Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  She'd seen marshals who were dissatisfied with their jobs, complacent as hell. At the least, their witnesses were completely unprepared, and at the worst? They ended up dead.

  But they ended up dead with the best of marshals too.

  She shouldn't have been surprised when Vance climbed up the balcony and sat next to her, but she was. She gaped at him for a long moment and he took that opportunity to drink half of her beer down.

  She grabbed it back from him. "That's mine. How did you find me?"

  "It wasn't easy. You took the tracker off your car."

  "Both of them," she noted and he frowned.

  "I'm not giving up my secrets. But I'm here. And I'm not leaving."

  "I hope you got your own room."

  "Place is packed—we have to share."

  She stared at him in shock at the blatant lie he was trying to pull off. "Vance, there's a ninety-eight percent vacancy."

  "The woman at the desk says they're all booked. Call and ask her," he challenged, a fire in his eyes she'd seen before and didn't have the energy to fight. "You should get some sleep. I'll take the right side of the bed."

  He went inside, leaving her to call after him, "You're sleeping on the couch," all the while knowing it was a lost cause.

  "I like the list. I'd pick merc," he called back. "Have you tried this bed? It's comfortable as hell."

  She stayed outside until she was nodding off, and then she gave up and crawled into bed with him. She'd stripped her robe and just wore a long T-shirt. Did it matter? He'd seen her naked. There was no putting that image back in the box, so why bother?

  He was on his side, his broad back taunting her, the tiger on his biceps staring into the night.

  Damn him. She tucked in quietly on her side so they were back to back and suddenly, insomnia kicked in. Hard.

  Her mind spun with witnesses and her job and her life and…

  "There are a lot of things you can do, Abby."

  At the sound of his voice, she stilled. She hadn't known he was awake. She'd been lying silently, going over her now torn-up list of career choices in her mind, and the list was so short and stupid she was struggling to keep it together.

  She didn't respond, didn't admit she was awake.

  "I know you're awake—I can tell by the way you're breathing," he said. "But that's fine—we can play your game. Just because you don't believe in this job anymore doesn't mean you can't work to try to change it. You can try for an admin position. Or be an instructor, and at least keep the next generation of marshals able to defend themselves. You could teach private self-defense. You could start a private PI business. Or you could take all the goddamned money you've collected over the years and take some well deserved time off to decide what you want to be when you grow up."

  "When I grow up?" she demanded, turning on him.

  "Thought you were asleep?" he said softly, his eyes glowing in the dark.

  "Why are you doing this to me?"

  "Because you're hurt. And I want to stop you from hurting. Need to." He was suddenly half furious now, but not at her. "Do you understand, Abby? You're not getting hurt again—not on my watch. I know what I did to you, and I know why I did it. I have to live with that. But I can, because it's for a goddamned good cause. You were meant for bigger things, Abby."

  She laughed. She couldn't help it. And once she started, she couldn't stop, because she kept thinking about almost being killed by not one, but two serial killers and the word "overachiever" kept popping into her mind. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was aware that Vance was looking at her like she was nuts. Good. Maybe that would make him and his CIA friends rethink their stupid plan to…wait. What was their plan?

  She immediately stopped laughing, which probably made her look crazier, and asked, "What the hell are you spouting off about? Don't you have an Instagram for your inspirational sayings like everyone else?"

  He frowned. He did that a lot around her. "Part of what happened when I interrogated you was a test."

  "Only part of it? What was the other part? A fun way for you to pass the time?" she challenged.

  "None of it was fun for me," he growled. "Not a fucking second of it. But there were things I needed to know, and I wouldn't have been satisfied if I hadn't been the one doing the questioning. I didn't trust anyone else to do it. I didn't trust anyone else to take care of you the way I did."

  She shoved the covers back and got out of bed, tossing over her shoulder, "If that's taking care of me, then I'd hate to see your torture policy—"

  "That's it." He stood and grabbed her. She struggled for a second, then remembered how futile it was. She'd need her strength for whatever he had planned for her this time.

  He got her into the bed again, pinned her underneath him on the mattress. Tonight, he wouldn't even pretend to give her the choice of being held down. Instead, he took his T-shirt off, carefully tied her wrists together and then held them in one hand. The other slid down between her legs, and to distract herself, she tried to keep their fight going. "Why do you care what my job is, or if I'm not happy? My happiness didn't matter to you when—"

  "Don't, Abby." His voice held a dangerous spark to it. All she had to do was let the match drop. Ignite it. Scorch the earth.

  Instead, she swallowed hard.

  Instincts, Abby. Trust yourself. Because there was so much more to Ethan's case. More to Vance and his feelings and that alone should scare the ever-loving hell out of her.

  It did. But it also intrigued her enough to remain placidly under him. If a racing pulse, hard nipples and wet sex were considered placid.

  "You want torture, Angel? I'll give you the kind that leaves you begging for more."

  Her blood ran hot at his words. Anger and lust proved a potent fuel for fantasy—but this was reality, pure and simple. A lit match to dry kindling. Instant heat.

  He pulled her body flush to his, his erection pressing her belly, demanding and impossible to ignore…just like the man holding her.

  She stared up into his eyes, daring him.

  She knew better than to poke at him, but defiance was all she had. "I think you overestimate your abilities in that area."

  His brows shot up. "Overestimate? Angel, you won't know your name when I'm done with you. And you won't care—you'll want more."

  She shuddered, hadn't been able to help herself. And Vance noticed. Took advantage of it by stroking her sex, fingering her and crooning how he was "Going to eat your pussy until you apologize for doubting me."

  "You can try, but I'm not sure you've got the stamina." God, she was pushing her luck and she wasn't sure if she should love or hate the fact that she'd never been more aroused in her entire life.

  "You want to try to make me beg instead?" he asked casually, his thumb putting the perfect amount of pressure on her clit as his finger slid in and out of her in perfect rhythm and God, she wanted more.

  And answering him was out of the question since she'd lost the ability to do much more than moan and buck against his hand…wantonly unable to stop. And finally, she was unable to not beg him to just "Goddammit, let me come."

  He chuckled, the self-satisfied laugh of a man who knew he'd won on many different levels. And then he lowered himself to bury his head between her legs and make good on his promise. His tongue was so talented… did he have some kind of training for that or was it all natural talent?

  She didn’t bother holding back—she heard herself whimpering pathetically but didn’t care because it was all so good. And he was watching her as he licked her, never breaking her gaze. She was trapped in a haze of climax after climax, her body alternately relaxing and tensing again as her womb contracted.

  And yes, she was definitely the one begging.

  Finally, he put her out of her misery, climbed her, refusing to release her arms as he entered her. He held her hips up so it was all him pounding into her. She could only lie there and take it, take all of him inside her, to the hilt.

  She came
first—again—and when he finally let himself climax, she got to watch him lose control. He threw his head back, closed his eyes and the tension in his neck corded, then relaxed as his hips pumped uncontrollably…and “Angel” escaped his mouth, along with a moan, before he collapsed on top of her.

  Abby dozed until Vance woke her again with a soft nuzzle against her neck, an insistent suckle on her nipple and a hand stroking between her legs.

  Not a bad way to wake up at all.

  He’d untied her after their first round of sex. This time, she wound her arms around his shoulders before he could stop her, ran her hands through his hair, enjoying the freedom of touching him. She stroked down his back, dug into his skin with her nails when he entered her, hard and sure and fast and God, she liked a man who took what he wanted.

  She liked that he wanted her. He leaned in and kissed her as his hips worked in rhythm with hers as she settled in for a long, slow ride.

  One minute, her eyes were closed and she was halfway to paradise. The next, her instincts flared and she tried not to tense and give anything away as she came to an awareness that somehow, even though they were alone in the room, they were being watched.

  "Vance…someone's here," she murmured. He was inside her and she was in such a vulnerable state. He didn't stop moving but he'd heard, and his entire countenance chanced. Their lovemaking, to an outsider, would look hot and heavy, but they were playing a role now.

  "He's outside. Can't get in," Vance told her.

  She nodded, closed her eyes against him. "Are they watching?"

  "Maybe."

  She screwed her eyes tighter and his arms banded around her protectively. He moved as if thrusting against her, but in reality, he'd pulled out, readying himself. "We're going to roll off the bed."

  Before the words were fully out of his mouth, he'd pulled her over the side. They landed, her on top of him. She shifted so they were both free and they waited, out of sight of the intruder. Somehow, Vance had his weapon—and his T-shirt for her. She pulled it on and he slunk away in the darkness, coming back only to slide her weapon to her—and motion for her to stay put.

  She didn't like that, wanted to be his backup, but it wasn't the time to argue. Not without giving away their plan or their position. So she waited, barely breathing, listening for any signs of struggle. When none came, she crawled out as close to on her belly as possible and looked through the shadows.

  The curtain that covered the sliding glass doors blew slightly from the ocean breeze, and it hadn't been opened earlier. Either Vance had gone outside that way or…

  She didn't stop to think about the "or." She headed for the door, trying to get a glance as the curtain moved. When a hand reached out to grab her wrist, she forced herself not to scream, not until she checked for Vance's tattoo.

  It was Vance's hand. The adrenaline still pumped through her body as he tugged her outside with him. Together, they stood on the small terrace in the dark.

  "He ran." Vance pointed to a faint line of footprints in the sand that she could make out if she squinted. "He had a good lead on me."

  "Did he get into a car?"

  "He ran pretty far along the beach. For all I know, he's still out there now, watching," Vance admitted. "That's what he gets off on doing. But I didn't want to leave you alone here in case he doubled back."

  On the ride home, they were both irritable and full of adrenaline. The buildup of sex with no orgasm—the indignity of being watched—made her fists clench every time she thought about it. Which she did a lot, in between thinking about how she always picked men who were temporary or bad for her.

  Vance was, unfortunately, not temporary and definitely bad for her. A double whammy that made the sex better and the circumstances that brought them together suck doubly.

  Until this point, she hadn't wanted to believe she was in true danger. Again. It just seemed like a high unlikelihood, like being stuck by lightning more than twice.

  But that didn't mean she was going to be the fish on the end of the CIA's hook—or Vance's either. But Vance didn't act like she was bait when he was in bed with her. And no man was that good of an actor when he was coming.

  Your instincts are still spot on, she encouraged herself.

  Knox pulled the cab to the curb and rolled down the passenger's side window, asking, "Did you call a cab?" to the group standing outside the restaurant.

  The long-limbed, dark-haired woman turned easily from the people she stood with toward him. She walked slowly over to the car and bent down to look inside the window…and smiled. "What service. I'll make sure to compliment you to your boss."

  "Don't bother. Get in." Knox motioned to the empty seat next to his with a nod of his head.

  She didn't mind his gruffness. Said it was part of his charm.

  Now, she crossed a long leg, her short skirt sliding up a toned thigh. How she hid weapons wearing so few clothes? Well, it didn't matter. He loved searching for each and every damned one.

  At first, their encounters to blow off steam were more random. Gradually, over the past five years, they'd begun an unspoken method of planning them, especially if more than six months passed without their paths crossing

  Now, Leila was becoming someone he thought about more and more, and he wasn't entirely happy about that.

  To be fair, neither was she. Leila was former Mossad—she worked for herself these days and preferred it that way. They were two people who desperately wanted to remain unattached, and from the outside looking in, they probably looked like idiots, circling each other, playing it cool. Because neither of them were cool at all when they got together.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket—Nita—or Dr. N, as they called her at the agency. He frowned and ignored it, because he was off for the night. For Vance or Abby, he'd pick up.

  For Leila too, he realized as she gave him a small smile and motioned for him to drive on.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A week later—complete with daily run-ins with Vance—Abby was annoyed as hell at the tail but feeling better physically. And she was officially going stir-crazy, thanks to the spinning of her own mind, coupled with the whole project of trying to avoid Vance, who was, of course, right outside her door. She'd never thought she'd actually be grateful to get a call about Mary but she practically raced to the diner to meet her.

  Apparently, Mary had requested to speak to Abby, since Sarah, her temp, couldn't authorize the request she'd placed.

  Of course, Vance would follow her, but Abby resigned herself to the fact that there was no shaking him. She was in danger—she couldn't put her witness into her danger.

  Abby steadied herself for yelling. Berating. Ridiculous demands. Looked forward to it, even. She ordered a burger and fries because she'd arrived an hour early and then she people-watched and waited.

  She was still looking for Mary when a woman walked up to her. She blinked and realized she was looking at Mary.

  What a difference a week could make.

  Mary had cut her hair to below her shoulders, a modern, blunt cut, and dyed it a beautiful blond. She looked…classy, and, Abby thought hesitantly, happy, even. She’d blossomed, and Abby didn’t know whether to feel thrilled or guilty. Truth be told, it was with a mix of both that she said to Mary, "You look fantastic."

  Mary actually blushed a little. Mary, who regularly cursed the marshals out on a daily basis for everything from her living situation to the number of channels she could get on the TV. There was still the air of toughness about her—Mary would always have that, and Abby thought it actually served her well. But gone was the bratty, chip-on-the-shoulder attitude, replaced by an inner peace that Abby figured she'd never achieve in her lifetime. What did it mean that Mary got there before her?

  Maybe Mary should be the one giving the lectures.

  "Thanks," Mary said finally, running a hand through her hair and shaking her head a little. "I just needed…to change." After a pause, she said, "I'm thinking of switching jobs, if that's a
ll right."

  "Well, tell me about it and I'll look into things."

  Mary started to say something, then bit it back. "It's the bookstore and coffee shop on the corner, right by the drugstore. I spoke with the owner and he says there's an opening for a full-time worker. Even an opportunity for overtime, plus benefits. His name's Josh."

  "I know him," Abby said. The bookstore had been there for at least five years, a neighborhood hangout. Not a bad place for Mary to be. "Is it because of Josh?" she asked bluntly. "Because that's never a good idea."

  Mary rolled her eyes and for a second she was the old Mary, complete with the scornful tone. "Please. Look, Josh is a nice guy and it's a great opportunity, but I'm not stupid. I'm not getting involved with anyone—not till I'm on my feet. The drugstore's boring. The bookstore's my kind of place."

  Abby would've pegged her comfort zone as more of a makeup/beauty salon/clothing retail—or not working at all, which was how they started out, with Mary being horrified of the actual word 'work.'

  I guess your instincts have been sucking all around lately, Abs. "Give the drugstore two weeks' notice—as long as the job's secured with Josh, I don't have a problem with it. Your paperwork's in order. Just remember—"

  "My story. I know." Then Mary smiled. "It's cool, Abby—don't worry."

  And since Mary's life was going better than Abby's, she couldn't.

  "Next week, you'll get someone new," Carl was telling her. Abby'd been barely listening up until that point, but that got her attention.

  She looked up from the pile of paperwork she'd been digging through since she left Mary. She'd been strangely energized about her job for the first time in forever, thinking maybe she could make a difference. But Carl's words deflated her immediately, because she knew what he was saying. Still, she attempted to play dumb. "Next week?"

  "Mary goes to trial next week," he reminded her.