Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body)

by Naima Simone

  “Hey.” Tristan dragged Shane forward and into a brief, back-slapping hug, which Shane returned. “I haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up? Everything okay at the firm?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said, returning the friendly pound. “We’re good.”

  Releasing him, Tristan ran his dark green gaze over Shane’s face. “As good as it is to see you, somehow I doubt this is a how-the-hell-are-you? visit. What’s up?”

  “Jonah Michaels,” Shane stated, getting right to the point. He didn’t have time to beat around the bush. In the hour since he’d followed Fallon to her job and left her under Maddox’s watchful eye, a relentless itch had settled between his shoulder blades. The sense of urgency hadn’t abated but had grown more insistent. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but he didn’t question it, either. It’d saved his ass too often to count both in Afghanistan and on the job here in Boston.

  A frown creased Tristan’s brow. “Jonah Michaels,” he repeated. His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me about him? What do you know?”

  “I know a couple of his boys nearly killed Fallon last night.”

  A cold mask dropped over his friend’s features, and in that instant, he transformed from best friend to hardened cop. “Where?” he quietly demanded.

  “Her apartment. They were lying in wait for her to arrive home.” Shane relayed what’d occurred the night before.

  “Shit. Where are these two now? Why didn’t you call the police?” Tristan snapped.

  “Because we handled it.” A small, nasty smile curved his lips as he recalled the early morning phone call from Ciaran and Khalil.

  After some…persuasion, the two assholes had spilled everything they knew. Which admittedly, hadn’t been much. Low in the pecking order, they’d been told to take care of Fallon and make it seem like a mugging gone bad. Nothing more. Shane silently snorted. That assignment had been an epic fail, and in a couple of hours, those two would find themselves with room and board courtesy of the Boston PD.

  “You. Handled. It,” Tristan bit out. “You had no business ‘handling it.’ You’re not the cops. Are they alive?”

  “They’re alive.” Damn, he was the second person to ask him that. What? Did he and Fallon believe he’d devolved into a bloodthirsty savage? He snorted. “All we did was transport them to a secure location to ask them some questions.”

  “And?” Tristan pressed.

  “And nothing.” Truth. The two thugs were low-level gang members following orders and hoping to gain more status by killing the woman responsible for their leader being locked up. Shane cocked his head, a burgeoning anger simmering in his chest and rising like the mercury in a thermometer. “You don’t seem surprised to hear Michaels’s and Fallon’s names linked. Why is that?” he asked, his tone as deadly soft as Tristan’s.

  A pause. “Because I’m the lead detective on the case.”

  You can’t punch him. You can’t punch him. He’s not just your friend but the police. Screw it. Shane crowded into Tristan’s personal space, his chest bumping the other man’s. “You mean to tell me you’ve known all along that Fallon was in danger, and you didn’t think to mention it to me?”

  “Back off,” Tristan snarled, fire leaping in his eyes. “We offered to place her in a safe house, but she refused. And since Michaels was locked up and her identity kept under wraps, we didn’t force the issue. Besides, you know damn well I couldn’t tell you. It was—is—a police matter. Only a few of us were aware of her name, and the fewer people, the better chance she remained anonymous.”

  Logic didn’t cool the rage seething inside him. “Well, that ship has not only sailed but been blown to hell and back. Still, it begs the question,” Shane continued, unease skulking through his veins and sending the itch between his shoulders into a full-out rash, “why are you being so forthcoming now when you’ve been close-lipped for the past three months?”

  Tristan shifted back a couple a steps and dragged a hand over his short, auburn hair, glancing over his shoulder as if ensuring no one overheard him. “Because Jonah Michaels escaped from our custody this morning.”

  Unease blazed into razor-edged panic. It sliced into him, sharp, terrifying. Escaped? How? Jesus Christ. Inhaling deeply, he buried the alarm beneath a slab of ice. “What happened?”

  Fury suffused his friend’s face, tightening his mouth into a grim, flat line. “He had a court appearance this morning to set a trial date. On the transfer in, the prison bus was hijacked, and Michaels escaped. A corrections officer was killed, as well as the driver. I just returned from the scene not too long ago. Fallon needs to know. With him on the loose and his gang crazy enough to attack a prison bus, she has to go into witness protection. If her identity has been leaked, killing her will be his first order of business.”

  “Witness protection? Your department couldn’t even protect her name, and now you expect me to entrust her life into that same care?” He shook his head. “No. I—GDG—will guard her.”

  A part of him conceded his accusation was unfair. The program didn’t claim to be infallible, but it worked way more often than it failed. Yet, that small percentage existed, and he wasn’t willing to take the chance of Fallon beating the odds. He’d observed firsthand the devastation that it going wrong had wreaked. Five years ago, Ciaran had convinced an associate of one of the most vicious crime families in the country to testify and enter witness protection. Someone had leaked the location, and while trying to rescue the informant, he’d been shot and the informant killed. Ciaran carried the enormous guilt to this day.

  An image of Fallon jerking awake from a nightmare, her gray eyes nearly black and sightless with terror, slid across his mind’s eye. No, he couldn’t bear the possibility of Fallon ending up as a statistic. Not on his watch. And not if he could prevent it.

  “I repeat,” Tristan ground out. “This is a police matter. Now, since you were sitting on her last night, I’m assuming you know where she is right now.” At Shane’s silence, Tristan moved forward, reclaiming the space he’d placed between them. “Shane, you are my best friend, but I swear to God I will haul your ass into that station and have you brought up on obstruction charges. If you care about your sister’s friend, you will let me do my job. Now where is she?”

  Shane arched an eyebrow, not in the least bit intimidated. “Home,” he lied. When Tristan glared at him, mistrust glittering in his eyes, Shane added, “Maddox is with her.”

  Finally, Tristan nodded, the anger slowly fading from his features. Sympathy and resolve replaced the darker emotion, and a slight twinge of guilt over his deception twisted Shane’s stomach. Slight though, and nothing he couldn’t deal with if it meant Fallon’s safety.

  “All right,” Tristan said, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the station. “Thanks for the info. I need to get over there then. And, Shane,” he clamped a hand on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing it, “I’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

  “Tristan.”

  They both turned at the sound of the soft, feminine voice. As the willowy, tall blonde in a dark green pantsuit approached them, Shane glanced at Tristan…and snorted. God, please never let him wear that same sappy expression on his face. He was embarrassed for his friend.

  “What?” Tristan asked, shooting a look at Shane before switching his attention back to Joy Sanders, his fiancée.

  “Nothing.” Shane shrugged. “I just always wondered exactly what whipped looked like, and now I know.”

  “Fuck off,” he murmured without heat, affection for his woman softening his green eyes and curving his lips. “Hey, sweetheart.”

  Joy rose on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to Tristan’s, her love for the detective just as obvious. Even after the tame kiss, their eyes remained connected, as if transmitting a secret message only the two of them knew. Shane glanced away, feeling like a damn Peeping Tom.

  Shane tried not to envy his friend the love of his fiancée. Joy, a computer programmer at one of the most prestigious software companies in t
he state, was intelligent, beautiful, and kind. She didn’t begrudge Tristan his long hours but supported him, and Shane couldn’t help but like and admire her. She was perfect for his friend.

  He cleared his throat, and Joy smiled at him, sliding an arm around Tristan’s waist.

  “Hi, Shane,” she greeted. “We missed you at dinner last week.”

  “I’m sorry. Work came up. But I’ll be there next time.”

  “Good.” Joy nodded. “I’m holding you to it. So,” she said, tipping her head back and refocusing on Tristan, “are you ready?”

  “Damn.” Tristan winced. “We were supposed to have an early lunch.”

  “Supposed?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, something came up on one of my cases, and I have to take care of it immediately. I’m sorry.”

  Joy shook her head. “No worries, honey.” She brushed her lips across his jaw. “I understand. Will you be home for dinner?”

  “I should. If there’s a problem, I’ll call ahead.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’m going to head out, too,” Shane interrupted, removing his keys from his pocket. “Nice seeing you again, Joy.” He leaned forward and quickly hugged her.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Shane, okay?” The warning in the question reverberated in the narrowed stare Tristan pinned on him.

  “Yeah. Later.” Shane nodded and climbed into his SUV, leaving Tristan to walk Joy back to her car.

  While his friend was preoccupied with his fiancée, Shane had interference to run.

  Chapter Six

  “Thank you for dining at The Grease Spot,” she recited in a bored tone. “Today’s specials are—”

  “Fallon, I need you to come with me.”

  Fallon glanced up from her order pad to meet the piercing turquoise stare and gorgeous, stern face that had become the object of her fantasies and the bane of her existence. Last night he’d been tender, caring, and this morning he’d reverted back to his usual two-by-four-up-his-ass demeanor. Especially when she’d announced her intention to show up for her morning shift. For a moment, anger had flared in his gaze, and misplaced anticipation and lust had raced through her, thickened her blood. She could imagine that same hard expression stamped on his face while he brought her to a screaming orgasm. But as quickly as the emotion had blazed, Shane had banked it, his eyes shadowed, inscrutable. He’d herded her out the apartment, followed her to work since she’d insisted on driving, and ordered her to stay put before pulling off.

  Even with his cold mask firmly in place, she’d sensed his frustration and irritation. He’d probably assumed her insistence stemmed from stubbornness and defiance. But in three months, the future she’d mapped out—working in an event-planning company, gaining experience under her belt, creating connections, launching her own business—had crumbled beneath her feet like a shaky ledge. First, she’d observed a murder. Second, she’d lost her job. Third, she’d fallen into dead-end employment to pay the bills. And now, he appeared on her doorstep—literally—and threatened the independence she’d fought so hard for.

  No, he wouldn’t understand but just continue to see her decision as another act of impulsive rebellion.

  Well, screw it. He might be her best friend’s older brother and have known her for over a decade, but he didn’t know her. Didn’t see her.

  And most importantly, he didn’t want to.

  Burying the pain and anger, she flicked a hand, forced a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “Hey, big boy, that Terminator shit might work with the other girls, but—”

  “Jonah Michaels escaped from jail.”

  Her heart thudded hard, then raced as if trying to trample a hole in her chest. The rapid tattoo filled her head, her ears. Jonah Michaels…escaped…

  “Oh Jesus.” She sank to the seat across from him, her knees the consistency of hospital Jell-O. “How?” she rasped, her suddenly numb fingers dropping the pen and order pad on the table. “When?”

  “This morning.” His voice, that deep, sin-wrapped-in-dark-chocolate voice, could’ve been relaying the elements on the periodic table instead of delivering terrifying news that threatened her life expectancy. His stoic, reserved expression didn’t change. “During a prison transfer. The bus was hijacked, most likely by his gang.”

  “How’s that…?” She dragged her fingers through her hair, fisting the curls. “How’s that even possible? Things like that only happen in The Fast and the Furious, not reality.”

  For the first time she glimpsed an emotion flicker across his face. It was a slight tightening of his full, sensual lips, but it was there. “Oh, it’s possible.”

  “Oh my God.” Fear grew inside her with each breath she took in. Dropping against the booth’s back, she rubbed her palms over her arms, the thin, long-sleeved white shirt no match for the cold invading her body. A cold that infiltrated her soul and had been a part of her ever since she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  All because of a goddamn cup of coffee. She hadn’t had a latte since.

  “There’s more,” Shane said. Well Christ, the only thing missing was the ominous dunh-dunh-dunh-dunh.

  “More?” She loosed a brittle laugh. “Well, aren’t you just a wealth of good news today?” Shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes, suddenly weary. “What is it?”

  “Jonah knows who you are, and he’s going to put everything behind coming for you, Fallon. We did some checking. The murder weapon was never recovered. No DNA. No one else stepped up to finger Michaels. You’re all the police and DA have. No witness, no case.” His voice deepened. “You’re in danger.”

  “The police,” she began but petered off at the flint in his blue-green gaze.

  “Can put you up in a safe house or a hotel until the trial,” he conceded. “Like I said, you’re their only eyewitness to the crime, and it’s in their best interest to keep you secured. But placing you in custody doesn’t mean you’ll make it to the trial. Michaels and his crew have already attacked a prison bus and killed the driver and an officer. The same person who leaked your name might not have an issue with betraying the location of a safe house. Fallon, I don’t want to scare you. The police are good, but,” he leaned forward and covered her hand with his much bigger one, “we’re better. Let me keep you safe. Let me protect you.”

  She stared down at their stacked hands. Heat from his palm radiated over her skin, rivaling the warmth inside the restaurant. Even in spite of the danger hanging over her head like Damocles’s sword, she couldn’t help but acknowledge this was the first time in seven years that he’d voluntarily touched her. Last night she’d just about begged. How unfair that it came under these circumstances. Or that her breath stuttered in her lungs, her belly clenched, and a dull ache pulsed in her clit.

  He was her easy button.

  And he didn’t want her. She was his younger sister’s immature, reckless, and flighty best friend. Nothing more.

  And he was a rigid, stoic stickler. He could probably give her orgasms so mind-blowing she’d create a religion to worship them, but still…

  Best she stay focused on more important issues—like staying alive.

  “But the circumstances are different than three months ago. Wouldn’t I have to go with the police?” She slid her hands from under his and tucked them in her lap, ordering her heart to calm down.

  “No. You have the choice of accepting witness protection or opting out just like before. I’m not saying they won’t do a good job, Fallon. But guarding people, ensuring their safety and security—that’s my job. And I’m damn good at it. And unlike the police and DA’s office, I have more of a personal investment than making sure you make it to a trial to testify and win a case.”

  “Right,” she drawled, her fists tightening. “Not making Addy cry with my untimely death.”

  “Don’t,” he ordered softly but with an underlying and unmistakable hint of steel. “You know damn well this is about more than an obligation or Addy. You’re family. Lik
e my little—”

  “Sister,” she finished. “Yes, I know.” And didn’t that just slice her into pieces every damn time he said it? As if she needed constant reminders of how he saw her.

  “I protect what’s mine,” he stated, voice flat. Brooking no argument. Or refusal.

  “See? Here’s the funny thing. I’m not yours. I don’t care that you consider me family. We’re not. And I still have a choice—choices. I’m not powerless in this situation.” Maybe if she said it often enough, she would eventually believe it. “And what about a job? Money? The trial date hasn’t even been set as far as I know. What, do you expect me to live off you and your generous largesse? I’m not a damn charity case. How am I supposed to support myself?”

  Shane might believe she was a spoiled rich kid who refused to grow up, but for two years she’d lived on her own, provided for herself. Even after Carolyn had fired her, she’d taken this waitressing job to pay the bills while she looked for another position with an event-planning company. Not once had she allowed her father to step in and rescue her—no matter how many times she’d wanted him to.

  “You’re talking about things that are trivial when compared to your life,” he snapped. “Goddammit, Fallon. For once, think. How can you weigh gathering drink orders against breathing?”

  Anger rolled through her like a barrel of storm clouds. Heat flooded her face, prickled her palms. He didn’t get it; he thought she was being silly, fickle Fallon. But of course he did, because Shane couldn’t separate the girl from the woman. He couldn’t comprehend that her concern was less about the job and more about being a burden, a sycophant who took, took, took and had nothing redeeming to give or offer.

  “You’re so right,” she bit out. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Enough tips to buy the latest pair of Gucci sunglasses. But how about you humor me and tell me anyway about how I’m supposed to support myself if I’m locked away for months on end.”

  His sigh could’ve been one of apology or frustration. Hard to tell since his hooded gaze revealed nothing. “We have the resources to take care of you.”