Her eyes stung. She tried not to wipe at them, lest her mascara run, but vanity was a tough sell. It’d been too long since she’d slept. Two days, and long ones at that. She sidestepped along the office wall until she was out of view of the glass doors, affording herself at least the illusion of a moment of solitude. Then she rubbed her fingertips against her temples and took a deep, steadying breath.
She never lost her cool like this. She was a consummate professional. Even when everything went sideways in a mission, which it did more often than not, she maintained total composure honed during fifteen years of service in covert ops.
Rory was here. She could feel it in the thick, humid air. The seas were rough enough and the forecast grim enough that his options to leave the island were shrinking. Add to that his hurt leg and she had a feeling he’d be settling in to wait the hurricane out.
She’d grown up in Arizona, where summer monsoons were standard, but they had nothing on the destructive power of hurricanes. Some of her fondest memories of growing up were of spending rainy summer days at her dad’s house, watching afternoon cloudbursts from the spa on his deck. He was a teacher, and so off work during the summer, and she didn’t appreciate until many years later how extraordinary and selfless of her mom it was that she got to spend summers with him, though it wasn’t an official part of their divorce settlement.
She’d only experienced a couple hurricanes in her life, and they’d awed her with their force. It was hard not to feel as if she was a speck standing on a tiny rock in the middle of a vast, deep ocean, surrounded by forces trying to take her down or hurt her.
It was at that moment that one of those forces materialized at her side, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes on the horizon. Without turning her head, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. He stood stiff and still, every inch a warrior, from his physique and the cut of his jaw to the way he’d shuttered his emotions behind a stony, blank expression.
She didn’t want to be ignored by a warrior right now. She wanted to talk to John. Her John. And that he’d so deliberately closed himself off from the conversation like they had nothing to discuss—like he owed her nothing—made her burn with frustration all over again. She wanted to howl at him louder than the wind, shove him in the chest and demand the answers he’d denied her for far too long.
She crushed the brochure in her fist. “You won’t even try to defend yourself,” she said under her breath.
“This isn’t the place.” He didn’t even look at her. Didn’t even afford her that courtesy.
She wrenched her gaze back to the horizon. There was never going to be a good place or a good time. They were on a manhunt while they themselves were being hunted.
Then again, she never should have brought up the topic, not because she should’ve waited until the right time and place, but because what if she got the answer she dreaded? What if he was guilty?
What would she do then? She needed his help, and an admission of guilt would make working together to find Rory inconceivable. She could tip off Logan’s crew about him and set him up to get taken into custody, but she’d already flirted with that idea several months ago and decided against it. She didn’t want to consider what it would be like to live with the knowledge that she’d destroyed John. Even if he was guilty. She just didn’t want to go there.
The truth was, more and more, she was doubting her conviction about his guilt. Probably, she’d already subconsciously decided he was innocent because she wouldn’t have suggested they partner up otherwise. No person in their right mind would put themselves in prolonged, intimate contact with one of their would-be murderers.
Then why wouldn’t he defend himself?
Why was he letting her hang like this, without enough information to understand and accept the truth so she could move on from the hold he had on her heart?
Frustration and anger surged inside her anew. Why would he toy with her emotions like that? She squeezed her toes in her boots to stem the adrenaline and anger-induced quivering of her limbs.
She dropped her voice to a low hiss. “Where were you when Rory shot me? The report I read said you weren’t in position, so where were you?”
He swallowed, but he still wouldn’t shift his gaze from the horizon.
“Look at me, damn it.”
He jerked his head in her direction. His eyes were dark, as if the blue in them was eclipsed by his black mood. The storm in his expression paralleled the intensity of the storm that was descending on the island and made Alicia’s ribs tighten. She was so taken by the look on his face, by his larger-than-life presence, that she couldn’t think or breathe.
As she watched, the flat line of his lips contorted into a sneer. “So you’re finally ready to hear the answers I tried to give you more than a year ago and you’re demanding them right now? That’s pretty ballsy in my book, princess.”
He’d only ever called her princess in bed, as a term of endearment, far removed from the sharp, bitter insult that the word was today.
“I’m not demanding. I’m asking. I want to know why you won’t fight for...” She bit her lip. Why had she almost said that? She didn’t want him to fight for her. Not anymore. Twenty months ago, she would’ve given anything for him to not give up on her, to fight for her to see the truth. To defend himself. But there was no going back and changing the past.
A flash of bright yellow caught her eye. A taxi appeared that Alicia hadn’t heard coming over the racket of wind and her own tumultuous emotions. Before it had rounded the circular driveway and rolled to a stop in front of them, John’s entire facade had morphed into that of a smooth operator, perfectly at home in any environment, without a care in the world. He even smiled.
Alicia took a breath and forced her shoulders and posture to relax. She painted on a smile of her own and leaned closer to him, allowing their shoulders to brush like a real couple might. She tensed at the feel of his hand sliding along her back to curl around her side and had to force herself to relax all over again as he coaxed her body closer in a gesture that was intimate in its casualness. It was such a convincing imitation of tenderness that Alicia’s heart squeezed.
They stood like that, snuggled together like Academy Award-winning actors, while the taxi driver opened a black umbrella then jogged around to open the back passenger door. John released her with a nudge forward.
Alicia smiled sweetly at the driver, swung her computer case around to hold in her arms, and ducked into the backseat. John followed her in.
“Le restaurant de L’Auberge Priori,” he said to the driver.
“Oui, oui. Bon choix,” the driver said, bowing as he shut the backseat door. “Very romantic,” he added in broken English. If he noticed how disheveled they both looked, then he did an excellent job of hiding it.
“Yes,” John said, patting her hand. “That’s exactly what we’re going for.”
Chapter 9
John and Alicia crowded onto the bench seat of the compact car, not speaking, not touching. Alicia cradled her computer case, John that enigma of a sports bag.
The air was stuffy with the windows closed against the drizzle. Alicia peeked at the dash and didn’t see an air-condition option. It was hard to breathe; she didn’t know where to look, what to think about.
She should be thinking about Rory and how she was going to find him, but she’d done nothing but think of him and her revenge since the day she woke from a medically induced coma in the hospital two weeks after the shooting, and Rory-fatigue was setting in. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of anything at all.
As the taxi pulled to the curb in front of the hotel, Alicia had just started wondering how they were going to pay for the ride when John pulled a stack of euros, Martinique’s currency, from his bag. Of course he had euros in his bag. What didn’t he have in there? And what in the hell would she h
ave done if he hadn’t agreed to work with her to find Rory? The realization was staggering.
She watched the driver jog around the taxi to open their door. John unfolded from the car first, tucked a large bill into the man’s palm, then offered Alicia a hand out. Refusing the gesture wouldn’t have fed into their cover story, but she didn’t want to take his hand. Shaking it had been painful enough.
She took it, anyway, gritting her teeth behind her smile.
The driver walked them under the umbrella to the revolving glass door of the hotel. It was a swank hotel, evident in every detail of its Moroccan-themed interior of lush carpets, thick drapery and gold leaf wallpaper. They were underdressed by a long shot, but thankfully it was practically vacant, probably due to Hurricane Hannah’s approach. Nearly all the other people there were workers busy boarding up the windows in preparation for the storm.
The doors to the restaurant sat near the main entrance, and beyond it sat a mostly empty lounge and bar area. The glow of candles on tables in the dimly lit dining room shone through the wall of windows like fireflies. It was utterly romantic and exactly the kind of restaurant Alicia loved.
Loneliness wrapped around her heart. How long had it been since she’d gone on a date? She’d never dreamt of a normal life, with marriage and children and a house. But she did dream of love and not being alone. It was a pie-in-the-sky fantasy given the career she’d chosen—and it certainly didn’t mesh with life on the run as a wanted criminal. But a girl could dream.
John remained holding her hand and led her to the receptionist desk, flashing the woman behind it an easy grin. Clearly, he had a plan in mind, one that seemed to involve the two of them planning a romantic evening, so Alicia followed suit. She stood behind him trying to look seductive, like a lover waiting for her companion to arrange the details of their night of pleasure. She kept her eyes on John, watching his mouth as he spoke.
In beautiful French, he told the receptionist in so many words that they needed a room close to the ground level because they feared the coming storm and wanted an easy exit in case the power cut on the elevator during the night, and that they also needed an eight o’clock reservation at the restaurant. When she asked his name, he said it was Jonah Carmen. He even had a passport to back up the alias and enough cash to pay for the room in advance.
Normally, Alicia found John speaking in any one of the several languages he was fluent in sexy as hell—except that this time she understood how calculated the act was. That beneath that dashing exterior was a man who was absolutely furious with her.
When a bellhop asked after their luggage, John took Alicia’s hand and kissed the back of it slowly, his lips lingering over her skin as his gaze lingered on hers, before admitting they didn’t have any. Flush-cheeked, the bellhop showed them to the elevator, where John pulled Alicia up tight against his body, then slipped the poor embarrassed worker a folded bill and bid him farewell.
He pushed the button for the third floor with the back of a knuckle, then crowded close to her, a hand braced above her shoulder and the other on her hip, most likely for the benefit of the security camera mounted in the corner of the elevator roof. He dipped his face close to her ear but didn’t say a word. He just breathed on her ear and neck, deep, ragged breaths that spoke of his restraint and tension, the simmering volatility beneath a threadbare composure. If anyone was watching the tape, they’d look like lovers who couldn’t wait to get to their room.
But the thought of being alone with John in a hotel room, with him brooding and angry and her frustrated by the way he’d shut her questions down, by the lack of fight in him, was only the stuff of dread. No matter what happened next between them, it wasn’t going to be in this hotel—this was just a show to lead their would-be followers astray—but somewhere near here, in some other room with a lock and John and a bed.
She uncurled her fist over his chest, where the curve of his pec muscle gave way to a hard, flat stomach heaving with the effort of each breath. He was so strong and solid, yet hot to the touch. Under the guise that she was acting for the benefit of their ruse, she nuzzled his hair. He smelled like a man, the very way she liked John best—sweaty from a mission, amped up on adrenaline and ready to bully right past her defenses and personal boundaries.
The elevator dinged open on the third floor. John pulled back and twisted to check the illuminated floor number, then grabbed her hand and dragged her through the hall to the room. It was a move that could have been that of a lover impatient to get his paramour behind a closed door so he could ravage her. But if this ruse was anything like the ones they’d executed when they were black ops teammates, they’d be back out in the rain in a minute or two, tops.
With the storm, hotel workers would notice a busted window, and she preferred slipping away elegantly and unnoticed down a staircase instead of rappelling down the side of a building in the rain. She was all for thrills and adventure, but anytime she could have adventure without compromising her hair and makeup, so much the better.
He set her against the closed door and pulled the key fob from his pants pocket. She slung an arm around his neck and pressed kisses to his jaw as he dunked the key fob into the slot on the door, then opened it gradually, giving Alicia time to catch her balance.
She took a quick inventory of the space, then reached behind the door for the Do Not Disturb placard, careful to hold the door open just enough so that the hotel’s computer system would only register that they’d entered the room, not left it again. The interior was even more gorgeous than the lobby—sensual reds and golds and a bed made for the classiest of fantasies or the soundest of sleeps.
Thank goodness she and John weren’t spending the night there together. He’d taken her to a room like this once, in a hotel every bit as posh and Moroccan themed on the coast of Spain.
“Nice room,” she said.
John swept past her then methodically emptied the mini-fridge’s contents into his bag. He didn’t look up or acknowledge the statement. She hadn’t expected him to, honestly, but she’d hoped for some kind of reaction. Some fire in his eyes that wasn’t anger, but passion—or at least fondness at the memory.
The next instant, he was striding past her again, through the door and out to the hallway, all pretense of the passionate lover gone. Even if the hallway security cameras were being monitored, she and John would be gone before hotel security could react.
She closed the door, cutting off the memory.
With her hand on the gun in her computer bag, she sidestepped behind John down the hall toward the staircase, watching their backs, determined not to get caught off guard again by Logan or his team.
The afternoon was dark, the mist from earlier now a steady stream of rain. They walked with swift, economic steps along the sidewalk, all pretense of romance gone. Three blocks away, they found an older motel that didn’t a require photo ID to rent a room. It didn’t have Wi-Fi, which was fine because it was surrounded by cafés and hotels. One of them had to have a Wi-Fi signal she could tap into.
John preceded her up the stairs to their second-floor room. The silence between them was taking its toll on her nerves. There was no facade of sexual tension or anticipation, just the impenetrable barrier of his broad, stiff back as he climbed the stairs, then opened the door to room 227.
He did hold the door open for her, which was an unexpected gesture given how furious he clearly still was. She set her computer bag on the bed and was almost afraid to look up or make eye contact with John. He stood near the closed door and she could feel his eyes on her.
“I killed three men trying to get to you,” he said in a tight growl of a voice.
She turned, her throat tightening as she caught sight of his half-lidded, hard-jawed expression, his body quivering ever so slightly in a way that she wasn’t sure how to interpret. It had to be restraint, like blunted pain. Mixed with the anger at her that he�
��d suppressed for too long. He had every right to hate her, and yet, he’d saved her from Logan’s crew. He’d agreed to work with her to find Rory and he was still sticking with her. Why?
She smothered that line of thought. It didn’t matter why. Nothing mattered except finding Rory. John was a means to an end. Nothing more.
He’d killed three men to get to her. “When?”
“During the RioBank operation. You asked me what I was doing when Rory shot you.”
Alicia’s breath caught. She’d never heard what happened on that day from his perspective. His interviews while in federal custody had been sealed and none of the strategies she tried to hack the system had worked. “Who? Where? Why weren’t you there for me?”
She bit her lip and wrenched her gaze to the curtained window. She hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud. It made her too vulnerable. It reminded her that she wished, deep down inside, that he’d protected her, that he would have stopped Rory and saved her.
It reminded her of the fairy-tale cartoon movies she’d watched when she was nine—the ones her parents plunked her down in front of to get her out of the way during the long, hard year their marriage crumbled. Tales of knights on dashing horses and heroes riding magic carpets, of kisses that broke curses and adventures in battle and across distant lands that made her long for a hero of her own. Tales that hinged on the hero saving his woman so they could live happily ever after.
And that wouldn’t do. She didn’t want to be saved. And she certainly didn’t want to be reminded that John had already saved her today and that her future success hinged on him coming through for her again.
It was a bitter pill to swallow.
He walked past her, dropping his bag on the bed along with the HK45 from his pocket, and sat in the room’s only chair. “Had no one told you that?”
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