Soft, supple skin, chilled now, but oh so receptive to being warmed. He knew that from experience. An experience his traitorous mind was determined to relive despite his best efforts.
Kate, naked against him. Kate, taking her warmth from him. Kate, relaxing into—
Hell. There he went again.
Kate lifted off the seat and inched her jeans down another notch. Jonas gripped the steering wheel until his fingers protested. He didn't want to be so aware of her. Shouldn't be, given how she'd looked at him back there, when she thought he'd been going to shoot that state trooper. She'd all but branded him a murderer—
"Screw you, Burke!" The memory of her voice intruded. "Heaven forbid you run out of reasons to keep me at arm’s length..."
Jonas scowled at the road unfurling in the headlights before them, self-righteousness hot in his chest. And what if she was right? It wasn't as if he didn't have good reason to want to protect himself. How many times in his life had he let his guard down, only to have things go wrong like this? As far back as he could remember, when something had gone missing or been damaged in one of his foster homes, or when there had been an altercation at school, he'd been the first one they turned to for answers. The accusing eyes, the pointing fingers...the lack of trust had followed him right up to and through his career to where he was now, running from his own colleagues.
No, he had every reason to protect himself. Even from Kate.
In the seat next to him, the woman in question successfully peeled off the troublesome jeans and tossed them into the back seat—leaving her naked as the day she was born under the trench coat.
Jonas's mouth went dry. Who was he kidding? He needed to protect himself especially from Kate.
Damnation.
* * *
Kate jolted awake as the car slid to a halt, its passenger tires scraping along the curb. She sat up, surreptitiously wiping the corner of her mouth as she took in the flow of traffic around them—cars on one side, pedestrians on the other—and buildings piled up everywhere. It was a far cry from the woods they'd still been driving through when she'd drifted off. She blinked the last of the sleep from her eyes and looked over at Jonas.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Newark."
She raised an eyebrow at the terse response. So. Their surroundings might have changed, but someone's mood hadn’t followed suit. She tried again, motioning at the sign on the building beside them—an Italian restaurant. "Isn't it a little early for lunch?"
"I have to see a man about a key." Jonas opened his car door. "Stay here. I'll be back in a minute."
Without so much as a glance in her direction, he rounded the vehicle, crossed the sidewalk, and banged on the restaurant's glass door with the flat of his hand. The door opened a second later, and he disappeared inside. Kate stared after him, then sighed and leaned her head against the seat. She closed her eyes.
They hadn't spoken again after their heated exchange last night. Jonas had driven in tight-lipped, rock-jawed silence, and she'd stared out the window until—much to her relief—sleep had claimed her. She wished she could have continued.
The driver's door opened again, making her jump and open her eyes. Jonas slid in beside her and reached for the ignition. Kate sighed. She cleared her throat. Jonas hesitated, and a muscle flexed in front of his ear. He looked at her.
"Good morning, Jonas," she said.
He stared at her. She stared back. Think what he might, they were still partners in this, which meant they had to at least be speaking to one another. Jonas looked away, then back again. He exhaled a long, slow breath.
"Good morning, Kate," he replied wearily.
A pang of guilt shafted through Kate. The man hadn't had a decent sleep in days, and they were both running for their very lives—was it any wonder they'd reached a breaking point of sorts? She rested an elbow on the car door and cradled her forehead in her hand.
"We can't work like this," she said. "Last night—"
"Last night doesn't matter," he interrupted. "I know you didn't mean anything by it, and you were right. I was looking for reasons to—for—" His gaze moved to the windshield. "I was looking for reasons. I didn't mean what I said. Not then. But I did mean what I said earlier. I won't get involved with you, Kate. I can't."
Well. That certainly made working together easier.
Kate joined him in staring out at the street. "I know."
I just don't agree, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.
She coughed, and Jonas sighed. "Kate—"
"I need food," she announced, because she didn't want to hear anything more—not from him, and not from her inner voice. "I'm starving."
Jonas looked as if he might pursue the conversation, but then he shrugged. His gaze dropped to the trench coat she wore. A spark of amusement glinted. "Clothes first, I think. And the bank before that, because we’re officially broke at the moment."
"You have no ATM card," Kate reminded him as he switched on the engine. "Or am I about to add bank heist to my list of transgressions?"
"I keep a safety deposit box for emergencies."
"The key you picked up at the restaurant?" Of course. She should have realized.
Jonas nodded as he pulled out into the flow of traffic. "There's enough in there for us to lie low for a few days and figure out what comes next."
An hour later, infinitely more comfortable in leggings and an oversized cotton sweater, Kate slid the remains of an all-day-breakfast platter away from her. Then she drained the last dregs of coffee from the mug and leaned back in her seat with a blissful sigh. Jonas's mouth curved upward.
"You look happier."
"You have no idea."
"Actually, I suspect I do." He bit off a piece of toast piled high with scrambled eggs, chewed, and swallowed.
"Actually, no, you don't." Kate gave a delicious wriggle in her seat and wrapped her arms around the warm sweater enveloping her.
"Dry clothes feel good, do they?" He picked up his cup.
"Clothes feel good," she responded. "Never underestimate the comfort level of underwear."
Jonas almost choked on his coffee.
"Sorry," she said.
"No, you're not."
She grinned. "No, I'm not. Did you see that sales clerk's face when I told her I wanted to wear the underwear out, too? How much do you want to bet she's already told the story to everyone she knows?"
"And probably put it on Facebook," he agreed. He balled up the napkin and dropped it on his finished plate. "Along with her theory of how you came to be in that predicament—and quite possibly a store video."
Amusement dropped away. Hell. She hadn't thought of that. Had she looked up at the store camera at all? Given a clear shot of her face? If the woman's post somehow went viral, it could be seen by anyone. Uneasily, she looked around the diner. Welcome to the Internet age, where privacy was just a suggestion...and a weak one at that.
"We should go," she said. "We need to keep moving."
"We need a plan first." Jonas set his empty coffee cup on the plate and folded his arms along the edge of the table. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. "We're not going to be able to disappear for very long, Kate. Even without a store video, Lewis and Ramirez will have figured out I was trying to get back here. They'll be closing the net as we speak."
Kate nodded, then she jutted her chin toward the envelope sitting near his elbow—the one he'd picked up at the bank before they'd gone shopping for her new clothes. "I suppose it's wishful thinking to imagine you have enough in that envelope of yours to get us out of the country."
"Not for both of us, no. Even if I did, you have no passport."
She raised an eyebrow. "And you do?"
"Jonathan Blake."
Her other eyebrow followed the first. "Fake ID? That's not part of a standard stash. You've been worried about things for a while."
"I told you I have trust issues."
Kate suspected the comment was only half in jest. "So.
About that plan."
"First, we need to find a new car."
"Find?" If she'd had a third eyebrow, she would have raised that one, too.
A smile threatened at the corner of Jonas's mouth. "You prefer borrow?"
"I prefer not to think of committing yet another felony crime," she retorted.
He chuckled. “You can relax. I plan on renting this time. And after that, I think we should—"
"Wait," she interrupted. "It's my turn. You came up with the first step in the plan; I should get the second."
Jonas's eyes narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"
"We need to call Grant."
Jonas nearly choked. "You've got to be kidding!"
"I'm serious. It's been twenty-four hours. He'll have a decision—"
"For Christ's sake, Kate, the man ratted us out!"
"No." Kate tensed for battle. "I know Grant. He wouldn't do that. Even if he decided to move against you, he would have given me a heads-up beforehand."
"So you could separate yourself from me?"
"He wouldn't have put me in jeopardy," she allowed. "So no, he didn't tell them where to find us. We need to call him, Jonas."
Jonas stared down at the tabletop for a long, silent moment. Then he sighed, lifting his gaze to hers, his shoulders sagging. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"
Kate shook her head. "I trust him. And you need to trust me."
"Fine. But I need to talk to someone first." He held up a hand against her objection. "It's a compromise, Kate. And you need to trust me on this. Honeyman is—was my handler. He’ll have access to files. Things we need."
“And he can be trusted?”
Jonas’s mouth became a tight line. “I sure as hell hope so,” he said.
Chapter 37
Kate stepped past Jonas into the short-term rental unit they'd acquired. One week, the agreement said. An agreement Jonas had paid for in cash and signed with the name Jonathan Blake. The clerk had accepted the money without batting an eyelash, making Kate wonder what kind of clientele frequented the place. But she hadn't asked. She'd just accepted the duplicate key he'd handed across the counter, nodded understanding about the renovation work being done between seven a.m. and six p.m. daily, and then followed Jonas to the stairs.
Now, three flights up and standing inside the door, she surveyed their temporary home. A tiny kitchenette to the right opened onto a tinier cubby that housed a bistro-style table and two chairs; a couch, chair, and ancient television passed for a living room; and three closed doors led, presumably, to a bathroom and the two bedrooms Jonas had asked for. All the comforts of home.
Becoming aware she blocked Jonas's own entry, Kate moved into the living room and dropped her load of bags on the sofa. While not enough to take them out of the country, Jonas's stash was substantial, and after breakfast, he'd insisted on buying more clothing for both of them. They didn't know how much longer this situation was going to last, he pointed out, and he for one had no intention of living in the same set of clothes for days on end. Kate had settled for extra undergarments and a lightweight, charcoal gray sweat suit along with a sports bra. When she was ever going to exercise again, she didn't know, but the clothes were comfortable and inconspicuous.
She dropped onto the sofa beside the bags as Jonas flipped the security bolt into place on the door. Letting her head fall back against the cushions, she closed her eyes, allowing exhaustion to gain the upper hand. Damn, but she was tired. And edgy. So edgy. Hovering somewhere between hyper-vigilant and downright paranoid, if she had to take a guess.
A cupboard door slammed a few feet away, and Kate's eyes shot open. She stared across the room at the broad-shouldered man surveying the meager management-supplied cupboard contents in the tiny kitchenette. From where she sat, she saw salt, pepper, instant coffee, and what looked like powdered creamer. They'd have to do something about groceries, she supposed, but not now. Not until they'd both gotten some much-needed sleep, because yeah...paranoid. She uncurled fingers from the gun at the small of her back where her hand had gone when Jonas opened the cupboard.
Definitely paranoid.
She levered herself up from the couch, and Jonas looked over his shoulder.
"I'm going to lie down for a while," she told him. "You should, too."
"I'm—"
"Jonas."
He stopped.
"You've had even less sleep than I have," she said wearily. "And this may be the only chance we have. I'll get groceries when I get up—enough for dinner, at least—and then we'll talk about when you want to see Honeyman."
"I don't want you going out by yourself. Wake me."
"There's a convenience store across the street. I think I can manage."
"Kate—"
She turned at the bedroom door, arms crossed. Jonas pressed his lips together and shook his head.
"Never mind. Sleep well."
Sure.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Kate divided her attention between the apartment building across the street and the man in the driver's seat beside her, who also watched the building. She and Jonas had been sitting in silence for twenty minutes—longer, if she counted the ten-minute drive to get to Rick Honeyman's home. She studied the brooding man behind the wheel. Jonas had picked up a disposable razor in their travels, and after their nap, he'd shaved off several days' worth of growth, exposing the stubborn jaw line and the tiny muscle that flickered in front of his ear when he was tense. And she'd never seen him tenser than he was right now. She cleared her throat.
Jonas flicked her a sidelong look, then turned his gaze back to the building. "What?"
"You're procrastinating."
He scowled. "I'm making sure—"
"There's no one watching the building, Jonas. One of us would have picked them out by now if there was."
The muscle in his jaw flickered.
Kate sighed. "Are you sure seeing him is the wisest thing to do if you don't trust him?"
"I never said I didn't trust him."
"No, you said you don't trust anyone."
"Honeyman was my handler for more than two years, Kate. I think I would have picked up on it if he was screwing me over." He turned to look at her. "The only reason I'm being cautious is that I don't want to put anyone else in Lewis and Ramirez's sights."
"If we call Grant—"
"No. Not until I talk to Honeyman." He reached across her to the glove compartment and took out the pistol—a Glock—that he'd retrieved from the safety deposit box along with his emergency stash. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, then pulled his shirt out to cover it. Then he reached for the door handle.
"Fifteen minutes," Kate said, "and I come looking for you. Apartment seven-oh-two."
"Thirty minutes," Jonas countered, one foot out the door and on the street. "Honeyman—"
"Twenty,” she interrupted. “Final offer."
She pulled out her own weapon, removed the clip, checked it, and snapped it back into place. Then, unflinchingly, she met Jonas's gaze. "Someone helped Lewis and Ramirez set you up, Jonas. A handler is in the perfect position to be that someone."
As soon as the words left her mouth, Kate gave an inward groan. Great. Now she was starting to sound as paranoid as he usually did. She steeled herself and repeated, "Twenty minutes."
Jonas's gaze slid away to the building across the street. His lips tightened. "Fine," he said.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Uneven, heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the door marked with the number 702, their approach interspersed with the lighter thud of a cane—Rick Honeyman's trademark tread since the car accident more than a year ago.
Jonas took his hand from the butt of the pistol tucked into his waistband, and rolled his shoulder muscles to loosen them. It was no use. He was perpetually tensed for fight-or-flight these days, unless he was near Kate. Then he was tense for a whole other set of reasons.
He shook off the thought as the door opened and Honeyman's familiar frame filled the opening.
A burly man who looked like he'd be more at home in a boxing ring than in the suit he wore, Honeyman would have had Jonas outgunned six ways to Sunday if it wasn't for his shattered leg. Except Jonas's own healing wounds rather leveled the playing field right now, so he eyed his handler with caution, hoping Honeyman would be willing to hear him out and not attempt an arrest.
"Jonas." Pale gray eyes surveyed him with an odd lack of surprise. "I wondered when you'd turn up."
Honeyman opened the door wider, then turned and limped into the belly of the apartment, leaning on his cane, leaving Jonas to follow. Jonas frowned, hesitating. Honeyman would know about the warrant for him, of course, but he’d expected Jonas to come to him? Why?
He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes left before Kate came after him. Bloody hell, he should have held out for the half hour. He stepped across the threshold and closed the door. Hand back on the pistol's grip, he followed Honeyman down the hallway to the kitchen. His handler opened the fridge door and took out a can of beer. He held it aloft in Jonas’s direction. Jonas shook his head.
Honeyman shoved the fridge door shut with his elbow and popped the tab on the can. His gaze remained on Jonas. "So when did you figure it out?" He raised the can to his lips and took a swig.
Figure what out? But even as the question arose in his mind, Jonas felt himself slipping into undercover-cop mode. He'd played along for more information so many times in his career, it had become automatic. He shrugged and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.
"It wasn't difficult," he said, his voice betraying none of the churn going on in his brain. "Just a matter of putting two and two together."
"I suppose." Honeyman looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I knew it wouldn't last forever. Something that big never does. Too many players, too many loose ends." The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "But I have to say, it was good while it lasted."
He took another slug of beer. Unease began a slow, sickening swirl in Jonas's gut. The way Honeyman talked made it sound like—no. No, he couldn't have been that wrong. About Lewis and Ramirez, yes. He'd never worked that closely with them. But his handler?
Shadow of Doubt Page 20
