by Jennie Marts
He cleared his throat, as if this part of the story was harder for him to tell. “We were on the south side that day. Normally, we liked to walk through the neighborhoods. It was good for people to get to know us. To feel safe around us, like we were really part of the community, and not the enemy. And everybody loved Ashley. She had this big laugh, and she hugged everybody. Even homeless guys whose clothes stunk and whose hair hadn’t been washed. She didn’t care. She was a good person.” His voice broke, and he paused.
She picked up his hand and held it in hers.
“It was a Thursday, around lunchtime. Just a normal day. We’d stopped at a sidewalk vendor and grabbed a couple of dogs. Isn’t that stupid? I remember eating those hot dogs, walking down the sidewalk. Ash was making some stupid joke, laughing, and we came around the corner of this alley and a group of guys were standing there doing a drug deal.
“It happened so fast. I guess one of them thought they’d been set up and started accusing the others of being narcs. One kid took off running, then everybody started pulling out guns. We both dropped our dogs and reached for our weapons, but it was too late. One of them grabbed Ashley and held a gun to her head. I had my pistol pointed right at him. An easy shot. I remember the look in Ashley’s eyes, pure terror. She was a tough girl, but nothing prepares you for that moment that you think you’re going to die.”
“That must have been so scary.”
“Yeah, the scariest part was that these gang members were mostly teenagers. Tough little shits that thought they were bad-asses, and they were totally unpredictable. This guy holding onto Ashley couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Just a damn kid. And she knew it. She was trying to talk to him, settle him down. She was holding onto his arm—the one he had wrapped around her neck—and I remember there was a streak of yellow mustard across the back of her hand.
“She was shaking her head at me. She wanted me to drop my gun—thought we could talk it out. I should have known. Those kids were hot-heads. They didn’t think. And this guy was just a kid. The gun he was holding barely fit in his hand. I should have reacted. It was my job to protect her. She was my partner.” His voice caught, and he took a shaky breath.
“What happened?”
“I still don’t really know. There was a sound, probably a car engine back-firing. But it must have spooked one of the guys because he fired at me. It took like three seconds. He missed the first time, and I fired back, but he got me with the second shot. They were running away, firing as they ran. I was going down, still shooting at them, but the kid holding Ash fired, too. I saw her fall, knew she was dead, then everything went black.”
Zoey covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
He cleared his throat again and closed his eyes against the memories. “The bullet went straight through my chest, but I must have hit my head on the concrete when I fell. Somebody had called an ambulance, and I woke up later that day in the hospital. Ashley was dead, and so was the kid that grabbed her. He must have got hit in the crossfire. So she died for nothing.”
He looked down at her, tears filling his eyes. “You understand? She died for nothing. I could have saved her, but I didn’t. I didn’t save her because I didn’t take a shot at that kid. That kid—who died anyway.”
Her heart broke at the pain in his eyes. But it also swelled with love for him. He was this tough cop who didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, and he was sharing his deepest hurt with her. A wound that shattered not only his bones, but his soul.
“I’m so sorry.” She touched his arm.
He pulled it away, pulled away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed. “I don’t want you to be sorry for me. It was my fault. I could have saved her. And I didn’t. She died on my watch.”
She sat up, afraid to touch him. “It wasn’t your fault. It just happened. It certainly doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I still feel safe with you.”
She was about to say, I still love you, but he turned to her, a mixture of pain and anger in his eyes. “Don’t you get it? You’re not safe with me. I can’t protect you.”
He pushed off the bed and crossed to the sink, his anger and misery rising off him like steam. He grabbed his mug of coffee, took a drink, then hurled it across the room. It hit the door of the cabin, shattered and the pieces fell to the floor. He turned away from her, bowing his head in defeat as he gripped the sides of the counter.
Zoey scrambled from the bed, mindless of her nakedness, and rushed to him. She threw her arms around his chest, clinging to his back, and trying to convey her love through the strength of her embrace.
It probably wasn’t the right time. She’d always imagined professing her love to a man over candlelight and champagne. But her life hadn’t been going at all how she’d planned, and falling for Mac was like nothing she’d imagined. To hell with her plans.
Her tidy life had been blown to pieces, and he had proved to be better than anything she had ever imagined. Gathering her courage, holding on to him, she spoke the words against his bare back. “I love you.”
He slammed his fists into the counter, his body simmering with anger, as he spoke between gritted teeth. “I don’t want you to love me.”
She stood her ground. Dipping under his arm, she squeezed between him and the counter. Gripping his shoulders, she looked up at him. “I love you, anyway.”
He reached down, picked her up, lifting her onto the counter and pinned her there with his body. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to love me. I don’t want to be your hero. I can’t protect you. I’m already crazy in love with you, and I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. I swear I couldn’t live with myself if you got hurt while I was supposed to be protecting you.”
She took his face into her hands and wrapped her legs around his waist. In all of that, all she’d heard was that he’d just said that he was crazy in love with her. Speaking slowly, enunciating each word, she tried to express their heartfelt meaning. “I. Love. You. Anyway.”
He stared at her—hard—anger and pain evident in his eyes.
Not giving an inch, she stared back and repeated her declaration, this time in a softer voice. “I love you.”
He released his breath, shaking his head, then pulled her to him, crushing her mouth in a kiss filled with fury and carnal desire.
She clung to him, her hands gripping his back as she returned his kiss. Pressing herself into him, she pinned him in the circle of her legs.
Passion and want tore through her as he seized her bottom, tipping her toward him and filling her. He took her, fast and hard, moving with her in a fierce rhythm of animal need.
Love and arousal swirled inside of her, a mixture of intense affection and a wanton lust. She cried out, holding on as he took her to the edge of desire. Then he said her name, and she was lost, tumbling over into ecstasy.
And she knew in that moment that no one else would ever measure up to the depth of feeling she shared with him. He had ruined her. Ruined her for any other man.
Chapter Fourteen
Zoey sat at the kitchen table, the sunset framed in the front window of the cabin. Mac was putting together a light supper of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. They’d missed lunch, instead spending the time in bed.
She’d finally taken the time to wash her clothes and hang them over the deck chairs on the front porch. While they dried, she wore the white T-shirt she’d bought at the convenience store and a pair of black bikini underwear. It was probably boring to some, but she still preferred plain cotton bikini underwear.
Although last night with Mac had inspired her to try something new. When this was over, she might go back to Vickie’s Secret and purchase more than just a clearance pair of pajamas.
Mac stood at the stove, stirring the soup that simmered in a battered saucepan.
“You sure I can’t do something to help?” she asked.
“You could grab us some water.”
She hopped up, crossing to the cup
board and filling two glasses with water. “This makes twice that you’ve cooked for me. I’m impressed.” She put the glasses on the table.
“Don’t be too impressed. Grilled cheese and fried eggs are the extent of my repertoire.”
“Aww—now you’re just trying to dazzle me with your fancy French words.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” He gave her a smoldering debonair look and twirled an imaginary moustache.
She laughed, enjoying this silly side of him. “I had no idea you were so cultured.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. I’m like a man of mystery.”
She stepped up behind him, sliding her arms around his waist. “You’re like a mystery that I’m sure having fun solving. You know my grandmother is practically a detective, and yesterday she told me she was working on her psychic abilities. Maybe I got some of that from her.”
He turned, still in the circle of her arms, and grinned down at her. “You know, talking about your grandmother kind of kills the flirty atmosphere.”
She laughed. “True. What do you think we can do to get it back?”
He leaned down, nuzzling her neck. “I’ve got some ideas.”
“I like your ideas.” Sighing, she tilted her head back, enjoying the feel of his lips on her skin. “So, I did realize something earlier today that I don’t know about you. Even though I’ve called out your nickname several times this weekend, including once when you were having your way with me on the kitchen counter, I don’t know what your actual first name is.”
He chuckled. “What if I told you it was Neville or something awful—would you have still screamed out that name?”
She gave it a try, clutching his shoulders, and crying out in mock-ecstasy. “Oh—oh—Neville–yes.” She broke into giggles. “Yeah—it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”
“No, I guess not.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips then stepped away to check the sandwiches. “My first name is actually very boring. It’s Michael.”
She tried out the name. “Michael McCarthy. I like it.”
He shrugged. “It’s a good Irish name.” Sliding the sandwiches onto a plate, he set them on the table. “There’s quite a large Irish community in Pleasant Valley. A bunch of us went to St. Paul’s together. Like Pat Callahan, the cop I was telling you about that’s down in Denver and helping us with this case. And Shawn Murphy, he’s the guy that owns this cabin. He and Pat and I used to come up here a lot when we were younger, but I haven’t actually been back up here in a long time. I’m glad he didn’t move the hidden key.”
“Me, too.” She scooped the soup into bowls, carried them to the table, and sat down across from him.
He handed her a napkin, and she put it in her lap. “Dig in,” he told her.
She took a bite and savored the crispy crust, the smooth flavor of the melted cheese. “Mmm. You do make a mean grilled cheese.” Her napkin slipped from her lap, and she bent forward to grab it.
The sound of a gunshot ripped through the air at the same time the glass of the front window exploded. A bullet hit the back of her chair, splintering the wood in the place where her head had been moments before.
Terror filled her as Mac grabbed her and pulled her to the floor. He tugged her body with his to behind the sofa as another shot rang out and a bullet shattered her glass, spilling water across the table.
She held her breath, listening. The only sound in the cabin the dripping of the spilled water as it ran off the table and hit the floor. “How did they find us?” she whispered to Mac.
“I don’t know.” He looked around the room, his gaze falling on his gun hanging in its holster off the closet door. “Stay here.”
In a crouch, he moved quickly across the room, grabbing his shoulder holster and ducking into the bathroom. Another bullet hit the bathroom door, the sound of the gunshot getting closer.
Zoey screamed as the door to the cabin burst open, kicked in by the solid boot of the intruder.
Two men rushed in, both dressed all in black and wearing rubber masks of past president’s faces. One appeared to be Nixon and the other Ford.
She felt unprotected and exposed where she hunkered behind the sofa. Her mind faltered, confused by the strange masks and the presence of the two men, but her body reacted, scooting around the edge of the big sofa.
Time slowed down, each second magnified, as one of the men pointed his gun at her head.
Before he could shoot, the bathroom door flew open, slamming against the wall.
The shooter turned as Mac flew from the bathroom, his gun held out in front of him. A gunshot exploded in the room as he fired at the taller assailant.
The first man went down. The second, the one in the Nixon mask, ducked right, hitting the ground and crawling toward Zoey.
The man on the ground scooted toward the kitchen and fired back at Mac.
Mac retreated back into the bathroom. “Run, Zoey,” he yelled.
Mac fired again. She heard a startled cry and the sound of the other guy’s gun falling to the cabin floor.
She scrambled forward, trying to stand.
Taking a step forward, she screamed as a hand clutched her ankle.
Kicking out, trying to free her foot, panic rose in her as she saw the assailant twisting his arm to point his gun at her.
A heavy statue of a bronze fisherman held magazines down on the battered coffee table, and Zoey grabbed the statue and threw it at the man holding her leg. It hit him in the cheek, and with a grunt of pain, he released her leg.
Crawling forward, she got to her feet and raced for the open door of the cabin. Stumbling down the stairs of the porch, she ran for the dense wooded trees circling the cabin.
“Go after her,” she heard the one in the kitchen yell.
Rocks bit into her bare feet and brittle shrubs scraped at her legs, as if they were trying to slow her progress. Ignoring the pain, she sprinted through the woods, trying to put as much distance between herself and the masked men as possible.
She heard several gun shots, and sent up a silent prayer that Mac was okay.
Dusk had fallen, and the canopy of the trees blanketed the forest in darkness. Though thankful for the extra cover the darkness provided, it also hindered her progress. She couldn’t see what lay in the path in front of her, and she stumbled over rocks and exposed tree roots.
The door of the cabin banged open, and she heard the pounding of large feet as someone ran into the forest after her.
She ducked around a large evergreen and crouched to the ground. Her heart beat frantically against her chest as she cocked her head, listening for the sound of who had followed her into the woods.
Covering her mouth, she tried to catch her breath, tried to quiet the sound of her labored breathing as she gasped for air.
Terrified, she knew the man who’d exited the cabin was one of the masked assailants. If it was Mac, he would have called to her by now.
“Come out now, and it’ll be quick. If you make me hunt for you, I’ll make it slow and painful,” she heard a voice say. It was hard to tell how far away he was, but she heard him clearly. “Come out, you stupid bitch.”
A memory slammed into her, taking her breath away. She’d heard that voice before. In her apartment the night the two men broke in. His words came back to her—somebody needs to teach this stupid bitch a lesson.
She peeked out from behind the tree, trying to see where the voice had come from. The guy in the Nixon mask stood at the edge of the trees. He was the one who had been in her apartment.
And he wanted her dead.
Her mind raced with the possibilities of escape, but nothing seemed viable.
She peered around the tree again. The man moved forward, his black clothes causing him to fade into the darkened forest.
Tilting her head, she listened for a twig to snap or a scrape of gravel. Her eyes scanned the trees for movement. A slight breeze blew through, rustling the leaves of the aspen trees, and drawing her
attention to the flashes of movement.
How long could she stay here, crouched behind this tree? How long before he made his way in this direction and ferreted her out?
Her white T-shirt had to shine against the darkened forest, but what could she do? Grabbing a handful of dirt, she rubbed it across the fabric of the shirt.
Staying low, she tried to get her bearings. Was she safer trying to make her way out to the highway or back to the cabin? How far had they traveled to get back here? Five minutes or ten? She couldn’t remember.
Gazing up at the trees, she couldn’t tell which direction the road even lay. What if she ran into the woods and went the opposite direction of the road? Or worse, got lost.
No one even knew they were out here. Except her grandfather, who thought she was safe with Mac, and the guys who were trying to kill her.
How the hell did they find her anyway?
She clutched her arms around herself, her stomach churning in fear and desperation. She couldn’t stay crouched behind this tree forever.
A twig snapped.
The sound happened so quickly, she couldn’t tell which direction it came from. Was he to the right or the left of her? Behind her or already in front?
She searched the dense trees for any sign of him, listening for another sound, trying to hear anything over the frantic beat of her heart.
Another twig snapped.
Closer. It sounded like it had come from the right.
What should she do? Should she try to run? Take her chances?
If she could hear his steps, surely he’d be able to hear and track her if she went barreling through the trees trying to run away.
Relief flooded her as she heard the far-off sound of a siren coming up the mountain. Had Mac called them? Did that mean he was okay? Then why wasn’t he out here, helping her?
Maybe it was a hiker—someone that had heard the gunshots. But that could mean that Mac was hurt—or worse. She couldn’t let herself think that. Couldn’t go there in her mind.
