Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

  An interview. A calm, emphatic denial of possible corruption in the corridors of power. A rebuke that such a suggestion was not only unsustainable, but also unconscionable.

  Her skin no longer burned; it iced, as if touched by death itself. “Jack, who’s that?” The strain of trying to sound halfway casual nearly severed her vocal cords.

  He turned his head to the side and threw a glance at the screen. “Patient Peter Forsythe. So called for his tact and diplomacy in easing conflict and settling quarrels between state departments. He’s the acknowledged doyen of the Civil Service. Powerful, very influential. Respected for his integrity. Governments will come and go, but he’ll be a permanent fixture in Whitehall—thank God. I’ve met him a few times. I like him. So, incidentally, does your father. He’s one of the good guys. Why?”

  She was out of bed and force-feeding random clothing into her rucksack. Arms crisscrossed in front, she clasped the hem of her faded pajama top. Pausing, she glared at him. “A bit of privacy Ballentyne—turn your back.”

  Not waiting to see if he’d comply, she turned her own instead. Discarding the top—wildly thrown, who cared where it landed?—she pulled on a long sleeved, black T-shirt. She tugged her hair impatiently when it caught in the collar, then shimmied free of her tiny boy shorts, replacing them swiftly with hip-slung, dark jeans. She had to spring upward on her toes to release her heels from the hems before plunging her bare feet into sneakers.

  “What in hell’s triggered you this time?”

  She was at the door and spinning tumblers before he could stop her. Her final words, muffled by the slammed door were, “Check the lemons.”

  …

  By the time Jack had wrestled past the trap of locks and followed her into the narrow, empty street, she’d disappeared.

  Hurling the door shut, he glared at the barred skylight that rattled under his violence. Last night, Lowry’d base-jumped the edge of reason, and, damn it all to hell, he’d followed her. Without a parachute.

  Because she’d looked so damned vulnerable. And, fool that he was, he’d felt the heavy knock of responsibility. Not regret. Not guilt. Responsibility.

  He’d once been her commanding officer, for God’s sake. And, because of that, he’d borrowed trouble. First, by escorting her home. Then, by standing guard over her through the night. Now this. She’d flipped and gone.

  A soft growl, low and deep, rumbled at his feet. He looked down. Right into the amber eyes of the ugliest looking cat he’d ever seen—part ginger, part black, huge, one ear missing.

  He dropped to his haunches. Trust Lowry to have befriended an outcast. Two damaged warriors, both abandoned, together against a world they couldn’t understand and didn’t trust.

  He extended his arm, then snatched it back, hissing in concert with the beast. Rubbing the lacerations on his wrist, he cursed extinction on all things remotely feline, especially Lowry-bloody-Fisk.

  Pushing upright, he surveyed the concrete prison she had tellingly called her sanctuary, and shuddered. Vast and pin-neat it might be, but it was coffin-like nevertheless. How the hell did she live like this? Why the hell did she live like this?

  His eyes flicked to the TV screen.

  Icy fingers danced along his spine. If Lowry went public with her insane theories—that the Service was corrupt, that agents were selling secrets and offering protection to criminal elements—given her reputation and medical history, this god-awful space would seem like utopia in comparison to where they’d lock her up. And no one, not even he, would be able to save her this time.

  Turning the empty space indigo with his curses, he reached into his pocket for his phone and hit speed dial. “Will, I need a pick-up. Same drop-off address as last night. Fifteen minutes.”

  He wandered over to the recessed platform she called a bed. The sheets were crumpled. She’d had a bad night.

  Stepping to the side, he stooped and picked up her discarded pajama top. Then dropped it as if it had burst into flames. Jesus, had he really been intent on raising it to his nose to inhale her scent?

  He’d run out of things to call himself by the time he reached the kitchen area. Retrieving the remote, he killed the television. Resting his hip against the counter, and arms folded across his chest, he glared belligerently at the lemons. He suspected they were mocking him. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the one on top, examined it, and then tossed it aside, uncaring that it rolled free of the counter and thudded dully on the floor. He did the same with a further five.

  The seventh, he paused over. It didn’t feel right. He squeezed. Juice trickled from an inch-long slit, and the scent of lemon cut the air.

  He inserted his forefinger and damn near made himself blush with his language when he hit something solid. Curling his finger, he hooked free a mini-cassette wrapped securely in cellophane. Who used these anymore? Damn thing belonged in an antique shop. He peeled free the protective covering, scrunched it into a tight ball, and slipped the cassette into his pocket. Where the hell was his ride?

  He’d almost escaped when unfamiliar concern pricked.

  He eyed the cat, which eyed him right back. Who knew when its mistress would return? He grabbed his jacket, dropped it over the brute, and moved fast to grapple with the wildly undulating leather. Earned himself a sharp nip for his trouble. Will Berwick had better like cats, he decided, because he was about to acquire one.

  …

  Back at his Notting Hill home, which few knew about, Jack riffled through a deep kitchen drawer. The one where he dumped everything useless, but with which he was reluctant to part—wrenches, their grip too worn for further use, wall plugs, plastic lighters, keys without a home, and…an old mini-cassette recorder.

  He flicked the switch. Lifeless. Back to the drawer. He must have some spare batteries somewhere.

  He slammed the drawer shut, scanned his various kitchen devices for likely bounty, and, savaging the air with a curse, strode through to his den. He wrestled free two batteries from the television remote. He looked up. The ugliest cat in the world seemed to be grinning at him. The scratches on his wrist burned.

  Even when Jack had pulled rank, Will had refused point blank to take the beast. “Sorry, boss, I’m allergic.” The man would pay for wimping out. Finally set, Jack reclined back on his sofa with his feet braced on the antique coffee table in front of him. He took a belt of whisky—straight from the bottle, high-five to the bachelor life—and depressed the play button.

  Lowry’s lilt broke across his den.

  Ballentyne, if you’re listening to this then I’ve gone. For good this time. To anyone else, I’d be obliged if you would forwarded this tape to him…

  She reeled off his home address. He frowned. That was classified information. In the wrong hands… Christ, she wouldn’t sit down for a week once he got a hold of her again!

  …You want to know why I was so damn certain the man I saw at the gallery was the same one from the warehouse the night of the raid? You want to know why all that rigorous training you subjected me to, failed?

  He raped me, Jack. Caught me unaware, took me down, and raped me. Admittedly, it was my own fault. You were right. I shouldn’t have been there. You were also right with your prediction that I’d freeze in the face of raw violence. That I would panic, lose my head, and put the team at risk. I should have saved those girls. Someone better would have.

  But you failed too, Jack. I wouldn’t have had to go it alone if you’d just had a little faith in me. If you’d just kept an open mind, done your job, and had the decency to assign someone to check out my theories.

  You let me down, Jack, but you let yourself down more.

  Who knew your team would strike the warehouse at midnight? Who warned the cartel to expect you? Didn’t you find the high level of resistance you met odd? And who authorized your use of extreme force? In London, for Christ’s sakes. Why was your team even sent in? There was no threat to national security. Those men were criminals, not a terrorist threat.

&
nbsp; Find him, Jack. The man inside the Service. The one providing protection for the cartel. Start with the list of guests who attended my exhibition. Adrian will have a copy.

  One more thing. A personal request. Keep the matter of my rape to yourself. There’s nothing to gain by sharing it, and I’ve earned the right for that little humiliation to remain private.

  Bye, Jack. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we don’t meet again. Watch your back and, as always, mind who you trust.

  The torturous hiss of discordant white noise reached through his numbness. Jack depressed the stop button. Rewound the tape a few revolutions, and hit play.

  …He raped me…

  He hit stop, then rewind. Pressed play again.

  …He raped me…

  He couldn’t stop himself repeating the stop-rewind-play action, any more than he could silence his mind screaming over and over—find Lowry. Save her. Fucking apologize.

  Chapter Four

  Peter Forsythe dismissed his secretary without thanks or a smile. No need for politeness, or niceties of any kind. There was no one watching, no one listening, and she wouldn’t gossip. Not with him holding those decidedly distasteful photos of her doing the nasty with three men—none of them her husband—in his safe.

  His pocket vibrated. He didn’t need to check caller ID. Only one man had the number to his “special” cell phone. “Speak.”

  “I’ve tracked down the girl’s address. I’m on my way now. She rarely goes out, so she’ll be there.”

  “You sound certain of that.”

  “Not as certain as the person in the trunk of my car. According to him, she connects with no one. Has her art supplies and groceries delivered by courier. If she communicates at all, it’s by email. She refuses to carry a phone. She doesn’t trust them. She’s out in the cold, has been for years. If you want her to disappear, no one will miss her.”

  “No. Not yet. Not with Jack Ballentyne sniffing around. He was at the gallery.”

  “Hah, that bastard I’ll do for free.”

  Patient Peter clicked his tongue in a staccato of fussy tut-tuts. “No one ‘does’ Jack Ballentyne. You, of all people, should know that. Turn around. Don’t go anywhere near her. I need time to think. Keep your phone on, and take care of your passenger. We might need him for leverage.”

  Patient Peter cut the call and took advantage of the backward tilt of his cushioned leather desk chair. He smiled. “Patient Peter”—the nickname pleased him. It was so very, very apt.

  But never less so than at this moment. In an eruption of violence, he thrust to his feet and swept the files from his desk, papers scattering like leaves in the wind.

  There was no doubting the girl had recognized him. And she was Lowry Fisk? The Commander’s daughter? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He never made mistakes. And he wouldn’t tolerate this slip up.

  Breathing heavily, he sank back into his seat and clasped his hands as if in serene prayer. Now, how best to neutralize her without arousing suspicion?

  …

  His Sig in hand, Jack left the lights off as he made his way, silent as an unshared secret, through the kitchen to his back door. He wasn’t expecting a visitor, not at three in the morning. Bold of them to ring his bell. Foolish too, the mood he was in.

  He slipped outside and checked the shadows of the rear courtyard behind his home and then hefted himself up onto the nine-foot wall. He dropped down the other side, landing soundlessly, and edged his way to the front corner of his house.

  His back flush against the wall, he ducked his head forward to see around the brickwork. Christ. He’d know that silhouette anywhere. Lowry.

  Holstering his gun inside the waistband of his jeans, snug against his spine, and with one hand for leverage on the black metal railings marking his front boundary, he vaulted and then triple-jumped the front length of his house. He barreled into the slight figure, pushing her tight into the shadow of the small alcove protecting his front door, his fingers simultaneously punching the code to release the lock.

  He surged forward into the house, the unwelcome visitor caged in his arms, then kicked the door shut with the back of his heel. He hustled his prisoner down the dark corridor to his kitchen. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

  No answer. Something was wrong. He released her, stepped back, crossed to the wall, and hit the lights. “Fuck, Lowry, what the hell have you done?”

  Blood stains, richer and darker than the brown of her T-shirt—not the same one he’d seen her pull on that morning, before she’d fled her home—soaked her front. Crimson whirls coated her hands and naked arms. Dried blood, dead claret in color, smudged one high cheekbone. Jesus, it was even in her hair.

  Her eyes, tortured green and dull, stared back at him, unfocused.

  With an oath, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the sink. He spun the faucet and plunged her arms into the gush of water, rubbing briskly to dislodge the horrific stains.

  The sink turned pink.

  He all but begged her to resist, to protest, yell at him, anything.

  Not a sound.

  Her puppet-like countenance as he adjusted her body to better take advantage of the flow spooked the hell out of him. Fuck. She’d disengaged. “Oh no you don’t, Fisk, not this time, not again,” he muttered furiously.

  Scooping her into his arms, he ran back into the hall and charged the stairs to the upper floor. He imprinted the tread mark of his boot on the bathroom door, and one arm tight around Lowry, set the shower to hot with his free hand.

  That she didn’t slap at him, or even protest, when he stripped her down to her underwear, scared two decades off his life.

  He shoved her into the cubicle and positioned her dead center beneath the full force of the spray. Her feet slipped, and she tilted precariously. Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks. Left alone, she’d hurt herself.

  Shuffling out of his boots, he joined her in the shower.

  He scrubbed and rinsed her head to toe, calling himself every kind of deviant for registering how delicious she smelled with his soap clinging to her skin. Damn stuff, it wasn’t supposed to have a scent.

  When she did respond, it was to lean in close. Wrapping her arms tight around his waist, she lowered her forehead to his chest. Somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

  Awkward.

  Scrubbing at her skin was one thing. Placing his hands on her naked skin—all slick with water and promising heaven—for pleasure, quite another.

  His teeth ached. He strained against the need to hold, his arms two pillars of lead by his side.

  Bloody hell, he didn’t need this. Had he lost his sodding mind? That had to be half a crime scene swirling down the drain. Anyone else showing up on his doorstep, injury-free but coated in blood—someone else’s blood—and he’d have had them at gunpoint.

  Hands firm around her shoulders, he eased her away and, stretching behind her, abruptly cut the downpour. He bundled her into a towel, rubbing vigorously, as he maneuvered her to his bedroom.

  “Ditch the bra and panties, then get into bed,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He snagged a fresh pair of jeans and a top for himself before quitting the room fast. Christ, he only hoped she’d registered his instructions. No way in hell was he removing her underwear—no-nonsense white cotton, modest in cut, but which had turned tantalizingly transparent, thanks to the shower.

  …

  Her fingers fumbling with the fussy clasp on her bra, Lowry did as he’d ordered and climbed between the sheets. Turning her head into his pillow, in need of an anchor against the nightmare crashing around her, she inhaled his essence deep. Then she remembered. Remembered his first reaction when he’d flicked on the kitchen lights. Accusatory.

  Jack returned, glass in hand, his face unreadable.

  Not good.

  Sitting upright, she skidded her back tight against the headrest of the bed and pulled the sheet high and tight beneath her chin. “I need to leave,” she blurted. “The first
thing you asked me was what I’d done—not if I was okay, but what I’d done. You didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You’re in my bed aren’t you? That should tell you something.”

  His snarl cut the fading remnants of her earlier dulled state. “What? That your reputation for being a fast operator is true?”

  “Charming. Now who’s not giving the benefit of the doubt?”

  She glared distrust. He glared offense…and something else. Oh, Christ. The tape. She’d been falling off an emotional cliff when she’d recorded it. Full of vinegar and spite and self-pity. Yes, she’d wanted to punish him. And, yes, she’d hoped he’d go after the truth. But she’d made the recording believing she’d never see him again.

  Cracking open her eyelids, unsure of quite when they’d fallen shut, she caught him frowning, staring pointedly at her hand, as she gnawed at a cuticle of her forefinger. “I’m not a victim. I won’t be labeled one,” she whispered fiercely, more for her own sake than for his.

  “Then stop behaving like one. Here, drink this.”

  Didn’t matter that she knew Jack to be abrupt by nature, that eschewing all emotion himself, he never spared the feelings of others. His bluntness still made her gasp. The man was heartless. No, worse. He had no soul.

  She took the glass from him, her hand trembling so badly, the rich amber fluid threatened to spill. She set it aside on the small cabinet beside her, un-sipped. “I didn’t do it.”

  Reaching forward, he lifted the glass, took her hand, and fixed her fingers around its base. “Knock it back. All of it. Then start from the beginning.”

  Fire scorched the back of her throat. Mid-splutter, she nearly heaved when the whiskey-burn hit her stomach. Eyes watering, she waited for her breath to return. Would he believe her? Or, given the damning evidence stacked against her, would he judge her guilty and turn her in? Hard to tell with Jack. He wasn’t an easy man to predict.

  Though it had failed to protect her before, she fell back on the truth. It was all she had. “I went home. I was worried about Claude.”