Holding Fire

by April Hunt

Standing in the middle of a busy airport definitely wasn’t the time to relive her night with Trey. When her turn came up at the counter, she gave herself a mental slap and focused on giving the attendant the information the airline needed to reconnect her with her suitcase. And then with a Have a nice day and her single carry-on, Elle shuffled away to wait for Shay to finish in the bathroom.

  She searched her purse for her cell phone and bounced off the chest of another traveler.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” She reflexively reached out to steady her victim.

  “Shut it,” a low voice snarled.

  Oh, hell no. Exhaustion mixed with an insane need to shower off the last day and a half made her head swivel to Mr. Attitude. She looked up. And up. Whoa. He was ridiculously tall.

  If she’d had a little bit more sleep she’d probably be able to talk herself out of confronting someone so freaking huge, but she’d had a middle seat, and both Shay and the man to her left had been armrest hogs. Elle was eight hours past polite.

  She narrowed her eyes, wishing her glare would make him squirm. “It was an accident. I said I was sorry. There’s no need to be a jerk about it.”

  “Actually, there is.” Mr. Attitude clamped a hand around her upper arm and squeezed.

  “Ow. Hey, watch it!” She tugged, and he tightened his hold.

  He leaned his large body way past her personal boundaries. That was when she saw the scar, half-hidden behind his sunglasses. It looked angrier up close, the skin around his eye socket puckered straight up to his hairline. Cold dread licked up Elle’s spine.

  It was Alley Man.

  “I told you to shut. The fuck. Up.” He emphasized each word and punctuated it with a sharp jab to her ribs. When she attempted to twist away, the poke came again—this time with the cool sensation of metal.

  A gun.

  Alley Man stepped closer, careful to keep it hidden from view. “If you so much as twitch, sputter, or look at anyone cross-eyed, I won’t hesitate to make this very bad for you. Do you fucking understand me?”

  Elle re-swallowed the bile that had risen to her throat. “I should probably warn you that I don’t have any money. Well, I have about ten dollars’ worth of Thai baht, but that’s about it. And maybe a fuzzy breath mint.”

  Tightening his grip, he steered them away from anyone who would remotely care what was happening. And let’s face it: This was one of the busiest airports in the country. No one was going to notice one travel-ravaged blonde, even if she stripped down to her cotton undies and streaked half naked through the terminal.

  Alley Man kept the gun pressed firmly between her ribs as he directed them to the exit. “I don’t want your money, Miss Monroe.”

  Elle’s heart went from a steady thunder to an apocalyptic roar. He knew her name. He knew she’d be at this airport. On this day. On this flight.

  The only thing Elle knew was that she was really—and completely—screwed.

  Chapter Three

  Elle whipped her head from side to side, hoping to catch someone’s eye, but everyone was too involved with their own travels. Even the station cop across the room looked busy, standing between two passengers about to come to blows.

  “So I’m your meal ticket, huh?” Elle kept talking, willing any of the nearby travelers to catch on to her dilemma. “You obviously need me alive or you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to get me out of here. What’s stopping me from screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs?”

  “This.” He drilled the gun into her ribs as a not-so-subtle reminder. “Not only could you get hurt in the process, but just look at this crowd of innocent people. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for any of them getting hurt, would you? Then there’s your friend in the women’s bathroom—and just in case you think I’m bluffing, Miss Whitney happens to be in the one directly across from the newspaper stand…the one with one working stall and a dripping faucet.”

  Shay. Panic seized Elle’s throat, making it difficult to breathe. Jeopardizing her best friend’s safety or that of any other innocent bystander wasn’t an option, and the evil smirk distorting Alley Man’s face said without words that he knew it too.

  She needed to think. She needed her own plan. She needed—

  Elle snapped her gaze to the far wall where she’d last seen Mr. Tall, Ripped, and I-Can-Flick-Off-a-Man-with-My-Fingers-and-Send-Him-Across-the-Room. Her baseball-cap-wearing stranger remained in the same spot, but he wasn’t leaning against the wall. He stood upright, newspaper tossed to the side, looking straight at her.

  “Keep up.” Elle’s captor tugged her closer to the exit.

  In front of them, the doors slid open. A gust of frigid air spurred Elle to move—to do something. She stiffened her legs and forced both herself and her captor into a stumble. That small bit of space was all she needed to plow-drive a fist straight into his man-goods.

  Thank God for hospital-sponsored self-defense classes—even if it was the only move she remembered.

  As she hoped, Alley Man released her arm to deflect the blow—and then he was gone. A whir of black zipped by her shoulder, followed by the sounds of flesh on flesh. Much to the horrified fascination of nearby travelers, her wall-lounger and would-be abductor exchanged punch after punch.

  Curious bystanders stopped and stared, some even pulling cell phones from pockets and pointing them toward the action. Across the lobby, the uniformed cop finally looked their way. Then with one final blow, her stranger sprawled Alley Man flat out on the ground.

  “With me.” He palmed her lower back and hustled her into New York’s fresh-as-can-be air. She opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off. “Save the questions for when we’re not about to become target practice, and walk faster.”

  Elle followed the direction of his attention and immediately locked eyes with her almost-abductor. He was back on his feet as if nothing had happened, his gun clenched tightly at his side. And he was pissed as he produced a cell from his back pocket.

  “Get in the car.” Her stranger nodded toward the SUV half-parked on the drop-off zone’s sidewalk.

  Elle’s feet screeched to a stop. “Yeah, I may be blonde, but I’m not stupid. What makes you think I’d get into a car with you any more than I would with him? Thanks for helping me because I’ve obviously landed in the Twilight Zone instead of New York, but if you want me to get in there”—she gestured to the door he held open—“then you’re going to have to physically toss me in and sit on me.”

  “If you think that would be a deterrent for me, you’re mistaken. And as for manhandling you into position, I’d be more than happy to cover your body with mine, but I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting on you. Get in the car. Now.”

  Elle folded her arms across her chest, purposefully not moving. That tone of voice and the familiarity with which he spoke to her tugged at her memory vault.

  “Have it your way.” He bent. His muscled arm took her legs out from under her and hoisted her into the back of the SUV.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she howled.

  “Saving your stubborn ass. You can thank me later, sweetness.”

  A sucker punch would’ve stunned Elle less. That voice. His smell. That damn term of endearment which never failed to rub her the wrong way. Recognition tightened her nipples and sent a zap of warmth straight between her legs.

  She didn’t know how it was possible. Or why.

  But she suddenly knew that she didn’t need to imagine what her wall-lounger looked like beneath his clothes. She’d already had a private viewing. She knew how his body felt against hers, knew that each touch felt like she’d brushed against an exposed electrical wire. Those large hands, especially, gave her a treasure trove of pleasurable memories.

  Lying sprawled on her back in the rear seat of an SUV, Elle Monroe: nurse, reformed yes-girl, and daughter of a United States senator, pulled her stranger’s sunglasses from his face and stared into the piercing green eyes of her forty-eight-hours-recent one-night
stand.

  * * *

  Rafe Ortega, Trey’s best friend and teammate, pulled the SUV away from the curb a split second before three men stepped through the airport doors, one of them the asshat from the lobby. Fucking bastard.

  Trey knew control. He lived it. Breathed it. Hell, control ran through his veins along with red blood cells and a genetic disposition toward high cholesterol. But it had taken every ounce he possessed not to snap that mercenary’s neck for putting his hands on Elle, control be fucking damned.

  Once Trey could unclench his jaw, he corralled his focus back to the woman sitting next to him. Elle glared, her eyes packed with questions—and anger. The latter he could try to handle now, but the answers weren’t his to give. Not yet. And not until they put more distance between them and the hired guns who were seconds from riding hard on their asses.

  “Elle…” He searched for something—anything—to help her understand.

  “Shay,” she cut him off. “She’s back at the airport and that man threatened to—”

  “She’s with one of my guys. She’s safe. I promise.” Though Trey couldn’t say the same for Chase. Odds were high that the former SEAL medic would have to give himself some kind of first aid, thanks to the ornery brunette doctor.

  Silence hung so goddamn heavy in the SUV that Trey waited for the vehicle’s undercarriage to start dragging down the Belt Parkway. In the two days since Trey had last laid eyes on Elle, she seemed different. She held herself differently. The woman in that Thai bar—and in his bed—had been relaxed and open. The one next to him looked like a statue—a beautiful, golden-haired, and very pissed off statue.

  She shivered, and Trey realized that in a thin T-shirt and stretchy yoga pants, she wasn’t dressed for February above the Mason-Dixon Line.

  He holstered his gun and shrugged out of his leather jacket. “You’re going to need this when we get out of the car.”

  Her scrutiny rested on him like an anvil. “Am I going to be allowed to use my own two feet or am I going to be thrown over another shoulder and treated like a sack of potatoes?”

  Trey ground his back molars. He didn’t like her mistrust, despite the fact it was deserved. “That’s going to depend on whether you can listen to directions.”

  He was starting to wonder if that capability was even within a mile radius of her wheelhouse.

  “Can you tell me where you’re taking me?” she asked, her tone frigid.

  “Not right now.”

  “Then how about what you want…or what that other guy wanted with me? Because something tells me it wasn’t to offer himself as escort back to the States.”

  Trey snapped to attention. “What do you mean, escort you back to the States? This wasn’t the first time you’ve seen him?”

  Elle bit her bottom lip, deep in thought and no doubt wondering whether to share anything with him.

  “Look, Elle”—he treaded carefully—“I know I can’t share much right now, but I can tell you that I’m here to make sure you stay safe. I can’t do that if you hold back on me. Now, did you see that man from the airport before?”

  Finally, she offered him a faint nod. “The morning after we…I mean, when I—”

  “Ran like a track star.” From him.

  “He’d been in an alley a few blocks down from the bar. He didn’t seem very polite then either, but I didn’t stick around long because some guy and his friend came barreling down the street.”

  Trey scrubbed a palm over his face. “Goddamn, that was fucking close.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Elle asked again. “Or why he’s so eager to get his hands on me?”

  “He’s not going to put his hands on you,” Trey growled, “I can fucking swear to that.” Rafe’s cough pulled Trey back into the moment. “And no, we don’t know who is he, but that’s all I can tell you right now. You’re safe with us.”

  “But you can’t tell me who your collective ‘us’ is. Am I right?” With her cheeks flaring far past crimson, she tossed his jacket back into his face. “Fine. Keep this. Keep your secrets. And you better keep your hands and all other appendages to yourself…Trey.”

  When it came down to Elle Monroe’s body, there wasn’t much he didn’t know. He knew how she trembled when he nibbled her neck in the right spot, and how she sighed when he ran his tongue through her wetness. He knew how her body went soft and pliant right before it gripped his cock like a fucking vise.

  But he didn’t know how to make her fucking listen.

  “Do me a favor and try not to pass judgment until you know what we’re dealing with. Okay, sweetness? Things will be a lot clearer soon,” Trey heard himself promise.

  “You do not get to call me that.” Anger flashed in her eyes, making her baby blues look cobalt. “It’s not ‘Elle’ or ‘sweetness’ or ‘baby.’ It’s ‘Miss Monroe,’ or you don’t address me at all, got it? But you probably already know my last name, right? Along with my credit score and bra size.”

  From the driver’s seat, Rafe cleared his throat. “Well, we did have to pick up a few things for you…figured you’d need some odds and ends.”

  Trey growled at his friend. “Dude, not fucking helping.”

  “Didn’t claim to be.” Rafe chuckled.

  Best friend or not, if the bastard wasn’t driving, he’d have kicked him in the balls. As it was, the look on Elle’s face made Trey worry about his own reproductive health once she had a clear shot—and dammit, his mother would filet him alive if he put future grandchildren on the line.

  “I already know what I’m dealing with…or at least who, because this entire screwed-up mess reeks of my father,” Elle said. “What remains to be addressed is your role in all of this. You’re not Secret Service. I suppose you could be an off-duty cop, but knowing my father’s love of the military, I’m going to say that you’re an ex-something. Navy? Army? You don’t strike me as a Marine, but I’ve been wrong before.”

  “I was Delta Force before jumping into private security.”

  “Ah. Army elite. Tell me, Trey, was sleeping with me one of your operational goals or did you give that to my father as a freebie?”

  When they’d first climbed into the SUV, Trey figured the hole he was in was around dick level, but the more he tried digging himself out of it, the deeper it got. Right now, it was probably hitting his fucking chin.

  Rafe navigated the busy New York streets, going deeper into Manhattan. The city meant people. People meant traffic. And New York City traffic made quick getaways impossible unless you had a satchel of fucking pixie dust. If Trey had his way, they’d be heading north until they hit the fucking Canadian border. But orders were fucking orders. He might not agree with them, but he needed to follow them.

  “Stone and the others have already cleared everything south of the hotel lobby,” Rafe said, catching Trey’s attention in the rearview mirror. “Logan’s going to meet us at the loading dock, and then we’re going to take her up from there.”

  Trey nodded grimly. His team was always on point. As long as she was by their side, Elle was safe, but that didn’t mean this entire plan wasn’t horseshit. Rafe turned the corner that took them to the rear entrance of one of the swankiest hotels in the city. Trey noted Elle didn’t show the least bit of surprise.

  “There’s Logan.” Rafe nodded toward the loading dock where Logan, dressed in baggy shirt and pants to hide the fact he was heavily armed, waited.

  He pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against, and before the SUV even crawled to a complete stop, he tugged the door open. “About damn time you lazy shits showed up.”

  “Rafe drives like your gran.” Trey got out of the backseat and turned to help Elle, but Logan was already extending a hand in her direction.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Monroe. Logan Callahan,” the Texan drawled, putting a bit of extra weight on his twang. “Don’t listen to these guys about my gran. She drives like a bat out of hell. Keeps the sheriff busy when she goes speeding through town.” />
  Trey scowled at his friend. Goddamn Rico Suave. “I think she’s been getting in and out of cars on her own for a while now, Callahan.”

  The bastard gave him a shit-eating grin. “Oh, I’m sure she’s more than capable of a lot of things.”

  Elle slid her hand into Logan’s and let him guide her out of the car.

  “You’ll have to pardon my friend, darlin’,” Logan started saying. “There’s a difference between South country and North country, and he had the misfortune of being raised in the wrong one.”

  Fuck it all if Elle didn’t give him a small smile. “But you were raised in the right one?”

  “Abso-freaking-lutely. Texas boy through and through. If you need anything, you just look my way, and I’ll be more than happy to get it for you.”

  “I’ll be happy to give you a few things, Callahan,” Trey muttered under his breath.

  Logan barely suppressed a chuckle. “I don’t want what you’re offering, man. No offense, but you’re just not my type.”

  Despite the seemingly light mood, no one lowered their guard. They formed a triangle around Elle, with Rafe taking the front point, Trey and Logan behind, and continued through the underbelly of the hotel until they reached the staff service elevator.

  It was a quiet ride up to the twelfth floor. The bell chimed, and the doors opened. Two people stood dead center in the corridor of what should’ve been a locked-down floor. Reflexes had Trey reaching for his gun a split second before he fully registered that the two intruders probably had a good few years on Logan’s gran.

  “Ladies,” Logan intervened before anyone could move. Arguing softly between themselves, the two women didn’t notice him approaching until he was practically on top of them.

  “Oh, my.” The taller of the two gave the Marine a boot-to-eyeball scan.

  “I’m afraid this floor is closed off to guests.” Flashing his signature smile, Logan gently—and without their even realizing—corralled the two women toward the main guest elevator on the other end of the hall.

  “What floor is this?” the shorter woman asked.