A Night of Southern Comfort
Page 16
He froze. Goose bumps crawled along his skin until they ended in a prickle of heat on the back of his neck.
Bootlegging.
Oh, hell.
He was moving before he remembered to shout over his shoulder. “I know how she took her.”
Lucky’s answering curse was muffled by the sound of Jack’s own boots pounding down the stairs to the lower floor and the old garage area. The door was locked but he shouldered it open, gun drawn and safety off as he headed over to the trap door in the middle of the floor. The lock was off and the dusty floor showed signs of recent activity.
Lucky skidded up behind him.
Lucky unholstered his weapon as well and pointed it at the door. They knew what to do without speaking, years of hunting together as boys paying off in this moment where the stakes were high and seconds counted.
On the silent count of three, Jack wrenched up the door, scanned the floor below and jumped in. Lucky covered him. He whipped out his penlight and shone it down the dark, musty tunnel as Lucky lowered to the ground behind him. Lucky’s light added a little more definition to the gloom.
Jack took a deep breath, his gut twisting as he noted the scuff marks in the dirt floor—one set of footsteps intermittently wiped out by the clear pattern of someone being dragged behind. They were on the right track.
Hang on, baby.
Kayla was tough. She was a fighter and she’d stay alive until he could find her. Then he would turn his back on the FBI and spend the rest of his life living in cookie-cutter suburbia with only one identity—the man who loved Kayla Cantrell.
“C’mon, Lucky. Let’s go get my girl.”
Chapter Fifteen
She’d have given anything to have Crystal shut the hell up.
Apparently, being crazy also gave you verbal diarrhea. Michaela had no idea how long she’d been sitting on one of the long couches as Crystal outlined how happy she and Jackson would be as soon as they were together.
Ms. Batshit-Crazy had it all planned out—right down to the adorable babies filling up all the empty rooms on the upper floors. A thick lump coated in acid-tinged agony kept rising in Michaela’s throat at the thought of Jackson with this woman. Only the constant threat of the loaded weapon being waved in front of her face kept her in her seat and her mouth closed.
“Jack will love this room, don’t you agree?” Crystal purred as her free hand caressed the leather of the sofa. “That’s the problem with living in a historic property, I couldn’t give him his own ‘boy’s room’ upstairs because it wouldn’t match the decor.”
“Uh-huh,” Michaela answered absently. It didn’t seem to matter what she said as long as she appeared to agree. She judged the distance between where she sat and the open door. She wasn’t sure she could clear the sofa and the door before Crystal got off a shot. She’d never been downstairs in this house and had no idea what existed beyond this room.
But she couldn’t stay here and wait for the stream-of-consciousness to end and the shooting to start.
Michaela held her breath. She was sore but as her adrenaline cranked up, the pain lessened, replaced by a tingling warmth that spread over her muscles.
Watching, she waited for the best time to make a break for it. Jackson would be royally pissed at her for thinking about attempting an escape on her own. Always so protective, he never treated her like a helpless woman. He’d treated her like he loved her.
But that wasn’t true.
He wasn’t coming for her, so getting out was completely up to her.
The opportunity came when Crystal gestured toward the wet bar she’d installed for Jackson, looked away, and lowered the gun for a split second. Shoving Crystal hard onto the floor, Michaela leapt up and over the low arm of the sofa and hit the floor in a surprisingly solid sprint for the open door. She flinched at the furious scream that erupted behind her but refused to turn around. Every second counted. She lunged for the door, planning to slam it shut behind her.
Her fingertips brushed the edge of the frame, imminent freedom buzzing up her spine. The shock of being tackled from behind merged with the panic of hurtling toward the floor. Her head cracked against the wooden floor as a heavy weight landed on her back and air whooshed out of her lungs. She bucked upward, but her attempt to throw Crystal off was thwarted by her sputtering and coughing attempt to get precious air back where it belonged.
Nails scraped her tender scalp but she ignored the pain, desperate to get away. The cold press of gunmetal against her neck slowed her movements. Realization that she wasn’t escaping washed over her and she bit back the tears. She wouldn’t give Crystal the benefit of seeing her grieve for her life and her regret that she’d wasted her last time with Jackson railing against his betrayal. Maybe it could have been different. Now she’d never know.
“Why do you insist on pissing me off?” All semblance of the former Crystal was gone.
The spittle and hot breath against her skin made Michaela gag and choke back a sob. This was it.
“Why couldn’t you just leave him alone? You could have had anyone. Teague was practically panting over you. Why did you have to take my Jackson?”
“I was never yours, Crystal.”
Michaela felt the force of Crystal’s gasp as the gun dug deeper into her neck. She shifted, but Crystal tightened the grip on her hair. The pain as she was hauled to her feet blurred her vision and she cried out. Blinking back the terror, she found Jackson—hard, focused, and deadly—standing in the doorway, his gun pointing straight at Crystal’s head.
He’d come for her.
He was beautiful. Dark and intent, and she nearly wept from the joy of seeing him one more time. His gaze flicked to hers briefly—thorough and assessing but also warm with relief and something more. All too soon, he turned his attention back to her captor. Lucky stepped into view, his firearm poised to strike should Jackson fail.
“Let her go.” Jackson’s voice was as brittle as ice. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
Crystal’s voice took on a sickly sweet, cajoling tone as she tightened her grip on Michaela. “Jack, sweetheart, this isn’t going to change anything between us. I know you have to sow your wild oats but we’ll just forget her and move on. I forgive you.”
“I’m not interested in forgiveness, but you’ll be asking God directly if you hurt her.”
“Jack, don’t be that way. You love me.” Crystal shuddered, her breathing labored and she began to cry. “You know you do. We’re supposed to be together. You love me.”
“No, Crystal, I don’t.” He looked at Michaela and dropped his voice to a low, reverential tone, as if they were the only people in the room.
“I love you, Kayla.”
Time stopped as if it understood the importance of those words. In spite of the gun pointed at her, in spite of the certainty of that outcome—she smiled.
And then all hell broke loose.
“No!” Crystal screamed. It was an awful, guttural cry, as if something vital had been ripped from her body.
The gun at Michaela’s neck pressed deeper and metal ground against metal as the trigger was pulled back.
Jackson’s face went white, his expression taut with dead calm. Michaela closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see his face when he realized he couldn’t save her. That would kill her as surely as any bullet.
A loud shot rang out and Crystal jerked backward, her grip on Michaela slipping as another shot sounded. Michaela reeled away from the percussion and fell to her knees. Warm, wet splatter hit the side of her face and dripped down into the collar of her shirt. She wiped at the rivulet with her hand then opened her eyes. Red streaked across her palm.
Blood.
She’d read that head wounds didn’t hurt and they were right.
She explored the side of her face, searching for the gunshot wound. Nothing.
Not her blood.
Jackson kneeled beside Crystal, her body unmoving, eyes staring into space. His face was impassive as he se
arched for a pulse with a practiced hand, waited a few moments, then retreated with a resigned sigh.
Michaela groaned, the ache in her chest making it difficult to catch her breath. Jackson lifted his head, his face a mess of emotions, the strain of the past hours clearly etched in the lines around his mouth. But the warmth in the depth of his dark brown eyes held the promise of a future.
“Lucky, you okay?” Jackson’s voice was gruff, but he never took those eyes off her.
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll call the sheriff.”
Michaela barely registered Lucky stepping out into the area beyond the door, his voice muffled as he called for help.
It was over.
She was alive.
The painful reality of the past several hours and the emergence of the hope she’d buried coiled together into a rope that tightened around her chest. She whimpered and fell forward, her body shaking to the point where she could no longer hold herself up.
Strong arms surrounded and lifted her. Jackson. He smelled warm and inviting, with the slightest hint of gun smoke. That was her Jackson—all things comforting and safe but edged with the danger he courted every day. She never wanted to let him go.
“I love you, Kayla.”
It was too much. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to the sobs that would break her down and give her the strength to rebuild her life.
…
Jack loved watching Kayla sleep. The sight of her curled into herself, features relaxed, golden hair spilling out onto her pillow, would always cause him to utter thanks to a deity who knew how undeserving he truly was. He’d been in a constant state of prayer today until he’d found her and known she was safe. He would have liked to say he regretted killing Crystal but he didn’t.
It was worth it.
He could put down his gun and never look back if only he could spend forever with this woman.
They’d had no time to discuss anything about their personal life after the shooting. Kayla had been a trouper. Whisked off by the sheriff, she’d endured hours of questioning once a doctor had given the medical okay.
He’d been out of his mind, enduring the same bout of endless questions in an adjacent room until they’d both been released and thrown into the plastic-chair-furnished waiting room in a dazed stupor.
Jack had brought her home, chastely supervised her shower, and directed her straight to her bed. He’d cleaned up, thrown on a pair of sweats and lowered his aching, adrenaline-battered body into the chair in her room, alternately dozing or listening to her even breathing in the darkness. Thankfully, she’d only experienced a couple of moments of disturbed sleep, exhaustion temporarily overtaking the nightmares that would surely come.
Now that the danger was over, he didn’t know what to do. He’d never been in this place before, never stuck around after the scene was busted and the bad guys went to jail. The weight of the “I love you” he’d breathed against her hair for as long as she’d let him hold her made it difficult to take a deep breath.
She’d never said it back, never acknowledged that he was walking around with his chest split open for everyone to see. Yeah, she’d been in shock, but maybe he’d been too late. Maybe she’d realized that his kind of trouble didn’t fit in with her plans.
“Come to bed.”
Jack jumped a little, her sleep-sultry voice loud in the quiet room. He waited, tense in the chair to see if he was hallucinating.
“Jackson, come here.” She lifted her hand and beckoned.
On legs numb with fear, he stood, crossed the short distance to the bed, and slid under the covers. Unsure of what to do and unwilling to presume, he lay rigid and unmoving beside her. He clenched his jaw in an effort to stave off the chattering of his teeth, but it spread down his body until he quaked with the fear, relief, and love battling their way out. Silence stretched between them.
“Jackson.” She shifted under the covers, her long legs stretching out as she adjusted the pillow under her head. Her face was in shadows and serene. “That’s the second time I’ve found you in that chair watching me sleep.”
He swallowed. The words he needed to say were stuck in his throat. Yeah, he’d faced down lots of bad guys but he was a coward when it came down to it. “I wanted to make sure you were all right tonight.”
“You caught the bad guy. I’m safe. There’s no reason for you to worry about me.”
“It’s normal for a victim of criminal assault to have post-traumatic reactions to such events and it’s protocol to make sure the vic—”
Her mouth, pressed against his, shut him up and scrambled the only parts of his brain left functioning. Her lips, normally soft and warm, were brutal in their branding of him as she pressed her tongue past the seam of his mouth and dueled with his. God, she tasted good. A strange mix of spice, heat, and her toothpaste.
Kayla pulled away and he chased after her mouth, but she pressed her hand against his chest. Her other hand traveled down his side in a possessive caress that ended on his hip. Her heat burned through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.
He was rock-hard and knew she felt his erection pressing against her leg as they shifted, angrily and hungrily, against each other.
“Start talking. I need to hear it.”
Her words, abrupt and hard, were in stark contrast to the softness of the touch of her hands as they roamed over his skin, raising goose bumps. He traced the regal line of her cheekbone into the tangle of her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he answered.
“For what?”
“For everything.” Her nails dug into his hip as his grip tightened in her hair. “I lied to you. I made a deal with your father and kept it from you. I told myself that I wouldn’t let it hurt you but even I knew I was full of shit.”
“Did he tell you to sleep with me?”
“Yes.” He tightened his arms and pulled her closer when she reeled back from the truth. He needed her to stay and listen. Then he’d never lie to her again.
“But, that wasn’t why I did it. I’ve always wanted you.” He licked at her lips, pushing in for a quick sweep inside her luscious mouth. They were both panting. “Always. Since that first night, all I think about is when I can be inside you again.” He grabbed her hand and pressed it against the bulge of his cock. He wasn’t sure who groaned at the contact but the shock of the touch shot up his spine and raised the hair on the back of his neck.
“But, the FBI…” Kayla gasped as he bit the tender skin of her neck.
“I turned the reinstatement down. Told your father to screw himself.”
“Why?” She pulled back.
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of what you’d think of me if I took it.”
“Tell me,” her voice a whisper.
“I love you.” Jack focused on her face, watching her pupils dilate in reaction to his words. “I love you and I’m staying here in Elliott. I’m quitting undercover work and maybe the police force altogether. We’ll do whatever you want. Date me. Move in with me. Marry me. Make me beg. I don’t care.” He pressed a kiss against her mouth with a sigh. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh my God.”
“You said to tell you. That’s everything.” He examined her face, looking for some clue to her feelings. Nothing. “Are you going to make me beg? I was serious about that part, but—”
“I love you, too.” Kayla claimed his mouth in a wet, carnal kiss that made speech impossible. Rolling her under him, he shivered at the sensation of her lush curves against his body. So good, the pleasure bordered on pain with its intensity. He never wanted it to end.
From the start in that hotel room in Richmond, he’d never wanted it to end. When he took the stupid job with her father, violated his training, broke his own rules—he’d never wanted it to end.
“Jackson, please.” Kayla pushed his sweatpants down, her palm sliding against his cock. Breathing stopped and his vision blurred while his body screamed for release. She just might kill him.
Jack wallowed in the taste, smell, and sounds of their passion, the slap of his body against hers as she met him with her greedy upward thrusts. The heady, spicy aroma of their mixed arousal scenting the night air. The honeyed flavor of her mouth as his tongue mimicked the intimate joining of their bodies.
Too soon, the burn of his orgasm crawled along his spine, igniting the marrow of his bones until it settled heavy in his balls. Kayla wrenched her mouth away, her familiar staccato pants punctuated by the bite of her nails in his shoulders and biceps.
Jack drank in the sight of her flushed face, erect nipples, and finally the deep indigo of her heavy-lidded eyes.
“I love you,” he mouthed silently. His body convulsed and his blood ignited as pleasure pulsed through him and into her willing body. Kayla cried out under him, the spasms of her orgasm wringing out every nerve-tingling spark of his release.
The annual Elliott Fourth of July fireworks went off in his head—not the lame bottle rockets sold by the side of the road, but the full-on, pyrotechnic feats of explosive artistry that gave you temporary night blindness and residual sparks of color dancing in your vision.
Jack rolled over and pulled her close to his side, snagging the covers to shield their rapidly cooling bodies. This was heaven.
“Are you sure you want to give up your life?” Kayla’s voice was almost a whisper.
“That wasn’t a life.” He pressed a kiss against her hair. He always thought he’d leave the job feet first or kicking and screaming. Walking out with his eyes wide open was strangely peaceful. “My life will be here. With you.”