All I Need

by Christa Conan

  * * *

  Shannen noted the look on Rhone’s face with a brief flash of satisfaction. His jaw had dropped, nearly imperceptibly, and if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she might have missed the subtle change in his expression.

  The fact she still read his features so easily twisted another knot into her already-tight stomach.

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded tightly. “Yes.” She said the word sincerely.

  “But...”

  Shannen held up a hand. “I’m tired of the bad guys having all the advantages. And I promise you this, Rhone. If I ever get a chance to hurt the bastard who took my son, I will. Teach me, Rhone,” she reiterated, each word ripping a new shred in her heart. “Teach me to shoot.”

  The surprise inched from his face. Resolutely, he nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll teach you.”

  She stiffened her spine. Never again would she be a victim. Never would she run from life and hide...even if it meant confronting her husband head-on.

  “Ready to start?”

  A frisson of something...anxiety maybe, traced through her. It’d been too much, too fast. “I need to shower first.”

  He gave her a curt nod. “Half an hour?”

  “Okay.” She turned away.

  “Shannen?”

  Her husband’s voice was raw. Ragged. Slowly she pivoted, until she looked at him again. “Yes?”

  “I’m...” He raised a hand as if to touch her, reach for her, then dropped it helplessly at his side. “I’m sorry.”

  Unable to force a response, she merely lifted a single shoulder. This time, he let her go.

  In the shower, she closed her eyes as if the motion could—for only a second—shut out the horrible things that had happened. Even warmth couldn’t chase away the chill that had held her in its grip since she’d returned home yesterday.

  With determination, she squirted shampoo into her palm, the foaming lather spreading over her fingers. Events and sensations replayed themselves, and the harder she fought to suppress them, the more forcibly they hijacked her mind.

  Maria.

  The ghoulish grip of anxiety.

  The pure panic of fear.

  The despair of loss.

  Her baby.

  Rhone.

  Their baby.

  Against her will, she remembered the day that had started it all. She’d glanced up to see a stranger intently perusing her, a devilish gleam of something that might have been seduction teasing his eyes. The corners of his lips curved up slightly, easily, as if accustomed to the motion. Windswept hair had drooped lazily across his forehead, barely avoiding a flirtation with his eyebrows.

  He’d leaned against her desk, close. Closer than she felt comfortable with, yet strangely, it wasn’t close enough. When he’d spoken, she’d been lost. His tone held a sexy undercurrent of gravel that made his voice both rich and seductive...reminding her of warmed brandy on a cold winter’s night.

  But it was the words he’d uttered that indelibly seared her memory so that they were as fresh and compelling as they’d been years ago.

  “I hear you’re good. At what you do.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, after clearing her throat.

  “I was hoping to take advantage of your, er, skills.” His brows had knitted together. “Languages.”

  Before she recovered, he pushed to a standing position and extended his hand. “Rhone Mitchell. Gloria Jacobs referred me. Says you have security clearance and that you’re more fluent in languages than anyone else around here.”

  Without conscious thought, she’d allowed him to take her hand. She’d felt the hard ridges of calluses on his palm, the strength in his grip and the corresponding heat that chased up her arm.

  He held her hand longer than needed. Longer than he should have. And if it hadn’t been for the inopportune ringing of the phone, she wouldn’t have noticed.

  She extricated her hand, reached for the phone and tried to concentrate on what the caller was saying. It took a lot of effort. The Middle Eastern caller spoke in a blend of English and Arabic, a combination she usually followed effortlessly. Yet, when Rhone Mitchell made himself comfortable in the worn-leather chair across from her desk, concentration was the last thing on her mind.

  The call took forever. But Rhone, intently studying her with a single-mindedness she envied right then, didn’t seem to care that the seconds were melding into minutes. She wrapped the phone’s cord around her finger, then swiveled in her chair.

  Finally, turning back to place the phone in the cradle, she read the expression of humor on his face that said he knew exactly why she’d turned away. Instead of experiencing embarrassment, though, Shannen felt as if they’d shared a secret. Rhone had a way of doing that—making her feel special.

  Rhone leaned forward, again teasing her with a subtle scent of spice. An adventurous gleam in his eye, an attitude that bordered on cocky, set him apart from anyone else she’d ever known—attracting her in a way no one else ever had. He’d smiled boyishly, then slipped a document across the table.

  “Can you translate this?”

  She did. Then felt ill. For the first time, the job she’d done wasn’t pleasant, the words were sick and twisted, a horrible combination that made her fingers feel dirty. She finished reading aloud, dropped the paper, wiped her hands on her pants, then looked at the man across from her.

  His expression was intensely sober. While he revealed nothing more, she sensed a deadly combination of power and anger that he held in check.

  “Thank you,” he said, the tone clipped. With deft motions, he folded the paper along the creases, then dragged his thumbnail across the same creases again, as if he didn’t want the paper to unfurl. He shoved it inside his suit coat, then stood in the same, single motion.

  Shannen knew she wanted to see that expression erased from his features. She didn’t know why, didn’t know why she should care, but she did. “Mr. Mitchell,” she said, halting him at the door.

  He pivoted, one hand still on the knob. “Yes?”

  “I...” She lifted her shoulders helplessly. She didn’t act this way. And didn’t know what to say next. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  Rhone gave a curt nod, then closed the door behind him with a decisive click.

  It wasn’t until then that Shannen noticed how empty her office was. How empty her life was.

  When the phone rang not three minutes later, she’d grabbed it, knowing it would be him. Had known she would agree to see him.

  Now she regretted ever meeting him. Regretted him being the one to father her child.

  She released a shaky breath. Turning off the taps, she jerked back the shower curtain. Tiny streams of water trailed over her face. Not until she tasted salt did she realize she’d been crying. With a groping hand, she pulled a towel from the rack.

  Burying her face in the soft cotton, she prayed for strength, struggled for control. Knew she wouldn’t be worth a darn without either.

  Quickly she blow-dried her hair and dressed, striving for the same resolve that seemed to come so easily to her husband.

  On her way out the door, she paused.

  A picture of her holding Nicholas on her lap caught her attention. Nicky tilted his head back, glancing up at her, mirroring her laughter as they swung on the tire attached to a tree in the backyard. Shannen swallowed the clot of pain in her throat.

  Her eyes closed as she waited for the stabbing sorrow to subside. Stoically, knowing she would be no good to either Nicholas or Rhone if she allowed emotion to wash over her again, she stiffened her spine, willing a sense of purpose to take over.

  Chapter 6

  Shannen walked down the stairs, her hand lightly gripping the banister. She heard the rich sound of Rhone’s voice, heard the agitated tone.

  She heard another voice and immediately recognized the calm, controlled pitch. Doug Masterson. Rhone’s partner was like family, but joy at seeing him again was instantly quelled a
s their conversation registered.

  “But, damn it, Doug—this is my family we’re talking about.”

  Her insides twisted in response to his extreme emphasis on the word my.

  She rushed down the remaining stairs.

  “And you’re too personally involved, partner.”

  “Hell, yes, I’m involved,” Rhone snapped back with a bolt of vehemence. “What do you want me to do, sit back and play tiddledywinks while we wait for something else to go down?” For emphasis, he slammed his fist into an open palm.

  At the doorway, she cleared her throat, then entered the room. It amazed her that Rhone held the ability to instantly school his expression into one of supreme confidence.

  “Shannen,” Rhone said, the word flat and hollow.

  Their gazes met.

  More than time and distance separated them. An emotional gulf yawned between them, as if they’d never at all been close.

  Doug took the brave step of trying to breach an uncomfortable situation. “You’re looking good.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “That’s what people always say when they can’t think of anything else,” Doug admitted, moving forward.

  Shannen returned the small smile he gave, accepting his hug. Spotting his duffel bag by the door, she said, “Maria, my housekeeper, is leaving today to visit her family in Denver. I know she wouldn’t mind if you took her room.”

  Doug nodded, accepting.

  She swung her attention back to Rhone. “Is there any news about Nicky?”

  The men exchanged a tense glance before Rhone reluctantly shook his head.

  “I’m sorry about your son, Shannen,” Doug said.

  She stiffened.

  “You know we won’t rest until he’s safe in your arms again.”

  Breath whooshed out of her. How much more could she possibly be expected to endure?

  “Then tell me what you do know.” She sent Rhone a pleading look. “And tell me why we’re sitting here instead of getting out, looking for him.”

  The tension that radiated through the room was thick enough to slice. Apparently deciding to leave explanations to Rhone, Doug excused himself.

  “Sit down.”

  Shannen bristled at the command. “I want to stand.”

  “Suit yourself,” Rhone said. He watched her, as though gauging her reaction while he spoke. “Norton’s a survivalist. Playing cat-and-mouse games with law enforcement is his favorite pastime. With one exception, he always wins.”

  When he paused, she prompted him to continue.

  “We’ve got topographical maps of a six-state region. A second set is being analyzed by the FBI for the most likely place he’s hiding. But the cold, hard fact is, we don’t even know if he’s in Colorado. A massive search is underway, for information, as much as for Norton. You and I could spend a dozen months searching the Colorado mountain forests and never turn up a clue.”

  Her throat felt raw.

  “You want to hear more?”

  She didn’t. She did. Not in her worst nightmares had anything so startlingly awful been possible. After taking a deep breath and momentarily squeezing her eyes shut, she nodded.

  “I anticipate Norton will call here. I’ve got to be here when he does. Equipment to trace calls is on its way, and if we can keep him on the line long enough, we’ll be able to pinpoint a location. At least find out if he’s still in the state. We’re doing everything we can.”

  “So we wait.” The statement was a croak, spoken with what little stamina she still possessed.

  “We plan,” he corrected. “We set a trap of our own. And we teach you how to shoot.” With that, he strode to the table near the phone.

  She gave a tight nod, grateful for an outlet, an activity to get rid of the aching, burning sensation deep inside.

  Rhone spun a series of numbers, then snapped open a black box. “Come here,” he told her. “Lesson’s about to begin.”

  She followed Rhone’s order, nevertheless, moving across the carpet with heavy feet. She wanted to do something, anything...but learn to handle a gun.

  Cold fear rooted through her when she stared down at the lethal-looking metal nestled in virginal-white foam.

  Then she pictured her baby, Nicky’s first steps, his smile. The resolve she’d been struggling for, the strength she’d prayed for, tackled the remnants of her fear and trepidation. She could do this. She could do anything she had to if it would help Rhone get their son back.

  “It’s a .22,” he explained. “Semiautomatic, which means every time you squeeze the trigger, a round fires.” With calm efficiency, he took an empty clip from the case and opened a box of bullets.

  “Watch,” he said, demonstrating the technique of loading the clip. “Technically, this clip holds thirteen rounds, but you can load as few as one bullet, or if you pack them in, it’ll take up to fifteen.

  “Remember to count how many you put in.” He patted the weapon surrounded by leather at his side. “I always load twelve bullets. That way I’m not surprised or sweating it when I’m in the field.”

  Rhone’s calm efficiency, calculated movements were frightening to watch. At the same time, she couldn’t help being impressed...and feeling completely safe.

  “Your turn.”

  Suddenly apprehensive, she fumbled with the bullet, dropping it lengthwise into the open box.

  “Relax, Shannen. Guns are perfectly safe, if you know how to handle them.”

  “Which I don’t.” She tried not to sound snappish, but knew it came out that way.

  “Try again.”

  He moved behind her. Focusing on the fact she might be an asset in rescuing her son, she did as he encouraged.

  “That’s it.”

  She let out a little sigh of relief.

  “Eleven more rounds to go.”

  With a frown, she worried her lip while painstakingly placing each rim on the slide. “Ouch!” She resisted the urge to swear when her fingers were pinched between bullet and metal.

  “With experience, it becomes second nature,” Rhone explained, loading a third clip in seconds, barely glancing at what he was doing.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Okay, let’s go outside. I found a bag of empty diet soda cans in the garage,” he said, grabbing the gun case and a duffel bag.

  “I take them in for recycling,” she said, slipping past him where he held open the door. It took acrobatics to avoid brushing him.

  “I remembered.”

  Neither said a single word as they crossed the grass to where he’d found a stump. Rhone set the gun case on the rotting timber, then opened the lid.

  “I chose the .22 for you because it’s smaller, easier to handle than a 9 mm or .357. Plus, it doesn’t recoil like a bigger gun, so it’ll deliver more accuracy for you.”

  “But is it enough...?” She couldn’t finish, the thought of shooting someone making her feel sick. To combat the feeling, she pictured the man who’d taken Nicky.

  Rhone nodded, an expression of understanding that needed no explanation painted on his features. “.22s kill more people every year than any other gun. The round fans out rather than just going straight. Believe me, Shannen, it’ll do plenty of damage.”

  “I believe you,” she said as bright sunlight glittered off the chrome when he took the pistol from its nest.

  “Take it.”

  She hesitated.

  “The loaded clip isn’t in it. You can’t do any damage yet.”

  He offered the butt and she gritted her back teeth. As repulsive as the task was, she had to have a working knowledge of the weapon.

  “You’ll be more accurate if you cradle the butt of the pistol and the base of your hand in your left palm. No, like this.” He demonstrated.

  Shannen followed suit.

  “Legs about shoulder-width apart.”

  She adopted the stance Rhone showed her, then tried not to notice the intimacy as he nudged her right thigh with his hand.


  “Better,” he approved, “but don’t slouch. Now, while I set up some aluminum cans, I want you to practice targeting a branch on that tree. Line up the barrel of the gun with the widest part of the branch, then lower the gun and try again.”

  Shannen did as he instructed, amazed at how badly her hand trembled even though there wasn’t a single round in the gun.

  “You’re going to have to hold steadier than that,” he said, not even glancing around.

  She scowled in his direction.

  “And if your concentration is going to be broken so easily with live ammo, you won’t hit a damn thing. Concentrate on what you’re doing, Shannen.”

  He was right, and had known it the same way he loaded a gun so effortlessly, with absolute certain knowledge of what he was doing.

  To prove to herself—and him—she could do it, Shannen tuned out everything around her: the overhead noise of a jet, the chirping of birds.

  “Now, for the real test,” he said, returning and palming a clip. “Insert the magazine, like so. And make sure the safety’s on.” He indicated the piece of metal that would prevent the gun from firing. “But before you start, you’ll need these.” Unzipping the duffel bag, he took out two packages of earplugs.

  They both inserted the squishy plugs, then he offered the gun to her again. She took it, remembering the smirk on Norton’s face. The man had her son and God only knew if her child was being taken care of. She gave herself reassurances—whether false or not, it didn’t really matter. The belief that Nicky was safe was the only thing keeping her sane.

  “You practiced lining up the gun with the branch, but remember, when a bullet flies, it curves up at first, then starts to drop back down. You have to learn to compensate for distances outside point-blank range. We’ll practice different ranges so you get a feel for it. Second thoughts?”

  She rose to the challenge in his voice with a steeling of shoulders and grim determination. “No.” The weight of the weapon felt like lead in her hand. His lecture once again reinforced the path he’d chosen. Effortlessly, he rattled off instructions, to the point that she wondered if she’d be able to absorb it all.

  Rhone grinned, a lopsided number that made her heart twist. “When you’ve made up your mind to do something, heaven help anyone who gets in your way. Wait...” He held up a hand. “I meant that as a compliment. It’s one of the things I’ve always respected about you.”