension had gone out of them. “Let’s talk about you then.”

  It was that slight shift that caught at something deep inside her.

  All this time and she hadn’t considered how this must be for him, searching for the brother he’d lost all those years ago. She didn’t want to consider it now, because his feelings didn’t matter to her, not one fucking iota.

  And yet . . . he’d loved his brother, hadn’t he? He’d cared for him. And this . . . this must hurt him.

  And you killed him. You killed Josh.

  Ice wound through her veins.

  She couldn’t sit here talking to fucking Jacob Night. She had to get out. She had to find out what happened to Josh.

  “You don’t want to know about me.” She slid over to the edge of the bed. “If you don’t mind, I have shit to—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Ms. Lynn,” Jacob interrupted calmly. “Not until you tell me what I want to know.”

  Her guns were under the bed. Maybe if she—

  “Thinking about these?” He reached behind himself and pulled out the Sig. Her fucking Sig. Then, without any hurry at all, he moved over to the coffee table and picked up her goddamn AR. And smiled. “I took the liberty of securing them for you. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Asshole.

  She took a long, slow, soundless breath. Then let it out.

  Okay, so he’d taken her weapons. Fine. She didn’t need them anyway, not when she had the best weapon of all to use against him.

  Herself.

  He wanted to know about her, well, she could use that. Could use his obvious desire for her too. Men were simple creatures at heart. Get them by the cock and they’d do anything you wanted.

  Yet another lesson she’d learned from her mother. Of course it hadn’t saved her in the end, but that was because her mother didn’t have the strength that she’d had. She was the one who’d picked up that gun and pulled the trigger. Shot the last prince.

  Joanna leaned back on the bed, arching her back slightly, letting the black T-shirt she wore pull tight across her breasts.

  His gaze flickered. Good.

  “Okay, what do you want to know?” Joshua was the only one she’d told about her background and the shitshow that was her childhood. He’d shared his, too—except he’d never told her he was a twin. He’d never told her he’d had a brother. A brother who’d tried to protect him . . .

  Men lie, don’t forget.

  Of course. Joshua hadn’t told her about any of it, and who was to say that Jacob wasn’t lying either? She believed he was Josh’s brother—the physical resemblance couldn’t be denied—but the rest? Who knew what was the truth and what wasn’t?

  She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust any of them.

  “What do I want to know?” Jacob was a tall, dark wall at the end of the bed. “I want to know everything.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Faith sat on the edge of the bed, her long, glossy black hair tumbling down her back, the fabric of her T-shirt tight across her lovely breasts. She tilted her head, the expression on her face giving nothing away.

  “Everything?” she echoed. “That’s going to cost you.”

  He was hard. Still. Which made getting off of her a good thing. But that hadn’t been the entire reason. Doing the unexpected was the best way to get under people’s guard.

  “What’s your price?” he asked, ignoring the ache in his groin.

  “I tell you about me. You let me go. Easy.”

  Yes, easy. If he wanted to let her go and he didn’t. He could give her a head start, though. “Done.”

  Her gaze flickered. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to agree. Good. This might take less time than he’d anticipated.

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “I lived on the East Coast, then my mom moved to California. Nothing much to report. I was a beach bunny, liked hanging out with the surfers. Had the same kinds of teenage drama that everyone else had. When I was eighteen I enlisted. Army. Became a Ranger. I was good and eventually I was approached to join a special unit dealing with the cartels in South America.” Her blue eyes were guileless. “Seemed like fun so I agreed. That’s where I met Josh. We got on well, eventually hooked up and—”

  “Stop.” He said it quietly, but with enough authority that she did as she was told, like the good little soldier she was. “That’s a great story. If it was true.” And it wasn’t, he knew deep in his bones.

  The lie was there in the necklace she wore, the necklace he’d given her. No, she and his brother hadn’t hooked up, he was sure of it. And as to the rest, the Army stuff he’d believe, but hanging out with surfers? A beach bunny? And the “usual teenage drama” . . .

  No. There was too much anger in her eyes for it to be as simple as that. There was too much anger in her, period. It poured off her like heat off a rock after a day in the hot sun.

  People didn’t get to be that angry without good reason and it wasn’t due to the “usual teenage drama.”

  “It is true.” She pushed herself off the bed. “Now . . . How about you get out of the way. I have shit to do.”

  He didn’t move.

  She scowled. “You said you were going to—”

  “You lied, Ms. Lynn.”

  Her chin came up. “Like you would know.”

  “I do know.” He wasn’t angry with her. In her place he would have lied too. Then again, surely she would know by now that she could trust him. She certainly had back in the bunker.

  She didn’t remember who she was then.

  So? Faith and Joanna were the same person and remembering who she was didn’t suddenly change the six months she’d spent in his care, or what they’d shared between them. At least, it shouldn’t. And if it did, well . . . He wanted to know why.

  “I thought you trusted me,” he said quietly.

  “Faith might have. But I don’t.”

  “I told you my story.”

  “Oh, so this is a quid pro quo now?”

  “No.” He held her gaze, letting her see the truth in his eyes. “Just a reminder that you had my trust and that you still do.”

  “Then you’re a fool.” Bitterness laced the words. “And you should never have told me what you did. Not when you had no idea who I really was.”

  Ah, but she didn’t understand and, shit, if she kept thinking of herself as two different people then she wouldn’t.

  “I know you, Faith Beasley.”

  “I’m not—”

  “And I know you, Joanna Lynn. I’ve watched over you, lived with you, worked with you for months now. And remembering your true identity doesn’t change things.”

  Tension was gathering in her, he could see it in the set of her shoulders and in the still way she was standing. Her expression was guarded, but those dark eyes . . . he could see the anger in them.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her voice was sharp, like a knife. “You think I’m like Faith? Girly and pretty? Tearing up over stupid things like necklaces? Sitting there happily in your lap while you told her sad tales of your childhood?”

  He ignored the derision in her tone. “You are Faith, sweet girl.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not fucking sweet and I’m definitely no girl.”

  Ah, that sounded personal. Very person
al indeed.

  “What are you then?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”

  She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes shadowed. Then abruptly, she came over to him, walking with purpose, lithe and graceful.

  She stopped right in front of him, folding her arms over her chest and tipping her head back to look up at him. “You really want to know?”

  He heard the note of challenge in her voice. It delighted him. No doubt she thought she was going to shock him with tales of violence and death. In which case, silly girl. How could she have forgotten what he was? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t told her. If she was black ops the way she’d said she was, then she’d know nothing she could say would shock him.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he said.

  “I’m a killer.” The words were as flat as the look in her eyes.

  “Of course you are.” He raised a brow. “Is that it?”

  “When I was six years old, I picked up a gun and shot my mother’s boyfriend with it. He died.”

  Ah, now that sounded like truth.

  “Did you?” He studied her lovely face, pale in the shadowed room. Her delicate jaw was tight, lines of tension around her mouth, and deep in her beautiful eyes, fury glowed like a fire. This was what hurt, wasn’t it? This was what she was so angry about.

  “Yes.” She bit the word out like it tasted bad.

  Smiling would be a bad thing now, so he didn’t. But he wanted to. Because seriously, if she thought this made her any less a sweet girl to him, she was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  “I’m sure he deserved it,” he murmured.

  “You think this is a joke?”

  “A joke?” He dropped his arms and stepped forward, towering over her, letting her see the darkness inside of him. And then he did smile, white and savage. “No. You thinking that would matter to me is the joke. Or have you forgotten what I am?”

  She didn’t back away even though he was a full head taller than she was and probably outweighing her by a good hundred pounds.

  “I meant to kill him,” she said and there was satisfaction in her tone, he heard it. “I wanted to. I knew where he kept his gun so I went and got it, and I shot him with it. And I was glad he was dead.”

  “Why?” He searched her face, seeing the rage there and also the pain that lay underneath it. “What did he do to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter why.”

  “Wrong. It always matters why.” He lifted a hand to cup her jaw, because she was hurting and he didn’t like that one fucking bit.

  But she jerked her head away, refusing his touch. “I killed him. That’s the only thing that matters.”

  Jacob ignored her. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

  “No. Not me.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, her gaze flickering. “He hurt my Mom.”

  Jacob lifted both hands and took her face between his palms, not allowing her to pull away this time. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you killed him in that case. He deserved to die.”

  She’d gone stiff in his hold. “I was six.”

  “So? I was ten when I pulled a knife on Greg. And to this day I wish I’d managed to kill him with it.” He could feel the tension in her jaw so he started to stroke her fine-grained skin with his thumbs.

  But she wasn’t having any of that, twisting out of his hold and turning away, her hair falling over her shoulder and veiling her face. “I gave you what you wanted. You can get the hell out of the way of the door now.”

  He let his hands drop, yet didn’t move. “The rest of it, Ms. Lynn. If you please.”

  She let out a breath, then turned back to him, her expression guarded once more. “What else do you want to know? That my mother blamed me for his death? That she never forgave me for it? That she spent the rest of my childhood going from man to man trying to find him again? Telling me over and over again that our shitty situation was all my fault?” Faith threw the questions at him like knives. “He told her that he loved her, that he didn’t mean to hit her, and she believed him, even though he hit her more than once and after he promised not to again.” A bitter laugh broke from her. “Men lie, that’s what she told me, except the one I killed, obviously. But she wasn’t wrong. Men do lie. They promise you all kinds of shit and then . . .” She broke off, her jaw going hard. “Jesus, why the fuck am I telling you all of this? You’re a liar like all the rest of them.”

  Anger gripped him, but not at her. Someone had betrayed her, that was obvious. Some man had lied to her and it had hurt her. Badly.

  Closing the distance between them, he reached for her, his hands on her hips, turning her to face him. “Who lied to you?” he demanded.

  She tried to twist away from him, but he pulled her in close, holding her tight. He wasn’t going to let her have any distance, not this time. “Was it my brother?”

  “Let me the fuck go!”

  Jacob wound an arm around her, then gripped her chin in his free hand, tipping her head back so he could see her face.

  Rage glowed deep in her eyes.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” He didn’t bother to keep the edge of authority out of his voice. Fuck, he wanted answers and he wanted them now.

  He expected her to fight him, but she didn’t. She went still in his grip, staring at him. “Josh was supposed to be my friend. But he wanted to use me.”

  “Use you how?”

  “He got a better offer of employment. They were going to get rid of him from the unit anyway so he sabotaged one of our missions. Then he disappeared. I volunteered to track him down because I wanted to know why he’d betrayed us. I found him eventually and that’s when he told me they’d been going to get rid of him.” She didn’t fight, her eyes suddenly glowing bright. “I didn’t know that I’d been followed though. Two of our team had been sent to find us and they did. They ambushed us and Josh . . . killed them.” She bared her teeth. “He was going to take me too, use me as a hostage. I don’t know exactly. But I was to be his prisoner. So I . . .” She stopped.

  Something cold solidified slowly in Jacob’s gut. “You what?”

  Faith smiled, a bitter, cold kind of smile. “So I shot him.”

  * * *

  She waited for that strange reflective light to die in his eyes. Waited for the moment when he’d finally see her for what she truly was.

  Because surely now he would. She’d killed his brother, her only friend. She’d shot him down in anger, because he’d betrayed her.

  Joshua Smith deserved a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve to die. Yes, he’d lied to her, but the finger on the trigger had been hers and she hadn’t hesitated.

  Neither did he, remember?

  She ignored that, staring up into Jacob’s black eyes. Staring up into the face that, now she was studying it, looked nothing like Josh’s. There had been an easy warmth in Josh’s face that was absent from Jacob’s.

  Jacob’s was hard. Fierce. Savage. No warmth, no, but there was heat. There was fire. A passion that his brother didn’t have, a kind of granite strength and determination.

  She’d always been drawn to his strength though, hadn’t she? His absolute certainty had been what she’d clung to after she’d gotten out of the hospital, his strength her anchor—

  No, shit, that had been Faith who’d liked that. Not her.

  And yet . . .

  His fingers were digging into her hips, his grip nearly painful.

  But that light in his eyes wasn’t dying. It was growing brighter.

  “I thought you said he was alive,” Jacob said, enunciating every word.

  Why was he looking at her like that? Why wasn’t he throwing her to one side and grabbing those guns? Pointing them in her face?

  “I lied,” she spat, wanting to goad him, make him angry. Make him lose his temper with her. Make him see that she wasn’t Faith anymore, she was Joanna. “I don’t know whether he’s alive or not. All I know is that he pulled a gun on me and so I—”

  Jacob lifted his hands and grabbed
the front of her T-shirt. Then he ripped it open.

  Instantly she shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, curling her fingers in toward her palm, driving it into his stomach. But he was shifting too, moving fast, dodging her fist at the same time as he hooked an arm around her waist, then turned her, slamming her up against the nearest wall.

  He didn’t speak, jerking aside the ripped halves of her T-shirt. Her breath caught and for some reason she didn’t stop him when he lifted a hand to her chest, her heart beating hard with what she had a terrible suspicion was excitement, not the fury it should have been.

  Almost as if she wanted him to touch her.

  And then he did touch her, his fingers brushing the skin near her right shoulder, so gently, so lightly.

  That was . . . not where she’d been expecting him to touch her. Or so gently. What the hell was going on?

  His gaze burned as he stared at the place his fingers were touching.

  And then she realized what he was looking at.

  Her gunshot wound.

  Goose bumps lifted all over her skin. Why was he looking at that?

  His gaze came to hers as if he’d heard her unspoken question. “He shot you, didn’t he? This . . .” His fingers brushed over the angry red scar. “This was from him.”

  She couldn’t read the look in his eyes. Was he angry with her? Because he should be. He should be furious. He should be wanting retribution. Revenge for the life she’d taken.

  Yet he was staring at her as if . . . well, she didn’t know. She didn’t understand the way he was looking at her or what he wanted.

  “So?” She shifted against the wall, unease filling her. “I shot him, Jacob. And I don’t know whether he’s alive or dead, and that’s the truth.”

  He shook his head, as if he was trying to clear it of something, his gaze returning to the scar on her chest. “Josh shot you.” He said the words as if they tasted strange in his mouth.

  She shivered as his fingers touched her again, featherlight. And her unease deepened. “Jesus, don’t you understand? I was there to kill him. Our handlers wanted him gone and so I volunteered. I was there to end him.”