Afterglow

by Cherry Adair

  “I think we’ll be okay.” She yawned. “But we’ll be better after a nap.”

  “I’m wiped too,” he admitted, flexing his fingers on the wheel to get back some circulation. “I need some shut-eye to be on my A game when we catch up with this guy—or woman, for all we know. If we shut down for a few hours, our quarry could be in the wind while we’re napping. We can’t take the chance.”

  “I think he’s sleeping; he hasn’t moved by more than a few feet in the last half hour.”

  “Let’s get to his location, see what we’re dealing with, and then formulate a plan of action.” It was difficult making his exhausted brain think beyond that.

  “Sounds good. Turn left, three hundred feet.” She cocked her head and looked puzzled. “Hmm. This is a new one for me. He’s below street level.”

  “The catacombs?” Shit. A warren of tunnels and old mine shafts crisscrossed beneath the city. Finding anyone down there would be next to impossible. Unless the seeker had Dakota’s Spidey senses, of course. Rand had no intention of taking Dakota with him from this point forward. What was left now relied on good old-fashioned white-hat stuff. No need to put Dakota in danger unnecessarily.

  Stark called his people “agents,” but Rand doubted if his friend hired people for their tracking skills expecting to send them into mortal danger. Dakota seemed almost relieved when he plucked the gun from her hand. He had no idea what her real agenda was, but he’d bet dying wasn’t on it. There was still a place inside him that cared for her … cared for her safety.

  He’d protect any woman in exactly the same way. Just because he’d loved her once, just because he’d believed with everything in him that she was the one he’d been waiting for, didn’t mean he was motivated by any feelings other than his general need to protect.

  Drugged sex notwithstanding.

  Rand found a small, overpriced hotel nearby, circled the block, drove a mile, removed the plates, and abandoned the stolen car. They walked back to the hotel through the balmy Parisian streets in the blue light before dawn, while the city slept and the quiet seeped into his tired bones.

  It would warm up later, but for now, the air was cool and smelled of baking bread and strong French coffee. He could use several gallons of the stuff. A few people made their way to work; the streets would fill in a few hours with tourists and commuters alike. With the brown wig covering her hair and his baseball cap pulled down an extra inch, he and Dakota passed everyone in silent anonymity.

  They strode by an elderly man, tightly wrapped in a gray sweater that matched his uncombed hair, as he opened his newspaper kiosk for the day. The headlines on one newspaper read, in French: INTERPOL CLOSES IN ON BARCELONA KILLER.

  AN ENORMOUS VASE OF pale pink roses in the elegantly understated—and expensive as hell—lobby of Hotel Édith filled the air with their perfume. She had always liked roses, but Dakota would never smell a rose again without thinking about what happened in Barcelona.

  They checked in, using cash, and headed to the elevator. It wasn’t the boutique hotel where she’d booked them for the start of their honeymoon, but small and intimate and similar enough to remind her of all she’d lost. Weird, odd, and painful to be here with Rand now.

  She shoved the memories aside. She’d never completed her French language classes, which in light of recent events was unfortunate. Especially if she wanted jam with her croissant, assuming she ever got a real breakfast.

  The bag slipped off her shoulder and she hitched it higher.

  It was heavy, stuffed with their original clothes and everything else she was hauling all over God’s creation like a turtle with its house on its back. There wasn’t anything unnecessary in it, just bare essentials. The new clothes she’d bought were in the rolling carry-on bag, along with a few nonessential items, such as two new pairs of shoes.

  As soon as the elevator door closed, Rand gave her an inquiring glance. He made no mention of their aborted honeymoon plans, and neither did she. It wasn’t important now, and knowing him, he’d probably thrown off all those memories. No need for words; they were focused on the same endgame. “He’s still underground. Maybe he’s tired as well, and is taking a nap.”

  “Maybe he’s dead,” he suggested, propping the small, wheeled case beside him.

  “Not if I’m seeing his numbers.” It really wasn’t fair that Rand didn’t look as exhausted as she felt. They’d traveled together around the clock, making do with a few catnaps. She felt wrung out, limp, and grubby. He looked just as he always looked: tall and tanned, his eyes more hazel than brown in this light. And ridiculously sexy. He’d needed a shave twelve hours ago. As tired as she was, Dakota’s nipples peaked beneath her tank top as her body remembered the countless times she’d felt the rasp of that rough stubble stroking her skin. She remembered the smoothness of his lips in comparison, and the urgency of his hands.

  She remembered the weight of his body, the feel of his skin against hers, and his breath against her neck as he’d plunged into her like nothing had changed.

  Damn. She wished she didn’t remember all the textures and tastes of Rand Maguire in such a visceral way. Maybe she’d look into a frontal lobotomy when she got home. If she got home.

  “I hate that damn wig,” he told her, apropos of absolutely nothing, as they got out of the elevator on their floor.

  Her feet sank into the plush green-and-navy carpet as she stepped out. “You try wearing it a while. It itches worse than a too-tight hat.”

  “Did you buy the wigs on your illicit shopping spree yesterday?”

  No. She’d brought a selection of disguises with her on the Lodestone jet: the wigs, a reversible windbreaker, two pairs of light cotton pants, and the wrong color makeup. She had no idea who’d follow her, or what she’d need. She’d been a Girl Scout.

  “My hair’s too recognizable,” was all she said as he unlocked the door to their room and ushered her in ahead of him. Her back brushed his chest as she passed him.

  He hitched his stride, guaranteeing space between them before he followed.

  She noticed. She tried not to care. Instead, she walked all the way into the room and looked around, taking her bag off her shoulder, where it left a red dent in her skin.

  The slope-ceilinged room was small and overly ornate, and smelled strongly of French cigarettes. The bed was a queen, and there was little else in the room. Dakota stood, looking at nothing as she tried to gather her few remaining resources to do … something. Or, rather, to do nothing.

  Was it wrong to want a man as much as she wanted Rand? God only knew he had no interest in her anymore; she got that. But her body, starved of his for twenty-five months, urged her to turn into his arms.

  He had to remember. This time, there was no drug to lower their inhibitions, no excuse.

  Just good old-fashioned human contact. And comfort.

  As she walked over to the bed and flipped on the lights, she imagined doing just that. Imagined the feel of his strong arms wrapping around her, the brush of his lips on hers. Her heart ached, as if she’d only just lost him for the first time.

  Distance—time and space—hadn’t helped. The lack of either wasn’t helping now.

  “Want to shower first?” She gestured toward the bathroom.

  “Sure.” He loosened the shoulder holster, but didn’t remove it. Unlike her gun, his didn’t look anything like a toy. It was black and lethal looking, and he handled it like he knew how to use it. “Order some room service and a big pot of coffee.” He hesitated. “Or maybe not. You should sleep, at least for a few hours.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I don’t want to risk him moving again and sleeping through it, like you said earlier,” she said wearily. Rubbing at her eyes didn’t help wake her up, even a little. “Why don’t you get some sleep, and I’ll keep track. You need your wits about you more than I do at this point.” She dropped the bag on the chair by the window and flexed her fingers. “I can focus okay. I’ll have food. Coffee.”

  “First,
it’s the crack of dawn and barely light. The whole of Paris is sleeping, which, as you noted earlier, is probably why the bad guy isn’t moving,” Rand pointed out dryly, glancing anywhere but at her. Dakota’s chest ached even harder, and her eyes stung. It hurt like hell that he couldn’t even stand to look at her.

  He went to the narrow window and held back the drapes to look out at the street below. “And what would you suggest we do with him if we got him right now?” He turned back. For all the emotional warmth he exuded, he could’ve been looking at a stranger. “Hold him hostage here in the room?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted.

  His expression softened. “It’s okay. I’ve contacted Ham. He’s on his way. He and I will go in together later this morning, and you’ll talk us to his location.” He paused. “After a nap.”

  They used to take “naps” on rainy days in Seattle, curled together after making love in front of the fire in her Queen Anne Hill condo.

  It didn’t surprise her that he’d contacted his friend without telling her. She was too tired to be angry, too emotionally spent to fight. It took all she had not to burst into exhausted tears. She’d do well to remember the hardest lesson she’d ever learned: trust no one.

  Especially not Rand.

  RAND LOOKED FOR EXITS. One door, window onto fire escape.

  “Never mind,” he said abruptly. “You grab a shower first.” He took his phone out of his pocket to let Ham know their location. He knew her; Dakota wouldn’t get into bed without a shower first. He didn’t want to hold up her—

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as she yanked off the brown wig. His throat dried as she ran her fingers through her flattened hair. It sprang up in a wild mane as if happy to be liberated.

  Over the year they’d been together, he’d spent many sleepless nights with her tucked against his chest, his nose buried in the fragrant fiery strands. Seeing her hair now, even in the dim lighting, was like a mule kick straight to his heart. “Check the guy’s location again before you go in.” He sounded annoyed, even to himself.

  He couldn’t help it. His entire body remembered every detail; even though intellectually he knew she was poison, he was sucked in like a moth to her flame.

  “He’s staying put,” she told him decisively, picking up her bag and placing the case in her hand on the small bedside table on what they’d long ago considered her side of the bed. He wasn’t the only one with muscle memory, it seemed. “I’ll be quick.” She walked to the bathroom and shut herself inside. The door didn’t close fully, leaving a sliver of brighter light to spear into the bedroom, as well as a tantalizing view of Dakota.

  Undressing.

  The water turned on. Rand sat on the foot of the bed and called Ham. The phone kept ringing. He frowned. Ham had several hours’ head start. He should be somewhere in Paris right now, waiting for his call.

  Since his assistant was coordinating the various teams, Rand called Cole for updates. Mildly annoyed, he listened to the phone ring. None of his people had called in several hours. He wasn’t too concerned, that would just indicate that they hadn’t anything new to report.

  What was of concern was Cole not answering his phone on the first ring as he usually did. Rand frowned as he got up and went to the window, held aside the drape, and looked out. Cole’s phone clicked, but it didn’t roll to voicemail. Just abruptly disconnected.

  What the hell?

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose. There were logical reasons for his assistant not to answer his phone. Before he went to DEFCON 5, Rand needed to eliminate the obvious. Bad connection. Damaged equipment. Out of range.

  And Cole knew how to contact him despite those limitations.

  Unless he was dead?

  Shitdamnfuck.

  Rand’s gut had been signaling a warning for hours, but he’d put it down to the obvious. Now he wasn’t sure. He punched in the numbers for each of his team leaders in turn. Each phone rang, then rolled over to dead air.

  Would Ham show up? Or was he too out of the picture?

  As far as Rand knew, he was on his own.

  Double fuck.

  He heard splashing from the bathroom. No, he wasn’t alone. She was an added concern he had to decide quickly how to deal with.

  The head- and taillights of traffic on the road below showed through the deep blue of early morning, in which colors were soft and muted, and the day was filled with possibilities. None of them good right now.

  He’d known the moment they walked into the lobby that Dakota remembered their mutual past acutely. The pain and loss in her peridot eyes were impossible to miss, and the sadness radiating from her had been palpable. Or maybe, Rand thought derisively, he was projecting his own feelings onto her.

  He rubbed his bristly jaw.

  There was something he was missing, but damned if he could put his finger on it. Half his men were missing, and he couldn’t figure out Dakota’s real motivations for clinging to this like white on rice.

  His men would show up. Or they wouldn’t. Out of his control right now. If he took things at face value, he was starting to doubt things that he would’ve sworn to be gospel a week ago. Now he wasn’t so sure that everything he’d been led to believe about Dakota was true.

  He’d never given her the opportunity to defend herself, never given her a chance to tell her side of the story. Now wasn’t the time. But later … ? He’d reserve judgment.

  Now he wanted to know why she cared if someone else was selling the drug she’d helped create. Personal pride? Professional pride?

  A cut in a billion-dollar drug deal?

  For now, he had to be satisfied that she wanted what he wanted, to find the person or people responsible. Different agendas, same goal. The reality, as much as he hated to admit it, was that he needed Dakota’s special skills. Without them, he had fuck-all.

  The Spanish police were looking for him—possibly for them. Interpol was likely also involved, if they knew he’d left Spain. Did they know he was in France? How soon would they track him down? Hours?

  It seemed to Rand that every time they figured one thing out, they were faced with more questions. One thing he wasn’t ambivalent about was Dakota not going any farther. He’d use his power of persuasion to convince her they’d both be safer with her giving directions from the hotel. Since calling hadn’t worked worth a damn, he decided to text everyone. He sent a 911 to call in reinforcements. Now to see who responded.

  There was a thump as something hit the bathroom door; then it creaked open. Rand smelled soap and shampoo, and steam-warmed, damp woman, as she came out. He shoved the phone in the pocket of the jacket Dakota had bought him on her little shopping trip.

  “It’s all yours,” she said, rubbing her shoulder as if it hurt. “I left a new toothbrush on the counter for you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder because he felt paralyzed by the familiar smell of her fresh from the shower. She wore the short white hotel robe, and her long legs still gleamed with moisture. She started toweling her hair, every move familiar, bringing back memories he’d managed to suppress for years.

  Only that was shit. He hadn’t suppressed anything. Not really.

  “Ham isn’t answering,” he said, striving for businesslike. Her face was scrubbed clean and rosy, her ice-green eyes level. God. She had weapons she hadn’t even used, and he was flailing for balance. “I didn’t order room service yet,” he told her, knowing he sounded irritable but not giving a damn. “I figured you’d be in there an hour.”

  “I don’t take long showers when I’m alone.” A verbal slap. She didn’t used to take short showers with him. “Let’s order, I’m starving.” She stopped blotting her long hair, then frowned. “Where’s your guy?”

  He shrugged. “Detained, I guess. He’ll call back.”

  “How long are we hanging out here before we go and find the bad guy?”

  “You say he’s in the tunnels. I’m not taking you down there. There’s no need. This is the endgame. You
’ll stay here, maintain contact on the phone.”

  He could see the argument already building. “What if there’s no phone service—”

  “I’m grabbing a shower,” he said over her. “Order room service, then take a nap. I’ll wake you when I leave.” He walked around her and went into the steamy, floral-scented bathroom, then forced the door shut.

  Before he put his hands on her. Again.

  EIGHT

  As soon as the shower turned on, Dakota tossed the small suitcase on the bed, rifled through it, and took out fresh clothes for both of them. Boxers for Rand. A fresh black T-shirt and dark-washed jeans. Black socks. An almost identical change for herself.

  Easy and uncomplicated.

  Dressing quickly, she wrapped the thin towel around her hair. Like her, Rand never lingered in the shower.

  Not when he was alone.

  If she were in there with him, it would be another matter entirely. They’d been known to deplete a large hot-water tank on more than one occasion. Cold water hadn’t shortened the time they spent in the shower either. Many was the time they’d emerged from the bathroom, teeth chattering and goose bumps on their skin, only to fall into bed and make each other warm all over again.

  She picked up the case that had contained the vials and curled her fingers around the hard surface. Their quarry was still where he’d been for the last hour. That was good.

  The other guy was still headed in the direction she’d last given to Ligg; no need to call and update him yet.

  Once he had the man, would Rand return to get her? Would he let her follow through with her plan? Or would he find it easier to leave her behind entirely?

  Dakota stood at the foot of the bed, debating just how to handle the situation.

  Despite her half-assed insistence, they both knew she didn’t want to go into the catacombs. She was claustrophobic, for one thing, and for another, it was doubtful the bad guy would be alone. He certainly wouldn’t be happy that someone followed him. A rat cornered was dangerous. Rand and Ham were professionals. They were armed. They were equipped to handle violence. She wasn’t. The only thing Dakota had going for her was determination.