The giant’s eyes widened, but he quickly recovered with a shrug. “He thought it was a one-night stand and you wanted more,” he said, hitting a little too close to home. “The police and your family will never know for sure, but they’ll pick a story that makes sense so they can move on. And the marks on your wrists can be explained away with kinky play. We’ll be sure to leave evidence behind.”
Some people would definitely believe that part.
“He has a son,” she said, desperate now. “A little boy who just lost his mother. Don’t take his dad too.” Tears wet her cheeks. “I’m the witness. I’m the one you want. If you let him go, I’ll—”
“Tara, don’t.” Jeff shook his head, eyes pleading.
Hulk donned that shitty smirk and looked at Jeff. “Aren’t you all just too fucking sweet?”
With everyone’s attention diverted, Tara threw herself into the driver’s seat.
Jeff watched in horror as Tara leaped into the cab and got behind the wheel. The engine started before Tank or his sidekick had even processed that she’d moved.
“Hey!” Tank yelled, raising his gun.
Jeff kicked at the back of the big man’s knees. Tank landed on his back with an earth-shaking thud.
Skinny Sidekick took a step, reaching for her, but stumbled back into the dining table as the RV lurched forward and hooked right.
Jeff planted his feet, falling to his side, but not off the sofa. Gripping the faux leather of the cushion with his hands, he braced his body between the armrests as Tara honked repeatedly and swerved around the parking lot like a fiery, beautiful madwoman who might just save their lives.
Tank groaned and Jeff swiveled to kick him in the jaw, knocking him out. The giant’s gun slid into the bedroom, out of reach. At the front of the RV, the other guy was gripping the counter, trying to work his way toward the cab, weapon in his free hand.
Jeff couldn’t let him reach Tara—
The windshield cracked and a loud boom filled the motor home.
She screamed and ducked.
“Tara!”
The vehicle jerked left, but she popped into view, still in control, still alive. Thank God. Jeff stopped holding his breath.
Stumbling past the behemoth at his feet, he dove toward Sidekick, ramming his shoulder into the guy’s spine and launching them both into the space between the front seats.
Tara screamed again. The RV jerked to a stop. Jeff hit his head on the console, pain radiating down his neck.
Two short bursts from a police siren pierced the air.
Next to him, a blurry Tara opened the driver’s side door of the cab and jumped out. “Help! Please help!”
Head throbbing, Jeff tried to move off the guy moaning beneath him, but with his hands and legs tied, he was stuck. Not to mention his head spun, making him want to puke.
Shouts came from outside. Cops, right? He tried to keep his eyes open, but his lids were steel plates. Was someone talking? He needed to focus. They needed to know he was bound and couldn’t show his hands. I’m tied up. He tried to say the words, but his tongue was too large inside his mouth, like that time he had a cavity filled at the dentist and his face was numb for hours afterward.
More sounds. Was that Tara?
He tried to sit up, the world spinning like a merry-go-round. Tara? He needed to see her, needed to tell her something…
All the noise and light bled away and his world turned to black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MUFFIN SHOULD HAVE called Rick on the house phone, just for the satisfaction of being able to slam down the receiver. Instead, she ended the call and threw the burner cell against the brick fireplace where it gave an almost-satisfying crack.
“Those idiots.”
Rick’s team had done well for her in the past. They’d never failed her. Why was this one couple so hard to kill?
Muffin would take them out with her bare fucking hands if the risk weren’t so high. She’d killed once, she could do it again.
She normally devised and executed plans to protect her husband’s career with the precision of a sniper, and a grasp of strategy that would make a general proud, directing the operations from afar, often through a cutout like Rick. But things with the reporter had not gone according to plan. Not to plan A or plan B. With Fitz so close to the culmination of decades of work—mostly her efforts to keep him from sabotaging his own success with his mistresses and shady business partners—Muffin couldn’t have allowed one dogged reporter to destroy her chance at having the most powerful husband in the world.
Something had snapped within her and she’d lost all control, unleashing the animal that always prowled beneath the surface of her carefully crafted, always poised, expensively clad exterior.
Threat eliminated.
At first, she’d felt sick, disoriented and jittery, but then the appointment reminder had popped up on Annette’s phone. Using the dead woman’s finger to unlock the phone, Muffin had changed the PIN—faster than trying to update the fingerprints—and sent a quick text message to Tara to cancel the meeting. Then she’d stuffed Annette Collier’s phone into her own purse before running out the door.
And tripped right over Tara fucking Fujimoto. Another unexpected development that could’ve easily been eliminated on the spot if Muffin had been thinking more clearly. She’d had plenty of time to Monday-morning-quarterback her choices and come up with better options. She could have led Tara into the house and killed her there, further confusing the police. Or—if there hadn’t been the potential for witnesses on the street—just slammed Tara’s head into the ground and blamed it on the fall.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t done either of those, and now she was paying for it. The news about Fitz’s potential candidacy had leaked even earlier than Muffin had anticipated, forcing them to bump up the announcement in Jacksonville to tonight. Once Tara found out, she was sure to understand why she’d become a target.
Muffin had been wearing gloves inside Annette’s house, but in her frazzled state, trying not to make Tara suspicious, she’d removed her gloves to check that the phone still worked and forgotten to put them back on. Which meant she might have left fingerprints on the items she’d helped Tara collect for her purse. And Muffin didn’t have the same well-placed contacts in Virginia that she did in North Carolina. It took time to compromise police officers and public officials. She needed Tara and the evidence gone, before the bitch understood what she’d walked into and went to the cops.
But Muffin couldn’t count on Rick to get the job done anymore.
If she were honest, the idea of confronting Tara herself brought a rush. She’d worked too hard and suffered too long to give up now. Nothing and no one would get in her way. Not inquisitive reporters, and certainly not one little slut who considered herself some kind of crusader.
Serendipity had put Muffin less than sixty miles from her target, just in time to take care of loose ends before Fitz’s speech. She would squash Tara Fujimoto beneath her Manolos like a bug and get back to the business of becoming the First Lady.
Jeff recognized the smell first. Piss, bleach, and bad food. His lip curled. He was in the hospital.
The events in the RV flooded back and he sat up, blinking against the bright fluorescents overhead.
Pain shot through his head, turning his stomach. He gripped the edges of the bed and closed his eyes until the blaze in his skull faded to a dull throb. At least his hands were free. Rotating his wrists one at a time, he took deep breaths and kept his head lowered as he slowly raised his eyelids.
He was in a small hospital room, all alone, still in his street clothes. He patted his pockets but didn’t feel his cell phone. He needed to contact Tara, make sure she was okay. And his dad. Poor guy was probably either pissed or worried or both, wondering where the hell Jeff had gone and why.
The door opened and a short, thirty-something woman with light brown hair twisted back from her round face walked in wearing scrubs and a lab coat.
/> “Hi, Mr. Patarava. I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she said, smiling as she approached the bed. “I’m Dr. Nacouzi. How are you feeling?”
He tried to respond, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Bit of a headache,” he managed. At least his tongue worked.
She clucked. “More than a bit, I’d guess.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the bump on the crown of his head, wincing. Shit. “How long have I been out?”
Removing a penlight from her pocket, she said, “Let me take a look.” She shone the light in each eye. “According to the paramedics who brought you in, about thirty minutes.”
“Where’s Tara?”
Her brows snapped together. “Is that your wife?”
Not yet. If ever. “No. My…friend. She was with me in the, uh, accident.” How much did this woman know?
“Sorry, I don’t know. There are a couple of police officers here who’d like to talk to you, though. Probably about the men who came in at the same time.” Her right brow lifted. “I’ve told them they need to wait until we’re done here. You’ve suffered a concussion and what your brain really needs right now is rest, so don’t let them push you too hard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maybe the cops could tell him where to find Tara.
She nodded. “Before I release you, I’d like you to get a CT scan.”
Up close, he could read her name tag topped by the logo for Wilmington General. The same hospital as Evan. His heart skipped. “Can someone get a message to my dad? Let him know I’m okay. He’s upstairs with my son. Room 314.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course.”
An hour later, Jeff was released with a clear scan, pain meds, and a prescription for plenty of rest, along with his cell phone, wallet, and keys. A man and a woman in black uniforms with gold badges pinned to their chests rose when he was wheeled into the lobby. “Mr. Patarava?” the woman asked. “We’d like to speak to you.”
He continued through the double doors to the portico, where the orderly helped him out of the chair and wished him a good day.
Jeff followed the man right back into the ER lobby.
“Jeff!”
He turned toward the familiar voice, his heart slamming against his sternum. Tara swiftly closed the distance between them, her face lit with a huge smile that made his knees weak.
She walked straight into his arms and wrapped herself around him. He inhaled deeply, finally able to take a full breath now that he could see she was safe, now that he could hold her again, warm and whole in his embrace. “Thank God,” he whispered against her hair. “I was going out of my mind.”
“That’s the concussion,” she murmured against his chest.
He chuckled. He’d missed her.
She looked up at him and caressed his cheek. “I was so worried about you.” Her espresso eyes filled with tears.
Before she could make them both cry, he kissed her. Fuck the cops and the dozen or so people in the waiting room. They were alive and more-or-less unharmed. That alone deserved a celebration.
Her lips were soft and warm and so goddamned sweet he never wanted to stop.
Instead, he forced himself to break away.
The guy in uniform cleared his throat and Jeff nodded.
Unwilling to let go, he took Tara’s hand and faced the officers. “I know you’ve been waiting a while, but there’s something I need to do first.”
Tara’s stomach did a full dance routine as she and Jeff approached Evan’s hospital room hand in hand. They’d declared their love for each other in the RV, but that didn’t mean anything about their future had changed.
But she was finally going to meet Jeff’s son. That meant something, right?
Inside the room, the little boy she recognized from the photos leaned against a pillow under a stack of blankets, eyes closed, a tube snaking from his arm to IV bags hanging on a stand. Dark smudges underscored his eyes, a purple bruise peeked out from beneath his hospital johnny, and a stuffed dog snuggled firmly in the crook of his arm. He was adorable.
An older version of Jeff stood to the side of the hospital bed, his brown hair shot through with gray, his tall, thin frame athletic and upright. “Jeff. Oh, thank God.”
Jeff released her to hug the man. “I’m fine, Dad. I promise.” Pulling away he asked, “Did you get my message from the doctor?”
“Yes, but...”
Jeff rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything as soon as I can.”
“It had to do with this business you mentioned before?” The older man’s gaze flicked to Tara.
Her stomach jumped under his father’s gaze. Did he blame her for getting Jeff involved in her mess? How much did he know?
Jeff sighed. “Yeah.” He reached for her hand again, the red marks on his wrist peeking out from beneath his long-sleeved shirt. “Dad, this is Tara Fujimoto.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Tara,” Jeff’s dad said, shaking her hand with a firm but gentle grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Uh-oh. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Patarava.”
“Bill, please.” He released her hand with a smile. “Can I get you a coffee or something?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Did Jeff’s bringing her here mean anything, or was he simply allowing her to meet his son, like they’d talked about on the drive from Virginia?
Jeff rounded the bed and stroked Evan’s hair, leaning toward the boy, whose eyes had opened. “Hey, bud.”
“Dad!” Evan blinked and sat up with obvious effort. “You’re back.” He hooked an arm around Jeff’s neck and whispered, “I thought maybe you weren’t coming back.”
Tara bit her lip and pressed a knuckle against the tingling sensation in her nose. She’d cried too much already this weekend.
“Never, peanut. I just went to get my friend and it took longer than I expected. I’m sorry.”
Evan released his hold and lay back with a frown, his eyes never leaving Jeff’s face. “It’s okay.”
Jeff cleared his throat and gestured behind him. “Miss Tara is here. Do you want to say hi?”
Evan nodded, his hazel gaze taking her in as Jeff raised the back of the bed for him. “Tara Foo-jee-mo-to?” he asked.
She smiled at the way he sounded out every syllable, so carefully and perfectly. “Yes. I’m happy to meet you.”
“Thank you for the socks.” He grinned and tunneled a foot through the mound of covers until it stuck out the side so he could wiggle his toes. “Spider-Man is awesome.”
Tara couldn’t stop a small laugh. “I think so too.” Despite the physical and emotional pain he had to be suffering, he was so sweet. “Who else do you like?”
“Bumblebee.”
“The car from Transformers?” she asked.
He nodded, his eyes lighting. “And Mr. Incredible. And Pikachu.”
“All good choices.” Tara was finally starting to relax. The morning’s ordeal already felt like a bad dream, but it wasn’t over—not while the person behind today’s attempt on her and Jeff’s lives was still a mystery. Since she wasn’t going to make it to Virginia for her meeting with Detective Niegard tomorrow morning, she’d told the local police everything, and sat with a sketch artist to make a decent drawing of the blonde. “My best friend’s son is a big fan of Mr. Incredible and Spider-Man too.”
“How old is he?” Evan asked.
“Three.” She’d called Mick on her way to the hospital to let him know what had happened and explained why she couldn’t return yet. He’d sounded ready to crush heads on her behalf, but she wasn’t going to let him leave Jenna for anything. After assuring him that she was fine and that she’d call Kurt with an update, he reluctantly let her go. “His name is Robbie.”
“I have a friend named Robbie in my preschool class, but he’s five.”
Tara smiled. The poor kid probably missed his friends.
Evan smiled back and her heart melted even more.
“Hey, kiddo,” Jeff said, “can you keep Miss Ta
ra company for me? I have to talk to the doctor about how soon we can get you out of here, okay?”
“Now?” Evan said, his voice turning whiny? “You just got here.”
Jeff leaned down and put his forehead to Evan’s. “I’m sorry, Ev. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Evan held his gaze for several heartbeats and then nodded.
“Maybe you can show Miss Tara your dog while I’m gone.”
“Okay.” Evan didn’t smile, but he didn’t beg Jeff to stay.
“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Jeff said to Tara, giving her hand a quick squeeze. He whispered, “I’m going to call Olivia and have her post a guard outside the door.”
Evan was watching, but she forced herself not to pull away.
Releasing her, Jeff spoke quietly into Bill’s ear—probably explaining where he had to go—and then turned to wave to Evan. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“Dad,” Evan said as if he were being ridiculous.
With a quick grin, Jeff disappeared into the hallway.
Relative silence settled over the room. Tara glanced at Bill and then moved to Evan’s side, leaning her hip on the mattress. “So. Tell me about your dog.”
Evan excitedly showed her his toy, which he’d thought he lost. “His name is Pickles. My dad said I might be able to get a real dog when we get home.”
“That’s awesome. What kind do you want?”
“A brown one. Or maybe black.”
She laughed.
While Jeff was gone, Tara distracted Evan and herself from his absence by chatting with him and Bill about his favorite movies and TV shows, playing tic-tac-toe on a pad of paper she kept in her purse, and letting him draw.
Just after Evan dozed off about forty-five minutes later, a fit Black woman entered the room and introduced herself as Olivia Jackson. She produced her PI license and presented her associate, Ty, a stocky blond with an infectious smile and serious muscles under his button-up shirt and khakis.
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