by Cassie Miles
But she was still wearing her jacket. There was the switchblade in a secret pocket. If she could get it out, she could saw through the ropes.
Twisting her fingers at a tortuous angle, she found the thin flat edge of the switchblade. Inch by inch, she worked it free.
The voices from the other room got louder. She heard a door slam.
Before she could squeeze the button that opened the switchblade, the bedroom door crashed open. Eric Crowe stalked into the room.
He flipped on the overhead light. His complexion was an angry mottled red. His teeth bared inside his black goatee. When he thrust his head toward her, the cords and tendons in his throat stood out. “You bitch! You ruined my life.”
“It’s not over, Eric.” She was careful to use his name. Try to calm him down. Don’t make him angrier. “We can talk about this. You have options.”
“Damn you, Marisa.” He paced in the small ugly room. “When I think of all the lies you spread about me in San Francisco, I could kill you.”
Which must be what he intended, anyway. Now that she’d seen his face and could identify him as the Judge, he couldn’t let her go free. She only had one chance. If he came close enough, she could strike with the switchblade.
She wiggled on the carpet. “This is uncomfortable. Can you help me up?”
“Help you?” He threw back his head and brayed. “Why in hell would I ever help the likes of you? A sassy little FBI redhead who thinks she knows everything. Who has the answers now, huh? Who’s in charge?”
When he drew a pistol from his jacket pocket, she knew she had to talk fast. “One of our best agents was supposed to keep surveillance on you in Taos. How did you get away from her?”
“I was ready for you. I remembered what happened in San Francisco when your people were crawling all over my house. As soon as I saw you and your buddy, Flynn…” His lips curled in a sneer as he said Flynn’s name. “I knew I had to run before you destroyed my life in Taos.”
“But how? They had electronic surveillance. Heat-sensing cameras.”
“I have equipment of my own. I don’t just collect antiquities. Half of my business is on the computer.”
Which must have been how he’d tapped into the FBI computers to retrieve the personal information about her and Flynn. “Are you a hacker?”
“I’m pretty good, but I usually rely on my friends.”
Talking about friends was a good distraction. “You’ve made a life for yourself in Taos. A new circle of friends.”
“Many people find me attractive.” He preened. “Artistic people with imaginations. Not Feds like you and Flynn.”
“Like Becky,” she said. “That young lady would do anything for you.”
His expression darkened. “Not anymore.”
Had he and Becky been arguing in the outer room? Marisa searched her mind for something positive to say, some kind of encouragement. “She’ll come around. I know she cares about you, Eric. When I was talking to her in your shop, she told me.”
“Not anymore.” His arm straightened. He pointed the bore of the gun at the center of her chest.
“Wait! Please, wait.” She couldn’t hide the desperation in her voice. Think, Marisa. She needed to make him come closer to her. “Don’t kill me here on this disgusting carpet. At least help me get up to the bed.”
“Do you really think I’m going to kill you?”
It was an obvious assumption, given that he had a gun aimed at her heart. “I hope not, Eric. I hope we can talk this out.”
She let out a sob to cover the sound of her switchblade clicking open. As soon as he was in range, she was ready to strike.
“I want you to apologize,” he said. “Admit that you were wrong to meddle in my affairs.”
Of course, she wasn’t wrong. He was the Judge. He’d kidnapped Grace Lennox and led them on a chase across the countryside. “I’ll say anything you want if you get me off this nasty carpet.”
“Little Miss Prissy.” He sneered. “Never a hair out of place. Your lipstick all nice and even.”
“Please,” she pleaded. “I saw a cockroach in the corner.”
He set his gun on the dresser and came toward her.
With surprising strength, he yanked her off the floor. She smelled the dank odor of sweat, of a man who was on the run and hadn’t bathed in days. She raised her hands and lashed out. The switchblade tore across his throat. Blood spurted.
He dropped her onto the bed. His fingers clutched at the wound. Blood was everywhere. He staggered back, reaching for his gun.
She had nowhere to hide. No way to seek cover.
Aggression was the best defense.
She twisted her feet under her butt and sprang toward him again. She crashed into him. They fell together to the floor with her on top.
The gun was in his hand. Again, she slashed with the blade, hitting his wrist. More blood. She could feel him weakening.
From the other room, she heard the door crash open. Was Becky coming back to help Eric Crowe?
She threw her weight on his arm, pinning his gun hand to the floor. He abandoned his weakening struggle and looked up at her.
“What have you done?” His voice was low, gutteral. “My God, what have you done?”
She wanted to be tough, to finish him off. But she didn’t have the heart. Even though Eric Crowe had committed heinous acts, she didn’t have the right to take his life.
Wrenching the gun from his hand, she aimed at the door.
Flynn charged through with two other agents behind him. She dropped her gun and reached toward him. She was safe.
Chapter Sixteen
Two days later, Marisa stood on the porch of the safe house beside Flynn and watched as Zack and Wesley climbed into the truck, gave a shout out the windows and drove away.
The rest of Mackenzie’s search team had departed a few hours ago. Their investigation was over, their mission accomplished. Grace Lennox was safe. She’d already been released from the doctor’s care and was on her way to the trial back East. Before leaving Colorado, she’d insisted on having her hair styled and dyed a soft ash-blond.
And the Judge was in custody. Under guard in the hospital, Eric Crowe was in a coma, clinging to life but expected to recover.
The search for Becky Delaney continued. Grace had identified Becky as the person who had cared for her while she was held captive, and Becky was likely the shooter who had fired a bullet through their windshield. But Becky had disappeared.
Marisa leaned her back against Flynn’s chest. His arms encircled her and he murmured in her ear. “I appreciate your recommendation to keep the safe house open as a training facility.”
“It didn’t do much good.”
The FBI had decided to close the witness protection program here and sell the house.
“It’s all mine until tomorrow,” he said.
“That’s when the buyer is coming to pick up the horses?”
He nudged her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck. “Until then, we’re alone.”
His breath was hot. His teeth caught her stud earring and tugged, sending a small thrill directly to her brain.
During the past two days, she’d existed on stolen kisses when nobody was looking. Which wasn’t often. There had been too much activity at the safe house. Now it was quiet, poised at the edge of sunset. As Flynn had pointed out, they were finally alone.
She swiveled in his arms and faced him, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She’d been waiting so long for this moment. What if it wasn’t right? What if they’d lost the magic they’d shared in San Francisco?
His hands slid down her back, cupped her butt and fitted her against his hot erection. The heat spread through her. A wildfire.
She inhaled a ragged breath. Any thought of resisting him was a joke. She who hesitates, loses out. Tossing her head back, she stared directly into his light brown eyes, hot as molten gold. And she was melting.
“If I remember right,” he said, “you like
to be touched here.”
His hand climbed her back, slid over her shoulder and stroked the line of her chin. His feather-light touch on that soft, sensitive skin started a chain reaction of arousal. With his forefinger, he traced a line down her throat to the top button on her white blouse which he unfastened with reassuring expertise. He was good at making love. Expert.
All she needed to do was lean back and let him proceed, but she was different than she’d been two years ago, too. More assured. She was the senior agent. Licking her lips, she asserted her authority. “I’m in charge here.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I suggest we continue this operation in your bed.”
“Whatever you say, Agent Kelso.”
She caught his hand and pulled him through the house and up the staircase to the second floor. His was the only room in the safe house with a king-sized bed—one of the perks of being in charge.
But she was the boss now. And she wanted him naked. She issued a one-word order. “Strip.”
He yanked off his boots and unfastened his belt buckle before approaching her. “You’ll be a lot more comfortable without that jacket, ma’am.”
Swiftly, he peeled it off. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he held her face as he kissed her hard. The pressure of his mouth took her breath away.
Barely aware of what she was doing, Marisa tore at his clothes. He did the same for her. In less time than she could imagine, they had undressed themselves. She was down to her lacy bra and panties.
Flynn paused. “I always liked this part.”
He unfastened the front hooks on her bra. As her breasts slid free, she gasped. Already she had that floating sensation, as if her feet weren’t touching the floor.
She dove onto the sheets beside him. Her hands reveled in the texture of his chest hair, the warmth of his flesh. His scent aroused old memories and new desires. When their bodies joined, skin-to-skin, she let out a cry of sheer pleasure. She pressed hard against him, grinding her hips into his.
After two years of waiting, there wasn’t much need for foreplay. She was ready for him. Wanting him. Craving him. Needing him inside her. She could hardly stand the wait as he sheathed himself in a condom.
His first thrust started a trembling that spread throughout her body. No sense in holding back. She knew what would happen, knew he wouldn’t stop until she was a quivering mass of orgasm.
He drove her hard, taking her beyond ecstasy into a world of pure animal instinct. When he finally collapsed beside her, she was blissfully wrecked.
She moaned. And moaned again. “Damn Flynn. It’s not like it was before.”
“No?”
“It’s better.”
He pulled her close against him. Not only was he a terrific lover, but the man liked to snuggle. “Next time, boss lady, you’re on top.”
That sounded like a fine plan to her.
HOURS LATER, FLYNN LED her down the staircase to the safe house kitchen. Though their lovemaking had taken the edge off his hunger for her, he still wanted more. He had two years of separation to make up for.
He also needed actual food. Protein for energy.
When he turned on the kitchen light, she blinked. With her auburn hair tousled and her lips swollen from his kisses, she looked disheveled and adorable in his shirt, which fell just above her kneecaps. Unbelievably, he felt himself getting hard under his black jersey briefs, the only clothing he was wearing. Hard again. He was going to need lots of protein.
She went to the refrigerator. “Got any whipped cream?”
“Your skin is sweet enough.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder. Adorable. “You taste pretty good yourself, cowboy. A couple of years on the open range has done you good.”
He was ready to take her again. Right here on the kitchen table. How the hell had he ever lived without her? “Sit. We need to eat something.”
After grabbing a long-necked beer from the fridge, she sat at the kitchen table and crossed her legs, leaving him to rummage for food.
His formerly well-stocked pantry seemed bare. The care and feeding of Mackenzie’s task force had depleted his store. It was just as well. There’d be less food to move when the real estate people came in to prepare the house for sale.
If Marisa hadn’t been here with him, he would have been depressed by losing this assignment. He’d grown accustomed to the calm pace, the solitude, the comfort of daily chores. “I’m going to miss this place.”
“But you’ll be coming back to San Francisco. With me.”
“Working together. Playing together.”
“Sleeping together,” she murmured in sultry tones.
If being in San Francisco meant being with her, he was ready for it. “You’ve been talking about leaving the FBI. Change your mind?”
She shook her head, sending a shimmer through her rich auburn hair. “I’m not sure.”
“Neither am I,” he admitted. “I don’t want to be stuck behind a desk. ViCAP isn’t really my thing. You know how I feel about electronics.”
“But you enjoy fieldwork,” she said. “And you’re really good at it.”
He wasn’t so sure. The Judge investigation had been the center of his life for so long that he couldn’t imagine starting over, taking on another case, facing the intensity of another serial killer.
As he selected lunch meat and bread from the refrigerator, he shrugged. “It’s finally over. After all these years, we’ve got the Judge in custody.”
“Do we?”
“Hell, yes.” On the countertop, he started assembling sandwiches. “Eric Crowe is our man. He arranged Grace’s abduction. His assistant was positively identified. He grabbed you. There’s no doubt.”
Marisa held the beer to her lips and took a long swig from the bottle. “But there’s something that doesn’t quite fit. When the Judge carried me into the motel room, he kept whispering about Tina. Crowe didn’t say a single word about my sister.”
“Maybe he finally ran out of things to say. His ploy to destroy us with our pasts had failed.”
“Maybe.”
He could hear the doubt in her voice and knew what she was going through. After making an investigation the center of your focus, it was hard to see beyond the case. That was when obsession took hold. He didn’t want that to happen to her. “Believe me, Marisa, you can’t keep thinking and rethinking. It’s over. Finished. Crowe is the Judge.”
“The doctors say he’s going to recover.” She sipped her beer again. “When he wakes up, he might confess.”
“Yeah? And maybe I’ll sprout wings and fly to Mars.”
“Sarcasm?”
“You know how this works,” he said. “Crowe will deny everything. He’ll say that you and I attacked him without cause. Then he’ll lawyer up and claim that all our evidence is circumstantial.”
“The key to a conviction is finding Becky Delaney,” she said. “Her testimony can put him away.”
And Becky was proving to be elusive. She’d dis appeared into the wide-open spaces like a jackrabbit into a hole.
He placed the sandwiches on the table and grabbed a beer of his own. For a few moments, they ate in silence, then Marisa cleared her throat. “I’d feel a lot better if we cleared up a few loose ends.”
“Like what?”
“Forget it.” A frown creased her forehead as she pushed away her sandwich. Her fingertips drummed on the tabletop. Her lips pressed together as if she were holding back.
“When you’re with me,” he said, “you don’t have to feel restrained. No matter what you say, I can take it. I’m on your side.”
She slid her hand across the table and linked her fingers with his. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. The wind. The birds.”
He could feel the tension in her touch. There was no way he’d allow the Judge to come between them again. “No secrets.”
“I’m not being secretive. I’m choosing to ignore—”
“Sp
ill it, Marisa. Tell me about these loose ends.”
She sat up straight in the kitchen chair. Her knees pressed together. “Mostly, I’m concerned about the inside connection. How could Crowe get all that background information on us? Our psych evaluations are closed.”
“All he needed was a hint. A quick bio.” Though it was nice to believe that his past history could remain buried, he knew better. “I have a police record. Your sister’s death was reported in the newspapers. He could have looked up the details on the Internet.”
“Okay,” she said. “But he was monitoring our communications. Before he abducted Grace, he had to know when the witnesses would be moved from the safe house. And how did he tap into the communication line to the chopper pilot?” As she spoke, she became more animated. “He knew how to hop onto our frequency, knew what to say to convince the pilot to bring the chopper down.”
A number of possibilities occurred to Flynn. “He might have paid off an inside informant. Somebody who could give him the codes. Or he could be a brilliant computer guy. All that info is in the FBI database. It’s accessible.”
“I really want to believe that we’ve got him. But we’re missing something. I’m not sure what it is.” She looked over at him and grinned. “Could be an instinct. Gotta trust my gut.”
After all he’d said about following his instincts, he couldn’t brush off her suspicions, even if they didn’t make logical sense. “The tables have turned.”
“This time I’m the one who doesn’t believe we’ve got the right man.”
More than ironic. Her insistence that Crowe wasn’t the Judge was troublesome. He was beginning to understand why she’d been so ticked off at him in San Francisco.
“Let’s look at the facts,” he said. “Eric Crowe was in the right place at the right time for all the murders.”
“True,” she conceded.
“Fact—he admitted knowing Russell Graff.”
“A tenuous connection. We have no proof that Crowe acted as a mentor.”
“Then who?” Flynn said. “Fact—our other two suspects, Dr. Sterling and William Graff, were under surveillance.” That much was indisputable. “And Becky Delaney, Crowe’s assistant, was identified as the person who cared for Grace when she was being held.”
