by Kylie Brant
Her words gave him pause. Was she actually concerned about him? “I’ll call from the house in the Keys when we get there. I imagine they’ll be unhappy, but as long as I agree to bring you back when they catch the suspect, I don’t anticipate a problem.” At least, not a problem he’d concern himself with.
“The Keys?”
“A series of small islands off the coast of Florida. I’ve got a place on Key Largo. Have you ever been there?”
She merely shook her head, and he felt a flicker of impatience, one he ruthlessly squashed. She was as close-mouthed as any woman he’d ever met, determined to reveal nothing personal about herself at all. And because he recognized that her reticence mirrored his own, he also realized it was a wedge she used to prevent him from getting too close.
“Approaching the island. Landing in minutes.”
At the pilot’s voice, Nick gestured toward a chair. “We’ll need to put our seat belts back on.”
She did as he bade without comment, settling into the seat. Thoughtfully, his gaze lingered on the death grip she exerted on the armrests. Fear of flying? Or just of landings? He didn’t know, and already knew better than to ask.
Abruptly, his earlier impatience drained away. Getting to know Amber was a process of fitting miniscule pieces together in an effort to construct a bigger, constantly shifting picture. He fastened his own seat belt, feeling a flicker of anticipation. Before they left the island again, he vowed, he’d know everything there was to know about the woman.
“There are four bedrooms. Mine is the front one. You may take your pick from the other three.”
Rather than demurring politely, Amber took Nick at his word and followed him from one room to the other. She didn’t merely peek into the bedrooms, but walked inside and seemed to pay an inordinate amount of attention to the windows.
The scene from her apartment flashed into his mind. Don’t shut that! I like it open. And again he found himself wondering whether her desire for the open window was induced by preference or need.
“I’ll take this one,” she finally decided, after looking at the three selections. The one she’d chosen was across the hall from his, and faced the ocean. But he had a feeling it was the porch roof right below the window, rather than the spectacular view it afforded, that had decided her.
He didn’t comment on her choice, merely set her suitcase down near the closet. Then he turned to face her, hands tucked into his pockets. “There’s an adjoining bath, and I called ahead, had the kitchen fully stocked. Sleep as late as you want. I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have a big breakfast.”
A small smile flickered across her mouth. “It’s already morning, and I rarely eat breakfast.”
He was striding to the door. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow. I’m going to start showing you some self-defense tactics. Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
At her silence he glanced back, saw her jaw hanging open. “No. Why would you want to do that?”
He reached the door, rested a hand on the jamb. “So you’ll feel safe, Amber.” While she was still regarding him from rounded eyes, he gently closed the door behind him, but didn’t walk away. Not yet. He waited. One minute. Two. Then he heard her footsteps, a pause, the slight scrape of wood against wood.
She’d opened the window.
From the position of the sun in the sky, Sara concluded that she’d slept far later than normal. She rarely had the opportunity to sleep late, and even more rarely, the inclination. Sleep meant dreaming, and her dreams had never made for restful nights.
As she showered and dressed, she considered the surreal sequence of events that had brought her here. Nick had managed their escape with ruthless efficiency. With her elbow in one hand and her suitcase in the other, he’d walked her out the front door of her apartment building, right up to the cruiser parked at the curb. He’d informed the officer inside that he planned to take Sara home with him, even inviting him to contact Chatfield about the idea. Nick had given him his address, then guided Sara to the car he’d parked illegally on the other side of the street.
Back at his family home, he had gently coerced her to eat a light dinner, and to speak with his grandmother again. Although it was obvious that Celeste was curious about her sudden reappearance, this time with Nick, she made no mention of it.
Then, following a timeline known only to himself, he’d risen, kissed his grandmother’s cheek and guided Sara out the back, across the grounds. When she’d seen the chopper on the pad waiting for them, the whole scene had taken on a James Bondish aura.
Mansions. Helicopters. Private jets. Beach homes. She’d lived in dozens of states over the last few years, donned as many identities. But her lifestyle had remained constant. With no friends or family to help her, no education, and credentials that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, she worked minimum-wage jobs, staying in clean but cramped apartments. It was no surprise to her that money could make a great many things possible. But it did surprise her that Nick Doucet would use his to help her.
Toweling her hair with one hand now, she walked to the window. The sun turned the water a shattering blue that hurt the eyes even as it beckoned the body. She cupped a hand to shield her gaze and watched as a figure swam up to shore, then rose out of the ocean.
Nick. Her blood pumped warm and molten. He strode naked out of the water, like a mythical god rising from the waves. With his hair slicked back and that glorious body gilded by the sun, every bone, sinew and muscle was highlighted in sensuous detail.
Her mouth went abruptly dry. The day in the rain-storm…yesterday?…she’d guessed at the power in his lean hard body, but nothing in her experience would have led her to imagine the reality. She was unused to such imaginings, in any case.
At that moment he looked up, and their gazes met for an instant. An echo of the electricity that had flowed between them the day before flickered to life. Dismayed by the intensity of her reaction, she stepped away, strangely shaken. She was almost convinced that she had nothing to fear from the man.
But she was no longer certain she could make the same claim about herself.
When Nick offered her another Belgian waffle, she pushed her plate out of reach. “No, thanks. I usually work through breakfast, remember?”
“We’re going to have to change your eating habits. You need to build muscle.”
His casual assessment of her needs annoyed her. “I prefer my weak useless build, thanks.”
His dark eyes met hers. For an instant, she was reminded of the look they’d exchanged earlier when he’d caught her watching him come out of the ocean. When she’d admired his build. To hide her response at the memory, she reached for her orange juice.
“I was serious last night, Amber. For your own peace of mind you need to learn to defend yourself. I’m not suggesting it will help in every situation, but having some skills in that regard will make you feel more secure.
“I can manage on my own.”
“Really?” He matched her challenging tone. “How’d you sleep last night?”
Her hand faltered, very slightly, in the act of setting down her glass. “Fine, why?”
His smile was faint. “Liar. But that will change. You’ll be tired enough from our daily workouts to get a decent night’s rest. Sleep is important to overall health, too.”
She was starting to get a really bad feeling about all this. “What did you have in mind?”
The wariness in her voice seemed to amuse him. “Nothing too diabolical. Daily running. Conditioning. Self-defense tactics. Have you been following any sort of fitness regime?”
It was all she could do not to laugh. “No, I’ve been kept rather busy working for a living.” And staying alive.
Imperturbably, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose. “Put on a pair of tennis shoes and meet me outside.” He left the room, seemingly unaware of her glare. She really shouldn’t be surprised that he was a man used to issuing orders. But she’d never been particularly fond of follow
ing someone else’s directives. The time was nearing for Nick Doucet to find that out for himself.
An hour later she was bent over, hands resting on her knees, breath sawing in and out of tortured lungs. She hated running, always had. Wasn’t this why she’d failed gym in ninth grade? Well, that, and the fact she’d skipped the class most weeks. Even then development of a healthy lifestyle had been the least of her worries.
She heard footsteps approaching, then a pair of hard masculine legs filled her vision. Refusing to look up, she willed her breathing to even out.
“Not bad for the first time. We’ll try again after supper, see if you can push it a little farther.”
Without changing position, she slowly raised her head. “You have got to be kidding.” Didn’t he realize that she’d felt like dropping ten minutes ago? It had taken sheer stubborn pride to get her this far, and she knew darn well they hadn’t been jogging for more than twenty minutes.
“C’mon. You can walk back.”
Crawling was more her speed at this point, but it seemed she had more pride than sense. She straightened, turned back toward his house. “Look,” she said, when she could speak without wheezing. “I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this.”
That put another of those faint smiles on his lips. “No, you don’t. But you will.”
He wanted honesty? Fine. “You’re right, I don’t. I also don’t see the point.”
“Running is good conditioning, and speed can also come in handy if someone is after you.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” she asked, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in her tone. “I could have outrun that bullet yesterday.”
He was showing an irritating ability to ignore her. “If you’re in shape, you can fight back. I don’t mean like taking on a guy twice your size, but having some moves that can injure him so you can get away.” He cast a critical gaze up and down her form. “You’ve got a good stride and you don’t run like a girl. Those are two factors in your favor.”
She wondered what she ran like if it wasn’t a girl, but wisely refrained from asking. Her breath was better saved for getting back to his place without embarrassing herself.
He allowed her to collapse for half an hour in one of the chairs on his deck, and drink two glasses of ice water, before nudging her again. “All right. It’s time for the next round.”
She didn’t bother to open her eyes. “No.”
A moment ticked by. And then another. It took effort not to look at him. She could feel his calm perusal of her still form. But in the next moment her eyes flew open, in alarm, as she found herself being carried off in his arms. “Nick! Put me down.”
“Of course.” Despite the agreeable tone, he didn’t set her on her feet until they’d reached the destination he’d obviously had in mind. The room at the back of the house held various pieces of weight training equipment, with a plastic-encased foam mat on the floor.
Her patience snapped. “I’m not doing this, do you understand? I have no interest in learning karate or whatever the heck you want to teach me.”
He slipped out of his shoes. “Teaching you the martial arts would require a bit more time than we have to spend. All I’m going to do is show you some basic defense maneuvers that might buy you some time or scare off a mugger.”
A mugger? She almost gave an incredulous laugh. As if a mugger was at the top of her worries. Victor Mannen hadn’t hired muggers to stalk her for the last six years. It wasn’t losing her purse that she feared every time she walked down the street. Nick might think he was helping her with this crazy self-defense and conditioning course he was embarked on, but she’d found the best defense was not to get caught in the first place. She preferred to expend her energies to that end.
“Take off your shoes and socks.”
“No. I’m not doing this.”
With a shrug he approached her on the mat, and she warily backed away. “Let’s start with the basics. If you see the guy before he grabs you, you’ve got the chance to run. But what if he comes up on you from behind?” With one smooth movement he stepped in back of her, clasped one arm lightly around her neck. “Show me what you would do to escape from this hold.”
Ice splintered in her veins. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. “Let me go.” The demand wasn’t as strong as she would have liked, but its message was clear.
“There are three ways to break a hold like this, and I’ll teach you all of them.”
She knew that low voice in her ear belonged to Nick. Logically she knew it. But logic didn’t always dictate emotion.
“I mean it, Nick. Let me go, now!”
“Show me what you’d do, Amber. The guy has you like this, leaving his other hand free to—”
His words were cut off as she erupted in a flurry of motion. Blinded by panic as she was, there was no strategy in her movements. Only instinct, raw and primal, screaming for release. She was a whirlwind of biting, kicking, scratching, gouging actions, with real fear as the impetus. It was long moments before she became aware that she was free; even longer before Nick’s voice, soothing, with an underlying note of grimness, registered. “It’s all right, Amber. It’s all right. No one’s touching you, see? There’s no one here.” He used the same rhythmic cadence he would use to calm a frightened animal. “Take my hand.” She stared at it, outstretched toward her. There were angry scratches on the back of his wrist. Scratches she’d put there. She shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself.
“Take my hand, Amber. I’m not going to hurt you. Look at me.”
But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to see his expression, whether it be one of horrified fascination, or something even worse. Didn’t want to stand before him, raw and more exposed than she’d been in years. Demons could lurk inside for any number of years, partially hidden, tempting one to believe they didn’t exist anymore. It made it all the more bitter when they sprang forth, mocking her efforts to keep them buried.
She lurched forward, not sure her feet would work, half-surprised when they did. Brushing past his outstretched hand, she crossed the room, praying for the strength to make it upstairs. And wishing with all her heart that she’d never accepted Nick Doucet’s offer of help.
Nick made no move to stop her. When she’d turned toward him again he’d been prepared for tears, would have preferred them to the haunted look in her eyes. That look had hit him with a force far greater than any of the blows she’d managed to land.
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, more shaken than he’d like to admit. The woman was having too great an effect on him, so much so that he couldn’t even predict his own reactions. It was a totally unfamiliar occurrence, and it couldn’t be allowed to continue.
He knew from brutal experience what happened when he lost his objectivity on a case. People wound up dead. Letting down his guard, even a fraction, increased the danger. So he was going to have to find a way to manage this…connection to Amber Jennings, without compromising the assignment. The reminder stiffened his resolve, but the fact that he’d needed it at all was worrisome.
Hearing a sound in the doorway, he slowly raised his gaze. She was watching him, her face ashen, but otherwise composed.
“I’m…sorry for what just happened.”
Her words released something fierce inside him. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
She didn’t argue, just continued standing there with ramrod straight posture that almost completely hid the trembling in her limbs. “I…I want to learn what you tried to teach me.” She attempted a smile, but couldn’t quite manage to pull it off. “I want to learn how to defend myself. And how to shoot.”
For a man who’d just considered the importance of governing his reactions to the woman, he was doing a damn poor job of taking his own advice now. She looked like a strong wind would knock her over. It was all he could do not to go to her, lend her his support. And knowing what his touch had done to her only a few minutes earlier made him long to put his fist through a wall. “All right.
” His voice was clipped. “We’ll start again tomorrow.”
“No, today.” If his tone was grim, so was hers. “I won’t freak again, I promise.”
He stared at her, recognizing the barely smoothed nerves and the savage determination in her expression. And realized the courage it had taken her to approach her own fears head-on. “All right. Let’s try it again.” He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made earlier, so he led her to the body-size punching bag hanging in the corner. “Back up against the bag. It’s the attacker.” With effort he kept his voice brisk and impersonal. “If your hands are free, you clasp them together—” he demonstrated “—and drive your elbows back into his stomach.”
He watched, issued suggestions, and she practiced with a stoic sense of purpose that had been missing earlier. He showed her how to place her fingers together in one straight line, and how to use them to jab someone in the throat to disable him. He bent his wrist back and demonstrated how to use the heel of the palm beneath an attacker’s nose with enough force to drive him back, giving her opportunity to flee.
“We’ll concentrate on defensive moves, techniques that will buy you enough time to turn and run.”
“Can’t you teach me how to take an opponent down?”
He shook his head, reached out and repositioned her hands. “Your build and strength are against you. You just need enough moves to take the attacker by surprise and cause some serious pain.” His lips curled briefly. Far from the wild, frantic woman who had run from the room earlier, she was hanging on his words now with a fierce purpose that was impossible to miss. He didn’t have the faintest idea what had caused the change, but he promised himself that soon he’d find out.
When she was perspiring from her exertions, he said, “That’s enough for today.”
She didn’t argue. Bending her head, she wiped her forehead with the edge of her T-shirt, revealing a band of soft, smooth skin. “Now we’ll practice shooting.”
