by Incy Black
Making his way around the side of the building, Jack went to greet their visitor, hungry to tear stripes off someone. Will would do.
“Boss.” The man grinned, obviously pleased with himself.
Jack eyed the Jeep in disgust. “What the hell is that?”
“Borrowed it. And this.” Will stuck a red hardhat on his head. “I let it be known in a couple of the local pubs that I’m a surveyor working for a developer with an interest in this site. A cover story, should anyone grow suspicious about visitors to this dump of a facility. God, Jack, of all the places to bring Lowry.”
He didn’t appreciate the other man’s criticism. “She’s in the rec area. Follow me, and watch your step,” he growled.
“You left her on her own? In the dark?
“She’s cuffed to a pipe. And it wasn’t dark when I left her there.” Fuck, how long had he been standing there, lost in his musings? Jesus. Lowry—he didn’t know if the dark scared her. He quickly turned on his heel, only surprised that he was able to stop himself from running to her.
Will followed him. Bitching.
“Oh, very smooth move…not. She’s been through hell, Jack.”
He didn’t need Will’s icy reminder. The bullwhip lashing at his insides was chastising him just fine. “She’s under suspicion for murder.”
“Bollocks! She didn’t do it, and you know it. You’re just pissed off because she got under your skin a long time ago, and you can’t scratch the itch. Well, she got under all our skins. Learn to live with it. There’s no antidote. That’s Lowry.”
There wasn’t a lot he could say to that, he realized. A hot denial would insult his friend’s intelligence and, knowing Will, he’d extract his revenge with a relentless barrage of jibes and bad-taste insinuations—something Jack could do the fuck without.
Mouth in a tight line, Will held out his hand.
Jack slapped the key to Lowry’s restraints into the man’s palm.
He didn’t duck the hard fist Will planted against his shoulder to move him aside so he could go rescue Lowry.
Will didn’t hesitate when he saw her. He shrugged the two rucksacks from his shoulders and moving across to her, swiftly set her free.
Teeth clamped tight, Jack bit back an acid snarl as Will helped Lowry to her feet. He noticed she didn’t flinch when Will engulfed her in his arms—which he did with enthusiasm. Guess she had been scared all alone in the dark. Scared enough to overcome her aversion to a man’s touch and welcome a reassuring embrace. Which he should have been giving her, he realized too late.
“Clothes, shampoo, girly stuff, et cetera in this rucksack, basic food and provisions in the other. Did the savage tell you there’s a bathroom through there? Probably not. For a viscount, his manners shame the nation.”
On a filthy oath, Jack booted a fallen chair from his path and left the two of them to it.
Chapter Seven
Lowry listened to the clipped retreat of Jack’s footsteps and waited for them to fade. “That was brave of you, Will. He’ll make you pay for that little dig.”
He grinned. “The savage or the viscount? Don’t worry, he’ll get over it. The man hasn’t slept properly in an age, and it makes him cranky. Give him a bit of breathing room, and he usually returns in a better mood. Although maybe not on this occasion. HQ is apoplectic because he’s ducked below their radar. He’s sure pushing the boundaries of his luck this time.”
She moved across the grubby space to take a seat on the least damaged of the chairs. “So he’s in trouble.”
“You could say that, but he’s used to it. And he knows the team has got his back. Marshall’s pulling out all the stops for you—just so you know. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. Why would Jack do that, Will? Put his career in jeopardy.”
He tapped the spoon he was holding on the edge of a mug, his face suddenly grim. “It would take a braver man than me to ask him. You know what he’s like.”
Yes, she did, but that didn’t explain why Will was dithering over the making of coffee. Instant coffee!
“Will, what’s going on?”
He abandoned the mug and walked toward her, his reluctance showing in his leaden feet. “Sorry, Lowry, but I’ve got to do this.”
Her heart slowed to a heavy thump. She curled and flexed her fingers to encourage some blood flow.
His eyes sympathetic but wary, Will reached into his jacket pocket and pulled free a small device, to which he attached a somewhat tangled coil aerial. He also pulled out a couple of tear-shaped earphones, implanting one in his own lobe and gesturing that she should do the same with the other. “Marshall’s waiting at the other end.”
She swallowed with difficulty as she complied. “Uh…umm…” her voice faltered. Four years had passed since she’d last chanced a conversation with Nick Marshall, and he still intimidated the bejesus out of her.
“Hey, Lowry,” Marshall started gently. “It’s been a long time. Wish we could have met up under different circumstances. You okay?”
“Fine.” Too abrupt, but the tension straining her body had ratcheted sky high. Will and Marshall worked for the Service. Once she’d trusted them. Could she now? Patient Peter had minions. She didn’t know who. Where the hell was Jack? He might be an unpredictable SOB, but he was…he was…actually she didn’t care what he was, she just wanted him here.
She glanced over at the closed swing doors, willing him to return. Fate must have heard her. The doors screeched on their hinges as Jack pushed through.
Uncaring that ardent relief was probably written large across her face, she attempted a half smile. And failed.
He crossed to her, dropped to his haunches behind her, and leaned in close to share her earphone. His breath puffed warmly against her cheek. For a moment, she was tempted to rest her head against his shoulder.
Not happening. She leaned forward to increase the distance between them so the tease of his breath wouldn’t…well, tease. What in the hell was wrong with her? Will hadn’t made her feel edgy.
She sensed, rather than saw Jack stiffen behind her. And what the hell was wrong with him? If the tension emanating from him tightened any further, they’d likely all be sling-shot across the skies above London when it broke.
Jack being Jack, assumed control. “Marshall. It’s me. Let’s get this over and done with.”
Marshall’s voice took on a regretful edge. “Things don’t look good, Lowry. Forensics, naturally, put you at the scene. Your motive’s a bit of a puzzle, but frankly with your history—”
“It’s a slam dunk that I did it. Right?”
Marshall ignored her challenge. The poor man was probably embarrassed by the resentful bitterness she hadn’t been able to hide. “The hard drive from your security system’s missing. Any idea where it might be?”
Her mouth dried. Licking her lips with an arid tongue wasn’t worth a damn. “Well, obviously he’s got it,” she rasped out.”
“Who’s he, Lowry? And why would he want to frame you?”
The questions she’d been dreading. In these men’s eyes, the truth would put her in La-la-land. Without hard evidence, they’d never believe her. And as for admitting to being raped? No way. Absolutely, no way. Jack alone knew, and that was one person too many. She’d left him that stupid recording in a moment of madness, something she now deeply regretted.
Jack cut across her silence. “Adrian Wainwright will have had the guest list. Cross-reference the names with anyone connected with the Service. From four years ago. She recognized someone.”
“The gallery was fire-bombed last night, so any list is gone. And I need her to answer. Back off, Jack.”
All her precious artwork destroyed? Every single one of those pictures had been a notch signifying the slow climb of her returning self-respect. Proof that she hadn’t let her past crush her completely. Her chest tightened, too-rapid palpitations threatened to tear her chest in two. She rubbed damp palms, to and fro, from her thighs to her knees and back again. Rep
eatedly. Patient Peter was taking precautions, covering his tracks. She stilled when Jack put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.
“Put out a call for witnesses; work up a list of guests that way,” he ordered.
She swung her head round and stared at Jack in disbelief. He was trying to spare her. Running interference for her. There went his too-tough-to-care reputation. Shot down in flames by his own hand.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Jack. Right now, Lowry’s the only suspect I’ve got. She hasn’t got an alibi, and all the evidence is against her. Unless she gives me a name or, at the very least, another direction in which to look, she’s going down for murder. And I need to hear it from her, Jack… Maybe you should step outside?”
Nick Marshall was well past pissed off, she realized.
Jack, apparently, didn’t give a damn. He was quite emphatic about what he thought Marshall could do with his suggestion. She winced at his language. The agonizing silence that followed his tirade had her heart back to beating double time.
She felt the pressure from Jack’s fingers, still fixed around her shoulder, change from offering comfort to active restraint, and held her breath.
“Okay…there’s a tape—” he started, his voice soft, his tone painful with regret.
A tremor ripped though her. “No, Jack, he can’t. Please. What’s on that tape is private. It’s not essential to the investigation, not if you all just follow up on what I’ve told you already.” For the second time in her life, she was ready to plead.
“In the floor safe under the dresser in my kitchen,” Jack continued, his tone now strained. “Listen to it. Call me back.” He reeled off the combination.
She shook her head wildly, her hair lashing at her cheeks. “No. You can’t do this,” she whispered.
“The truth about what happened that night helps your credibility, Lowry,” he insisted quietly. “It provides a solid reason as to why someone is trying to frame you for a murder you did not commit.”
It was her turn to swear. To rant about why the Service wouldn’t recognize any truth she spoke if it bit them all on the ass.
Another, much longer this time, awkward silence followed when she ran out of breath.
Marshall’s voice eventually crackled to break the excruciating hush. “Lowry, I’m sorry, but I already found the tape, and I’ve listened to it. Jack’s going to need a new safe, and a new floor, too. Now I really need that son of a bitch’s name and all the details. I’ll have Jack and Will step outside, if that would make you more comfortable.”
Her stomach lurched. Jack and Will both had their heads down. God, Marshall had listened to the tape. He knew about the rape. Who else? “Does my father know?” she forced out with a whisper.
More silence.
“Marshall?”
“Yes, he knows, I was the one who told him. And, trust me, hearing about what had happened to you, damn near broke him.”
The pain ripped through her. She yanked free the earpiece and staggered to her feet. Stumbling over debris that got in her way, she sped to the bathroom where she retched up the contents of her stomach. Then tried to do the same with its lining.
Jack went ballistic. She could hear his bellowing through the walls. “She won’t discuss what happened. Certainly not with anyone connected with the bloody Service. By pushing her, Marshall, you’ve just cost me any opportunity I might have had of gaining her confidence and learning who the fuck was responsible for the murder of those women and for raping her. She was as close to opening up as I’ve ever known her to be, and now, she’ll have shut herself back down.”
Her stomach felt like a dejected, collapsed sack. She pushed from all fours and slumped her back to the wall. And she’d put his support, the glimpse of concern he’d shown, down to the fact that he must care? Stupid mistake. He didn’t care about her. Only the information she held had currency and, if she shared, even that would lose its value, faster than tin counterfeit coin. Because they wouldn’t bloody believe her.
…
Jack gestured for Will to go check on Lowry. He didn’t trust himself to do so. He wanted to bundle her up and escape with her. Take her home. Stand in front of the ornate wrought-iron gates to his family estate, Sig in hand, and shoot dead the very next person stupid enough to try and violate her in any way.
Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t been home in years. A self-imposed penance for the trust he’d broken. For what he’d let happen to his brother.
The image of his brother in a smashed heap, destined never to move under his own momentum again, was all the reminder he needed of what he did not want—involvement, love. To give a damn. If that meant jack-booting all over Lowry’s privacy, then so be it.
“Marshall, I’ll tell you what little I know, then leave it with me. I’ll get the identity of the rapist from her one way or another.” He cut the connection, thrust upright, and paced to the window. Turning, he hurled the earpiece away and cursed a vicious blue-tartan streak.
Hands on his hips, he tilted his head back and stared at what was left of the ceiling. Hearing Lowry’s wild suspicions about the Service being rotten trip from his own lips had only made her accusations sound even more far-fetched. He’d sensed Marshall had felt the same.
“She wants five minutes,” Will interrupted, bending to retrieve the earpiece. “I heard what you told Marshall, and yes, it sounds crazy, but give her the benefit of the doubt. It’s the least she deserves. If what she claims is true, the Service owes her a hell of a lot more than that.”
He was saved from responding to his friend’s marked disgust by Lowry’s return. She looked broken or, at least, bruised. That was the expression her father had used. Dark smudges beneath her eyes stood in stark contrast to her pallor. She was hugging herself again, a trait he’d grown to loathe. It smacked of isolation and a distrust of everything, everyone. His own arms itched to wrap around her.
He rolled his shoulders. He’d be lucky if she allowed him to share the same air she breathed, let alone get within an arm’s length of her. From the expression on her face when he’d offered up the whereabouts of that damned tape to Marshall, he’d been dead to her. Jesus, he’d been stabbed, shot, suffered broken ribs, endured three weeks of torture at the hands of rebels in the Congo—and none of it had hurt like this. Not even close.
He froze when she approached Will and slumped against him, his friend’s arms folding around her to hold her tight. Sonofabitch. Four years ago—just how close had those two got? And how could he not have noticed? A white-hot burn seared through him. Jealous? Him? He’d cut his own head off first.
“Will, go and check the perimeter.”
“I’m staying with Lowry. She’s shaking.”
“That was a goddamn order, not a fucking request. Now move.” Jack ignored his friend’s undisguised look of contempt. He’d begun to wonder just how well-suited Will was to the Service…and realized how very well-suited his friend was to Lowry. To heal, she needed gentle. Will could do gentle. She needed warmth and security. Will could provide both. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t know where the hell to start. “So what’s keeping you?” he barked.
He knew his reaction was way over the top. What he couldn’t fathom was why he hadn’t been able to reign in his temper. Yes, it escaped when he allowed it to, but never before had it had done so without his permission.
“That was completely unnecessary, Ballentyne, and you know it. Will’s the only thing about this hideous situation that makes it half tolerable.”
“Lowry, sit over there and be quiet.” It would appear that his temper wasn’t yet ready for containment.
“Or what, Jack?”
He couldn’t believe the fragile woman he’d thought broken half a moment ago was standing up to him, hands on hips, her eyes flashing storms. “I’ll cuff you and lock you in the car down below,” he threatened gruffly. This was more like the Lowry he remembered. As irritating as all hell. Pissed off. Full of fire. Ready to fight
her corner or die trying. Christ, she was magnificent. No wonder half his men had lost their heads over her.
The heavy weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all these years eased a little. He hadn’t destroyed her, not completely. She might look fragile, feel and act it most of the time, but the brat was still in there somewhere. He’d just seen it.
She held her defiant stance for a full minute before she huffed and followed his order.
It would only be a short reprieve, he knew. She’d hit back somehow; she always did. Eventually. And though she’d never handled violence well, there was no denying she was a master when it came to ambush. He ought to know. He’d lost count of the number of nights he’d lain awake trying to anticipate her next move.
A few minutes later, she broke the quiet. “I’m hungry. I’ll make lunch.”
He took one look at her pinched, pale face. “No. I’ll do it.”
“Worried I’ll poison you, Ballentyne? Don’t think I’m not tempted.” He moved toward the rucksacks and checked the contents. “I hope you like Spam and beans…for lunch, supper, and breakfast.”
“Will did his best. It’s not as if you gave him time for a full gourmet shop, my Lord. He’ll bring other provisions when he gets a chance.”
He ignored the ridiculous curtsey she dropped and gritted his teeth to stop himself jeering at her for defending a man who, only a short time earlier, he’d been happy to consider a friend.
As he decanted the cold baked beans onto two disposable plates, he watched Lowry sift through the clothing Will had brought her. And very nearly choked on his tongue when she twirled a red silk thong around her forefinger. “Damn, that man must have had fun,” she laughed shakily. “Great taste, too. No wonder he had little time to buy food.” She added a few more skimpy insignificants to the one hanging from her forefinger.
He swallowed, not finding it easy. She was deliberately winding him up, and it was working. If there was the one thing he’d always been able to guarantee, it was that her revenge would be sweet…and it would hurt! Just as he was certain that beneath all that flirtatious bravado, Lowry was in agony. Distrusting, frightened, and appalled at having had her privacy invaded.
