by Jenna Ryan
“Yes, I intuited that much.” She ran a teasing thumbnail over his lower lip. “Why?”
“Because.”
Her amusement deepened. “That’s it? That’s your clever comeback?”
“With most of my brain cells currently residing in my balls, it’s the best I’ve got. I don’t want to want you.”
“Figured that, too.”
His eyes gleamed liquid silver. “The hell of it is, I want you anyway. I’ve wanted you since we met. I’ve just never known what to do about it.”
“Asking me for a date would have been nice.”
The gleam became a dangerous spark. “I’m not nice, remember?”
“And I’m not as naïve as only two relationships implies. I don’t need sweet.” She made a point of using her teeth when she kissed him again. “If it helps, pretend I’m conjuring all of this, right down to the onscreen fog.”
“Your onscreen fog has monsters in it.”
“So do your memories.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she wriggled just enough to further harden his already rock hard groin muscles before she recaptured his mouth. “Why don’t we take a shot at locking them away for an hour or two?”
It was the last coherent question Kate recalled asking for several minutes. Suddenly, it was all about hunger and urgency and the kind of reckless speed that made it impossible to savor the moment. His clothes were a barrier, and she wanted them gone. He must have felt the same because her cashmere sweater with the seductive V vanished into the night.
“Jesus, Kate.” Nolan groaned. “You bought a black lace bra?”
“It matched the sweater.” She nipped the side of his mouth then completed the torture by whispering, “Matches the thong, too.”
“Dying here, kid.”
She brought his hand to her breast. “You do know I’m not actually a kid.”
“You were when we met. Or I wanted you to be.”
Another nip, this one with a deliberate sting. “What about now?”
A smile appeared. “Kids don’t wear barely-there bras and thongs.” And closing his mouth over her lace-covered breast, he sent a thousand arrow-points of desire rocketing through her body.
Her bloodstream erupted. A deep roar filled her head. Urgent need pounded like a bass drum under the surface of her skin.
They rolled across the bed, changing positions, rising and falling on clouds of fluffy white.
It seemed to Kate that Nolan sampled every part of her. When he slid his fingers inside her, she grabbed the quilt and hung on as her body bowed upward.
The Pullman spun in wild circles. Night sounds swirled in her head. Then her lashes flew up, her body jolted and the heat, the fever and the fire burst through her in a single white flame.
“Never let yourself be lulled, Kate.” Nolan murmured the words against her cheek and laughed when she made a sound of warning.
“I was enjoying the ride. There was no lulling involved.”
There was something, though, and far more of it than she’d expected to feel. Before the idea could disturb her, she gathered her strength and flipped him onto his back.
“Just for the record,” he said, “I let you do that.”
“I know you did.” Setting her hands on his shoulders, she lowered her mouth to his. “I also know you’re going to let me do a whole lot more before we’re done.”
* * *
He hadn’t anticipated a storm. But that’s what she was. She dragged off his boots, then his shirt. “It’s my turn to do the lulling,” she said, and unzipping his jeans, she tugged them over his hips.
He hissed in a breath as her mouth trailed along his belly then lower until his eyes all but rolled back in his head. How could he not react when she ignited wildfires everywhere her lips and tongue touched?
It was torture, pure and simple. She’d told him she didn’t want slow, didn’t need sweet. Good thing, because with his blood burning and the rest of his system ready to explode, he doubted he could have given her sweet if either of their lives had depended on it.
Nolan knew a moment of near panic when she took the lead and he made no attempt to stop her. His mind blanked. For an instant, he thought he might have let her in. Maybe not all the way, but near enough to disturb the hell out of him.
Fortunately, he recognized his breaking point. Although it required a gargantuan effort not to be sucked into a vortex that might have swallowed him whole, he gripped her upper arms and eased her gently away.
“Killing a man, Kate, should be done fast and neat. No slow torture allowed.”
Her eyes shone in the lamplight. “Guess I made my point.”
She’d damn near made him beg.
Not quite able to think through the bloodlust in his head, Nolan spun her onto her back. He took a moment to stare into her eyes and another to plunder her mouth before driving himself into her.
Her fingers curled around his arms, her body arched. He thought there might have been a blend of astonishment and pleasure on her face, but before he could be sure, his vision hazed and his body took the lead.
The fact that her fingernails scored his flesh was all part of the ride, one that was taking him higher and plunging him deeper than he cared to go. He finished, barely, and collapsed on top of her.
His heart continued to race. He’d have a coronary at this rate. Then, instead of sex and lust, he’d wind up hooked to a ventilator, conjuring visions of Kate while his life force drained slowly away.
“You’re not, you know. Sorry, your thoughts are jumping out at me.” He felt her fingers sliding through his hair, heard the amusement in her tone. “But I don’t think either of us is dying, and/or hovering on the threshold of the tunnel to forever.”
“Glad to hear it.” He shifted far enough to lift his head and look down at her. “That was incredible. It was—” Should he say it? Could he? Desperation scrambled in his belly. Breathing through it, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
If his reaction disappointed her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she kept her eyes on his and ran a finger over his cheek. “The night has many moments in it, Nolan.” Smiling, she moved her mouth to his ear and murmured, “It’s also still very young.”
* * *
Jimmy did what he had to do, what he had no choice but to do. He boarded a 737 wearing a wig, a false mustache and carrying the full weight of the world on his shoulders. Certainly the weight of his world.
No question about it, Hazzard had screwed up. But so had he. And now he needed to unscrew both of them. No, not both: all. Because he knew, and so did Leshad, that there was bound to be a quantity of spill over.
Terror reverberated like a seismic aftershock. His last conversation with Hazzard several hours ago had been less than reassuring. Yes, the man had a plan, a way in. This time he’d promised that plan would work. Might not happen tonight or tomorrow, but he’d track Kate Marshall down. He’d finish off all the old business and move on to the larger task, the one Leshad was keeping a razor-sharp eye on at this point.
Jimmy wanted Phoebe Lessard dead almost as much as Leshad did. Not for the same reason of course, but what did reasons matter at this point? Kill the bitches, end the nightmare and, please God, stop Leshad’s nail-biting countdown.
Composure was key. That and not allowing himself to think about the worst that could happen. Because truthfully? He couldn’t imagine Leshad’s worst. So he’d start at the beginning and imagine being rid of Kate Marshall instead.
By the time he changed planes in Chicago, Jimmy had her death nailed in his mind. And five shots of bourbon swimming in his belly.
* * *
Kate sat curled like a cat on a feathery, faux-fur throw in front of a cozy propane fire in Duffy’s vintage Pullman. She wore her black lace lingerie under Nolan’s denim shirt. Her feet were bare, the movie was nearing its conclusion and topping her mental to-do list was the very important question of where they should have sex next.
; Kitchen countertop could work, she mused. Cold surface, hot bodies, myriad shadows.
One of the movie’s main characters shouted that there was something in the fog. Some deadly entity or entities demanding recompense for stolen lives.
Dressed only in jeans, with his long hair rumpled and his feet also bare, Nolan set a large bowl of popcorn on the throw. He dangled the stems of two wine glasses between his fingers. “Duffy bucketed a bottle of California Chardonnay for us. Label has multiple layers of dust. Should be fairly decent.”
Kate smiled as he crouched next to her. “Popcorn, wine and the afterglow from three rounds of spectacular sex. There’s also still plenty of fog and darkness to hide us before daylight creeps in and spoils the mood. So why’s my head buzzing with questions about Anna Perradine and whether or not there was anything I could have done but didn’t do to save Frankie’s life?”
“Last part’s you hindsighting, Kate.” Nolan poured, swirled, sampled. “McDuff knows his wines. Any patient can be saved in retrospect. Surgeons are demigods in that false world. You’d save Frankie, I’d save my brother and my old man’s brain would still be in his head instead of decorating the wall of my family’s former kitchen.”
She took the glass he offered and met his unfathomable eyes. “I’m sorry, Nolan. For what you’ve been through in the past and what you’re going through in the present.”
He glanced into the murk. “The past’s done, Kate. Undoing it’s not an option. As for the present, if any of what went down had been your fault, I’d have legged it that first night. It wasn’t, I didn’t and here we are, drinking wine and finally catching a glimpse of the creatures lurking in your classic movie fog. A bunch of rotting silhouettes that only Duffy would see as mood-setting material.”
Kate eyed him sagely as she sipped. “Worked, didn’t it?”
The corners of Nolan’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I guess it did at that.” Leaning toward her, he slid a hand over her hair and sank in for a long, slow kiss. “Think about the night, Kate.”
“Been doing that for quite some time.”
He kissed her again then pulled away. “I meant the night Phoebe Lessard pulled her vanishing act.”
“I know. I hate you for dragging me off my happy cloud, but Tallulah did say it. And she made it sound urgent. So.” Uncurling, Kate assumed the lotus position. “Movie off, brain engaged. I remember the storm, those horrible peals of thunder that shook the hospital walls and the triple-pronged lightning bolts that were visible from almost every window. It was a spectacular show, and very unusual for San Francisco.”
“I remember the multivehicle pile-up,” Nolan said. “Patients on stretchers, on gurneys, in Emergency, in the hallways. Even a few in the supply rooms.”
“I had two ruptured spleens, a shattered hip and I don’t know what else.” Lowering her glass, Kate frowned. “Is it important for me to remember the what else?”
“Any detail could be relevant. TV off or on?”
“On. Turn to a San Francisco news station. We might be able to find out why Anna Perradine was admitted to St. Mark’s.”
Nolan scooped up a handful of popcorn. “She had a cast on her right arm.”
“She also had a black eye and the leading edge of a bruise on her clavicle.”
“She probably spun her Caddy into a tree. She’s done it before. Stick a drunk behind the wheel, toss in a big dose of still-pissed-at-us over her son’s death, top it off with a measure of ongoing grief and you have a crash waiting to happen. Don’t lose the thread, Kate. Go back to Phoebe Lessard.”
Eyes closed, Kate placed her mind in a controlled drift. “I had back-to-back spleen extractions, a broken shoulder and knee—same patient—and finally the shattered hip. After the hip, I checked on a young girl whose appendix I’d removed late that afternoon. She was in recovery, groggy but stable.”
“Where was Phoebe three days after her surgery? Acute Care Unit?”
Kate nodded, nibbling on the popcorn. “She’d been transferred to the ACU that morning. The duty nurse said she was in extreme discomfort, but that she would only accept certain drugs for pain management.”
“She wanted to stay awake.”
“I didn’t think about it at the time, but probably. She was well guarded, though. Two agents at the door, two in her room, two more down the hall.”
“You have to give her credit.” Nolan picked up the wine bottle. “Seriously injured, physically traumatized, experiencing God knows what kind of pain and she still managed to outmanoeuvre six or more of Crucible’s people.”
“Maybe she possessed the ability to make the guards think they were seeing one of the nurses leave her room. And even though I just said it, I pray that kind of ability isn’t remotely possible. Oh wait, look.” Swallowing her wine, Kate waved a hand at the television. “There’s Anna. Or a picture of her. Typical screw-you pose. She’s wrapped in fur and looking down her nose at the camera lens. Turn up the volume.”
The news story unfolded pretty much as Nolan had predicted, except, according to a very tipsy Anna, her new boyfriend had been behind the wheel when they’d crashed. Neither of them had seen the dog that had darted onto the poorly lit street until it was too late. Toy boy’d had a choice. Kill the animal or hit a power pole. He’d opted for the power pole. Allegedly.
“She’ll never change,” Nolan remarked. “And she’ll never stop hating you. Or me for that matter. What’s the new guy’s name?”
Kate smiled. “Troy. How perfect is that? Toy boy Troy. Okay, so, we’ve solved one mystery. As for Phoebe…”
Nolan sat propped against the base of the sofa with his head resting on the seat. He looked, Kate thought, like a big old tomcat—calm, yet ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
Which was the very last thing she should be thinking about right now.
A knowing smile crossed his lips as he prompted, “Did you go up to the ACU that night?”
“You cannot read minds,” she stated then moved a shoulder. “Briefly. I didn’t make it as far as Phoebe’s room. We had a Code Blue. An elderly man went into cardiac arrest. We stabilized him, sent him off to ICU. The storm was still raging. I remember looking outside and wondering what it would feel like to be whisked off to Oz, or really anywhere other than St. Mark’s at that moment. It didn’t matter where I went, there were people. Staff, patients, family members. It was a zoo.” She glanced at the television screen, looked away then did a surprised double take. Going to her knees, she crawled forward. “That’s Anna’s other car, her Beamer. And toy boy Troy.” She glanced at Duffy’s wall clock. “Okay, it’s after 2:00 a.m., so this can’t be a live broadcast.”
“But it’s a more recent story than the one involving the dog and the electrical pole.” Nolan pushed himself into a crouch. “Toy boy’s wearing the same black coat and pants we saw him in at the hospital.”
“He’s on the hill that winds down from St. Mark’s.” Drawing back, Kate stared. “Anna sent him after us, Nolan. He must have had a second accident. My God…” Startled, she bent forward. “I don’t believe it. That other man there. He’s the guy.” She tapped the TV screen. “You know—the guy. With the beard. The man I saw in the alley outside the apartment building and again after the building blew up.” She jerked back, her eyes locked. “Nolan, he’s limping.”
Nolan squinted at him. “He’s limping, yes, but are you sure it’s the same person?”
“Positive.” She positioned her hands so they mimicked the angle of the dented vehicles. “I’d say bearded guy sideswiped toy boy and forced him into the barrier. A pass attempt gone wrong?”
“Possibly. Bearded guy was probably in a hurry.”
Dread coiled in Kate’s stomach. “You think he’s Leshad’s trigger man, don’t you?”
“He has the same general body type as the guy who shot up your car in Chinatown.”
Shivering, Kate sank back on her heels. “We got very, very lucky tonight, didn’t we? Maybe I should be grateful to Anna for
sending toy boy after us.” She hesitated. “Are you confused?”
“I might be more suspicious. I’ll have to give it some thought.”
“Okay, well, major points to you for being able to think, because I’m so mixed up right now my own name’s starting to elude me.” She subsided onto the throw and took a completive sip of wine. “How does this sound? In as much as I can, I’ll set bearded guy and toy boy Troy aside and write down everything I can remember about the night Phoebe Lessard pulled her amazing disappearing act.”
“If writing works for you, Kate, do it.” Nolan’s expression, which had been momentarily distracted, sharpened on her face. Hitting the power button, he tossed the TV remote aside, and, in a move she honestly didn’t see coming, pinned her to the floor with his body. Then he grinned. “Not that I’m complaining, kid, but your reflexes suck.”
Instead of answering, she set her mouth on his. Several long seconds later, with their positions now reversed so she was straddling him, she whispered, “Wanna tell me again about my reflexes?”
* * *
Jimmy’s plane circled for over an hour before the pilot received clearance for landing. Alcoholic beverages, supplied by flight attendants with frozen smiles, kept the passengers happy and hammered. So much so in Jimmy’s case, he toddled along the elevated ramp and into the airport feeling blissfully hopeful.
Three text messages greeted him when he turned on his phone. The oldest came from his boss in New Orleans, and there were two more recent ones from Hazzard. His boss could wait. Jimmy swayed, hiccupped and endeavored to focus on the first of Hazzard’s messages. It read:
Got the pay dirt phone call sooner than expected. Kate Marshall is as good as dead… One question. Should I be scared shitless that after one drink of watered down vodka I suddenly started seeing an ugly little doll with mean eyes and sharp teeth?
Jimmy reread the last part, gave his head a woozy mental scratch and moved on to message two:
Almost there. Fog’s a bitch, all coily and weird. Feels like snakes crawling on me. But then it separates, and I see the doll. I hate that ugly face. It creeps me out. Is Leshad making this happen?
