by Incy Black
“Defiant upward tilt of the chin, color loss except for the faintest tinge of pink high on your cheekbones, gray bruising out the green in your eyes, right side of your bottom lip nipped beneath teeth—you’re hurting.”
“Made quite a study of me, haven’t you, Jack?”
He shifted in his seat. “I’m trained to read body language,” he muttered in a way that made her wonder just who he was trying to convince. Himself or her?
Then he dragged himself back on track. “Bugger the Service, Patient Peter’s going down. And don’t look at me like that. As if I’d just tased you. Yeah, I’m a convert,” he flicked the newspaper in disgust. “Can’t think of anyone else who would have had the gall to pull this bullshit.”
“Which is why you can’t just up and go after him. He wants to provoke you. He’ll take any excuse to have you shot dead.”
“So what do we do, Lowry, given you appear to have such an excellent hold on the situation?”
She ignored his biting sarcasm. Emphatically preemptive in nature, Jack wasn’t used to being out-maneuvered. Besides, her solution was likely to provoke something far worse than a little acerbity. “We retreat. Hide while we wait for him to make his next move. What else can we do, Jack?”
She waited for the nuclear explosion. Instead, his stare was akin to a full body exfoliation with the blunt blade of a rusting axe head. When he did look away, it was to hunch his shoulders. An unspoken warning to her not to dare trespass.
She suspected the full magnitude of who, and what, they were up against was finally hitting home.
Reaching out to him with weak platitudes, even if she could breach the barrier he’d erected against her, wouldn’t help. She doubted there were words adequate enough to appease him, either about the situation or to numb the sting of the criticism she’d leveled against him.
Jack knew the score.
If he returned to the Service, he would be anchored to a desk, and to a man of action like Jack, directing operations—his men—from the comfort of an office chair was unthinkable. He led from the front. A backseat, no matter how powerful, wouldn’t do.
In stripping him of his anonymity, they’d found his Achilles’ heel. Hanging back would slowly destroy him.
And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to put it right.
She stared at the muddy dregs at the bottom of her mug, gave them a brief swirl, and tried not to think about the source of the greasy film that had settled on the surface of her coffee as it cooled.
Dare she unfurl her fist, reach out and cover his hand, crossed-hatched with old scars, with her own? Would he appreciate her gesture of support? No, like before, he’d most likely take it as an insult and recoil. It wasn’t sympathy he was looking for. It was revenge.
That’s what made them so different. When beaten, she preferred a grateful, and very thorough, retreat. It was enough for her to have survived. Jack, on the other hand, would insist on going down fighting. He’d concede nothing. He’d strike back even as the last breath quit his body and, even then, it was unlikely the stubborn bastard would stay down.
She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, her throat tightening.
In need to something—anything—to do, she sighed and pushed to her feet. Skirting tables, she made her way to the service point and ordered two fresh coffees. She grabbed a handful of sugar packets for Jack.
Head down, she threaded her way back to their table, the mugs scorching her fingertips, and edged back into her seat. She nudged one mug in his direction.
He didn’t say a word.
Nor did she.
She wished she’d had the foresight to forget the sugar. Returning for it would have given her an excuse to escape the oppressive weight of his detachment. Even if only for a few moments.
Instead, angling the top half of her body across the width of the table, she kept her voice low, barely above a whisper. “I know I said that they would never allow you to walk away from the Service unpunished, but my father would never have sanctioned your exposure. He could help, Jack.”
“Yeah, right. Why the hell do you think he’s the Commander of the Service? What he doesn’t know about a political two-step can’t be taught. Bet he recites, ‘the ends justifies the means’ every night before he goes to bed, and every fucking morning when he wakes up.”
“But…” She bit her lip, slumped back into her seat and dropped her gaze to the sticky table surface to avoid his stony glare. If looks could kill, she’d be lying prone at his feet.
“Lowry, do me a favor and wipe the look of guilt off your face. We both know who’s responsible for this, and it certainly isn’t you or your father. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to forgive him for letting this happen, any more than I can forgive myself. Come on. We’re leaving. We’ve been here too long as it is.” He thrust upright, scrapped back his chair, and headed for the exit.
He didn’t check to see if she followed.
By the time she caught up with him, he already had his phone fixed to his ear. He pointed a finger at her to stop her from drawing too close and gave her his back.
Her own temper flared.
She was ready to accept full blame for stupidly bringing danger to her own door. Proving she’d survived and done so splendidly, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, had been naïve, vain, and arrogant. If she hadn’t agreed to the exhibition and the headline publicity, this hideous chain of events might have been averted. Adrian would still be alive. Jack would not have been compromised, and she could have continued to heal quietly. Privately.
She’d made a huge mistake miscalculating the risk of her assailant recognizing her, and she’d carry the regret and shame of that failure to her dying day. But she had not invited the attention of the Service, and she hadn’t asked for Jack’s stubborn protection. This was not her fault. Not entirely.
Her mind made up, she waited while Jack put the phone back into his pocket, then stalked over to him. “If that call wasn’t to my father, then it should have been. It’s not in your nature to run, so go back to London, Ballentyne. Sort out whatever is going on from there.”
“Brilliant advice, especially coming from you. Or are you offering to accompany me? You’re a fugitive from the law; I’m duty bound to take you in. You prepared to walk back into the Cube and just hand yourself over? No, I didn’t think so.” He flayed her with a scathing look. “Funny how it’s okay for you to have trust issues, yet you deny anyone else the privilege.”
“I have reasons not to trust, as you well know.”
“What, and you think I don’t?”
She hated the bite in his tone, but she refused to back down. “Things are different, Jack. You have people who will believe in you and back you to the hilt. Will, Marshall, the rest of your team. And my father, you can rely on him.”
“Can I, Lowry? You didn’t.”
“For God’s sake, this is not about me.”
“Keep your voice down,” he snapped, stepping close. “And you’re wrong. This is all about you. It started with you, and it will end with you. Who else knows about Patient Peter Forsythe, aside from me? And don’t bother lying, Lowry. You’re silence protects no one. Lives are at risk.”
She shook her head helplessly. “No one else knows. Who’d believe me, Jack? Who’d take the word of a conspiracy-crazy, ex-operative against that of a respected member of the Establishment? That’s why you have to go back. I don’t have the credibility to fight him. You do.”
“Undercover agents with their identities blown aren’t exactly in hot demand. No, that fucker Patient Peter has effectively isolated us both. You’re wanted for murder. I’m neutralized. I’m not even authorized to carry a gun at present. Not with my resignation still sitting on your father’s desk. With Will incapacitated—yes, that’s who I called—I’ve haven’t got anyone on the inside able to schmooze a way past John Smith to retrieve it.”
She damn near stamped her foot. He couldn’t just give up. “So what do we do, Jack?”
/>
His frown lasted long enough for her to worry that it might have become permanent. “We stay out of sight until Marshall clears you of Wainwright’s murder. Then we use you. He raped you, Lowry. File a civil suit—your word against his.”
It took her a moment to absorb his words.
Then, ribs crushing her chest, a horrendous roaring in her ears, she spun away. Only to have her wrist clamped tight. “I’m not in the mood to chase you down. Get a grip.”
“I won’t testify, Jack. I’ll be ripped to shreds. Find another way. I’m not going public about the rape. And, don’t you dare try and guilt trip me with a lecture about stopping him so other girls don’t have to suffer what I went through.”
He released her wrist, and dug untidy furrows in his hair as his fingers raked. “I wasn’t going to. You’re not, and never have been, responsible for his actions. So scrape off the guilt. You’ve been through enough. What I meant was Patient Peter has no way of knowing you won’t testify. He daren’t risk the public exposure a lawsuit would bring even if he manages to get the case thrown out of court. He needs you dead now, and the longer we keep you alive, the more desperate he’ll become. And desperate men make mistakes. We wait him out.”
Excellent. He was laying a trap with her as the bait. “And how exactly do you plan on keeping me alive? His reach is monumental, Jack. Look at what he’s done to you. If you need a reminder, revisit that newspaper piece. He has help. He’s got minions. Highly placed minions. How do you protect a person, who I might add has zero credibility, against a force as powerful as that?”
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “Actually, your father gave me the answer to that when he, somewhat dangerously, raised the subject of my family before I took you into protective custody. I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this, but I think I know the perfect place for us to take cover.”
…
Harrick Hall was as imposing as it sounded, and he knew Lowry was intimidated, not least by its size.
In the falling dusk, his inheritance hunkered like a beast in the shadows of the hills rising behind it. Four stories high, the elegant sweep of Georgian window frames lining each level did little to soften its mathematically precise lines. That two wide, equally splendid wings flew east and west from the main manor only added to the architectural statement that the Hall had been built by the very best for a powerful family, extraordinarily rich and cresting the highest social echelons, a masterpiece of its time.
And it had been a damned eternity since he’d been back.
He shot a glance at Lowry. The visor of her helmet up, her lovely eyes had never looked wider. Serves her right for taunting him about his title. From her shocked expression, the reality of who and what he was, a viscount and the heir, by a bare five minutes, to this ancient pile and the surrounding land that stretched as far as the eye could see, had never fully struck home. She also looked terrified.
“Come on, we’ll leave the bike and helmets here, skirt the tree line, and duck in through the rear courtyard. Stick to the shadows. I don’t want to alert anyone to the fact we’re here. The Hall might be under surveillance. It’s unlikely, but I don’t want to take the risk.”
He placed one hand on her shoulder not just to ensure she stayed down, but also to steer her through the dark. Her reluctance bucked beneath his palm. He firmed his grip. When she turned her head to protest, he tried to scowl her into submission. As unusual, it didn’t work. Never had with her.
“I’m not taking another step, Ballentyne. Not until you tell me what’s going on. What are we doing here? Surely this is the first place they’d look for you.”
“Hardly. I haven’t been back in damn near a decade. And it’s well known my family and I are…distant.”
“So what the hell are we doing?”
“Frankly, I’m not entirely sure. All I know is you’ll be safe here.”
“And what about your family, Jack? How safe are they going to be?”
“Let me worry about that.”
He firmed his fingers around her shoulder to stop her from retreating back into the copse through which they’d just crept. That flight instinct of hers had reared its ugly head.
“Who exactly lives here, Jack?”
“My parents and Richard, he’s my twin. Maybe a couple of my other brothers who use it as a bolt hole when on leave.”
He caught her as she stumbled on a hidden root.
“What, you don’t know?’
He heaved a sigh. Would she never stop with the questions? “It’s been a long time, and I may have understated the distance I mentioned earlier. It’s complicated, Lowry.” Another understatement. He was about to confront an anguished past he’d sworn never to revisit.
“You don’t have to do this, Jack,” she said gently.
Gently? Oh, Christ. He did not need her reaching out to him with…with…well, that. Whatever the hell “that” was.
His feet stopped moving. The hit of adrenaline instant—the gush of blood through his veins, his pulse struggling to catch up. Very occasionally it kicked in when a mission went to shit and an urgent retreat was in order. He waited for the icy calm that usually followed to take hold. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“Just that I know about running, especially from yourself. You don’t have to do this. Not for me.”
More of that.
“Your expertise in running has never been in question, Lowry. Christ, you wrote the bloody book. But don’t presume to know me. That sense of tragedy I can see glinting in your eyes is insulting.”
He gave her a nudge to get her feet moving. He wasn’t looking forward to this anymore than she. His dread was as strong as hers, probably stronger, but at least he had his I-don’t-give-a-fuck mindset to fall back on. “Stop worrying. While I can’t rule out a certain amount of growling, I very much doubt anyone will bite. And certainly not in front of you. We Ballentynes are known for our social graces and impeccable manners.”
His attempt at some levity worked—well, kind of worked. From the incredulous look she gave him over her shoulder, she clearly believed something had gone dramatically wrong with his education in that field.
He grinned and moved in front of her to take the lead. If he had to do this, confront his family after all this time, face Richard in particular, there was no one he’d rather have by his side than this somewhat crazy, hugely exasperating, and totally complex woman. Because, without a doubt, he knew she’d have his back.
An admission he wanted to pull his gun on and shoot. He’d let her down in so many ways, he’d lost count. The last thing he deserved was her loyalty. He’d felt the tug of something beyond simple lust, days into her joining his team. Something dangerous. A need to connect that had him wanting to beat his chest and shout trust me, let me take care of you. After what had happened to Richard? Not. A. Chance.
So he’d pushed her away.
And the “need” had only gotten worse when she stubbornly refused to quit. Even though he’d subjected her to the harshest training regime he could think of, scoffing when she got things wrong.
Finally, he’d taken to ignoring her and all she had to say. Well, not entirely, he’d listened, he just hadn’t responded in the way she needed. So she’d flown solo. Unprotected. Which had resulted in her getting raped and then him shooting her, for fuck’s sake.
A scar he would carry with his others. Those he’d earned for each harsh word, each betrayal he dealt her over the years to ensure he kept his distance—and she bloody well kept hers.
Lying beside her in that tent had damn near killed him. Lying across her moments later to prevent her flight had been agony. He had put her off-limits years ago, the one decent thing he’d done for her, but with her beneath him, soft, curved, slowly calming, he’d damned near broken and given in to temptation.
He’d had to resurrect his hard bastard persona fast. But God, she was resilient. In her own way, Lowry didn’t know how to give up.
And he couldn’t wait to introduce her to his parents.
He halted abruptly. She ploughed into his back.
When the hell had introducing her to his family taken on significance? He wasn’t out to please them. He’d burned those bridges years ago. Why should they care? Why should he? God, he hoped they liked her.
Completely felled by the ferocity of that last thought, furious that, despite his efforts, she’d snuck past his defenses, he swung round and snarled, “Damn it, Lowry, a brass band would be less conspicuous. Concentrate.”
“You concentrate. You’re the one who stopped without warning. You’re the one who looks shell-shocked. Don’t blame me.”
Muffling a growl, he seized her elbow, steered her to the front, and gave her a gentle push to drive her forward.
A few yards on Lowry stumbled. He caught and yanked her upright, his eyes fixed on the high brick wall that encased the Hall’s vast kitchen garden.
Fuck. He’d have to hoist her up. And right now, he didn’t trust himself. Not the twitchy state he was in. Not when all he wanted was for her to climb his body and hang on tight. Like armor. Which he needed, given what he was about to walk into.
Trouble was, judging by how she’d reacted last time he’d lifted her, providing armor wouldn’t be on her mind. Too-long suppressed need, passion hungry to be released—and Christ, he’d tasted her searing brand of passion—would see her flare out of control like a wild fire. And, God help him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull back. So he’d take a long soak in an acid bath before he let that happen.
No, they’d go the long way around, avoiding the wall. Entry from the terrace would be more conspicuous than through the kitchens, but if it meant he didn’t have to touch her, it was a risk he’d take.
In a rare showing, nausea rolled his gut. Through the beveled panes of the high, glazed double doors leading in from the terrace, he took a moment to watch his family at dinner. More were present than he had anticipated—all four of his brothers were in attendance. They, like his parents, looked to be enjoying a convivial evening. Something he feared his sudden appearance was about to ruin.
