The Lawman's Last Stand

by Vickie Taylor

  She nodded and wrapped her fingers around the gold key chain, but Shane didn’t let go. His eyes narrowed. He’d driven Bill’s Honda before. It was small, but it was quick. A lot quicker than that rattletrap Jeep if she decided to run. “You take off only if there’s trouble, right?”

  Her cheeks turned pink, but he couldn’t tell if she blushed because she was embarrassed that he’d figured out what she was thinking again, or because she was mad that he thought she’d take off and leave him in a vehicle that drew killers like a magnet drew paper clips.

  She yanked the keys from his hand. “Right.”

  Bill reappeared, handing Shane the shirt and phone.

  “Thanks for the help,” Shane said, not bothering to hide the seriousness of the moment behind a false smile.

  “You’re welcome,” he said looking from Shane to Gigi and back. “I think.”

  He walked partway down the drive with them. Gigi walked a step ahead and Bill held Shane back. “Fitz is going to have a cow about this.”

  “I can handle Fitz.”

  “He’s been calling here, making noise about booting you out if you don’t show up at the office tomorrow.”

  Shane’s gaze trailed over Gigi, who had stopped at the edge of the stoop. From the tilt of her head, he guessed she was listening to every word. He knew he should call his boss, let him know he was back in town. But Hugh Fitzsimmons would want some explanation why he wasn’t at work. And Shane had promised Gigi—no one else involved in this.

  Besides, he’d been having second thoughts about the DEA since long before he’d met the woman who called herself Gigi McCowan. “Don’t worry about Fitz, Bill. If he fires me, it’ll just save me having to type up a resignation.”

  “You’re really going to do it, then? You’re going to quit the DEA?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Tell Fitz I’ll call him when I can.”

  Gigi stopped, her hand on the door of the Honda. Her gaze darted up and down the street the way a person’s did when she had something to be afraid of.

  An ache settled in Shane’s bones as he put a name to the look—the look of the hunted. He guessed she had good reason to look that way.

  Bill must have seen it, too. “Just what kind of trouble is she in, boy?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’ve stepped right into it with her.”

  Shane hiked up one corner of his mouth. “Hip deep.”

  “You ought not do this alone.”

  He followed Bill’s gaze to Gigi. “I’m not exactly alone.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bill said sourly. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Shane knew what Bill meant. Keep your head on straight and watch your back.

  He didn’t need the reminder. He’d let a beautiful woman blind him to the truth once, underestimated what she’d do to protect her family. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

  “It’s under control,” he claimed, as much for his own benefit as for Bill’s. “It’s all under control.”

  And it was. But for how long?

  An hour later, Gigi climbed out of the Honda in front of a long, low motel where Shane had rented them a room for the night. She jumped at the brush of something wet along her lower leg and turned in time to see a mottled black-and-white dog, hardly more than a pup from the look of him, but already as tall as her knee, dart behind the car beside her. When her heart restarted, she took a tentative step forward. One lopped ear and a nose poked around the bumper.

  “Here guy,” she called softly. “Here little guy.”

  Shane was at her side. “What’s wrong?”

  She felt the tension in his touch on her elbow. “Just a dog,” she answered. “A stray, maybe.” She’d felt the pup’s bones through his loose skin. Poor thing was probably half-starved.

  Shane relaxed a bit. “Let’s go. We’re in room 126.”

  He walked on, but Gigi hung back, looking for the pup.

  Shane stopped. His shoulders sagged tiredly, but his voice was firm. “Gigi, come on. We have to get out of the open.”

  Regretfully, she followed Shane’s echoing footsteps along the boardwalk porch that ran the length of the motel. She clutched her survival bag—the only thing that mattered if she had to make a run for it—to her chest, her palms sweating.

  Darkness had fallen on the drive here from the Maitlands’, but it was still warm. Phoenix rested in a lowland valley, but the air here seemed thinner, drier than in the mountains they’d left behind—had it only been that morning?

  Shane stopped at the last door on the porch and fumbled with the key in the lock. Behind him, a giant yellow neon sombrero tipped forward and back in a gesture that seemed more drunken than welcoming. La Casa de Amigos—The House of Friends—the green blinking letters shaped like saguaro cacti proclaimed.

  Gigi wondered if anyone really called this place home for more than a few hours at a time. From what she’d seen on the way here, the motel wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods. The parking lot was nearly empty, and the few vehicles scattered around were mostly older models, many in serious need of repair.

  The building was laid out to look more like a rancho bunkhouse than a motel. Along the slat-wood porch, rough-hewn pine benches sat recessed into little alcoves along the wall of the single-story stucco facade. A small light fixture shaped to look like an antique lantern hung beside each numbered door.

  The door to room 126 swung open.

  In the parking lot, a rusted old sports car pulled crookedly into a space. A man and woman both got out the driver’s door, brown bottles in their hands.

  The dog shot out from behind the Honda toward the couple. He looked to be about six months old, part Great Dane—that would be where he got his coloring, a pattern called Harlequin—and part something undefinable. The pup sniffed the people’s shoes and the man kicked at him. The dog skittered off, stopping to bark once.

  “Oh, Shane,” Gigi said, tears coming to her eyes at the dog’s plight as she realized what the pup was doing. “He’s checking everyone that comes in.”

  “Looking for his family.” Shane’s eyes weren’t teary, but she thought she saw something there. Something deep and wrenching.

  He nudged the small of her back. “We have to get inside. Out of sight.”

  Shane leaned through the doorway, flicked on the light, then stepped back to let her pass through. The room across the threshold didn’t look as bad as Gigi had expected. The double bed was neatly made with a pale-yellow spread. The carpet was sandstone in color, and looked fairly new.

  “Doesn’t look so bad,” she said half-aloud.

  “What were you expecting, La Cucaracha?”

  “No. Cockroaches I can handle, if I have to. I was more afraid of finding a bed that vibrated and mirrors on the ceiling.”

  Hesitantly she stepped inside. When the faint aroma of pine cleaner greeted her instead of the stale odors of cigarettes and sex, she sighed in relief. Maybe this place wasn’t as disreputable as she’d thought.

  The outside light blinked off behind her, and she turned in time to see Shane finish unscrewing the bulb on the porch lantern. “We’ll be able to see outside better without it,” he explained without her asking.

  As if to prove the point he pulled back the corner of the curtains and scanned the area outside the window. When he turned back, he dropped the car keys on the small table beneath the window, slid out of his jacket and hung it across the back of the chair pushed against the table. “You want the shower first?” he asked without preamble.

  What she really wanted was those keys. The Jeep was gone now, and with it the killer’s chances of finding them. No one could track them to this hotel. Once she was gone, Shane could call Bill or call a cab or call the devil for all she cared. She’d be long gone.

  But she didn’t dare hope he’d be so careless as to leave the car keys in her reach if she offered to let him clean up first. No, h
e was smarter than that. Getting away from him would take time, and patience.

  Neither were Gigi’s strong suits, but she forced herself to nod and back toward the small cubbyhole she assumed was the bathroom, carrying her bag with her.

  Soon the pounding of hot water on her tired body had her thinking less about escape and more about sliding between cool, clean sheets and closing her eyes, just for a little while. Even if she could escape from Shane tonight, she wouldn’t get far. The steamy water had liquified her muscles.

  She shut off the water and pulled herself out of the shower before she fell asleep upright. Wearing a fresh pink T-shirt and bicycle shorts, she zipped her survival bag closed and stepped into the main room. A wisp of steam curled over her shoulder and disappeared into the stillness.

  Shane sat by the window in the little chair that looked about as comfortable as a torture rack. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids as his heavy stare fell on her. Her fingers curled reflexively around the handle of her bag.

  She cursed her reaction. Why did she have to feel every look from him like a caress?

  “Your turn,” she said, trying not to sound affected.

  He nodded and pushed himself out of the chair. A step away, he leaned back and snagged the keys in his fingers. On his way across the room, he stopped in front of her. His gaze ran from her wet curls over her fresh pink T-shirt, flowered bicycle shorts and clean, white socks, then latched on to the nylon backpack pressed to her chest.

  Her skin tingled as if she’d been tickled with a feather.

  His eyes narrowed. “Just what do you have in that bag?”

  “Just a few personal things. Overnight stuff.”

  He reached out and pushed up on the bottom of the bag, taking some of its weight in his hand. “Feels like a lot of stuff for overnight.”

  She smiled falsely. “You know women. We aren’t happy if we don’t have half a pharmacy with us.”

  “Uh-huh.” He reached for the strap of the bag. She jumped back, tightening her hold. “What’s in the bag, Gigi?”

  “Nothing of your concern.”

  “Everything is my concern tonight.”

  He reached again for the bag. She tried to back up, but her shoulders hit the wall. He pulled on the nylon; she resisted.

  “Don’t!”

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing. It’s mine—”

  He tugged hard and the bag jerked from her grasp. As easy as that he inflicted his will on her, and her weariness gave way to a wave of rage.

  “Give it back!” She shouldered into him and made a grab for the bag. He easily held it out of reach.

  Pulling at the zipper, he turned the bag upside down, dumping its contents onto the bed.

  When he raised his gaze, his eyes were beyond tired. They were worn. Aged. “Well, well. At least we don’t have to worry about having enough cash to tip the maid.”

  He picked up one of the packets of bills and fanned its edge with his thumb, then threw it back on the bed with the others. “There must be ten-thousand dollars here.”

  “Twelve,” she replied irritably.

  He picked up the manila envelope from the top of the pile and pulled out the papers she’d bought with the rest of her cash. “Driver’s license, Social Security card, birth certificate.” He dug deeper, then raised his eyebrows as he pulled his hand out. “Passport. Very thorough. Tell me, who is Arena Vega? Another retired veterinarian friend?”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “It’s a made-up name. If this identity didn’t work, that’s my backup. I was going to leave the country. If I survived.”

  He looked at the papers more closely. “These are good forgeries. They must have cost you a pretty penny.”

  “Lots of pretty pennies.”

  He threw the envelope on the bed next to the money and picked up the dirty clothes she’d stuffed back in the bag. She cringed as the handgun slipped from the folds of her T-shirt. His jaw hardened as he turned the gun over in his hands. “Nice. Taurus M80 revolver. Brazilian made. It’s a good gun for you—not too heavy, not too bulky. I suppose if sneaking out on me didn’t work you were just going to shoot me?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I have no intention of shooting you.”

  “Good, because I have no intention of letting you.” He shoved the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and stuffed everything else back into her bag.

  She sat frozen. He shuffled to the bathroom and stopped outside the door. Her spine stiffened under his dark study.

  “Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.” Her heart raced in her chest. “I’ll scratch your eyes out before I let you—”

  “Relax. You’re not going to have to scratch anything. I’m tired and I’m dirty and I’m sore and all I want is a couple of minutes in the shower without having to worry about you running off on me. I figure even you aren’t desperate enough to wander down the highway naked this time of night. So either you get under those covers and take your clothes off yourself, or I’ll come over there and help you. You choose.”

  For an instant she considered fighting—rushing for the door or throwing a lamp—not because she really wanted to fight, but because it rankled her to meekly submit to caveman tactics. Tired or not, though, she got the feeling he was spoiling for a fight after finding that gun, and she would not be manipulated. She picked her own battles.

  Besides, he really did look tired.

  Glaring at him, she slid underneath the covers and wriggled out of her shorts and shirt, throwing each article in his direction as she removed it.

  His face cast in shadows thrown from the bathroom bulb, he stood statuesque as one by one her clothes hit his bare chest and slid to the floor.

  When she’d finished and her bra and underwear rested at his feet, puddled scraps of satin and lace, he arched one eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were teasing me.”

  She angled her chin up dramatically. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enjoying it.”

  The flutter of a butterfly’s wings would have roared like an airplane propeller in the quiet of the room. After an extended silence, one corner of his mouth twitched upward in what she hoped was humor. “I just might be.”

  Shane retrieved her clothes and stuffed them in the bag with her other meager belongings. He stopped with one hand on the bathroom door frame and turned her way, the playfulness vanished from his features.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “Because if your teasing ever becomes a serious invitation, I won’t turn you down.”

  Shane cut off the water after ninety seconds. Two minutes was too long with Gigi alone in the room. Besides, thanks to her lascivious undergarments, he’d had to shower in much cooler water than he’d planned. Who’d have thought the no-frills veterinarian had a taste for black lace?

  He wondered what other tastes she preferred that he might not know about. Just imagining almost made him have to turn the cold water back on.

  With a groan, he pushed the shower door open and reached for a towel. The woman was going to drive him crazy.

  He listened a moment to the quiet on the other side of the door. Quiet worried him. He supposed she could have fallen asleep already—he knew she was exhausted even if she wouldn’t admit it.

  Then again, maybe she wasn’t asleep.

  He flicked the towel around his hips and charged into the room, immediately swearing at the sight of the empty—and coverless—bed.

  Damn her stubborn soul!

  In two steps he was back in the bathroom and out again with his gun. “Gigi?” he half whispered, yanking the door open.

  Darkness cloaked the night, hiding her secrets. Shane willed his eyes to adjust faster and stepped onto the porch, his gun raised.

  “Dammit Gigi, answer me!”

  The silence set his nerve endings alight. He felt the rush of adrenaline and the acceleration of his heartbeat t
hat came with danger, and fear.

  Where was she? He had no doubt Gigi had left the room of her own free will, but she could have run into anything once she got out here.

  He never should have left her.

  Hitching the towel higher on his hip, he moved into the parking lot. Pebbles dug into the soles of his feet. Little shards of glass and who knew what else dug deeper. Ignoring everything but the night and its sounds, listening for anything out of place, he worked his way through the vehicles, stopping to check between and inside each one as he crept along. When he reached the Honda and found nothing, defeat weighed on his shoulders like an ox’s yoke.

  He scanned the porch, the lot, the street beyond one more time. “Gigi?”

  In the dark alcove outside their room, Gigi closed her eyes against the slump of his shoulders, the way his arm, gun defiantly outstretched only moments ago, dropped uselessly to his side. But closing her eyes couldn’t block out the agonized break in his voice as he called her name. His worry for her was as unwelcome as it was undeserved.

  She’d expected Shane to come flying out in a hot rush of rage, not a coolly calculated maneuver to protect her from some nonexistent danger. She’d only meant to show him she couldn’t be kowtowed by hard-handed tactics or plied by soft sexual innuendo. She’d never meant to scare him.

  The butter-colored bedspread rustled as she gathered it around her on the pine bench and stood. Shane wheeled around at the sound, his gun raised again in an instant.

  “Shane?” she called softly. She stepped out of the shadows.

  He crossed the parking lot and hopped over the porch rail, nearly losing his towel in the process. Then he stood before her, his chest rising and falling too fast. His pale eyes sparkled in the starlight, drinking her in greedily.

  “You’re all right?” he finally asked. She nodded. Gradually his breathing slowed. He dragged a hand through his wet hair. “What are you doing out here?”

  The answer was as simple as the question, and yet Gigi couldn’t get the words out. At a time when her life seemed dictated by other peoples’ actions, she just needed to feel in control of something. Of anything. Of whether she lay naked in a bed waiting for a man to protect her, or wrapped a bedcover around herself like armor and faced the night on her own. But she couldn’t tell him that.