Osman Razeen wanted to die. For his people, for his cause.
Somehow, when the time came to shoot him—or to turn him over to the Extremists, which, as John had pointed out, was almost the same thing as shooting him—that wasn’t going to make it any easier to do.
Aware that John was watching her, Meg jammed one end of the straw—now close to three feet long—into the lid of a paper cup of watery, probably lukewarm soda. She put the other end of the straw over the back of the seat, moving it like a probe, until she got it close enough to Razeen for him to catch it with his mouth.
He sucked, and the liquid rushed through the straw.
John shook his head as he glanced at her again. “You care enough to give him a drink. So why don’t you do what you wish Amy’s captors would do for her—and turn Razeen over to the FBI?” he said softly in Welsh.
His eyes were too compassionate, too sad, too knowing, and she couldn’t look at him.
“That’s different,” Meg said. “I know the Extremists aren’t going to do that.” She knew that the Extremists weren’t going out of their way to make Amy and Eve more comfortable, too. If Amy and her grandmother were still alive.
The straw gurgled as Razeen sucked the last of the soda from the cup. “I thank you,” he said to Meg.
John took the cupful of soda he’d nearly finished drinking from the cup holder and swished it around. “Do you want more?” he asked, looking at Razeen in the rearview mirror.
“I am still thirsty, yes, thank you.”
John looked at Meg. “Do you have more of those sleeping pills?” He spoke in Welsh, and he had to get creative with the translation. But it didn’t take more than a second for her to understand what he meant.
She did have more pills. In the glove compartment. She got them out without Razeen seeing what she was doing, opened several capsules, and dumped their contents in the last inch of liquid in John’s cup.
She repeated the trick with the straw, and Razeen was soon sucking air from John’s cup.
“Thank you,” Razeen said again. “And . . . good night, am I right?”
Meg turned to look at him, and he was smiling. She hated the fact that he had such a gentle smile.
“That is to say, if I were you, I would have given me another dose of that sleeping medication. I know that I am exceptionally clever, but you have been quite clever as well, so . . .” He settled back, making himself comfortable. “Good night. Although, if a condemned man is entitled to one last wish, mine would be that I not be executed while I sleep. I should like to be awake, so I am able to pray.”
Oh, God.
Meg felt John glance at her, and she knew what he was thinking, knew what he was going to say before he said it.
“It’s not too late, Meg.”
Meaning to turn herself and Osman Razeen in. Meaning to put Amy’s life completely into the hands of people for whom saving Amy’s life might not be the highest priority.
One of those people being John Nilsson.
“Achub fi,” John whispered, in Welsh. Save me. “Save me by letting me help.”
She closed her eyes. “Just . . . drive.”
This was surreal. Sam was standing outside his hotel room with Alyssa Locke, using his key card to unlock the door. Knowing that she was about to go in there with him.
Into his room.
Into his hotel room.
Sam didn’t think of himself as particularly religious, but he never did anything as ridiculous as waste a good prayer on something as insignificant as sex. He was either going to get some or he wasn’t. And he was usually capable of being charming enough to get some completely on his own, so he’d always left God out of it.
Until now.
He concluded his prayer for divine guidance in not messing this up with a fervent promise of a lifetime of devotion as Alyssa walked past him into the room.
She smelled impossibly good.
She wasn’t, however, walking really straight.
And instead of sitting on the couch, she half lay down, pressing her cheek against the cushions. “I don’t think I want any dinner,” she said distantly. “I’m so tired.”
Sam went into the little kitchen area and got a couple of glasses and some ice. He poured them both another drink from the bottle he’d stuck under his shirt and taken out of the bar. After all, he’d paid for it.
“You need to keep drinking,” he advised her, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “Don’t stop until you’re ready to crash.”
“I think I’m ready to crash.”
She looked exhausted. There were shadows under her eyes, giving her a slightly bruised appearance. As if life had kicked the crap out of her, and the only way for her to fight back now was to get some sleep.
As Sam looked at her, he could hear a distant flushing sound. It was the sound of his hopes for a passion-filled night going down the drain.
If she was too drunk to sit up, it would be ungentlemanly to take advantage of her, wouldn’t it?
Even if she threw herself at him.
He looked at her, half lying there with her feet still on the floor, his eyes following the curve of her denim-clad rear end. Her T-shirt was riding slightly up, and he could see an inch or so of her bare skin just above the waistband of her jeans.
Touching her would be like touching silk. She had the most gorgeous skin he’d ever seen—smooth and flawless and the delicious color of café au lait.
She rolled slightly onto her back to look up at him, and the picture she made lying there—that pretty face with those ocean green eyes, breasts filling out that T-shirt, belly button peeking out—brought the truth slamming home like a kick to the balls.
Drunk or not, if this woman threw herself at him, all that shit about being an officer and a gentleman was going right out the window. Right out the window.
If she threw herself at him, he was catching her with both hands and he wasn’t letting go.
But she was in no position to move, let alone do any throwing.
“Kick off your shoes and get comfortable,” he told her, starting for the other room. “I’ll get you a blanket. The couch pulls out to a bed if you—”
“Wait.” She struggled to sit up and took a healthy slug of whiskey, as if that would help.
Actually, that was his fault. He’d implied that another drink would help keep her awake.
“No way am I falling asleep,” she told him. “As soon as I do, you’ll disappear.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said again. Was she nuts? Did she actually think that he would fulfill his lifelong dream of sharing a hotel room with Alyssa Locke only to sneak out on her?
It was true, at this point he was talking about her spending the night on the couch. But maybe come dawn she’d wake up, not too badly hungover, and she’d realize . . . something. He wasn’t sure what, but whatever revelation she had would magically make her see how foolish she was to resist him, and how perfect they’d be together. As they made love in the early morning light, she’d breathe his name and . . .
Yeah. What was it she always said to him? Dream on.
“Look,” Sam said, “if you want, we can push the couch right in front of the door. That way, if I try to leave—”
“Right, and while I’m over there guarding the door, you’d be going out through the sliders to the balcony.”
The idea of him exiting via the balcony was completely absurd. But laughing at her when she was glaring at him like this wasn’t going to help. He may have a buzz on, but he wasn’t so fried he could no longer recognize that truth.
“There’s a king-sized bed in the other room,” Sam said, and the moment the words left his mouth, he realized how ridiculous a suggestion this was. There was no way in hell Alyssa Locke would even think about sharing a bed with him, no matter how big it was. But he’d come this far. He might as well finish the thought. “It’s big enough to push up against both the door and the slider to that balcony.”
She sto
od up.
Alyssa actually pushed herself up off the couch and, taking her drink with her, went into the bedroom to take a look.
She came out almost immediately, holding . . .
The light caught and gleamed and . . .
It was a pair of handcuffs.
“Will you let me cuff you to the bed?” she asked.
Dear, sweet Jesus.
Of course she didn’t mean it that way, still, Sam didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Just so you know, I’m UA,” John said. “I’m guilty of unauthorized absense. If I don’t go back with you in tow, I’m completely cooked.”
Meg stared at him. “What?”
He glanced at her and nodded. “Yeah, I’m looking at a court-martial and a dishonorable discharge for dereliction of duty and lying to my CO. I’ll probably even get jail time.”
She let herself get angry. “You’re trying to guilt me out. Well, forget it. It’s not going to work.”
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to write to you from prison,” he continued, “because you’ll be locked up, too, and prisoners aren’t allowed to correspond with other prisoners.”
“I never asked you to do this,” she said heatedly. “I didn’t ask to you to—”
“That’s right,” he said. “You didn’t ask. I volunteered. I knew all about the trouble I could get into, and yet I came after you anyway. Don’t you get it, Meg?”
She glanced into the back. Razeen was asleep, and even if he wasn’t, he wasn’t going anywhere. Last pit stop they’d made John had tied him up, tethering his handcuffs to the metal frame of the front seat so that Razeen couldn’t attack them. Or try to escape through the back window.
“You need me,” she said tightly to John. “Right. I got that. Loud and clear, thanks. But I’m sorry. I don’t need you.”
Please, John, don’t go. I need you. She heard an echo of her own voice from that night so long ago.
“Not anymore,” she whispered.
“Sorry, I just don’t buy it.”
“Oh,” she said, “of course. You know better. You know the real truth is that I haven’t slept a single night without dreaming about you since we almost . . . since we . . .” She faltered, because the look he shot her was so penetrating, his eyes so knowing, as if he could see into her head, see all those nights she’d ached for him.
“I should have stayed,” he said. “I regret leaving the way I did that night. Of all the things I regret in my life—and believe me, Meg, there’s a list—I regret that the most.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe if I’d stayed . . .”
I can’t do this. He’d pulled away from her suddenly, breathing hard.
Meg still remembered, as clear as if it were yesterday.
“You’re going to wake up tomorrow and hate yourself,” he’d said. “Even worse, you’re going to hate me.”
She’d stood there, leaning back against the wall because her legs wouldn’t have been able to hold her up by themselves, just watching as he refastened his belt, tucked in his shirt, buttoned his jacket.
“You’re serious,” she’d said. “You’re just . . . leaving? Just like that?”
“I have to go before we do something you’ll regret. You’ve had too much to drink, and—”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, you haven’t,” he agreed. “But you’re upset and your judgment is skewed. You’ve got to trust me here, Meg. Look, I’ll probably be Stateside again in a few weeks. I’ll call you then.”
She was upset. And he was probably right. Nothing good would come out of this. But she wanted him. God, she needed him. “Please, John, don’t go.” To her horror, her voice broke.
He swore sharply, but then he was back, warm and solid as he pulled her into his arms. “God damn it, I don’t want to go.”
“Then stay. Please stay—Daniel’s all but written us a permission slip.”
He laughed, but it sounded harsh, painful. “I don’t want his permission! Christ! I want . . .”
“I need you.” She kissed him, and he resisted for all of two seconds.
It was exhilarating. Terrifying. He kissed her ferociously, as if he were moments from sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to her bed. But then, again, he pulled back.
“Do you love me, Meg? I know we’re friends, and I know—God, I know—there’s this attraction between us, but if this is just sex, then you’ve got to think again. Because tomorrow you’ll wake up, and everything we’ve done tonight will be irreversible. It’ll be a part of you—forever. And if you’re not going to leave Daniel, it’ll be this poisonous lump of guilt that you’ll carry with you. I don’t want you to remember me that way. With pain and . . . and . . . I don’t know, hatred. Jesus, I don’t want that.”
Did she love him? No, she couldn’t answer that. She wouldn’t even consider it. Because if she wasn’t going to leave Daniel . . .
John was watching her intently, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he waited for her to respond.
It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t imagine Daniel having suffered so when he’d slept with Leilee. He’d probably slid into her bed and between her legs without a thought of love or friendship or whom he might be hurting.
He certainly hadn’t thought about Meg.
Or Amy.
Amy, who, more than anything, wanted her father in her life. Amy, who so desperately wanted her family back.
Meg didn’t say a word, but John nodded, as if he knew the direction her thoughts had turned.
“I’ll call you when I get back,” he said. “In case, you know . . . you change your mind.” Somehow he managed to smile. To touch her cheek. “Wish I’d met you first.”
She tried to smile, too. Failed because her lip was trembling. John had been sixteen when she’d married Daniel. What was she doing here with him? This was crazy. Completely crazy.
“You can always call me,” he told her. “If you need me for anything. Any time. Just . . . call me and I’ll come.”
Meg nodded, knowing that this was really it. After tonight, she truly wouldn’t see John Nilsson ever again. After tonight, if they met—even by chance—she wouldn’t stop to talk. She’d smile, sure, even say hello, but she’d walk swiftly away. She’d never call him. Never again.
He kissed her once more. Sweetly this time.
It was a kiss to remember.
A kiss good-bye.
He stopped and looked back at her, his hand on the doorknob, as if he wished she would stop him.
But then he turned and went out the door.
And she let him go.
This wasn’t going to work.
Locke sat on the floor next to Sam’s bed.
The bedframe was put together with nuts and bolts. She could handcuff Sam to it, but it would take him about twenty minutes—tops—to get himself free.
He came out of the bathroom, wearing—oh, God—only a pair of shorts and a smile. “Okay, warden, I’m ready. Lock me up.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ve got food for if and when I want it . . .” He lifted the lid on the room service platter that had arrived minutes earlier and now sat on the bedside table. He’d ordered three different kinds of sandwiches, all wrapped in plastic, a two-liter bottle of Coke, and a bucket of ice. He’d ordered ice cream, too, but he’d put it in the freezer section of the little fridge that sat out in the suite’s kitchenette. “I’ve got food and the remote control. What more could a man want?”
He reached down and took the handcuffs from her and cheerfully snapped one end onto his left wrist.
Locke shook her head. “Look at the bedframe, Starrett.”
He crouched next to her and saw the problem instantly. “Oh, crap.” Standing again, he looked around the room.
“Don’t bother,” she told him, resting her head against the bed. “There’s nothing in here that would hold you.”
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “Actually, there is.”
Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero Page 30
