by Rachel Caine
The man aimed her own gun at her, and she knew in that second he intended to kill her, and the dog … and then he looked around, backed up, kicked Mr. French out of the way, and ran.
Bryn rolled over slowly to her side. Blood dripped onto the grass in vivid red globes, and when she coughed it sprayed out in a mist. It was all weirdly pretty, and seemed very remote. So did the pain. She was aware it was there, but a chemical firewall had gone up between her and her nerves, and that was a good thing. Very good.
Mr. French suddenly appeared in her field of vision, whining in concern, and licked her face anxiously. She tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in her arms.
“Bryn.” That wasn’t her voice; that was someone else‘s. Oh, it was McCallister, kneeling next to her dog, staring down at her. He didn’t look remote anymore, or cold, or guarded. He seemed worried. “Can you get up?”
“Sure,” she said, and tried. She couldn’t. He pulled her up, and when her legs folded, he lifted her and carried her with Mr. French growling and whining around his feet as he walked. “Shut up, dog. ’M fine.”
“No, you’re not,” McCallister said. “You’ve got a broken cheekbone, your nose is smashed, and that’s just what I can see. Bryn, I left you alone for one minute.”
“Not my fault,” she whispered. “Mugged.”
“Why didn’t you use the gun?”
“Tried.” She swallowed a mouthful of blood, which tasted awful. “He took it.”
“He won’t have it for long.” McCallister sounded grim and very sure. “I’m going to have to let you stand for a second. I’ll hold you up.”
“I’m fine,” she said again, as if saying it could make it so. He let her legs swing down, and she concentrated on keeping her knees firm. And holding on, because the first plan wasn’t working so well. McCallister slotted a key attached to a big plastic tag into the door that was facing them, opened it, and carried her inside over the threshold, which struck her as weirdly funny.
When she laughed and coughed, he looked down at her with a frown. “What?”
“Just married.”
“Did he kick you in the head?”
“A little?”
McCallister slammed the door shut and put her on the bed. He probably did it as gently as he could, but all of a sudden, the firewall came crashing down in Bryn’s brain, and the full force of her screaming nerves hit her in a wave. She couldn’t bite back the cry of pain, and McCallister put a soothing, warm hand on her forehead. “Easy,” he said. “Be calm. I’m going to give you a booster shot, but I have to wait. The shots have to be a couple of hours apart. You’ve got enough damage that the last one will burn off quickly”. His fingers stroked her brow, smoothing back her hair, then withdrew. She felt Mr. French’s warm weight drape itself across her legs, and heard him whining in concern. “How bad is the pain?”
She swallowed and lied, like a good soldier. “It’s fine.”
“You really need to look up the definition of that word. Hang on.”
He put a hand on her nose, and pulled. A glassy, hot snap of pain bolted through her head, drawing another cry, and she felt her muscles tense and her back arch. McCallister grabbed her hand and held it as she squeezed. She gasped out, “What—”
“I had to reset your nose so that the nanites could heal it,” he said. “You’ll feel some pain when the bones start healing in your cheek, too. Hold on. I’ll be back.” He disappeared for what seemed like an hour, and returned with a glass of warm water and a thin washcloth, which he wetted and used to wipe the blood from her face in slow, soothing strokes. Her nose was still bleeding, and the rose red blooms spread across the washcloth, but she felt it trickle to a stop.
The pain built up along her cheekbone, like an unanes-thetized root canal boring through bone. She grabbed for his hand again and held on, trembling, as the wave kept rising. It filled her head until she thought it would burst, and then there was that same glassy pop of bone shifting, and the pain began to recede. It left her weak and sick.
“Breathe,” McCallister said. “The worst is over. Soft-tissue damage doesn’t hurt as much as it heals.”
“Says you,” she whispered. Her whole midsection felt as if a truck were running over it, crushing and ripping things apart. But he was right; it faded fast. In five minutes, she was breathing easier, and the blood that had been choking her was just a nasty memory.
McCallister took the reddened washcloth back into the bathroom, and Bryn finally felt good enough to try to sit up a little. It was a mixed success. Mr. French watched her with unwavering attention, and if a dog could frown, he was definitely trying out the expression. She couldn’t decide whether he was concerned or annoyed with her initiative.
McCallister, as it turned out, had the identical expression when he came back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sitting up.” Sort of.
“Don’t. Let the nanites do their job. You’re at least an hour away from the next shot, and the more you move around, the less effective they’ll be as they try to maintain additional activity. Understand?”
She did, but she’d finally gotten the thin motel pillow tucked where she wanted it, and it was more effort to lie flat again. “I‘m—”
“If you say you’re fine again, I swear to God, Bryn, I will drive you back to Pharmadene and dump you on the doorstep as a lost cause.” He didn’t mean it. At least, she didn’t think he meant it. “Stay still. Do not open this door for anyone. Understand?”
“Sure,” she said, and finally realized, as he grabbed the doorknob, that he was leaving her. “Where are you going?”
McCallister flashed her one of those rare, unguarded smiles. “I’m going to get your gun back,” he said. “After all, I’m responsible for it.”
She settled back, staring, as the lock clicked shut, then looked at Mr. French. He settled down across her legs, as if he intended to single-handedly hold her down. “How about you, dogface? You okay?”
He licked his chops and put his head down.
She rubbed his fur with trembling fingers, and knew just how he felt.
Chapter 8
Bryn didn’t intend to drift off, but she woke to the sharp jab of a needle in her arm. Panic set in. For a second she thought she was back in that place again, that awful moment of screaming back to life. She jerked, but he was fast, and the needle was out of her skin in the next second, and McCallister’s hand was on her chest, holding her still. “You’re safe,” he said. “Booster shot. How are you feeling?”
She felt … well, weirdly enough, she felt good. Rested. Revived, if that wasn’t too sick a word to select. “Okay,” she said. “Better.”
“No pain?”
“No.” He took his hand away. Bryn sat up fully, expecting to feel a twinge from her abused abdomen, but the muscles contracted normally, as if she’d never been hurt. She put her hands to her face and felt carefully, but it was just smooth skin, and no bumps or complaining sore spots. Even her nose was straight. “Wow. That’s—”
“Amazing,” he agreed. “You have blood in your hair. You’ll probably want to shower.”
McCallister, she realized, also looked like he could use a rinse, and maybe a long, hot soak…. There was a livid red mark on his left cheek that was going to turn into a dirty bruise before too long, and his hands were bloody at the knuckles. His tie was crooked, his jacket torn at the shoulder and streaked with mud. His pants were filthy, too.
“What happened to you?”
For answer, he reached over and picked up a gun from the bedside table, showed it to her, and put it down again. “I got it back for you.”
Ouch. “It doesn’t look like he gave it up without a fight.”
He shrugged. “No significant damage.” His lips stretched into a grim smile. “To me, anyway. I’m not as concerned about his welfare.” The smile faded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t backing you up.”
“You’re not my bodyguard, McCallister. I’m supposed to be your
asset, remember? Not the other way around.”
“I don’t like my assets being damaged without any real benefit.”
“Charming.” She didn’t believe it for a moment, though; she was starting to figure out McCallister, and she thought the man who’d carried her inside and tended to her was more real than the corporate persona. “So, your alibi for Irene Harte is that we’ve sneaked away to a seedy motel for some private busy time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how stupid that is?”
He smiled again, this time a little more warmly. “You underestimate yourself. Or possibly me. No one at corporate will doubt it.”
“Let me guess. You have a reputation.”
“I’ve taken pains to build it. It gives me the ability to duck out of surveillance without too much notice being taken. You do enough legitimate philandering and no one questions you when you drop off the radar for a few hours with a girl.”
“Wow,” Bryn said. “You really are a man whore.”
“I prefer the term player.”
She had no response for that. For some reason, she could well imagine McCallister being familiar with these kinds of seedy roadside establishments, although she thought he probably preferred nicer accommodations. Which made her wonder … “Why here?”
“It has no wireless Internet or any other modern conveniences that make it easy to conduct off-site surveillance,” he said. “It takes time for them to get organized and send real bodies out. Even the security camera in the office is state-of-the-art circa 1980, and I think it’s just for show. If we’d checked in at a more upscale establishment, they’d have a much easier time keeping track of us.”
Of course he had a reason. McCallister didn’t do anything without a reason, and maybe two or three of them. “I really ought to be at work,” she said. “Not that this hasn’t been fun.”
He checked his watch and said, “No hurry, it’s already four o’clock, and by the time we drive back, it’ll be well after closing time at the mortuary. Joe’s been briefed. He’ll cover for you. One thing about the dead—they’ll wait.”
His cell phone chose that moment to buzz like an angry hornet, and McCallister paused, checked the screen, and turned it off. “Harte,” he said.
“You’re not answering?”
“Would I be answering if we were doing what they think we’re doing?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said, “Maybe.” He switched the phone back on and hit a button on the TV remote at the same time. A porn channel popped up. Why am I not surprised? Bryn thought, and reached to change the channel. He shook his head and stopped her. Instead, he turned up the volume for the pants and moans. “McCallister,” he said into the phone, sounding annoyed and distracted. “This had better be important.” He listened for a second, then subtly altered his tone. “Ms. Harte. Sorry. I didn’t check the screen.” Now he turned the volume down. “Yes. Yes, I know.” Another longer pause. “I’ll alert my team to handle it. I’m not close to the office now.” He locked eyes with Bryn, and mouthed, Say something.
What? she mouthed back. He shrugged.
Well, might as well have fun with it. She pitched her voice to a low, sexy range and said, “Patrick, this is no time to be on the phone.”
He shushed her—loud enough for Irene Harte to hear it—and gave her a thumbs-up.
Bryn reached over, took his tie, and unknotted it. The rustle of fabric would sound good, she thought.
McCallister froze, staring at her, momentarily distracted from his conversation. He reengaged with a physical jolt. “Ah, yes. Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be in later. Eight o’clock.”
This was kind of fun. Bryn unfastened his collar, then slipped the second button loose. She was enjoying the rising confusion in his eyes. Thank God she actually had the upper hand in this very weird relationship, for once. Stop, he mouthed. She grinned and went for the next button.
He grabbed her hand in his, tightly, and pulled her closer—so close she could almost make out what his boss was saying on the phone. She froze, and he didn’t move again either, until he said, “All right. See you then,” and hung up the call.
He didn’t release his hold. “What the hell were you doing?”
“I was selling your alibi,” she said. “Let go.”
“That,” he said, “was not at all necessary, Bryn. I thought we agreed not to complicate things.”
“You were trying to make her think we’re having a mad affair. I was just helping.”
“Helping,” he repeated. “Bryn—trust me, you are not helping.”
She met his eyes and held them. “Then why did you pick this particular alibi?”
He bent forward and kissed her. Really kissed her. The shock of his warm, silken lips pressing and sliding on hers made her tense at first, and she thought about resisting for half a second before her muscles melted in to warm jelly of their own accord. She didn’t intend to kiss him back, but she couldn’t help herself. He was warm and alive and strong, and the intense sensation of his mouth opening, of his hands on her back, of his tongue …
He let her go and stood up, very quickly. He took a giant step back from the bed, turned away, and began fastening the buttons on his shirt.
“Pretending that didn’t just happen won’t help,” she said. Her heart was pounding, and she was vibrating all over with the intensity of what had just happened. He was, too. She could see it in the abrupt, jerky motions of his hands. “Patrick. Talk to me.”
“Nothing happened,” he said. His voice was tight and angry. “And nothing will ever happen again. I apologize.”
“I don’t want your apology; I want you to tell me what’s going on between us, because there’s been something for a while now. You know it. I know it.”
“I told you. Nothing. Instinct.” He lips twisted, and he turned away to do up his tie. “Hey, you’re the one who called me a man whore.”
“I didn’t mean it.” She got off the bed and touched his shoulder. “I didn‘t. And … thank you.”
“For what?”
“For … stepping off.” Even if, at this moment, she didn’t want him to. Some desperate part of her wanted this, craved feeling alive, but she knew it was probably a terrible mistake. That was what he was trying to tell her. “I’ll go take my shower.”
She closed and locked the bathroom door, leaned against it for a moment, and then stripped off her clothes. The tub wasn’t particularly clean, but the water was hot and plentiful, and the rough, cheap soap felt good. Not as good as she imagined other things might feel, but good enough.
She washed away the blood, and the desire, and by the time she came back into the cramped, cheap bedroom (and, God, she hadn’t fully appreciated just how cheap and worn it was until that moment) she found McCallister stripped down to a white T-shirt and Joe Boxers, scrubbing mud out of his pants. He was still wearing his socks and dress shoes, which for some reason she found hilarious.
He looked up, frowned at her, and went back to what he was doing. Mr. French was sitting at his feet and watching with his head cocked, evidently fascinated, but he broke off and padded to Bryn. She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “You know, it’s not going to help. That suit’s pretty much ruined.”
“I’ll change on the way.”
“Maybe you can tell Ms. Harte that I like it rough.”
“Not funny,” he said. He put the washcloth aside—a different one, she noticed; it didn’t have bloodstains—and put the pants on. His shirt was wrinkled, but clean, and he buttoned up quickly. Even his jacket looked passable now, except for the torn seam at the shoulder. “If I don’t have time to change, I’ll tell her we had some problems in the field. She’ll believe it.” There was something wrong, some tightness around his eyes and mouth. He almost looked haunted.
Bryn took a wild, instinctive guess and said, “The appointment tonight. It’s not just a business meeting, is it? You and Harte �
��?”
He passed the loose circle of his tie over his head, popped his collar, and snugged the tie tight before he snapped down the points again. “We’ve got a long drive. Do you need me to walk the dog before we go?”
“No, he’s fine. And you didn’t answer me.”
“I’m not going to answer,” he said. He swung open the door to the setting sun, head down. “After you.”
On the way back to her apartment, plans changed; McCallister got a phone call, said a few terse words, and then said, “Problem at your apartment. Joe is sure it’s been compromised. You’ll have to stay the night at the house.”
It was funny that McCallister referred to the huge pile of a mansion as the house, because Bryn honestly couldn’t imagine feeling that comfortable about it. “Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to find you anywhere else. Liam will look after you.”
“Then why exactly did we spend the afternoon in a cheap motel, when you have a swanky love nest all your own?”
He barked out a laugh at that term, then said, “Do you want to know the actual truth of it?”
“Sure.”
“Our excuse is not so much the cheap, anonymous sex— which was great, by the way—but the drugs I buy there.”
“Drugs,” she repeated. “What kind of drugs?”
For answer, he reached into his coat pocket and came out with two plastic bags. Pills. Some kind of pills. “The kind that get a don‘t-ask, don‘t-tell pass from executives. I make a point to go out there once a month.”
“Do you actually take them?”
“The only ones they see me take are gelatin-filled. I may be the only corporate employee who fakes a positive drug test.”
“But aren’t they going to wonder about you bringing me back here?”
“Joe’s arranging for your apartment to be tented, as if for fumigation. It’s as good as we could come up with on short notice.” He smiled grimly. “And there really are bugs, after all. The electronic kind, anyway.”
They ate the picnic lunch Liam had packed on the way back. There were, in fact, finger sandwiches without crusts. And delicious, too. McCallister was a font of utter silence. He answered when she spoke, but in monosyllables or utterly uninformative responses. Back to the same old Patrick, then.
