She crossed her legs. “I need out. Let’s just leave it at that.” Withdrawing her star from her pocket, the star she’d worked so hard for, dreamed her whole life of earning, she set it on Kavorski’s desk.
Her throat hurt as bad as if she’d come down with a wicked case of strep. Her eyes stung.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Listen,” he said, voice uncharacteristically sympathetic. “Nothing about this case has been routine. Maybe the higher-ups will cut you some slack. In the meantime, transfer Mr. Morgan to my custody and I’ll take it from there. You just relax. Take a few bubble baths—whatever it is you chicks do to chill.”
“Shouldn’t we get Mr. Benton in on this, too? I mean, there’s gotta be paperwork. My own debriefing.”
Kavorski waved her off, gave her another pat on her back. “God knows you’ve already been through enough. I can’t even imagine how tough it must’ve been for you getting Morgan off that island.” He laughed. “Christ, all I did was lay there passed out on my boat, but you—you’re a freakin’ hero.”
Yeah. Some hero, sleeping with the man she’d sworn to protect.
“Where is he?” Kavorski pressed. “Mr. Morgan?”
“Joe? He’s at a coffee house down the street. Three exits. Nice size crowd.”
“Sounds good. You’re a bright girl, Logue. I’m going to miss you. Maybe when we all get back to L.A., we can change your mind about leaving the family.”
I’m not going to cry. I will not cry. “I, um, don’t think so. But thanks for the thought.”
“All right, then, let me just grab a coat—that rain up here’s a coldhearted bitch.”
Hurry, Gillian’s heart said with each frantic beat. Even more than she wanted to get on with the business of saying goodbye to Joe, she wanted out of this office before running into one—or all—of her brothers. Turning her star in to Kavorski was one thing. Handing it over to one of their told-you-so faces was unthinkable.
SITTING STIFFLY across the table from Gillian, listening to his next babysitter, Kavorski, prattle on, knowing he was only minutes from saying goodbye, Joe realized he hadn’t experienced such a profound sense of loss since losing Willow.
But that was nuts. He barely knew Gillian, and Willow had been his wife.
“Yep, this place holds a lot of memories,” Kavorski said. “I was working a case up here in the eighties—had more hair back then,” he said, rubbing his bald head. “Doug Ash was top dog. Poor schmuck. Wife left him for a gym teacher ’cause she said Doug didn’t spend enough time with her. So anyway, to try and make him feel better, me and some of the guys decided to set him up on a blind date, so…”
Joe gazed past Kavorski to Gillian.
Look at her.
Sitting there enraptured, as if this guy was actually entertaining instead of boring as hell. Was that her way of telling him their lovemaking had meant nothing? That he’d just been a little action on an otherwise dull night?
He didn’t believe it.
Couldn’t believe it.
But he had to.
Kavorski bottomed-up his coffee. Glanced at his watch. “Guess we’d better get this show on the road,” he said to Joe. “We’ve got a lot of miles to get under our belts if we want to hit L.A. tomorrow. We could fly, but I’d feel better keeping John Q. Public out of this. If Tsun-Chung found out you were on a flight and blew the whole thing just to get to you…” Shaking his head, he tsked-tsked.
“Sure,” Joe said. “Whatever you say.”
At this point, he didn’t care. Whether he flew, drove or took a wagon train to the trial, he just wanted the damn thing over with so he could once and for all get on with his life. He couldn’t wait to get back to his daughter. To normalcy.
Life with Gillian had been a lot of things, but normal wasn’t one of them. Happy. Sad. A constant hard-on. How the hell was he now supposed to just say goodbye?
“Um, see ya.” She held out her hand. The same small hand that had run up and down his back, digging her fingertips into his naked—
He set out to return her polite handshake, but ended up dragging her into a hug. Oh, she might not have wanted to, but she hugged him back.
Fiercely, protectively, as though she cared for him, too. Something true that, if only they’d met under different circumstances at a different time, they might have built upon.
“I—I’ll miss you,” she said, standing on her tiptoes, her voice raspy and her breath warm in his ear. “Please watch out for yourself. Be careful who you trust.”
“You, too,” he said, letting her go quickly before he didn’t just drag her into another hug, but into Kavorski’s car along with them.
GILLIAN HAD FLOWN into Portland, leaving her without a ride. On their way to town this morning, Joe had asked if she wanted to drive his car back to L.A. for him, but she’d politely turned him down.
Too messy.
It would necessitate another goodbye.
Careful not to look in the direction Kavorski had taken Joe, she returned to her team’s temporary offices to grab her few personal belongs. Her purse and cell phone. She had sixty-seven bucks and change. Surely that’d be enough to get her to the airport.
She’d almost made a clean getaway when a male voice called out from behind her, “Gilly? That you?”
Caleb. Her oldest brother. Biggest pain in her neck.
Groaning, she weighed her options. Run? Hide? Pretend to only be impersonating Gillian Logue? All sounded better than what she ended up doing, which was turning around to face him. “Hey. Long time no see.”
“Hey? That the best you can do?” He crushed her in a hug. “Dad’s a mess. Hell, we all are. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Dammit, Gillian, the only way we even found out you were in trouble was through a courtesy call from your boss. He said you didn’t want anyone knowing where you were.”
“True,” she said, squirming out of his arms.
“Why? One of us—shoot, all of us—could’ve gone out to that island with you. Protected you.”
That did it. Enough polite chit-chat.
She was out of there.
Chin raised, she said, “The last thing I need from you, Caleb, is protecting. In case you hadn’t noticed, I grew up. Then somehow, without any of my big brothers’ help, I managed to bring Joe Morgan in safely all on my own.”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Lighten up, Gillybug. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
Gillybug?
He hadn’t called her that since she was nine years old and he was helping her into a ladybug costume she’d worn in a Marcus C. Webster Elementary School play.
She turned her back on him to leave, but just like always, he was faster. Yanking her by the sleeve of the navy marshal jacket she’d fought so hard to wear and now had to give up, he said, “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. If you’ve got any downtime before heading back to L.A., I’m sure Dad would appreciate a visit. He misses you—the real you.”
“And I suppose you, better than anyone, knows who the real me is?”
“Used to.” Shaking his head, he said, “Now I doubt anyone—especially you—has a clue.”
HOURS LATER, on a park bench, sitting ramrod straight despite a steady cold rain, Gillian figured she couldn’t have screwed up her life more if she’d tried. After finally being giving the assignment that would jump-start her career, finally make everyone from her father to her brothers to her chauvinistic co-workers see she was every bit as good at her job as any man, she’d had to go and blow it by falling in love.
How could she have been so stupid?
It was like some cornball female cliché.
She didn’t want to be in love. Before now, wasn’t even sure she’d known what love was. Sure, she’d had a strong affection for Kent, but that hadn’t been the same. What she felt for Joe was different. Deeper.
How she’d finally accepted the fact that it had to be love turning her life upside down was in realizing she’d willingly do it a
ll again. Lose her job. Her reputation. Shoot, her sanity, all for just one more night in Joe’s arms. What else could cause that degree of havoc but love?
THIRTY MINUTES DOWN I-5, Kavorski asked, “Need a snack or anything? Bathroom break?”
“I’m good,” Joe said, staring out the government-issued sedan’s rain-streaked window. In the time they’d been on the road, clouds had turned into drizzle, which had turned into a soaking the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the day Gillian had first shown up on his island.
Where was she now?
What was she doing?
Thinking about him the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her?
“Yep.” Kavorski fiddled with the radio dial. Settled on a grating country song. “I ever tell you about the time me and my good pal Frank came fishing up here? Well, it was raining just about like this, and damn, but it was colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra. I’m talking a real nut shrinker. Anyway, we got this old boy to take us out, and we were just—”
“Would you mind saving this for another time? I could use some shut-eye.” Joe closed his eyes, but more as a deterrent to his driver than because he thought for one second he’d actually be able to sleep.
God, the guy’s voice was annoying. Familiar, too.
Joe straightened in his seat. Glanced Kavorski’s way, trying to place him. Had he been in the safe house last go-around?
“Yeah, speaking of nut shrinkers,” Kavorski said, “I ever tell you ’bout the time I was up here hunting and it started to snow….”
This time, Joe let him ramble on, trying, trying to place him. The more he listened, the more he got the impression the guy wasn’t just talking to be friendly. He seemed nervous. Like he was trying to cover for something. Despite all his talk of nut-shrinking cold weather, a faint sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Please watch out for yourself. Be careful who you trust. Gillian’s last words rang in Joe’s ears. He focused on the meaning behind them, not the fact that he’d been turned on by the notion she still cared.
Be careful who you trust.
Had she been trying to tell him something between the lines? That even though she was placing his life in this guy’s hands, she didn’t completely trust him? Or was it some of the other marshals he’d come in contact with she didn’t trust?
“…And man, let me tell you, was it cold. I’d tell you it was a nut shrinker of a day, but you’ve probably already guessed that. So me and my friend Frank—he’s the same one I go fishing with—we…”
The guy sure was preoccupied with weather. Especially cold weather—and his nuts.
I want this done clean, Wesson. Weather’s supposed to turn into a real nut shrinker by morning, and I’d just as soon not be around for it.
“…Frank took off runnin’. Geez Louise. I’ve never seen a grown man run that fast. Looked like a—what’s the matter, Mr. Morgan? You’re looking green. Carsick?”
Trying to act calm, even though he was in a car doing seventy with one of the guys who’d just tried killing him back on his island, Joe said, “Now that you mention it, I am feeling like I might retch. Mind pulling over at the next exit for Dramamine?”
“Will do,” Kavorski said, turning up the radio, humming along with the tune. “Oh yeah, where was I? Oh—Frank’s running….”
It took fifteen minutes to get to the next exit.
Unbearable minutes during which Joe’s pulse raged so loud in his ears he worried Kavorski might hear. But then how could he over his own drone?
“…It was the damnedest thing, seeing him with his arm out like that. Just sort of flopping. But then, shoot, I suppose…”
Think, Joe, think.
If only Gillian were here. She’d know what to do. She’d been trained for this sort of thing. She’d gone on and on about what a poor job she’d done, but even about old Kavorski here, she must’ve had an innate suspicion something hadn’t been right.
“This place float your boat?” Kavorski asked, pulling into the gravel lot of the Jug & Lug.
“Sure.” Joe’s mouth had gone so dry it was hard uttering even the one word. Normal. He had to appear as if everything was normal.
Kavorski parked the sedan. The sound of the tires crunching to a stop was deafening. Joe’s every sense was on full alert.
“Don’t know about you,” Kavorski said, exiting the car to step through a light drizzle, then pocketing the keys. “But I could use a stiff drink. Been a wild few days, hasn’t it?”
“Yep.” Few days? For Joe, it had only been the past twenty-four hours that’d been especially rough—comparatively speaking. After losing his wife, the quality of his days had been judged on a different scale. One topped by times he’d pushed himself to such physical exhaustion he was incapable of calculating where all he’d gone wrong.
But then Gillian had shown up. Changed everything.
Before her, truth was, he might not have cared if Kavorski shot him dead. But now he did care. He had to get back to Meggie, and though he might not have realized it until this very minute, he had to get back to Gillian. To try making sense of his mixed-up feelings where she was concerned.
Kavorski yawned. Belched. “S’cuse me. Must’ve had one too many pieces of cold pizza for lunch.”
“Go right ahead,” Joe said with a big smile. “Men gotta be men, I always say.”
“I knew I liked you.” Kavorski laughed, holding open the convenience store door. “That coffee we had back in town running right through you the way it is me?”
“You know it.”
Kavorski gave the clerk a tight wave, then led the way through a maze of aisles selling everything from candy bars to tampons to motor oil. The men’s room was all the way at the back.
“Beauty before brains,” Kavorski said, standing beside the open door to the one-seater restroom.
Joe managed a laugh.
In the bathroom, he shut and locked the door. He was too panicked to pee, so he instead searched for a weapon.
Paper towels.
Scummy bar soap.
Air freshener on the back of the john promising alpine freshness.
Plunger.
In case Kavorski was paying attention, Joe flushed. He then lurched for the plunger.
He stepped on the red rubber tip, pulling it off with the bottom of his hiking boot, then kicked it behind the john. The handle, he shoved down the waistband of his jeans, working it down the length of his leg.
Again for Kavorski, he turned on the faucet, swiped his hands under the water’s cool flow, then splashed his face.
He grabbed a towel, dried himself, then took a deep breath.
Chapter Seventeen
“Took you long enough,” Kavorski said, brushing past Joe and into the bathroom. “Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
“Will do.”
After Kavorski closed the door, Joe took out his makeshift club. Held it behind him.
“Find everything you need?” The clerk, a pretty redhead with kinky curly hair, pushed a dry mop across the floor.
Joe’s pulse hammered. Great. He didn’t want anyone but Kavorski getting hurt. If Kavorski pulled out a gun—no. He wasn’t even going to think of what all could go wrong. Just what could go right.
Gillian and Meggie both, back in his arms.
That was the ultimate end goal.
He smiled and nodded in the woman’s direction.
She mopped her way over to a chip stand.
From in the bathroom came the whoosh of the toilet flushing. Was Kavorski the type who washed his hands?
Nope. He fumbled through the door and then—wham!
Joe hit him once, twice across the back of his head.
The marshal crumpled to the floor before he could even see who or what had struck him.
Violently shaking, Joe knelt beside the man, fishing in his pockets for the keys. He stood, only to find the clerk staring.
“Please don’t kill me.” She started to cry, fell t
o her knees. “I’ve got kids. A baby and a three-year-old. I’ll show you pictures. Please.”
“Stop crying,” he said. “This isn’t what you think. He’s the bad guy. Got anywhere I could lock him up while you call the police?”
Hand trembling, she pointed toward a walk-in cooler. On the outside of a huge stainless steel door hung an open padlock. Perfect.
Teeth gritted, Joe dragged Kavorski inside.
The space was cold, but not a true “nut shrinker.” Should suit Kavorski just fine. Joe didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. Just shut the door, then rammed home the lock.
Leaning against cool metal, hands braced on his knees, he felt relief shimmer through him. Hot and cold all at once, Exhilarated, yet like he might throw up.
“P-please don’t kill me,” the woman with the mop said again.
“You call the cops yet?”
She shook her head.
“You might want to. When this guy wakes, he’s not going to be happy.”
“W-what s-should I say?”
“Got a pen and paper?”
GILLIAN’S FLIGHT TO L.A. left in an hour, time she was passing reading the newspaper while downing a tasteless rubber cheeseburger she’d bought at an airport restaurant.
She squeezed more ketchup on it, trying to taste something, feel something—even if it was revulsion.
Ever since saying goodbye to Joe, since beginning the first minutes of her life without him, she’d felt numb.
Maybe she should’ve at least stayed with her job until Joe was safely back in L.A.? The odds were slim, but what if Kavorski was dirty, too? Who had been that other guy with Wesson? It hadn’t been Finch. From a distance, she’d heard the guy talk, but his voice hadn’t seemed familiar. She’d been on the radio with Kavorski all week. Surely she’d have recognized his tone if that had indeed been him? Or had the usually static-filled radio distorted his voice to an unrecognizable degree?
Even if she had broken her code of honor, she should’ve insisted on staying with Joe. She could’ve protected him with an even higher code—a code of love.
Saving Joe (U.S. Marshals, Born And Bred Book 1) Page 16
