by Kylie Brant
He stuck his head into the room, his gaze noting her position at his desk. Perhaps something about her stillness roused his instincts, because he stepped into the room, considered her carefully. “Ready?”
“Did you and Marta decide on dinner?” Sara’s voice was casual.
He nodded. “We’ll have fresh clams and linguini tonight.”
“Something tells me I won’t have much of an appetite.”
“You can tell that already?”
“Yes.” Her entire system was numb; it aided in maintaining a detached air. She knew from experience that shock would set in later. “At any rate, I make it a habit to avoid dining with hired killers.”
His expression grew puzzled, but she thought she could see the caution blooming in his eyes. His lying, murderous eyes. Approaching her, he said, “Amber, what are you—”
His pace abruptly halted when she raised her hands, pointed his gun directly at his chest. “Step back.”
He wasn’t a stupid man, she noted resentfully, despite his lack of morals. He obeyed, not stopping until his shoulders were against the wall. She didn’t think he was armed, but that still left his voice, a lethal weapon in itself, hypnotic in its power. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Amber. Surely you don’t believe—”
“That you’re working for Victor Mannen?” she inquired dispassionately. She watched Nick’s gaze jump between her and the desk drawer, and mentally congratulated him for not wasting time on denials. Instead he moved swiftly to damage control.
“I just spoke to him, yes, but it’s not like it looks, Amber. I’m—”
“Let’s dispense with at least one of the pretenses between us, shall we?” She despised the note of emotion that had entered her voice. “I think we both know who I am.”
He paused for a moment, his dark gaze fathomless. Then he said, with the air of a man tasting the words, “Sara Parker.”
Her name quivered in the air between them, enveloped in the tension, the knowing. His soft voice was imbued with warmth, a heated touch sliding down her spine. It shouldn’t have an effect. Wouldn’t be allowed to.
“Yes. Sara Parker. Now let’s talk about who you are. Or rather, what you are.”
“You’re leaping to conclusions.” Gone was the seductive tone; his words were edged in hardness. “Don’t allow emotion to dictate your actions. You can’t afford to.”
“Emotion, Nick?” She cocked her head quizzically, her hands holding the gun steady. “Do I look like I’m ready to collapse in a shuddering heap? I can assure you, I’ll be quite emotionless when I shoot you.”
There was a leap of flame in his eyes, a note of certainty in his voice. “You won’t do that.”
With a movement that trembled only slightly, she thumbed off the safety the way she’d seen him do a dozen times. And his expression altered, either from the deft movement or the look on her face.
It was a measure of the man that he didn’t show even a flicker of nerves. But then, she’d never had any doubt that Nick wasn’t an ordinary man. Assassins rarely were.
“You need to listen to me, Sara.” That soft seductive tone was gone and the familiar command was back. “This isn’t how I wanted to have you find out—”
She laughed then, a wild incredulous sound. “No, I’ll bet not. I’m sure I was supposed to be the one staring down this barrel.”
He ignored her words, his dark gaze holding hers captive. “You picked up the phone, didn’t you? Hit Redial and got Mannen’s office. I don’t blame you for thinking the worst, but I’m not working for him, Sara. Not the way you think.”
“Who are you working for then?”
“The Department of Justice.”
Her hand tightened on the gun. He tracked the minute adjustment with his gaze. “You’ve got about sixty seconds to convince me why I shouldn’t blow you away.”
He seemed to choose his words carefully. “I told you I was in Special Ops. That was the truth.”
“Careful, Nick. That word isn’t exactly one you’re an expert on. It’s what you do now that has me interested at the moment.”
“I’m an independent operative.”
Ice blistered her skin. “Is that the current term for hit man?”
It wasn’t lost on her that he failed to answer her question. “I hire out for various jobs, Sara, but not to individuals. To governments mostly—internationally as well as various government agencies in the U.S.”
“Illegal activities,” she assumed flatly.
He shrugged. “Definitions don’t matter. The services of my team are in high demand.”
He couldn’t realize that his supposed affiliation with Justice was almost as terrifying as admitting to working for Mannen. She’d figured out six years ago that the department couldn’t protect her from him. Justice and Mannen were equally dangerous for her.
“How long have you known who I am?” she asked flatly.
He seemed to hesitate then, his gaze dropping to the gun and then moving back to her face. “Since New Orleans.”
“In the precinct house?” she guessed.
After a moment, he nodded. “Chatfield’s inquiries got some pretty rapid responses. Your name’s been flagged on all the databases. As soon as Justice heard someone was inquiring about you, things started to happen. When I saw the excitement your name was generating, I made a few inquiries. Paul Whitmore enlisted my services on the spot.”
Whitmore.
She remembered him from that awful time six years ago, and the memory still had the power to shake her. “Your services for what, exactly?”
“For one thing, to verify your identity and deliver you safely back to Justice for safekeeping.”
His words seemed to come from a distance. There was a roaring in her ears, terror in her heart. “I’m not going back.”
“They’ve been after Mannen since you disappeared. Piece by piece they’re developing evidence to nail him for good. A couple recent cases have brought them closer, but they won’t be satisfied until they have enough to keep him locked up for life.”
“Let me guess.” Her words were brittle. “That’s where I come in.”
He inclined his head. “Partially.”
“I’m not going to let them play at witness protection again.” She stated the words baldly, and maddeningly, her hand began to shake. She saw the way Nick’s eyes traced the movement, and she rose, the chair clattering behind her. “If I have to shoot you to guarantee that, I will.” An ironic smile pulled at her mouth. “I learned from an expert, remember. Don’t aim the gun, just point it. And the chest offers the biggest target. Remember, Nick?”
“I remember. But use your head. Your luck is going to run out sometime. Do you really want to take your chances with Mannen’s men catching up with you?”
“I’ve eluded them twice now.” She ignored the fact that she couldn’t continue to do so forever. When it came to weighing risks, what he was offering, even if she could believe him, was a no-brainer. If she had to take her chances with Justice, where Mannen seemed to have informants, or to be on the run from Mannen’s hired killers, she’d rely on her own devices every time.
A slice of memory flashed across her mind—the crumpled bodies in the safe house; the blood. And Sean’s surprised expression, his eyes empty and lifeless.
The brief visual snippet had her throat clogging. “I want you to walk, slowly, to that closet.” With a jerk of her head she indicated a door in the corner of the room.
He didn’t move. “Sara, think—”
“I am thinking, unfortunately for you. I’m thinking your story doesn’t hold up. It wasn’t Justice on the other end of that phone call, it was Victor Mannen.” A sense of urgency seized her when she considered that either Mannen or the government could have someone on their way down here at this very moment. She didn’t know which of the options was more frightening. “Start moving, Nick, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
He remained still. “Use your head.” His voice took on a
n edge of impatience. “If I was working for Mannen you’d be dead already.”
“And if you were working for Justice I’d be in custody right now. Nothing about your story makes sense, and I’m not going to stand here and debate it with you. Now move!”
He did as he was bade, but something in his catlike movements alarmed her. She’s seen this man demonstrate defense tactics. Seen that lethally intent look on his face before he struck. She followed his path with the gun, never taking her eyes off of him. Her mind was muddled by questions, but her survival instincts were well developed and they were screaming at her now.
“There’s an explanation for the call to Mannen. If you don’t believe me, all you have to do is call Paul Whitmore. You dealt with him before in the agency and he’s—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Her smile was humorless. “Mannen or Justice—it doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead either way. Mannen will find a way to make that happen. He always does.”
Nick was halfway across the room by this time, but closer than she liked. “Back up,” she ordered, but it was she who took an involuntary step away.
“You wanted me to go to the closet. That’s what I’m doing.”
The hand holding the gun began to tremble. She steadied it by propping her free hand beneath it.
He loomed nearer and her finger tightened on the trigger. “Get back.”
“Let me explain, Sara.”
“Back off or…”
He came a step closer, raised his hand toward her, and his voice dropped persuasively. “Or what?”
The sound of the shot shattered the room. The smell of cordite filled the air, as horror seized her heart. Nick staggered a little, his hand going to his side. She stared, transfixed by the blood seeping between his fingers.
Even now his voice was steady. “Sara, let me…”
She never heard the rest of his words. Dropping the weapon, she ran from the room, shoving past Marta, who was standing in the doorway with horror stamped on her face. Flinging open the front door, Sara dashed down the steps and raced away from the house. There was no room in her mind for planning strategy. She was too busy fighting the nausea, the memories. Nick’s eyes when the bullet hit him—not filled with the shocked wonder Sean’s had held, but rather a grim sort of acceptance.
Her heart was hammering loudly in her ears, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs like a blade. When she finally noticed she was taking a route she and Nick frequently ran, she veered across the street in another direction. Throwing a look over her shoulder, she took little satisfaction in the fact that no one was trailing her.
She had to find a place to hide. The knowledge pounded in her temples. Slowly panic receded, replaced by cold logic. She’d been planning this moment since her first night on the island. She’d wait for darkness to fall, then creep to one of the cars she’d found that usually had the keys left in it. She’d drive it to the ferry, abandon it once she was on the other side.
The strategy calmed her, helped keep the shock and terror at bay. She pushed aside the questions about how she would get away with no money or clothes. She thought of Nick, the blood on his shirt, on his hands.
Nothing else seemed to matter.
Sara wrapped her arms more tightly around her upraised knees, her body rocking slightly, and struggled with a suffocating sense of déjà vu. She had no idea how long she’d spent in the toolshed she’d taken shelter in. Long enough for the dim interior to gradually fall into complete darkness. Long enough for the cushion of years to melt, and memories, old and new, to mingle.
Chicago. Blood. Danger. Lives threatened, secrets betrayed. Her forehead resting against her knees, she squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, struggled to throw off the weight of the past. When she’d fled the U.S. Marshals, she hadn’t taken shelter in a tidy toolshed, but in an abandoned warehouse. It was only the darkness and the insidious memories that made past and present seem to entwine. This time was different. Although still fleeing for her life, she wouldn’t be driven by terror and ignorance. This time she had a plan for escape.
It was only the bitter sense of betrayal that was familiar.
Pushing the thought from her mind, she unfolded her body and stood, gave aching joints a chance to adjust. Carefully, she slipped from the shed, ran lightly across the darkened lawn of the stranger’s house. She had a couple of miles to run to get to the houses she’d discovered where the owners left keys in the ignition of their cars. She was going to have to hope that the error hadn’t been by chance, but by habit. Because whether she stole a car or hitched a ride, she was getting off the island and as quickly as she was able. Away from Mannen’s reach.
And far, far away from Nick Doucet.
A lone figure on the deserted beach raised night-vision binoculars, scanned the row of houses. There was no sign of movement in front of any of them. Which could mean that Sara hadn’t made it here yet, or that he’d completely misjudged her and she was already on her way off the island.
Nick lowered the glasses, ignoring the burning in his side. The wound should serve as a reminder of what happened when objectivity was allowed to slide. And it was just the start of the mistakes he’d made so far with Sara.
She’d actually shot him.
He felt a glimmer of amusement at the thought, then just as quickly sobered. Given her obvious distaste for guns, he’d have bet that she would have been unable to use one on anyone. For a man not given to making mistakes, this error had been unforgivable. It hadn’t been the first time he’d misjudged her, just the most crucial.
It wouldn’t happen again.
He’d have done well to deliver her to his employer as ordered as soon as they’d left New Orleans. Nick wouldn’t let emotions dictate his actions again. And if he had trouble remembering that vow, he had only to check the wound in his side for a vivid reminder.
Raising the binoculars again, he scanned the area once more, then stopped. The shadow of a palm tree in the distance couldn’t quite hide the slim figure that paused in it, before making a dash across the lawn to the driveway.
Allowing the glasses to drop against his chest, Nick ran, too, a swift silent silhouette. Jumping the restraining wall separating the beach from the private lawn, he sped toward Sara, cutting between her and the car parked in front of the house.
He noted the exact moment she saw him. Fear gave her impetus, and he was slowed by the pain in his side. She veered away, running in a semicircle that would still give her a chance to get at it from the other side.
The silence of the night seemed to thrum with the vital battle they were engaged in. Ignoring the physical pain, he ran swiftly, his longer strides outpacing hers. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, saw him again. He could almost feel her thought process as she headed away from the car and ran all-out across the lawns to escape him.
Grimly he followed, away from the residential area, over the retaining wall toward a tangled mass of vegetation behind a motel complex. Had the outcome not been so important, he would have applauded her choice. She was much better off trying to lose him by hiding than by attempting to outrun him.
He was less than a dozen yards away from her now. Nick could hear her breath heaving out of her lungs, feel the slap of the pavement under his feet. With a burst of speed, he closed the gap between them as she rounded a group of trees, out of sight.
Only seconds behind her, he took the turn, and his side exploded in pain for the second time that day. Gritting his teeth against the excruciating sensation, he had the fore-thought to reach out and grab the branch Sara had used on him. With a mighty yank he pulled her off balance. She stumbled, but fought her way out of the vegetation and onto the beach, where her escape would be clear.
With a flying tackle Nick caught her, took her down. They crashed heavily to the sand, driving the breath from them both.
Perhaps it was the tearing pain that helped Nick recover first. His side felt warm and wet. The damn wound had opened up again. The knowledge had
him lifting his weight off her and rolling her over, his actions ungentle. If he’d thought to find Sara cowed, he’d been disappointed. Her eyes were bright and defiant as they stared up into his, and he barely caught her up-thrust palm before she rammed it into the bridge of his nose. With more difficulty than he expected, he was able to capture both of her wrists in one of his hands.
For a moment there was nothing but the battling gazes they exchanged. He felt the quick rise and fall of her chest under his, felt her breath mingling with his own. And experienced, once more, the treacherous attraction that had threatened his better judgment since the start.
“What are you waiting for, Nick?” Sara’s tone was taunting, a match to her rebellious gaze. “You may as well kill me now, you know. Whoever you plan on delivering me to, Justice or Mannen, it doesn’t matter. I’m dead anyway.”
“A word of advice, chérie. Don’t issue such a tempting invitation to a man you shot only hours ago. Not everyone would have my tolerance.” Trying to hide the effort it took, he rose, hauling her with him. He had to give her credit; she no sooner got to her feet than he found her poised again—whether to run or to knock him on his ass, he didn’t know. Before she could do either, he whipped out a pair of cuffs he had dangling from a belt loop and efficiently locked one bracelet around her wrist.
She gave her arm a yank. “What are you doing?”
Fitting the other bracelet around his own wrist, he snapped it closed with a final click. The moonlight glinted off the silver links connecting them. He raised his gaze from the sight to contemplate her grimly. “I’m limiting your options. Like it or not, the only way you’re leaving this island is with me.”
Since it was damned tricky to drive left-handed, and his right hand was linked to Sara’s, Nick gave the task his complete attention. It wasn’t until they were downtown that he asked, “Where to?”
“What?”
Ignoring the wariness in her voice, he said, “You don’t trust me. No reason why you should.” He didn’t allow the fact that the words burned to shade his tone. “You’ve got questions and you aren’t going to believe anything I tell you. So pick a pay phone, chérie.” He nodded out the window at the phones that dotted the street corners every few blocks. “You can call Justice yourself and get the answers you want.”
