Nowhere to Run

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “His partner,” he reminded her. “I found out that Richter wasn’t working alone. The more I found out, the more I wanted to catch this other man, too.” He smiled ruefully. “The more I found out, the more I realized I had to nail this guy. I’d guessed he was someone in St. Simone’s government, someone who’d have access to my whereabouts after I went into protective custody while awaiting Richter’s trial. I was the chief witness against Richter—the only witness. If I didn’t bring a case against this other guy, too, this inside guy, I’d end up dead. I’m lucky I found out about this Captain Rat. If I hadn’t, I probably never would have heard the bullet coming.”

  Caroline swallowed. “You say that so casually.”

  “It’s my job,” he replied.

  “It’s an awful job,” she said.

  “No, it’s not,” he returned gently.

  “In my opinion it is,” she said. She looked at him. “And I’m entitled to my own opinion.”

  Felipe leaned back against the headrest, just watching her. She believed him. Oh, she didn’t believe him one hundred percent, but she believed him enough to stick around. And that was what counted.

  Is there anything else that you’ve neglected to tell me? Her words echoed in his mind as he watched her drive.

  Nothing of that great a magnitude.

  But his answer had been a lie. And not just because there was something that he hadn’t told her. It was true, there was something, but he couldn’t possibly have told her about it, because he wasn’t sure yet himself exactly what it was. It was difficult to pinpoint, harder even to define, these feelings, this emotion that seemed to swirl around him, enveloping him in a chaos both perfect and terrible whenever she looked in his direction, whenever he caught her eye.

  What was it? He didn’t know. Man, he didn’t want to know.

  But whatever it was, something told him it was of a far greater magnitude than he could ever imagine.

  “I WANT TO TELL YOU…why I didn’t come back and explain who I was and what I was doing that night at Sea Circus,” Felipe said softly.

  Carrie glanced at him, startled. He’d been quiet for so long, she was certain he’d been asleep.

  “You know I went under cover as part of the Richter investigation back in August,” he said. “One week I was pretending to be Carlos and running with some of the leaders of the most powerful gangs in St. Simone, and the next I was Raoul, driving a Jaguar and living in a penthouse at the Harbor’s Gate. I had maybe three days between the two assignments. It…wasn’t long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?” Carrie asked, looking over at him again. “It was certainly long enough for you to come and apologize.”

  He shifted in his seat. “It wasn’t long enough for what I wanted,” he said bluntly. “And I didn’t think you deserved to be a one-night stand.”

  Carrie laughed, afraid to look at him, afraid of what she knew she’d see in his eyes. Desire. He’d stopped trying to hide it from her ever since they’d shared that kiss. “How gallant of you,” she said. “You were saving me from my own lack of control, huh?”

  “At the risk of sounding conceited,” he said, “you would not have been able to resist me.”

  Coming from any other man’s lips, his words would have been outrageous and disgustingly egomaniacal. But when Felipe said them, those words, combined with the rueful look in his eyes, were merely a statement of fact.

  It was, however, no less disconcerting.

  “Your brother thinks I’m going to sleep with you within the next twenty-four hours,” Carrie said tightly. “But that’s not why I’m here, and I intend to prove him wrong. In fact, I think we should ignore this…this…physical attraction until after you clear your name and Lawrence Richter and Tommy Walsh are in jail.”

  Felipe was silent. One mile, then two, sped by under their wheels before he spoke. “That’s probably best,” he agreed quietly.

  It was. It was best. Still, Carrie couldn’t help but remember the power of his kisses. If Rafe hadn’t interrupted them, she very likely would have made love to Felipe right there on the sofa, injured leg and all. No, forget twenty-four hours. It would have been more like four hours. Four hours after they’d met—not counting the half hour or so at Sea Circus six months ago, and the dozens of dreams she’d had about him since then—and she would have had sex with this man. Did he have some special power over her specifically, she wondered, or did he experience this phenomenon with every woman he met?

  “I’m sorry if Rafe offended you,” Felipe said. He shook his head. “He had no business saying that to you.” His dark eyes were lit with anger and embarrassment. “I am sorry, Caroline.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “He was just trying to rattle me.” She laughed. “It worked, too.”

  “I don’t understand him,” Felipe said, shaking his head again. He ran one hand across his forehead, applying pressure, as if he had a headache. “Sometimes I think I never will.” He looked up at her. “It’s not as if he didn’t know that crack was addictive. It’s not as if he didn’t know it could kill him. So what the hell made him do it? What pushed him over the edge? And what kind of man cares more about getting a rush than he does about his life?”

  “Rafe seems to think you get a similar rush from being an undercover cop,” Carrie said.

  His gaze sharpened. “You talked to him about me?”

  “Only a little,” Carrie said. “He wants you to forgive him.”

  “He sure as hell has a funny way of showing that,” Felipe muttered. “And I do forgive him,” he added. “I just don’t trust him. How do I know he’s going to stay clean? How can I be sure he won’t start using again?”

  All his frustration and anger and hurt—deep, deep hurt—showed on his face. He was speaking to her from his heart, sharing his darkest fears and innermost secrets with her.

  She liked him, Carrie realized suddenly. There were so many sides to him, so much more than a handsome face, more than those exotic cheekbones and the long, curly hair.

  Who would’ve guessed that such a powerful, independent, self-sufficient man would believe so firmly in the idea of a god? And in this day and age, when religion was a low priority in most people’s busy lives?

  Who would’ve guessed that talk of his brother could reduce him in part to the little boy that he’d once been, badly hurt, and afraid of being hurt again?

  And who would’ve guessed that he’d let her see that pain, rather than try to conceal it from her?

  Yeah, she liked him, despite the fact that he’d locked her in the trunk of her car, despite the fact that he’d put her life in jeopardy.

  He was waiting for her to say something, watching her with those liquid eyes.

  “Sometimes,” Carrie said softly, her eyes on the highway, talking about more than Rafe—much more than Rafe, “you’ve just got to have faith.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  CARRIE DROVE PAST the darkened beach house three times before Felipe nodded his head.

  “Okay, no one’s there,” he said, his gentle Hispanic accent like velvet in the darkness. “Let’s park over on the next block. I don’t want to leave the van out front, or even in the driveway.”

  “Maybe I should drop you off,” Carrie said, “so you don’t have to walk that far.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, one eyebrow slightly raised.

  “Bad idea?” she asked.

  “Bad idea. I can’t protect you if I’m here and you’re a block away.”

  You can’t protect either of us if you’re too tired and in too much pain to walk, she wanted to say. But then she thought better of it, remembering the way he’d run after her when he’d stopped to make that phone call. He’d had a bullet in his leg, yet he’d still managed to chase her across the parking lot. And he’d caught her—with a flying tackle and total disregard for his injury.

  Yes, dropping him off was a bad idea. If mobsters with guns wanted her dead, then maybe it was a good idea if Fel
ipe Salazar stayed near her at all times, healthy or injured, awake or asleep.

  Awake or…

  The image of Felipe asleep next to her in the clean white sheets of a cozy double bed was a powerful one. His wavy black hair spread out across the snow-white pillow, his eyes closed, his long, dark eyelashes like fans against his tanned cheeks, his body relaxed but his muscles still hard as steel under silky smooth skin….

  Thinking this way wasn’t going to help her one bit. And sleeping with him would be rash and reckless—and possibly a knee-jerk reaction to the danger they were in. Yes, he was sexy as hell. Yes, he was sensitive and compassionate and he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking when he looked deeply into her eyes. Yes, he was quite possibly the most complicated, interesting and exciting man she’d ever met.

  But imagine what would happen if—heaven forbid—she let herself fall in love with this man. Could she imagine them together, having breakfast every morning for the rest of their lives?

  Actually, the image was not as difficult to conjure up as she’d thought. In fact, it was a nice picture, a comfortable picture. He’d be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of orange juice and eating a bowl of cereal. She’d be sitting across from him, spreading jam on her toast. He’d look up, meet her eyes and smile and…

  Carrie shook her head, trying to dispel the warm feeling that had somehow invaded her body. So, okay, the thought of Felipe Salazar eating breakfast with her every morning wasn’t such an alien one.

  But imagine her taking him home to meet her father. Imagine Felipe Salazar in the mountains of Montana. Well, actually, that wasn’t such an incongruous picture, either. She could imagine teaching him to ride a horse, imagine him loving it, imagine them riding up into that meadow above the house and sharing a picnic lunch spread out on a blanket. A picnic lunch and a whole lot more….

  As for her dad, well, he’d be put off at first by Felipe’s accent, by his long hair and the diamond stud he wore in his left ear. But her father was a fair man, and he’d quickly see that Felipe was everything he could want for his only daughter—

  Good grief. What was she doing? One kiss, and she was daydreaming about happily-ever-after.

  Happily-ever-after could end permanently and quite abruptly in a matter of days, considering the danger they were in. And even if it didn’t, even if Walsh didn’t find them and kill them…well, Felipe Salazar wasn’t exactly the happily-ever-after kind.

  Sure, he had a certain steadiness, a certain serenity about him that counteracted the risks he took. But he did take risks, and it was clear that he loved the danger and excitement. What had Rafe said? He’d said that Felipe was addicted to danger.

  No, if she wanted to dream up some image to help keep her resolve to stay away from this man, all she had to do was picture his being led away from her in handcuffs. That was a much more likely scenario than any she’d imagined. Yes, she had no doubt that he would make love to her exquisitely. It would be desperately exciting, incredibly thrilling, considering both their adrenaline levels were already quite high. But the reality was, this man was wanted by the police. For murder.

  He said he didn’t commit the crime.

  She wanted to believe him. She did believe him.

  But what if she was wrong? What if he was a cold-blooded killer? What if he wanted her around only as a hostage, not for her protection? What if…?

  Carrie parked the car and turned off the engine. He was watching her as if he could read her mind, as if he knew her every thought. She handed him the keys, which he pocketed.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “Do we have a way to get into the house?” she asked.

  “I know where a key is hidden,” Felipe said, opening his door and swinging his legs out.

  He winced as his feet hit the ground, and Carrie quickly got out of the van and went around the front to help him.

  “I’m okay,” he insisted. But he swayed slightly, and she slipped his arm around her shoulders.

  He surely outweighed her by more than sixty pounds, and the leather jacket he was wearing added even more to that. But Carrie was strong. Besides, she didn’t try to carry him; she merely offered support.

  Slowly, they moved down the street and around the corner toward the beach house.

  Carrie’s head was tucked up almost underneath Felipe’s arm, and her own arm went around his waist under his jacket. As they walked, his thigh brushed against hers.

  She tried to ignore the heat that coursed through her. After all, it had been her idea to suppress the physical attraction they both obviously felt toward each other. And he seemed to have no trouble doing just that.

  But then she stumbled slightly, and he reached for her to keep her from falling. The movement made his T-shirt go up, and all of a sudden her fingers were against the smoothness of his bare back. He inhaled sharply, and she quickly pulled her hand away.

  “Sorry,” she said, not certain which she was apologizing for—nearly tripping and taking him down with her, or touching him that way.

  He didn’t say a word, he just looked at her, the moonlight failing to fully light his face. His eyes were in shadows, not that she could have deciphered the mysteries in his hooded gaze even if they hadn’t been. But one thing was very clear. He wasn’t finding it easy to keep his distance from her. He was simply better at hiding it.

  But he wasn’t hiding it now. She could hear him breathing, smell his warm, masculine scent, feel his heart beating—racing, really—in his chest.

  Her own pulse was pounding just as hard and fast. Soon they were going to be inside the beach house. Soon they’d be behind the closed door. Alone. Together. With the world and all of its threats and dangers and realities carefully shut outside.

  She could do anything, anything, and no one would ever know. Except…she would know. She could make love to this man whom she wanted to trust and believe in, and then hope beyond hope that he wasn’t the man the police were looking for.

  But if he was…

  Carrie walked down the driveway around to the rear of the house with her arm still tightly encircling Felipe’s waist. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the back porch, pulling her more fully into his arms, turning what might have been called support into an undeniable embrace.

  “Caroline,” he said, his mouth a whisper away from hers. He touched her hair, moving it back from her face in the gentlest of caresses.

  Carrie stood staring up into the darkness of his eyes, unable to move, unable to speak. He was going to kiss her. He was going to…

  Instead, he released her, stepping away and using the stair railing for support.

  “The key’s under the flowerpot next to the back door,” Felipe said, his voice husky. He cleared his throat. “We must remember not to turn on any lights inside. We don’t want to catch the neighbors’ attention.”

  As Carrie watched, he pulled himself up the stairs. He found the key exactly where he’d said it was and unlocked the door. Motioning for her to be quiet, he went inside first.

  She followed him into the dark house and stood silently in the coolness. He stood several feet in front of her, his black jacket and jeans making him little more than a dark shape. He was listening intently, and Carrie found herself listening, too.

  There was a clock somewhere in the room, and the sound of it ticking seemed thunderously loud. Outside the closed windows, the surf murmured, but other than that and the clock, the house was silent.

  The air-conditioning unit came on with a hum, and Carrie nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Felipe vanished, his dark shape moving out of the room they were in—the kitchen, Carrie saw as her eyes became more accustomed to the dark. But he reappeared a moment later.

  “It’s all right,” he said, still whispering even though he had no need to. “There’s no one here.”

  He opened one of the drawers and rummaged around, coming up with a box of matches. He lit one, and the tiny light seemed unnaturally bright.


  The beach house was gorgeous—at least the kitchen was. The shiny finish of blond pine cabinets gleamed in the match’s glow. White and blue Mexican tile made up the countertops and floor.

  A candle stood on the windowsill, and as Carrie watched, Felipe lighted it. “Come,” he said, leading the way into the living room, shielding the candle’s flame with his hand.

  The living room was as splendid as the kitchen. More so. A huge fan hung from a beamed cathedral ceiling. Big glass windows and sliding doors covered nearly one entire wall. A huge stone fireplace was in the corner. White wicker furniture had been grouped around the room, creating an airy, spacious feeling.

  Perfect. The beach house, the candlelight—it was all incredibly romantic. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything quite so utterly romantic. And she was here, alone, with the most charismatic, attractive, irresistible man she’d ever met.

  Absolutely perfect.

  But Felipe didn’t stop in the living room. He led her down a hallway, toward a trio of bedrooms. He stopped outside of one of them. “Check to make sure the shades are pulled down,” he said, still speaking softly in the hush of the quiet house.

  Carrie went into the room and crossed toward the windows. She pulled first one and then the other shade down.

  “Those windows face the neighbor’s,” Felipe said.

  Carrie nodded, not daring to meet his gaze. Instead, she looked around.

  This was the master bedroom. It was big, with the same high ceiling as the living room. A king-size bed with a heavy oak frame was set against one wall. There were two doors in the far wall. One led to an open walk-in closet that was nearly as big as her entire apartment. The other opened into an adjoining bathroom. Carrie could see the gleam of tile and mirrors, shiny and clean and new.

  The other wall, the same wall that in the living room held all those windows, was covered by curtains. She was willing to bet there were sliding glass doors behind them, doors leading out onto a private deck, with maybe a hot tub overlooking the backyard, which was in fact the moonlight-kissed beach.