Hot Pursuit

by Julie Ann Walker

  “That I should feel remorse for snapping Ben’s neck. But you know as well as I do that the Michelson brothers had come to kill us all. I waited until I was certain of that before I made my move.”

  “I know that.”

  He cracked an eye open, pinning her with it. “Do you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  “Good.” He closed his eye and turned back into the undead.

  Emily made a face and glanced around to see if either Rusty or Ace had something to add to the conversation. But Rusty was stretched out on the comfy leather sofa bolted into the fuselage in front of Emily’s seat. One big arm was across his flat stomach, the other tossed over his head. He pretended to sleep. But, occasionally, he would glance over at Ace, a look of confusion and longing contorting his handsome face.

  For his part, Ace was kicked back in the seat behind Angel’s, going through a stack of magazines like he was determined to read every damn article. Considering the one he was perusing now was titled “Cuticle Care and the Art of Flawless Nails,” Emily figured his magazine fascination had more to do with avoiding conversation with Rusty than anything else.

  Okay, so obviously they had nothing to add. Which was good, she supposed. She wasn’t all hyped to rehash the horror of the night. And, honestly, she wished the two of them would find some common ground and stop—

  Her thoughts were cut off by the sound of the lavatory door opening. Turning, she saw Christian exit the bathroom. A stark white bandage showed through the hole in the arm of his sweater—that was another thing that’d nearly given her a heart attack: when Lawrence had pulled his trigger and she’d seen Christian in the way of the bullet. But Christian didn’t join her now. Instead, he pushed aside the curtain at the back of the plane, the one separating the sleeping compartment from the main cabin, and disappeared behind it.

  Chewing her bottom lip, she debated whether to follow him. Back at the manor house, he hadn’t wanted her anywhere but at his side.

  Together, the two of them had replaced the quilt on the bed and helped Angel remove any trace that any of them had been inside the manor house. Together, they’d watched Angel reset the alarm while Ace and Rusty dumped the Michelsons’ weapons into a nearby pond. They wanted to leave as little evidence behind as possible that could paint a picture of what had happened to the brothers. Together, they’d climbed into the farm truck for the ride to the airport. Since it was still dark, and since they were working against a deadline, they had chosen to take their chances with the truck as opposed to stealing another vehicle.

  Together, they’d wiped the truck free of fingerprints after Angel parked it behind a billboard close to the private jet hangar. And together, hand in hand, in fact, they’d said hello to Brigitte—pronounced Brigeet, Philippe’s partner and their pilot—and then loaded onto the private jet, breathing sighs of relief once they were airborne and officially leaving England behind.

  But maybe now Christian wanted to be alone. Maybe now he needed time with his thoughts and—

  Fuck that. What he needed was her. And who cared if going to him was crossing their coworker-with-benefits/fuck buddies line. Because it certainly didn’t cross their friends-with-benefits line. And she’d come to realize that more than anything else, Christian was her friend.

  She opened her backpack, searching for a granola bar she might have left and— Aha! She pulled one out and saw it was a little squished, but no matter. It would still taste great. Dark chocolate, nuts, and sea salt were a delicious combo any way you sliced it. She shoved the bar in her pocket.

  She’d just pushed up from her seat when Angel spoke again. “Tell Christian the next time he wants to borrow a condom, all he has to do is ask.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I, uh, I told him I’d be too embarrassed if he did that.”

  “Nothing embarrassing about practicing safe sex,” Ace muttered.

  “Oh, now you decide to join the conversation?”

  Ace blinked at her in confusion.

  “Never mind.” She turned her back on the three men, heading toward the rear of the plane.

  “Christian?” She pulled the curtain aside to find him sitting on the end of the narrow bed, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He didn’t say anything, simply nodded his head and grabbed her wrist. Dragging her next to him on the narrow bed, he pressed her down into the mattress, then turned to spoon her. With his big body wrapped around her, he whispered into her hair, “Just lie here with me. I want to hold you for a while.”

  So that’s what she did. She lay with him, feeling his solid heartbeat against her back, hearing him breathe, caressing the arm tucked securely around her waist, and reveling in the warmth of his skin. After a while, she pulled the granola bar from her pocket and reached back to wiggle it in front of his face. “You need to eat.”

  She felt him shake his head. “Not hungry.”

  “Eat.” She wiggled the bar again. “That’s not a request.”

  His put-upon sigh gusted against the back of her hair, but he grabbed the granola bar and rolled onto his back. “You’re bossy,” he accused.

  “I prefer the term strong-willed.” She turned onto her side to face him. Going up on her elbow, she cupped her chin in her hand and watched him tear open the wrapper. “Does that intimidate you?”

  “What?” He took a giant bite, and the smell of chocolate and nuts filled the small space. “That you’re strong-willed?”

  She nodded.

  “Please.” He made a face as he chewed. “Strong-willed women intimidate boys. They excite men.”

  “Good answer.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. But too soon his expression sobered, turned haunted.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured. “None of what happened tonight was your fault.”

  She’d drill it into his head if she had to. Tell him over and over until he finally believed it and the hurt left his eyes.

  She couldn’t bear that look. It hit her right in the ol’ love muscle and made her far too aware of all those bright, sparkly feelings. Dangerous feelings. Deceitful feelings because, sure, right now they seemed like they’d always be with her, but she knew from experience how quickly they faded.

  “You were fearless tonight,” she told him. “And fair. And above all else, brave.”

  He scoffed. “There are loads of things you can say about what it means to kill a man. Brave isn’t one of them.”

  “Do you always suffer…um…” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess the word is remorse…afterward?”

  “Killing should never rest easy on anyone’s shoulders.”

  Her mind drifted back to Angel, unrepentant and on his way to a good night’s sleep. “Agreed. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No.” He shook his head, chewing and swallowing. “I don’t generally regret it. Perhaps because anytime I’ve ever taken a life it was to protect my fellow soldiers or teammates.”

  “Which is exactly what happened tonight.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed.

  “No.” She scowled at him. The only lights in the sleeping cubby were on the floor. A whole line of them on either side of the cabin led the way to the nearest exit. But they gave off enough glow to cast his face in shadows, making his high cheekbones, his broad forehead, and his wide jaw seem that much more impressive. “Not perhaps. Certainly. Positively. Without a doubt. You did everything you could to reason with Lawrence, and you did the only thing you could when he came after me with that knife.”

  “I just keep thinking there had to have been another way. With four of us, could we have somehow subdued him?”

  “You mean before or after he’d gutted me?” She lifted a brow.

  A hint of a smile pulled at his lips. She wanted to turn it into a full smile. “You’re right. I
know you’re right. But perhaps—”

  “And there’s that word again,” she interrupted him. “How about I make you a deal?”

  He groaned around a mouthful of granola bar. “Another one?”

  “You’ll like this one. I promise.”

  “I have my doubts.”

  “You cut the word perhaps from your vocabulary for this conversation, and instead repeat the phrase None of what happened tonight was my fault ten times—and mean it—and I’ll give you another truth. Anything you want to ask me, I’ll answer and—”

  Before she could get in another word, he was already repeating the phrase. She quietly counted until he got to the eighth recitation, then interrupted him. “Now, look me in the eye when you say it these last two times.” She donned her best schoolmarm stare. “Because I’ll know if you really believe it. I’ll see it in your eyes.”

  “Don’t you mean my pretty eyes?” He fluttered his lashes. Jeez, they were ridiculously thick.

  She chuckled at the memory of that morning.

  Wow. Really? It’d been less than twenty-four hours since she’d told him he had pretty eyes? She felt she’d aged ten years between then and now.

  “Yes. I mean your pretty eyes. Now”—she waved a hand—“go for it. Give it your all.”

  “None of what happened tonight was my fault. There. Happy now?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Hey!” He frowned. “I thought we were cutting that from our vocabularies for this conversation.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I said you needed to cut it from your vocabulary. I didn’t say anything about myself. You should pay more attention.”

  “Right-oh.” He wadded up the empty granola bar wrapper and shoved it into his pocket. Then, he pulled the neck of her sweatshirt aside so he could kiss her collarbone. Chills erupted under his lips and spread out from there. “I promise to pay vast amounts of attention to this spot here.” He moved his lips to her throat. “And this spot here.” Now his lips were on her earlobe. “And this spot here.”

  After standing barefoot on the front lawn of the manor house, with the cold air trying to cut her to the bone, she’d wondered if she’d ever get warm again. She shouldn’t have worried. One kiss from Christian, one sexy word spoken in that low baritone with that accent, and she was on fire.

  “I would very much like you to continue exactly what you’re doing,” she said breathlessly, “after you repeat the phrase one last time.” She shoved at his shoulders, experiencing a secret thrill when she barely budged him.

  Had she mentioned that underneath that perfect hair and those perfect clothes was a tough, tattooed brute?

  He pulled back, his eyes brightened by hunger. She still couldn’t quite believe that she could do that to him. She of the barely B cups and inexhaustible supply of ratty sweatshirts.

  For a second, she thought he was going to rapid-fire repeat the phrase, just to get it over with so he could go back to seducing her—and really, had that been the case, she wouldn’t have protested—but then his expression turned serious, and that muscle beneath his eye gave a twitch.

  “None of what happened tonight was my fault.” His accent made the last word sound more like folt.

  “That’s right.” She searched his eyes. “That’s one hundred percent right.”

  He flopped back on the bed, blowing out a gusty sigh. “But that doesn’t make me feel any better about it. Three brothers…” He shook his head. “Gone because—”

  “Because your country didn’t support you and instead let you be the fall guy for something terrible,” she interrupted him.

  “But I still feel like a wretch because…”

  He didn’t carry on, simply heaved another sigh.

  “Because what?” she prompted, poking him in the ribs with one finger.

  “Because I am responsible for not knowing the Iraqi police officers had ferreted out my mission. If I’d known, I could have—”

  “Stop it.” She held up a hand. “Stop right there, or I’ll put my foot so far up your ass I’ll knock out your teeth. Number one, I’m sure there was no way you could have known your cover had been blown.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because you’re you, you big, dumb dope. You are the most detail-oriented guy I know. You’re irritatingly meticulous. Not to mention thorough.”

  “And number two?”

  “Number two, if you start shouldering the blame for everything that happened after Iraq, you’ll never stop. Tell me, are you responsible for the plaque buildup in Mr. Michelson’s heart? Are you responsible for the bus driver who didn’t stomp on the brakes hard enough or soon enough to avoid hitting Mrs. Michelson? Are you responsible for Ben shooting Philippe? Are you responsible for Lawrence’s craziness and his unwillingness to listen to reason?”

  She could see him pondering her questions and got her mad on. “In case you’re wondering, the answer to all of those questions is no. And if you contemplate for one more second that it might be yes, then I hate to have to be the one to tell you, Crazy Train, but this ain’t your station.”

  “I only wish I’d had more time to talk him down.” Christian shook his head. “I’ll always wonder if I might have been able to—”

  She cut him off. “You wouldn’t have. Lawrence Michelson was dead set on killing us.”

  She didn’t tell him about Lawrence’s boner, or how it had flexed and pulsed against her bottom when Lawrence had stopped pointing his weapon at her head and had instead started pointing it at Christian’s. The thought of killing Christian had excited Lawrence. Sexually. Gross with a capital G.

  “So let’s do this one more time, huh?” she continued. “Let’s get rid of all that shit in your head and clear out the stink. Repeat the phrase.”

  “You have such a way with words.”

  “So you’ve said. Now do it.”

  “Bossy,” he accused.

  “Strong-willed,” she corrected.

  “Fine.” Another sigh. “None of what happened tonight was my fault.”

  This time when he said it, she didn’t hear a silent but tacked onto the end of the phrase. She nodded with satisfaction.

  “Now, about that truth,” he said.

  “Ugh. I was kinda hoping you’d forget about that.”

  He tilted his head against the fluffy pillow on the bed—there were definitely some perks to flying in a private jet. “Why does the thought of me asking you another truth make you nervous?”

  “How d’ya know it does?”

  “Because you’ve slipped into your ’hood-girl grammar and your Chicago accent is extra thick.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you it’s a nut-punch-worthy offense to refer to a grown woman as a girl?”

  “Duly noted. Anyone ever tell you that you’re bloody brilliant at trying to Christian Watson your way out of answering a question?”

  Damnit. He had her there. “I thought we agreed to stop using your name as a verb.”

  “How do you plan to have children?”

  All the air left her lungs in one long, gusty exhale. “Who says I wanna have kids?”

  “You did. You said, and I quote, ‘I want to have kids someday. And I don’t want them to get fucked over by me the way I got fucked over by my parents.’”

  She had said that, hadn’t she? Word for word. See? Detail-oriented.

  “What have I told you about trying to mimic an American accent?” she grumbled.

  “Stall much?” He quirked a brow.

  “Damnit! Get out of my head!”

  “Turnabout is fair play, darling. Feels like you’ve been in my head all day.”

  He wasn’t going to let it go. She could tell. And she had made a deal with him.

  “I’m looking into artificial insemination,” she admitted. “Bos
s has asked me to stay on as the office manager once BKI goes civilian. It’s like I’ve finally found the home I’ve always longed for, so I’m ready to start building the life I’ve always longed for. And that means two kids, hopefully about two years apart. I hated being an only child. It was so lonely. Is so lonely. Well, you know. And, wow. I’m sort of rambling on like a prison letter, aren’t I?”

  He pushed up onto his elbow and cocked his beard-stubbled chin. Without fail, he shaved every morning. And without fail, by evening he was rocking a sexy-as-hell five-o’clock shadow.

  Before she realized her intent, she’d touched the tip of her finger to his chin dimple. He ducked, kissing her hand before saying, “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

  She nodded. “And the cherry on top of this awesome two-kid sundae is that I’ll have all the Black Knights Inc. guys around—you included, if you decide to stay on after we go aboveboard—to be positive male role models. It’ll be perfect.”

  Except, for the first time ever, a dark smudge appeared on the surface of her perfect plan. When an image of a little girl with bright-green eyes and a dimple in her chin flared to life inside her head, Emily quickly snuffed it out.

  For a long time, Christian said nothing, simply searched her face. She expected some sort of debate. One of the many arguments she’d heard before. A child needs a father. Raising children alone is incredibly difficult. If you do happen to find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, they might not want to be saddled with two kids who aren’t theirs. Yada yada yada, bullshit, go fuck yourself.

  He said none of this, however. Instead, he completely obliterated her by saying, “I think you’ll make an excellent mother.”

  “Well, that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She had to swallow past the lump in her throat. “You are such an overachiever.”

  He smiled—a real, full smile—and damned if it wasn’t an arrow through her soul. She realized that haunted look was gone from his eyes. No doubt he would never look back on this day or what happened in Iraq with anything resembling indifference. But perhaps, just maybe, she’d helped him see there was nothing for him to be ashamed of, nothing he could have done differently. He’d saved her life. Lawrence would have slit her open from her throat to her thighs if Christian hadn’t pulled the trigger when he did.