And maybe he heard it because he said shortly, “The airport.”
That was something. She knew the airport. She’d been there before many times. The 11th Hour had a company jet in a hangar and she’d gone to send team members off and to greet them when they came back, and to supervise equipment being loaded on and off.
The panic receded somewhat, though it wasn’t helped by the car giving a sudden lurch to the left, making her have to push hard against the door with her leg.
“Why the airport?”
“Didn’t I tell you to stop talking?” He sounded irritated.
Faith gritted her teeth. “If you want me to stay calm like a good girl and not freak out like a woman with no memory who really, really likes her routine, then I need to know where the hell we’re going.”
He grunted, cursed, and the car rocked. “Deal with it, Ms. Beasley.”
His voice was even rougher now and alarm echoed through her. The bullets that had smashed the driver’s window would have come awfully close to him. Had he been . . . shot?
That thought made her feel even colder than she already was. He was the only person in the entire world who knew what had happened to her, the only person who even knew who she was, and the thought of him dying from a gunshot wound was—
No. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t.
“Are you hurt?” Fear made her tone sharp. “Have you been shot?”
“Jesus, I told you to shut up and yet you’re still asking fucking questions.”
The car lurched again, but this time Faith was fully braced and didn’t move. “Deal with it, Mr. Night,” she snapped.
There was a silence and then he gave a rough-sounding laugh. “In the leg. It’s not a problem.”
So he had been shot. “You idiot. You should have let me drive.”
“Can you drive, Ms. Beasley?”
Faith blinked at the back of the seat directly in front of her face. Good point. She had no idea. The past six months she’d gotten around in his limo and since she stuck to places she was familiar with, she hadn’t felt any great urge to simply get into a car and drive.
“Not sure,” she admitted, feeling the familiar frustration that came with any admission that she didn’t know what she could and couldn’t do. “Are you bleeding?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as if I’ve had time to fucking check.”
“Jacob—”
“Be quiet.” The two words were grated out. “And let me drive the goddamn car.”
She dearly wanted to protest, but considering the only thing standing between her and fiery death in a flaming wreck was his driving skills, that would be a stupid thing to do. Especially considering he’d been shot into the bargain.
Clamping down on both her questions and her panic, she lay on the floor of the vehicle, trying to ignore the lurches and vibrations, and wondering why she wasn’t hearing any sirens considering he was driving like a bat out of hell.
Then, after some time had passed—maybe ten minutes, she wasn’t sure—the car came to a screeching halt.
“Stay there until I tell you to move,” Jacob ordered brusquely as he dug his phone out of his pocket, hitting a few buttons to make a call.
It made sense, it really did. But she was sick of lying on the floor, not knowing what the hell was going on. She twisted around, looking through the shattered windows and seeing blue sky.
They must be at the airport because she could smell jet fuel and hear the roar of a plane taking off. Unfortunately, the roar also drowned out Jacob’s voice so she had no idea what he was saying or who he was talking to.
Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long. A minute or two later one of the back doors was pulled open, Jacob standing in front of it.
His expression was set, his dark eyes glittering, clearly in no mood to be screwed with. “Get out quickly and follow me. We don’t have much time.”
She did as she was told, cautiously getting out of the car and looking around. Jacob had parked the car directly outside the hangar where the 11th Hour jet was kept. Except the jet wasn’t in the hangar, it was on the runway and a man in a pilot uniform was getting out of it and hurrying to meet them.
Jacob walked up to him with no discernible limp and said something briefly. The pilot gave a sharp nod.
Jacob turned and before Faith could say anything, he’d wrapped his long fingers around her upper arm and was pulling her along with him in the direction of the jet.
Faith couldn’t help but notice that the pilot wasn’t following.
“You’re really going to have to explain what’s happening,” she said as they approached the stairs. “Why don’t we have a pilot?”
“We have a pilot.” Jacob pushed her in front of him to go up the stairs first. “Me.”
Faith stopped, half turning around. “What? You can fly a jet?”
“I can fly anything.” He jerked his chin toward the jet’s entrance. “Get inside. The quicker you’re in there, the quicker we can get off the ground and away.”
Her heart had begun beating fast again, her legs feeling a little shaky. “We’re leaving?” she demanded, ignoring him. “We’re leaving San Diego?”
“Yes.” Jacob’s gaze gave nothing away. “Get into the plane, Ms. Beasley. If you don’t, I’ll pick you up and put you in there myself.”
There was a roaring sound in her ears and it wasn’t a jet engine this time. It was fear and encroaching shock.
A deep, animal instinct wanted her to shove him out of the way and make a run for it back to the car, to familiarity and safety. But she knew how well that would work. As in it wouldn’t.
He would pick her up and carry her into the plane if she protested or tried to make a run for it.
He told you to deal with it so deal with it.
Taking a breath, she made an attempt to steady herself before turning around and climbing the rest of the way up the stairs, stepping into the luxurious interior of the 11th Hour’s private jet.
There was no flight attendant to welcome them, Jacob shutting the door and arming it himself. Then he turned to her and gestured toward one of the seats. “Sit down.”
“But I—”
“Sit. Down.”
Faith gave him a cool look, but she went and sat down—albeit slowly—because she knew that tone of his. It was the one he got when he was in charge and things weren’t going to his liking. It promised violence, with extreme prejudice to anyone who got in his way.
Not that he’d hurt her—at least she didn’t think he would. He wasn’t the kind of man who hurt people who didn’t deserve it. But she suspected he wouldn’t be above sitting her down forcibly if she decided not to obey him.
The moment she sat, he bent over her, reaching for the seat belt and clicking it shut, and she caught that hot fiery scent of his, along with something else. Something metallic.
Instantly her annoyance with him and the fear she was trying hard to ignore fled. She reached out and caught his arm as he began to move away. “You’re bleeding. I can smell it.”
He gave her an oddly intense look from beneath his straight dark brows, then his gaze dipped to her hand where it rested on his forearm.
And all of a sudden she became conscious that she was touching him.
She never touched him.
Her fingertips abruptly felt as if they were burning and she snatched her hand away before she was even conscious of doing so.
The look in his eyes sharpened for a second, a black arrow piercing her straight through, making her cheeks heat for some inexplicable reason.
“It’s nothing,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with it later.”
Then without another word, he turned and strode toward the cockpit, pulling open the door and disappearing inside.
Leaving her alone.
* * *
Jacob didn’t think. He was in military mode; dealing with the immediate threat was the only thing that concerned him.
He’d been stupid, complacent.
Sitting in his fucking town car and checking out Faith’s ass when he should have been checking for danger.
Sure, he’d given the street a couple of sweeps and he thought he’d been paying attention. But clearly, he hadn’t. And those fuckers had taken advantage and now his driver was dead and Faith was in danger. Christ, there was another reason he’d taken her to live with him and it wasn’t solely about his wanting her memories. He’d done it for her own protection. There were people out there who wanted her dead, and he should have been on top of figuring out who they were. But his sources had been slow with their intel and as yet they didn’t have a firm fix on who was after her or why.
Jacob sat down in the pilot’s chair and ran through the preflight check as quickly as he could. The jet had been all set for a flight in a couple of hours to Chicago, so it was fueled and ready to go, and the phone call from the car had rushed through a new flight plan.
Just as well.
Faith couldn’t stay in San Diego, not now that those bastards had tracked her down. He couldn’t take her back to his place either because if they’d followed her to the bar, they’d be able to follow her there, too. It was best to leave the city completely and ASAP, before they were found.
He had a safe house in Washington State he kept well supplied and ready in case of any unexpected circumstances, so he’d take her there, where she’d be safe. And then he’d figure out whose heads were going to roll for failing to keep him informed.
Jacob flicked some switches, then radioed Control. Been a while since he’d piloted a jet but the skills were still there. You didn’t forget.
His leg hurt like fuck but he’d been shot before and was able to tune it out.
Not so much the feel of Faith’s hand on his forearm. Her fingers had been cool against his skin, yet the touch had hit him like an electric shock.
She’d never touched him before, not spontaneously like that, and he could have sworn he’d caught something like concern in the deep blue of her eyes.
Neither of those two things should have been a problem and maybe it had something to do with the adrenaline pouring through his system and the gunshot wound in his leg, but he couldn’t get them out of his head. Not what he should be thinking about when he had a plane to fly.
Clenching his jaw, Jacob shoved Faith from his head. Blood was oozing down his leg, but he ignored that, too, busying himself with readying the jet for takeoff.
Air traffic control was efficient and ten minutes later they were in the air and he was leveling the jet off at cruising altitude.
Hitting the autopilot, he sat there for a moment staring out at the brilliant blue of the sky unrolling ahead of him. Now that the immediate threat had been dealt with, it was time to think about all the rest of the shit he’d pushed to the side while they’d been escaping. Though probably the first thing he needed to deal with was his goddamn leg.
Shoving himself out of the pilot’s chair, he opened the cockpit door and stepped out into the main cabin.
Faith was still sitting there all buckled up, her hands clutching her seat belt. Her face was white, the dark shadows beneath her eyes even more pronounced. She looked scared, which he couldn’t blame her for.
She had lots to be scared about.
“You can take off your seat belt now,” he said curtly, moving over to the storage locker where the extensive first aid kit was kept. Should be everything he needed in there. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to dig a bullet out, but again, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to do that; he did have some basic first aid training. He knew what he was doing.
As he dragged the kit out of the locker, he heard the click of Faith’s belt and a couple of seconds later, her crisp, clear voice. “Let me help.”
He turned.
She was standing behind him, a very direct do-not-mess-with-me expression on her face. If he hadn’t spent six months making himself an expert on her every expression, he would have thought she wasn’t afraid.
But she was. He could see the darkness lingering in her eyes.
First rule of leadership was to see to the health of the people under his command and sometimes that simply meant giving a person something to do as a distraction.
He couldn’t afford a freak-out, not up here. Not now. And even though Faith’s mental state was a lot healthier than it had been six months ago, he suspected it was still fragile. It didn’t need to be put under any sort of pressure just yet.
Shoving the first aid kit into her hands without a word, he brushed past her, moving over to one of the seats and sitting down. Pain shot through him, bright and sharp, making him have to grit his teeth against it.
Faith followed, then knelt on the floor in front of him, starting to pull supplies from the kit, her movements quick and precise. “You need some painkillers,” she murmured, grabbing a bottle of pills.
“Just Tylenol. I need to be still able to fly this fucking jet.”
She gave him one of those fleeting glances, a crease between her brows, but she didn’t say anything, only nodded.
His leg ached like a motherfucker now that he was sitting down and the adrenaline was fading. Enough that he couldn’t even notice the soft warmth of her body leaning over him as she peered at his left thigh. The fabric of his pants was torn and bloody, and sticking to his skin.
She picked up a pair of scissors and efficiently cut the fabric, then pulled it wide to reveal the wound. Which wasn’t as bad as it could have been, though it was going to require stitches. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Looks like the bullet went straight through.” He frowned at the blood. “Pass me some of those antiseptic swabs.”
“Let me clean it up for you.”
“No.” His tone was brusque but he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t like other people taking care of him and if he needed fixing he’d do it himself. “I’ll do it.”
“Idiot.” Faith made no move to put the swabs in his hand. “You’ve been shot, Jacob.”
“Believe it or not, I am aware of that.”
She made an annoyed sound, frowning at the wound. “Which means taking ten minutes to rest isn’t a totally stupid idea. No painkillers, fine, but at least let me stitch you up.”
Fuck, he did not want to have this argument, not right now, but he could feel the tide of adrenaline going out, leaving him with the pain and a growing feeling of cold. If he wasn’t careful he was going to go into shock.
“Can you stitch me up?” he asked roughly. “I didn’t see you at the first aid courses the others took.”
He knew how she hated being reminded of all the things she couldn’t do, but he didn’t have any energy to spare for her feelings. Christ, if he hadn’t spared her feelings a couple of months ago and told her what he knew about her real identity, then maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess now.
But hindsight was always 20/20 and the simple fact was that he hadn’t told her. She’d been scared after she’d gotten out of the hospital and he’d wanted her trust. So he’d made the decision not to push her and even though she knew that he knew her real identity, she hadn’t asked him to tell her. And so here they were.
An expression of irritation passed across her face, though she didn’t look at him. “Okay, fine. I can’t. But at least let me clean you up.” The swab was already in her hand and she didn’t wait for him to respond, leaning forward to clean the wound.
Fucking woman. Everyone else was afraid of him, racing to do what he told them to without argument. Not Faith. She was fearful about a good many things, but not, apparently, him. She seemed to have no problem arguing with him. In fact, she even seemed to relish it, which was as irritating as it was exciting.
Another maddening consequence of the chemistry between them.
And speaking of . . . he was aware of it now, the warmth of her body pressed against his legs as she bent over his lap, dabbing at the blood around the wound. She seemed oblivious, a frown of concentration creasing her forehead. A lock of glossy black hair slipp
ed over her shoulder to lie across his uninjured leg and he had the oddest urge to take it between his fingers and stroke it, see if it was as smooth and silky as it looked.
The pain was annoying him as was his own stupidity back in San Diego, and here she was, calm as ever, arguing and cleaning his wound as if nothing was wrong. Grabbing his arm as if putting her hands on him wasn’t dangerous.
It aggravated him for no good reason, which was in itself an annoyance, so just to be a prick he reached out and took the end of that lock of hair between his fingers, brushing his thumb along it. And yes, it was as smooth and silky as he’d expected.
Faith didn’t seem to be aware that he was touching her hair at first, too busy swapping one dirty swab with a fresh one. Then suddenly she froze and looked up at him sharply.
He didn’t let go, relishing the flicker in her eyes. She so rarely met his gaze that some part of him felt vaguely triumphant that he’d caught her attention.
“You really don’t like doing what you’re told, do you?” He rubbed the silky strands between his thumb and forefinger lazily. “What’s up with that, Ms. Beasley?”
Color stained her high cheekbones, but she made no move to pull away. “I don’t have a great deal of control over my life, Mr. Night. Part of the having no memory thing, you understand. The only control I do have is over my actions and my own choices. And so I like to exercise that choice whenever I can.” She arched one delicate dark brow. “That explain things for you?”
It did. In fact, he understood all too well. When it came to the day-to-day process of living, control over your own actions was all you had. Fuck, he’d learned that lesson well enough in his own goddamn life.
“Yes.” He ran his thumb along that lock of hair, feeling the softness of it. “Makes perfect sense. In which case avoiding learning about certain things is also a choice, wouldn’t you say?”
Her jaw tightened. “If you’re wanting me to—”
“You haven’t asked me why you were shot at. You haven’t asked me where we’re going now. You haven’t asked me anything at all.” He tilted his head, studying the finely drawn lines of her face. “Is that another choice, Ms. Beasley?”
Hard Night Page 3
