Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3)

by Ainsley Booth

  As soon as the FBI spokesman starts talking to Rook, I’m in motion, running lightly across the roof and sliding into place next to Tabitha. I work on the ropes first, untying the knots and rubbing circulation back into her hands.

  She reaches for me, clinging to me even as she sobs quietly.

  “Listen. Listen to me.” I grip her chin. “I’m going to get you out of here. But you need to do something for me, okay?”

  She nods jerkily and I kiss her forehead. “You need to stop crying now. You need to be a quiet little church mouse, and the next time the guy with the megaphone is talking, you need to run to that door right there and race down the stairs as fast as you can. Someone will take you from there. I’m going to stay here in your place, so if he looks over here, he thinks you’re still where he put you.”

  “No, come with me,” she whispers.

  “I can’t let him start shooting at the cops down there.” I kiss her forehead again. “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Wrong answer.” The megaphone crackles to life again, and I haul her up, practically throwing her in the direction of where I just came from.

  She spins and scrambles, then freezes at the door.

  I force myself to keep breathing. She needs to get the hell off this rooftop. If I take a shot at Rook, he’s going to shoot back, and the walls around that stairwell won’t protect her. She’s safe from his eyes, but not his gun.

  Unless I don’t miss.

  Better not fucking miss, then.

  Don’t gamble with her safety, asshole. No, I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime already.

  In my ear, Jason clears his throat. “They’re settling in here for a long hostage situation. That feel accurate to you?”

  I press my mic and lower my voice. “Doesn’t need to be. If I get a clear shot, should I take it?”

  A long pause. “Yes.”

  I swivel my head back to where Tabitha’s standing, still frozen, at the door. In the moonlight, she holds my gaze. I try to tell her wordlessly that I know she can do this, that she has to, that it’ll be okay. I don’t know if she gets any of that, but with a strangled cry, she turns and pulls the door open, disappearing inside.

  Exhaling, I tap the mic again. “Tabitha’s coming down. Alone.”

  “We’ll get her.” I don’t hear anything, and there’s no commotion in the alley below, but after a few seconds, there’s another radio crackle in my ear.

  This time it’s Cole. “Got her. Far side of the building. Sheltering in place until SWAT can cover us.”

  Excellent.

  My pulse jumps in relief, cold sweat breaking over my back.

  Now to take out this guy before he kills anyone.

  People think you can shoot to injure someone, to incapacitate them in a way that still makes it neat and tidy for the cops to make an arrest. That’s not how it works. You always shoot to kill. Center of mass, good. Head shot, great. Turn out the lights. Bam.

  But sometimes you miss, and you get their arm, a leg.

  I’m a good shot, but at this distance, with the wind and the darkness, I’ll be lucky to hit whatever I can.

  Oh, Spencer Rook. A week ago, you were a breath away from helping play a role in shaping the next President of the United States of America.

  And now you’re about to eat my bullet. I brace myself against the wall and aim.

  Snap.

  He drops his rifle with a howl, and I take another shot. His shoulder this time. Suddenly the roof explodes with activity, SWAT pouring out of both staircases, and I hold my hands in the air, Grant’s pistol tumbling to the ground.

  Good enough.

  ~

  I’m handcuffed and marched downstairs, but our story of investigating Grant on Tabitha’s behalf flies well enough with the Feds that I’m released before we even get out of the warehouse.

  When we step outside, they’re loading Grant into an unmarked car. Huh. Apparently I didn’t kill him after all, although the side of his face looks like my fists did a good number on him.

  Not fucking sorry.

  He says something which I don’t catch, and with a hiss, Tabitha launches herself out of my arms. I don’t even try to stop her. Her outstretched hand connects to his face, somewhere between a slap and a gouging scratch, before he’s shoved the rest of the way into the car.

  Shame it wasn’t Cole holding him instead of an FBI agent. We aren’t above holding a man down so the woman he’s injured grievously can take out her vengeance on him.

  I still believe more than most that violence has its place.

  There’s darkness in this world, and it doesn’t respond to polite requests or even cold edicts. It must be brought to its knees by the fist, the hiss, and a solid knee to the groin.

  Although the legal system has its place, too.

  She’s shaking and crying again when she folds into my arms. I suddenly realize it’s freezing, and I try to cover as much of her body with mine as I can.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into her hair.

  She hiccups into my chest. “You wanted me to come and see you fight.”

  “Not tonight. Not ever. Not like this.”

  “You were fighting for me.”

  “Nothing pretty about it…”

  “No.” She drags in a ragged breath, then sniffles again. “I guess not.”

  I clutch her to me, then raise my head, searching for my guys. Cole is right there. “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here. Tag will drive you wherever you want to go.”

  —thirty-seven—

  Tabitha

  At some point after we get in the car, I realize Wilson’s covered in blood. Some dry, but not all. There’s some fresh oozing on his middle finger that makes my stomach twist. He’s holding me tight to his left side, and when I reach across and touch his right hand, he winces.

  I jerk my attention to his face. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “I promise I’m fine. I need a shower and a mouthful of pills, that’s all.”

  “You’re hurt.” I touch his swollen knuckles.

  “You’re not the only one who got in a hit or two on Grant tonight.” He groans. “But the glass in my elbow is more of a problem.”

  “Glass!” I turn to the guy driving the car and tap on his seat. “He needs to see a doctor.”

  Wilson tugs me back into his side. “Tag will check out the cuts and stitch me up at the hotel if I need that.”

  That sounds like something I’m going to have to protest again.

  I’m also not sure how we’re going to get up to his room covered in blood, without attracting any attention.

  Apparently I’m underestimating how normal this is for these guys. Tag parks underground and hops out. When he opens my door, he’s got a way-too-big-for-me parka in his hands. “Slide this on,” he says, gently helping me out, and my arms into the coat. “I’ll zip it up. There you go.”

  I’m shaking pretty hard now.

  This must be shock setting in.

  He leads me around the car and repeats the same effort with Wilson, although his treatment is less kid-gloves, more you’re-paying-for-this-coat-you-bleeding-jerk.

  The whole time, they’re grinning at each other.

  No shock there.

  The coats might be unusual for Vegas, but maybe we’re recent arrivals from North Dakota. And they work—nobody gives us a second look as we head upstairs.

  We go to Wilson’s room, and Tag heads up to my suite to get my stuff.

  “What’s going to happen?” I ask Wilson as I help him out of his coat, and then remove my own.

  He winces as he checks himself out on the bathroom mirror. “Depends what kind of a case they have on Spencer. They’ll both be charged with kidnapping. There might be some organized crime charges as well.”

  “And the stuff you set up?”

  He shrugs. “Most of it will fall away. They don’t care about illegal gambling when there are bigger charges to lay.”

&nbs
p; From the hallway, the click of the lock sounds, and I jump.

  He shoots me a worried look. “It’s just Tag.”

  I nod. Gonna be a while before I can hear that sound again.

  He raises his voice as his colleague moves my stuff in. “Tag, I could use a pair of scissors in here. And tweezers.”

  “Got the whole med kit for you.” Tag appears in the doorway.

  Two big guys and a lot of blood. The bathroom is suddenly very small. “I’m going to lie down on the bed,” I say weakly, and Wilson moves to follow me. “I’m fine. Just…let him doctor you up.”

  I stretch out on the bed and let my head swim as I listen to them talk about steri strips and antibiotic ointment versus stitches.

  “Let me see the rest of you,” Tag says, and Wilson laughs.

  “Get the fuck out. I’m fine. Tabitha can help me.”

  “I’m not sure she’s in any shape to do anything,” his partner says.

  I scowl. Screw that. I push off the bed and peel off my own torn shirt before stopping in the bathroom doorway. “I heard my name?”

  Tag does a double-take at my tits.

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Jason’s seen the entire thing. Ask him about my tattoo.”

  “Don’t ask him about anything,” Wilson says, pulling me in as he shoves Tag out. He’s half-naked, and he looks like Bjorn Ironside, the kid on Vikings who grew up between seasons two and three in a serious way. Bloodied and muscled and perfect, his baby face all fierce and possessive. “What?”

  “You look like the guy on Vikings,” I say with a small smile.

  “Ragnar?”

  As the bathroom door closes, I hear Tag laughing. “Pretty sure she means the blond kid, but sure, Ragnar!”

  I lean in and whisper, “The blond kid is super hot.”

  He shakes his head. “Okay.”

  “Not as hot as you…Right. Focus, Tabitha. You called for a shield maiden to help you bathe?”

  He grins. “I sure did.”

  I lower myself to his feet and reach for his boots. Pausing before I start on his laces, I glance up at him. “Feels a bit like reverse deja vu here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You bathed me once.”

  “That was an excuse to get dirty.”

  “What do you think this is?” I tease him, but my voice cracks.

  He doesn’t grin, doesn’t bat it away. “It can be whatever you want.”

  No. That would be… “Let’s just get you cleaned up.”

  I focus on his boots, then I start the shower. When I turn around, he’s got his jeans low on his hips, and my mouth goes dry.

  He’s hard.

  He’s sliced up, and his hands are battered, and we’ve just been though a nightmare, and he’s hard for me.

  “Take off your clothes,” he growls, and I do as he commands.

  We’re broken and scared and dirty. Maybe I’m the only one who’s scared. But we’re both definitely broken, irrevocably, and fuck it, this is how we deal.

  I grab a washcloth and the body wash, as well as the conditioner, before joining him in the small tub, under the small but strong stream of hot water. It’s perfect.

  “I think you told me to hold still,” I whisper as I carefully balance the two containers on the soap ledge.

  “I can do that.” He braces himself against the tile wall and closes his eyes. I wet the washcloth under the hot water and press it against his face. It streaks rusty red immediately. I rinse it and repeat, over and over again, until the dried blood is gone, and the water swirling at our feet is clear.

  Then I lather up some body wash and smooth it over his neck, his shoulders. Down his chest, and carefully over his hands.

  “We should get some ice on these,” I whisper, brushing my lips across his knuckles.

  “Soon. Heat first.” He turns me into the water, running his hands over my body. He cups my breasts, my waist, my hips, then drops to his knees and presses his face to my belly. His lips brush my tattoo, and he shudders. “Tabitha…”

  Fuck. I tip my head back, urging the tears to go away, but it’s no good. I squeeze my eyes shut as he kisses my cleft, his tongue sliding between my lips and around my clit.

  “Let me love you,” he groans, sliding my leg up onto his shoulder. “Let me show you…”

  He latches on, his tongue flat and his suck strong as he covers my pussy with his mouth. Oh, Lord. Yes. “Fuck…”

  It doesn’t take long for the flutter and thrust of his tongue to get me off, and he keeps licking me until I beg him to stop. I fist my hand in his hair and tug his head back from my very happy cunt. “That was not the plan.”

  He grins up at me. “But you taste good.”

  “Stand up.” I bite my lip as he obliges, towering over me. I reach for the conditioner. “Now, to get us back on track…”

  I slick him up, cock and balls and further still, and he holds at attention for me, letting me touch him wherever I want.

  I want everything.

  He groans as I stroke him. I twist my hand as I deftly get him off. “Are going to come for me?”

  “Always.”

  “I love watching you,” I whisper. “The way your face changes. Sometimes I think it’s the only time I see your real face.”

  “Maybe it is. But—”

  “It’s okay.” I move close, rubbing the wet head of his cock against my belly. “Come for me. Show me that face. Let me see you.”

  “You see me.” He grunts as I tighten my fingers.

  “I do.”

  “God, Tabitha!” He spurts against fingers, my skin, the shower wall. He shakes, but he holds himself up, and his face twists in passion. Yes. I love that.

  And I love him.

  Once we’re dry, he talks me through fixing his steri strips, then we crawl into bed.

  He pulls me close. “We're going to be okay. I’ll keep you safe.”

  How do I make him understand? “Nobody can do that.”

  “Exactly. I’m nobody. I’m a ghost. I know how to disappear.”

  “I’m not disappearing.” I sound more confident than I feel, but I know this is the right call.

  “But…”

  “No.” I kiss him on the mouth. “I love you, you insane man, and you can give me all the security you want. But I’m not running. I’m going to wake up in the morning and figure out what to do next, but it’s not going to be hiding, that’s for sure.”

  “You love me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’m not sure I deserve that, but I’ll take it.” He tangles his fingers in my hair. “I’ll grab it with both hands and hang on tight, because I love you, too. I love you so much I’m afraid I’m not going to be any good at keeping you safe, because I can’t think straight.”

  “I’ve got you in a tizzy?”

  “You do.” He laughs. “You so fucking do.”

  “Well, at least the feeling is mutual.”

  —thirty-eight—

  Wilson

  The next morning brings an unexpected calm.

  Jason and Cole worked magic overnight, spinning a story of politics and business that was both believable and banal. It made the west coast news, but didn’t headline nationally, and Tabitha was kept out of it with the help of an emergency injunction protecting her name in the court proceedings.

  We get a visit from the FBI, and later in the day, from the regional Secret Service director. She wanted to know more about Tabitha’s new relationship with Ginnifer Best. Had Grant or Spencer said anything to her about the candidate’s wife? No and no, and then that was it.

  It was all a bit too tidy.

  Too neat.

  It bothered at me, and when she fell asleep Sunday night, I stayed up and I did some digging.

  I haven’t looked at her digital footprint in months. It had started to feel weird, and that’s saying something for me, because I don’t normally have that kind of filter.

  But something that had come up in the past
is flickering in my memory. A little flag that whispers, look over here. Now I just need to find it again.

  I start at her Social Security Number. Newly created when she was fifteen years old.

  What would be the justification for that?

  What would be legit cover that her identity didn’t twig anything at the federal level overnight?

  Over the age of twelve, any SSN applications need to be made in person. I glance at the bed, where she’s curled up in a ball, her red hair spread across the pillow. Small and innocent.

  My eyes scan over the list of acceptable documents. Certified copy of medical record.

  Then I go back to her SSN. Issued in the State of Washington.

  I frown. But Grant’s stolen identity was from California.

  He’d said this was their plan all along for her…maybe she hadn’t had a SSN before. Maybe, name excluded, this was for all intents and purposes a legitimate first SSN. And they’d gotten a doctor to participate in their scheme for reasons that made sense in the fucked up way that sometimes reasons do.

  I’d seen stranger things.

  I log in to her doctor’s website, and from the admin panel, navigate to the supposedly secure side where the health records are kept.

  Her last appointment had been for a B-12 shot. It looks like she gets them quarterly. Before that was another B-12 shot and the blood panel we both got in the summer. I hadn’t looked at the actual results, though, just the screen shot she’d sent me of the patient note confirming she didn’t have any communicable illnesses.

  I click in to it now and give a quick scan, but I’m not a doctor.

  I go back further, and everything looks ordinary for the previous year, but two years ago, her doctor flew from Seattle to Tokyo to give her a B-12 shot.

  That seems extreme. I’ve given myself a B-12 shot before. It’s not that bad, just a quick jab in the ass.

  I frown as I keep scrolling back. Another regular physical, another blood panel. She’s been healthy for most of her adult life, and I can’t find the start of her B-12 supplementing before I run out of digital health records.