by Debra Webb
“Because I thought you could help me save my men,” he explained. “Your reporter called my office. It raised red flags on my end.” He sighed. “I wanted the name of the source who accused us of stealing. At the gala, the man with the scar grabbed you. He drugged you and was headed for the stairwell when I intervened.”
“You didn’t steal anything.”
“No.” Restless, he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “Unless we count stealing you from the scarred man.”
“It counts.” She just wasn’t sure where to put the tally.
“Tell me what you remember about him,” he said.
She bristled. “I’m not under your control or command anymore. In case you didn’t notice, I’ve always been bad at taking orders.”
His brown eyes flashed with something. Lust or temper? Either way, she was chagrined that the look sent a ripple of anticipation through her body. “I’m listening,” she continued through the awkward silence. “You still haven’t explained why you kept me here so long.”
He reached behind him, and her breath caught, afraid he was pulling a weapon on her. Instead he held out an envelope that had been folded until the paper was nearly worn through at the creases.
“What’s that?”
“Just read it.” He inched closer, holding it out to her.
She took it but didn’t open it right away. “Mr. Lawton—”
“The sooner you open the envelope the sooner you can get back to your life.”
Parker Lawton had proven himself adept at several skills during her stay in his safe room. Deception topped the list, though his gift for igniting her temper was a close second. She stopped listing off his skills right there, before she could add his seductive voice and his ability to kindle her darkest sensual fantasies in absurd situations.
More annoyed with herself now than she was with him, she opened the envelope and removed a half sheet of standard white copy paper. She read the brief message twice over, trying to make sense of it.
“Oh. We’ve been played,” she began, her voice colliding with his. “Pardon me?”
His brow furrowed. “I said it’s bogus,” he replied. “Why are you on my side?”
“I’m not exactly on your side.” Yet. The note, the blackmail, nudged her closer toward his corner. She dropped the note on the sofa and stood up, crossing the room to watch the ocean, needing some movement to think through the details. “You read the anonymous email I received, right?” she asked, without looking at him, still angry about the violation of her privacy.
“Yes,” he admitted. “You believed it was from the family. Possibly from Fadi.”
She nodded, her eyes on the waves moving with such constancy toward the shore. Watching the ocean soothed her. Always had. “The email was written to push my buttons, and the note was written to push yours.” She turned to face him again. “It worked. Bill and I led the killer right to the targets they wanted.”
“Once I read the email I was sure it was written by the same person who wrote the blackmail note,” Parker said.
“I agree,” she said, rubbing her hands over her arms. “Fadi would never threaten to kill, especially not our soldiers. He was proud of how he helped the US.”
“I thought the same,” he said. “Come sit down a minute. We need to figure out why you were targeted.”
She stayed put, keeping her back to the window and maintaining some much-needed distance. “Probably to mess with you,” she suggested.
“I was thinking it was an attempt to force the story out.”
She tipped her head to the side, considering. “Taking me removed your best access to the anonymous source. You’d come by the apartment earlier to hassle me. It might even have been an attempt to frame you.”
“Hassle you? I only wanted to talk.”
“And here we are.” She spread her arms wide, let them fall to her sides. “Good job.” He’d been cornered, his CO murdered and his best lead nearly captured. Sympathizing with him didn’t excuse his actions, yet she understood why he’d done it. She fought that kernel of compassion. He didn’t deserve it, not after scaring her and cuffing her and...her pulse was fluttering at the memory of his hands on her yesterday. She turned back to the ocean, willing herself to regain her common sense.
“I want to go home,” she said. A hot shower, clean clothes and some tea would ease her sore muscles and pave the way for a good night’s sleep in her own bed. In the safe room she’d been too nervous to really sleep.
“You shouldn’t do that.” Color flooded his face.
“Why not?”
“Someone was in your apartment last night. We don’t know why yet.”
With a groan, she held out her hand to make him stop. “Enough with the cloak-and-dagger routine. Just tell me, yes or no, is it safe for me to go home?”
“No.” Worry flashed in his eyes again as he checked his phone. “The police are probably trying to reach you. We’ll go see them first.”
That explained his change of heart. “You’re letting me go so the whole kidnapping thing won’t come out.”
“Not exactly.” He stood up and retrieved the blackmail note, returning it to his wallet. Picking up her dress, he walked to the door, opening it wide. “You can tell the cops whatever you want, but we need to leave. Now.”
“Why?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just jump me to get out of here? You’re free. Let’s go.”
His sudden urgency raised her suspicions. “I didn’t jump you,” she protested hotly. “If I’m really free to go, I’m going home.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?” She wanted the pieces to fit together and give her a complete picture. She understood the investigative process, but she also understood the value of a narrative. “Tell me.”
He pulled the door shut and programmed an electronic lock. “Because my best guess is the guy with the scar is an assassin working on behalf of someone powerful in Iran who blackmailed me and involved you.”
For a moment, she just stood in the hallway, gawking at his back, then rushed forward to catch up before he reached the stairwell. “If you don’t have the gold, why would the blackmailer think you could pay the ransom?” she asked in a low whisper.
“It’s an excuse. He found out I have deep pockets, I guess.” He shrugged and took her suitcase in his free hand as he marched down the stairs. “Think what a coup it would have been if I paid him off.”
“How did your pockets get so deep?” She was close enough she could see that his jaw set and his breath caught. The question bothered him, though he hid it quickly. “I can research too.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I inherited a chunk of money just after I joined the army. Two friends gave me some excellent investment advice.” The stairs let out into a small alcove and mail room for each of the three units. “Factor in that I was deployed with almost zero expenses, and it snowballed quickly, even while I set up my businesses.”
No wonder he didn’t flaunt his money; he’d never learned how. “Care to share your investment strategy?”
“No.”
His deep voice rolled over her, pulling at her senses like an ocean wave. “Fine.” Two could play the monosyllable game.
His eyes heated and his lips slanted into an expression caught between regret and frustration. Good grief, the expression left her wondering what she might have missed if they’d met under better circumstances. He said he’d rescued her and she believed him. He’d apologized as well, but still, actions had consequences.
Donning his ivy cap, he drew her aside. “My car’s this way. I’ll take you to the police station and then preferably to a friend’s place to lie low. Have you decided if you’ll wait or are you set on filing kidnapping charges against me today?”
; “Why should I wait?” she asked, incredulous. “You removed me from my life for no valid reason.”
“I had reason,” he countered, his voice low and rough. “You were in danger.”
“You could have taken me to a hospital,” she said.
He didn’t reply, his expression an inscrutable mask.
“You could have just talked to me.”
He closed his eyes and murmured what might have been a quick prayer. “Just give me forty-eight hours. Please,” he begged. “I can’t stop the men hunting my team if I’m in jail.”
The please landed on her heart with the weight of an anvil. “All right,” she said. “I won’t go to the police. Not about the kidnapping or the break-in.”
His eyebrows dipped low over his eyes. “I didn’t break in.”
She gave her suitcase a spin. “You did at some point,” she said with a syrupy smile.
The tops of his ears turned red. “Thank you, Rebecca.”
“Call me Becca,” she corrected. “And not so fast. You’re not going hunting alone.”
“You?” He started to laugh, but then the sound dried up. He leaned in, his voice intimidating without the device. “You’d drag those men through the mud for ratings?”
She swallowed back the instant lecture. He was stressed out and had just lost a good friend with another in the hospital. He deserved compassion and patience. If only there was someone else nearby who could offer him both. Someone he hadn’t kidnapped. “The idea of an assassin with orders from Iran to attack soldiers on American soil is a major story. Yes, it would be nice to get the scoop, but more important than that,” she pressed on when he tried to interrupt her, “is the safety of your team. You kidnapped me because you thought I could help. So why not let me help?”
“Because you’re not qualified,” he said. “We both know that.” He started for the exit to the side street.
His flat dismissal jacked up her temper again. “We know nothing of the sort.” She paused for a deep breath. “I was qualified enough to be kidnapped.” She snapped her mouth shut and looked around for anyone listening. “You’re innocent,” she added. “Bill can tell your story better than anyone else.”
“I don’t need my story told.” He shut his mouth and swiveled away. “I need to save the rest of my team. You can’t help me with that.”
There was more to this situation, details he was keeping locked up tight. For national security or personal reasons? Who was Parker Lawton under the impenetrable military past and the current security expertise? Why couldn’t she shake this deep-seated need to find out?
She folded her arms, refusing to budge from her spot in the narrow hallway. “If you’re shutting me out, I want your word you’ll let me know what happens.”
He rolled his eyes, swearing under his breath. “You’ll know it turned out okay if you don’t see my name or any of the others in the obituaries.”
That wasn’t the reassurance she was looking for. She was tired, sore and hungry. Rather than keep arguing, she figured the best way forward was for him to think he’d won this round. She probably shouldn’t feel protective of the man who kidnapped her, even if it had started with a rescue.
However, she was perfectly content to feel protective of her nation, state and city. Parker might think he could do this alone, but someone needed to watch his back. She and Bill knew how to unravel rumors to find facts and locate people who didn’t want to be found. By the time Parker realized she was still in the thick of it, it would be too late for him to shut her out.
Chapter Eight
The moment he turned up the lights in the safe room and revealed his face, Parker knew the charade was over. He understood her fury, gave her points for her cleverness as well as her elbow strike. The woman put up a good fight and he wanted to know what she’d done to his cameras. Beyond all that, he appreciated her resiliency and her willingness to write off his behavior as mindless stupidity rather than criminal intent. At least for the next two days.
Right now he just wanted to get out of the building before anyone saw them together. That would undermine every effort he’d made to create a plausible reason for her absence and break from the well-oiled routine. She could hardly be tending to a family crisis in a pricey condo with an ocean view.
Every time he looked at her, one of two things happened. Either he wanted to plunder her lush mouth or he wanted to apologize again for being an idiot. Since groveling only put him in a more precarious position and he was skating on thin enough ice at the moment, his brain kept returning to the kissing option.
Twice now he’d come close to giving in to that urge. Yesterday when he’d had her cuffed with zip ties and his hands on her silky skin had been a test of his willpower. Today was worse, after he’d finally subdued her attack. He wouldn’t forget the feel of her sumptuous curves under his body any time soon. It was a wonder she hadn’t snarled at him about his inappropriate desire or erection.
As she stood there stubbornly in the hallway, he thought she looked as delectable now in the snug jeans, college sweatshirt and worn high-top sneakers as she had in the dress he carried for her. She pursed her lips, rolling her daisy-tagged suitcase back and forth, and it was all he could do not to gather her into his arms, march back upstairs and lock them both in the safe room until they were too sated to move.
From a security standpoint, it wasn’t a bad plan, actually. Even if the assassin found the condo, there would be no way through unless Parker willingly opened the door.
“What’s that look about?” The natural wariness in her blue eyes brightened. “Did you change your mind?”
“No.” He reached for the door. “You must be hungry. Come on.”
He realized there were parts of his story she wasn’t sure she could believe, and knowing who she was and what she did, he also knew she would do her best to figure them out. He had to convince her to drop it.
One crisis at a time, he thought, and at the moment the Iranians took precedence. Assuming he survived this insanity, he could find a way to distract her from digging too deeply into his real mission with Fadi and his family in Iraq. He was all for transparency, but not when it was sure to be misunderstood and freak out the general population. Sometimes good people had to do difficult things for the betterment of the world.
The door opened and the building maintenance man walked in. Parker forced a smile across his face and prayed for a distraction. “Good morning, Alan.”
“Morning, Mr. Lawton. What a surprise.”
“How’s the wife?”
“Doing fine. You know, I—” Alan stopped and stared. At Becca. His genial expression transformed into a starstruck glow. “My goodness. Is it really you, Miss Wallace? The wife and I have watched every episode of your show,” he gushed.
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” She extended her hand and let Alan give it a vigorous shake.
“My Sylvie will never believe it. Never.” He patted his pockets and came up with his cell phone. “Would you mind terribly if I took a picture?”
“We really should be going,” Parker said. Since when did television producers get celebrity status? “Maybe another time, Alan.”
“Oh, don’t listen to him. We have a few minutes.” The gleam in Becca’s eyes said it all. She wanted proof she’d been here as much as he didn’t want to leave any evidence.
“How do you know each other?” Alan asked.
“I’ll just take your suitcase out to the car,” Parker said, resigned to his fate. He walked out while Alan asked her about a show last season, making Parker wonder how he kept each reporter and segment straight.
Returning to the building, he admired Becca’s boundless patience even more when his snapped. Men he’d served with were in jeopardy. And with a soulless assassin on their trail, standing here in plain view, chatting up a s
torm, put all three of them in danger.
“Rebecca.” He tipped his head toward the door.
She shifted in that direction, and Alan moved with her. Stifling a curse, Parker took her hand and guided her closer to the door. Alan didn’t let up.
Though the white sedan was gone and he couldn’t spot anyone on the street, Parker’s instincts were snapping. Someone was watching them. Desperate to get out of here, to take whatever fight was coming away from Alan and the other innocent civilians in the neighborhood, he raised the key fob and pressed the button to start the SUV.
The big vehicle seemed to bounce on the tires and then the front end was immediately engulfed by a ball of flame. “Get down!” he shouted, knowing it was too late.
His vision registered the fiery explosion in slow motion long before the sound or the concussion wave from the blast blew out the glass door and window. The three of them were tossed around the hallway like leaves in a gale, and he did his best to shield Becca. The flash knocked the air from his lungs, and it felt as if someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. For long seconds all he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding.
Heat from the explosion pressed in on them, making it hard to breathe. Becca was under him again, her hands patting his face and arms. He asked if she was okay, but he couldn’t hear her answer, only saw her nodding. She seemed generally unharmed, although her eyes were wide and swimming with tears, her face, hair and clothing covered with dust and debris.
Parker peered through the smoke and rubble, searching for Alan. The man’s face was a study of contrasts, his skin pale and bloodied from the flying glass. More blood flowed from his lower leg, pooling on the slate floor. Parker called his name, having no idea if his voice worked or if the man could hear him.
Keeping Becca between him and the burning car, Parker moved toward Alan and tried to rouse him. He didn’t respond and Parker couldn’t find a pulse. The man was dead. Because of him. Alan had paid the ultimate price for Parker’s screwups. The truth leveled him as effectively as the bomb flattened his SUV.
