She nodded.
“If he’s going to be staying with you at the safe house, we need to know everything we can about him.”
She said nothing. Where was he going with this?
“After you two left the office yesterday, I did a background check on him.”
Amy’s heart skipped a beat. Was there something in Dean’s past that he’d kept from her? Some deep, dark secret? “And?” she asked, her hand now resting on the puppy’s back, unmoving.
“He’s squeaky clean,” Hemmings said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the chair. “In fact, he’s never even gotten a speeding ticket. Good employment history with the fire department, no disciplinary actions, excellent yearly reviews, no complaints.”
Amy let out a breath. That was good to hear. Dean was exactly like you’d expect of a “good guy,” but if Nick had taught her anything, it was that you never truly knew what someone was capable of.
“He does know the seriousness of the situation,” the agent continued. “And he doesn’t strike me as someone who makes decisions lightly. But he should know that his staying with you is a risk. If he’s seen with you, known to associate with you, he could either be used as a weapon or as revenge.”
She wasn’t following. She understood how Dean could be used as a weapon. Someone could follow him to her. But the other part? She gazed at Agent Hemmings with a slight frown. “Revenge?”
“Risk by association,” the agent said simply.
Amy froze. Now she understood. By simply being with her, Dean was putting his own life at risk. Nick might kill Dean simply out of a sense of jealousy. She shook her head. “Nick Summers was not in love with me,” she said bluntly. “He used me. He tricked me. He kidnapped me and intended to sell me. For money. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“But you two were . . . close?”
Amy shifted uncomfortably. God, this was utterly humiliating. “Like I said, Agent, Nick played me. If you must know the truth, yes, I did have feelings for him. But those feelings came to an abrupt end when I realized who and what he really was.”
Hemmings opened his mouth to reply, but quickly snapped it shut again as Dean and the GBI Investigator walked through the door. Dean’s hands were empty and Amy frowned. “Didn’t Meg pack a bag for me?”
He nodded. “She did, but I left it in the agent’s car,” he said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. “If anyone is watching, we don’t want them seeing you leaving the house with a backpack.”
Amy looked at Hemmings, eyes wide. “You think they might know I’m here? At Dean’s house?”
“At this point, we have to assume worst-case scenarios, Amy. I don’t believe anyone knows you’re with Dean, but I think it’s best we don’t take chances.”
He looked at Dean and the GBI investigator as he continued. “The investigator will go to the motel first, check it out, make sure it’s all clear.” The man nodded. “Dean, it’d be best if you drive your truck to the fire station and leave it there. I’ll follow a short distance behind with Amy and we’ll swing by the fire department to pick you up.”
Amy’s head was spinning. This plan seemed like something right out of a Jason Bourne movie. And she was smack-dab in the middle of it. Once again, her life was spinning out of control, her actions determined by someone else.
When would this end? When would she feel safe again? When could she live without fear? Staring down at the puppy in her lap, she blinked back tears. She had to stay strong, somehow, for at least a little longer.
16
Dean
The motel was located in the northwest portion of town, outside of city limits, a small but well-kept property mainly used by vacationers coming to fish in the nearby river. After being hustled inside the room separately, Dean sat down at a small table in front of the main window. He kept watch, pushing the curtains aside. Amy sat on the bed, watching him carefully. There were heavier curtains that could be drawn if he noticed any activity outside, but for now he left them open. She hoped the sunshine would cheer her up.
Hemmings and the GBI investigator had dropped them off and then left, saying that they were speaking to the front desk staff and making sure the area was secure. They’d instructed Dean to lock the door behind them and go nowhere until they returned. He glanced over at Amy. She was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, and hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived. He frowned. “You okay, Sweetheart?”
Her gaze snapped to him, and he hated the fear that still remained in her eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this, Dean? You don’t have to, you know. You have a life to live.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, turning to her. “I want to be here. I had vacation time coming, the captain was fine with me taking it now. And I talked to Meg. She’s going to take care of Penny Girl while I’m gone.”
Before she could argue with him again, Hemmings knocked on the door and Dean stepped to open it, checking through the peephole before unlocking the door. He started with a list of instructions and Amy’s face went from tense to utter dismay.
“She’s not to so much as poke her head outside the door,” he said to Dean while gesturing at Amy. “If she needs anything, you go get it.” The instructions continued. Dean was to watch for any unusual people lingering about. A patrol car or an unmarked vehicle would drive around the place every few hours, but the local department couldn’t spare much more than that. Hemmings turned to Amy.
“You have the phone that Dean bought for you?”
Amy nodded, pulling it from her pocket.
“Don’t use it unless you have to. Contrary to popular opinion, they can be traced if the person knows who bought it.” Again he glanced at Dean. “Either one of you should call me immediately if you spot anyone about that looks even vaguely familiar.”
By the time everything was settled, darkness had descended. The GBI investigator left, followed shortly by Hemmings. Amy relaxed a little with their departure. She still didn’t talk, but her shoulders seemed to unfurl and she stopped fidgeting. Dean turned to her. Deal with her immediate needs first, then worry about the rest. “You hungry?”
Amy shook her head. “Not really.” She sighed, glancing around the nondescript motel room. Two double beds were separated only by a small bedside table with a lamp screwed to the top. Sharing the same wall as the front door was the large picture window and beneath that, an ancient air-conditioning unit. As much as he wanted to spend the night wrapped around her, Dean was glad to see the two beds. If she wasn’t ready to make that choice, having two beds available would help Amy not feel forced to sleep in the same bed with him before she was ready.
When she didn’t answer, he pulled himself to his feet, closed the heavy drapes, and then started a search for the remote. If she wasn’t ready to talk, then he’d turn on the TV to deal with any awkward silences.
“Looking for something?” she asked. The room was darker now, although the sun hadn’t completely set. She reached to turn on the lamp between the beds.
“I’m just nosy,” he smiled, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other pulling a television remote control from one of the drawers of the dresser. He wiggled it in the air and then returned to sit on the bottom of his bed.
Amy turned to dig through the backpack that Meg had packed for her. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go brush my teeth and get ready for bed.” She glanced at him. “You can watch TV or whatever; it’s not going to bother me.” She pulled a T-shirt and a pair of terrycloth shorts out of her backpack and fast-walked her way to the bathroom.
Dean abruptly stood and moved to the front door, making sure it was locked and the chain was in place. Could she be nervous at the thought of spending a night together in the motel room? Or was she thinking about someone lurking out there trying to find her, to silence her?
Could he really be a target?
He turned to say something, but she was gone. The bathroom door closed softly behind her and he soon heard the sh
ower running. He moved back to the bed to unpack his own bag, forcing himself not to think of her in the shower, the water running over her soapy body. He locked his legs where he stood, resisting the urge to join her.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, carrying her jeans, shoes, and shirt loosely in front of her chest, he was lying on top of the covers of the bed she’d chosen. He was wearing boxer briefs and a T-shirt but hadn’t gotten under the covers. If she didn’t want him there, he’d move, but he wasn’t going to let her hide herself away out of fear, either. When she saw him there, she paused abruptly, a startled expression on her face.
He patted the bed beside him. “Just for sleeping tonight,” he said. “I promise.”
Amy’s body relaxed, or at least some of the tension left her. She didn’t push him away, thank God. The sex they’d had . . . fuck, it had been the best night of his life. He was more than ready to do it again, but now was not the time. She was frightened. She hid her anxiety well, but he had gotten to know her well enough the last couple of weeks to know the small mannerisms that indicated her state of mind.
The way she bit her lower lip. Briefly. The way she darted her gaze around her environment, her surroundings. She was doing it now. Looking for monsters, looking for bad guys. If all he got to do that night was to lie next to her and hold her all night long, then he was more than willing. He wanted to give her a sense of . . . of what? Protection? Security? Amy was so damn strong. That didn’t mean she couldn’t use a helping hand.
She placed her clothes on a chair by the television and padded toward the bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in, patting the bed next to her. He raised his eyebrows in question and she smiled. “It’s okay, Dean. I want this.” Propping her pillow slightly against the headboard, she lay down, snuggling into his side. He kissed her forehead, and pulled her close. There was no need for words. She watched the muted baseball game still on the TV, but it was only a few minutes before her eyes grew heavy and she fell into a deep sleep.
He watched her for a while, just listening to the sound of her soft breathing. This wasn’t the first time he’d spent the night with a woman, but it was the first time that he wanted to stay there through the night, the morning, and the next night again. The thought gave him pause. His attraction to her was undeniable. They shared a bed. They had had sex. Great sex. On that level, at least, they connected.
But emotionally? He had a feeling that Amy was holding herself back. He could feel it. She had told him she was afraid of getting to know anyone, but he knew it went much deeper than that. And she was right. It would take a long time for her to learn how to let go and trust again. He couldn’t let that matter.
He turned his head on the pillow, admiring her profile. In sleep, she looked so relaxed. Innocent. He wanted to reach out and trace his finger along her forehead and that slightly upturned nose. To touch the corners of her lips and trace her jawline, but he kept his hands still. He didn’t want to startle her, jar her out of a much-needed and likely emotionally exhausted and deprived sleep. For now, she felt safe and he wasn’t going to take that from her.
But just looking at those lips, remembering the feel of those lips on his skin had his cock rising to half-mast again. Dean forced his gaze away from her features and stared at the television. He should get up and take a cold shower, but he didn’t want to do that, either. She needed sleep. If she felt secure enough in his presence to sleep this peacefully, there was no way he was risking moving and waking her. The thought that she felt comfortable enough in his presence to even fall asleep spoke louder than words ever would.
Dean blinked awake. The room was filled with a soft light, both from the morning sun and the TV that was still silently broadcasting. He turned. Amy was still there, curled up on her side, her back facing him. He glanced at the digital clock there. Seven fifteen. He slowly rose from the bed, trying not to jiggle it too much as he got up. He stretched and yawned quietly.
He rounded the bed and leaned over the small table near the window, taking a peek outside. The sun was still rising; a beautiful Georgia sunrise. He glanced up and down the covered hallway that spanned the front of the rooms of the L-shaped motel. Only a few cars were parked outside. He’d feel a little more comfortable if his truck was one of them. He didn’t like being without transportation, a way to get out of there fast. Just in case. He’d call Agent Hemmings that morning and tell him to send someone to pick him up and take him back to the firehouse. He’d get his truck and park it somewhere nearby. Dean glanced at the far side of the parking lot. If an undercover cop or an agent was parked anywhere in the vicinity, they were doing a damn good job of hiding themselves.
With a sigh, he walked across the room and into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. He stepped to the sink, turned on the faucets, and washed his hands, his face, and then his hair. Dean stared at his reflection. Despite the events of the past few days, he didn’t look too much the worse for wear. With Amy lying beside him, he’d slept well. Not long, but well.
He emerged from the bathroom, a hand towel draped around his neck, glancing at the bed where Amy now sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair tangled and her eyes sleepy, she looked absolutely adorable.
“Morning,” he said. “You sleep well?” He knew she had. She’d hardly moved the entire night.
“Yes,” she offered with a nod. “You done in there?”
He nodded. She threw the covers back and stood. She stepped toward the chair where she had placed her clothes the night before, but then she stopped, frowning as she looked toward the front door. “What’s that?”
He looked and saw a folded piece of white paper on the floor. It had been passed under the door. He walked toward it. That hadn’t been there before he’d gone into the bathroom. Surely he would have noticed it. He shrugged, determined to play it cool before Amy lost any benefit her good night’s sleep had given her. “Maybe the invoice from the office.” He stooped for the paper and lifted it from the floor, but as he did, something fell to the floor.
“What the hell?” He stooped down again, picking up what looked to be several Polaroid photos. His heart skipped a beat and he stared, disbelieving.
“What is that? What is it?”
Amy stood beside him. She took a look at the first photo he held in his hand and clapped her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
He immediately reached an arm around her and pressed her close. The photograph showed Amy entering the motel yesterday afternoon, Agent Hemmings close behind. Another photo showed him sitting in front of the window. From the light in the photographs, it looked like they had been taken just before night had fallen.
“Oh, my God . . .” Amy stammered, beginning to tremble. “The note. Did you read the note?”
He pulled his gaze from the photographs and looked at the writing on the piece of otherwise blank paper. Block letters. It looked like they’d been written by a black Sharpie.
Do you think you can hide from me?
“Call Agent Hemmings.” He fought back a surge of anger—no, it was rage—before he lashed out at the wall and scared the hell out of Amy in the process. She quickly stepped to the chair where her clothes lay in a crumpled heap, dug into her jeans pocket, and pulled out the flip phone. He heard the small ding as she pressed the speed dial for Agent Hemmings.
Several seconds later she spoke, her voice shaking. “He was here,” she said. “There was a note, shoved under the door. With photographs—yes, thank you.”
She hung up and looked at Dean. “He’s on his way.”
He nodded, too tightly wound to do anything more than to shove his legs into his jeans. “Get dressed. We’ll need to be ready when he gets here.” Damn, he hated how gruff his voice was, but he was only just holding it together at the look in Amy’s eyes.
With a shaky nod, she gathered her clothes. Her face was incredibly pale, her movements jerky. That was it—there was no way the FBI wasn’t going to take additional steps to keep her safe now.
Would he even be able to stay with her? The idea of her disappearing from his life as soon as that morning sent chills down his spine. Dean didn’t know how, but the fucker had found her. There was no other explanation. A leak in the Monroe Police Department? An overheard conversation? Or even worse, had the GBI or the local FBI been compromised?
He did know one thing. Whatever it took, he wasn’t going to let that bastard get his hands on Amy again.
Never again.
17
Dean
Damn it! Who the hell was trying to frighten Amy out of her wits? He didn’t even know if this was a real threat or just someone getting their kicks out of scaring her. Either way, if he got his hands on them . . . if it was Nick, how had he found them here? The agents had assured them that they weren’t followed.
That was obviously not the case.
Dean paced in the small area between the beds and the wall, with the television and dresser, looking back toward Amy every couple of seconds. She plucked nervously at imaginary lint on her jeans. God, she looked so small in the large sweatshirt she had changed into.
She refused to look toward the dresser top where the old box television stood. The white piece of paper and the photographs tucked inside sat next to it, silently taunting. She wasn’t crying, wasn’t even trembling. Other than the plucking, she looked calm; breathing slowly, staring unblinkingly at the door, features placid if a bit on the pale side. He didn’t like that. He’d prefer she had a bad reaction rather than nothing at all.
He’d seen the look on her face before. Shock. Amy had withdrawn inside herself, shut herself off from emotion. How many times had he seen it with fire victims? A combination of disbelief and acceptance. How many times had he noticed their eyes, taking it all in and trying to comprehend while they stood watching their homes burn along with everything they owned?
Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3) Page 10
