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

by Naima Simone

  “No,” she countered. “I want the truth. But not just for me, for you, too. What you mean to say is, you have love to give, just not for me. That’s reserved for that special woman you’re searching for. The one you plan to have that family with in your big house. I hate that nameless, faceless woman you plan on giving your name to. Who will lie in your bed. Be your everything. I hate her with a passion.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, shifting closer until her head tipped back in order to maintain connection. “You make it sound like I find you unworthy, and I’ve never believed that. I’ve never thought that. You,” he cupped the nape of her neck, “you are amazing. Beautiful. Brilliant—”

  “Reckless. Fickle. Irresponsible,” she concluded, her voice low, intense. “Just like your mother.” A small, sad smile flickered over her mouth. “I’ve known you for twelve years. You can deceive yourself, but not me. I remind you of her. Of the flightiness that ended up in the power being shut off and eviction notices. Of the uncertainty. Of the fear. You’re scared that I’m like your mother. You’re scared I won’t be dependable, that I won’t stick. You’re scared to trust me.” Sighing, she stepped back, out of his reach, and in that moment she appeared defeated. “I can’t force you to trust me, to see me. I would stand by you, support you. I am the woman you need. But if you can’t—won’t—open your eyes and heart to me, I can’t force you. But because I do love you, I’m willing to let you go.”

  A roar of denial lodged in his throat. Afraid? His mother. Fuck that, she was way off with that psychobabble shit. No, that’s not why he couldn’t risk getting involved with her past their self-imposed time limit. They were bad for each other. They were different. Addy…

  His cell vibrated against his thigh. He dug it out of his pocket in a panic. Anything to stop this conversation, stop her from saying she loved him again. Because if she did, he might do something incredibly stupid…

  “Rafe,” he rasped, not missing the rueful twist of her lips. “What do you have?”

  “I tracked his phone, and it’s pinging off a cell tower on Cape Cod,” his friend said without preamble. “I’m guessing he’s on his way to you right now. If he is, he could be there in anywhere from ten to thirty minutes. I’m calling Ciaran right now to fill him in. Still, Shane, they’re not going to make it out to there before Tristan reaches you.”

  “Copy that,” Shane growled. “After you call Ciaran, contact the Eastham police department and ask them to send backup. No lights or sirens in case Tristan is close.” Shane stalked to the dresser and yanked a shirt free from the drawer.

  “On it. Watch yourself.”

  “Always. And thanks, Rafe,” Shane said, shrugging into the shirt, but not bothering with the buttons.

  “Shut up.” Then the line went dead again.

  If alarm wasn’t racing through his veins, he would’ve smiled. But he already headed to the nightstand for his weapon. Hurriedly, he strapped on his shoulder holster, and with economic, practiced movements, checked his gun before securing it under his arm. He didn’t bother with socks or shoes. Picking up his backup piece, he turned to Fallon, who remained frozen at the window, her eyes wide and dark in the shadowed room.

  “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  She jerked her head no. “He’s here?” she asked, the calm in her voice, belying the fine tremor that lightly shook her body.

  “He’s on his way. I don’t know how he found us, but… Come here.” She obeyed him, her feet silently skirting over the hardwood until she stood in front of him. His gut twisted as he palmed her face. “I—”

  A sonorous dong echoed throughout the house.

  The doorbell.

  Shane jerked his head toward the bedroom door.

  Who in the hell could that be? The police couldn’t have arrived that quickly.

  A pounding on the door, followed by a loud shout of his name, answered his question.

  “Stay here,” he ordered, already moving toward the bedroom door.

  “Not a chance,” she scoffed. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Fallon,” he ground out, glaring at the open door as the doorbell pealed again.

  “Think about it, Shane,” she said. “If it was Jonah Michaels, would he come up to the front door and ring the bell? Besides, I’m safest with you.”

  “Fine,” he snapped, grabbing her wrist as she strode past him. “But you stay behind me. Understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Cautious, he stole down the hall and steps. At the bottom of the staircase, he paused. Listened. Pointing at the bottom step, he silently demanded Fallon stay put and crept to the window bordering the front door. Before he could peer out, another rap reverberated against the wood.

  “Shane,” Tristan’s voice called out to him. “It’s me, Tristan. Open up. Please.”

  Fallon emitted a tiny, strangled sound from behind him, mirroring the shock ricocheting inside himself. Tristan had obviously been closer than he assumed, than Rafe believed. How had he arrived so fast? Hell, how had he found them? Shane had been careful to ensure he hadn’t acquired a tail on the way out of Boston. A dark, insidious thought wormed its way into his mind.

  Had Jonah Michaels sent a man he believed Shane trusted out here to do his dirty work?

  “Shane, please,” Tristan pleaded. “We don’t have much time. I have to talk to you.”

  With another glance at Fallon to remain in place, he removed his gun from the holster. And waited.

  “Dammit, Shane, I know you’re there. You have to let me in.” More thumping on the door.

  Then it went silent.

  Moments later, the crunch of gravel reached them through the door.

  Shane edged to the door, his spine flattened to the wall. With a barely perceptible flip of the blinds, he peeked outside on the porch.

  It was empty. And a flicker of brake lights at the end of the drive signaled Tristan had left.

  Bullshit.

  Whatever Tristan’s intentions had been in showing up here, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. Not for a second did he think Tristan was gone. Shane didn’t trust that apparent retreat for a New York minute. He remained at the door for several more minutes, scanning the driveway and the access road, but didn’t spot a vehicle or lone figure creeping back toward the house.

  “He left?” she asked.

  A biting cold chilled his blood as he returned to Fallon, shifting in front of her.

  “I doubt it,” he ground out. “He might have changed, but not that much. He’s always been the most stubborn man I know.”

  “But—”

  “Hold up.” He pressed a finger to his mouth. Froze. Listened.

  A faint sound reached his ears. From upstairs. He strained to hear it again, every sense stretched in the direction of the noise he thought he detected.

  Damn. He’d heard something. It hadn’t been a product of his imagination. But maybe—

  Nope. There it was again. Hushed, but there. Like the brush of clothes against a wall.

  Or a window being slid open.

  The alarm. He shot a glance at the mounted box next to the front door.

  “Damn.” The red “armed” light was dark. Someone—Tristan—had disabled the alarm system from the outside.

  He sidled to the side, maneuvering Fallon so the wall covered her back and he shielded her from the front. Also leaving him with a clear view of the person inching down the dark hallway and approaching the head of the staircase. Moments later, Tristan moved into view, pausing at the top of the steps.

  Shane deliberately composed and hardened his features to conceal the surprise that punched him in the gut. In the space of hours, he appeared to have aged years. Harsh lines etched his lean face, emphasizing the dark circles under his flat eyes and bracketing the severe line of his mouth. Shane didn’t speak as Tristan descended the steps, just shifted backward, ensuring he remained a barrier between Fallon and the detective.

  Suspicion, doubt, anger
swirled behind his sternum, but worry churned beneath the mix. As soon as Tristan cleared the bottom step, Shane lifted his SIG. Aimed it.

  “Stay right there,” he warned. “Or I’ll blow you the fuck away. Remove your guns.” Shane watched with narrowed eyes as Tristan withdrew a gun from a shoulder holster and a smaller one from his ankle. The detective set both on the floor, and kicked them to the side. The weapons slid several feet away from him. “Now, how did you find us?”

  “Joy,” Tristan said, choking on his fiancée’s name.

  “Joy?” Shane frowned, slowly lowering his weapon. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “Everything.” Tristan coughed a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m so sorry.” Pain spasmed across his face, twisting his mouth. “The woman I intended to marry, the woman I trusted and loved, is the sister of a killer—Jonah Michaels. I’m a fucking detective and didn’t know my fiancée was related to a murdering criminal. They should fire me for goddamn stupidity.” He dragged his hands over his head, and Shane didn’t remind him to keep his hands up. “Joy and Jonah were separated when they entered the foster care system and lost touch. She eventually took the name of the foster parents she lived with, went to college, graduated at the top of her class, got a job at one of the most prestigious computer software companies in the state—she left the life she came from far behind. But apparently, Jonah never lost track of her. And when he discovered she was dating a police officer, he blackmailed her. Either she gave him the information he needed, or he would have me killed.”

  Tristan loosed another of those bleak cracks of laughter. “As if I would have traded my life for yours or Fallon’s. Joy overheard me talking to you about hiding Fallon at your home, and she relayed the location to her brother. And this evening she hacked your firm’s security system—”

  “Bullshit,” Shane snapped, stunned. Hacked their system? She would have to be fucking brilliant because Rafe had set theirs up. And he was nearly a damn savant when it came to computers.

  Tristan nodded. “Yeah, she’s capable. Joy is damn good. A couple of years ago she was offered a job with the FBI, but she turned it down.” His mouth twisted into a bitter caricature of a smile. “Because of me. The same reason she stole the addresses to your safe houses and passed them on to Jonah. She almost got you and Fallon killed for me. Because she loved me.”

  Jesus. The anguish rolling off Tristan in great waves seemed real. The agony burning in his green eyes, too deep and authentic. Yet, doubt—the awful doubt—still crept through his head like an intruder that refused to be evicted.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Something you said this morning. It was Joy who suggested the jeweler. She told me she had connections there. And then I started thinking, what if Joy hadn’t ‘just arrived’ when I was talking to you on the phone that night Fallon was at your home. What if she’d overheard my end of the conversation? Small things, but enough that when she arrived home from work I confronted her, and eventually she confessed everything. But we don’t have time, Shane. Jonah Michaels or his gang members should be here any minute to kill you and Fallon.”

  Rare indecision paralyzed him. Years of friendship and knowing the quality of the man he’d grown up with, Shane wanted to trust him. But…

  “Trust yourself, Shane,” Fallon murmured from behind him. “I do.”

  A tight band squeezed his chest like a vise. Did she understand what her belief did to him? For him? Maybe she did.

  “Get your weapons.” Shane jerked his chin toward the guns. “If Michaels and his crew are on the way, we’re going to need them.”

  For a long moment, Tristan stared at him, a grim gratitude breaking through the pain. Returning his nod, he retrieved his guns, but didn’t holster them.

  For the third time that evening, Shane’s phone buzzed. He withdrew it, glanced down, and then answered. “Ciaran.”

  “Shane,” Ciaran barked, “your location has been compromised. Michaels has found you.”

  Shane shot a look at Tristan, and in that instant he realized his trust in his friend had been well founded. “Yeah, we know. Tristan just got here and told us. How long?”

  A long beat of silence pulsed down the connection.

  “Not sure,” Ciaran continued. “After Rafe spoke with you, he headed over to our office. He just confirmed that our system was hacked. It was Joy, Shane,” his friend said grimly. “Rafe tracked the IP address, even though she’d routed it through servers on several continents. Damn, the girl’s good.” Huh. Tristan had been right about Joy’s abilities. The average hacker would never have been able to get even close to burning through their firewall encryption. “The trail led back to her computer. She accessed the files containing our safe house locations. The last modified time on the file was 6:05. Depending on how soon she passed the information on to Michaels, and how his people went about narrowing down the safe houses, they could be on your doorstep at any moment.”

  Six o’clock. If Jonah Michaels had been in Boston when he discovered his and Fallon’s whereabouts, then he would’ve had more than enough time to travel to Eastham. The drive from Boston was only about an hour and forty minutes, give or take ten minutes depending on traffic. But if the hit man had been in another part of the state, the distance might have been longer. Goddamn. He scrubbed his hand down his face. Michaels could be anywhere.

  “I already called the Eastham police and they’re on their way. ETA ten minutes. And we’re on our way.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  “Shane.” Ciaran paused. “Be careful.”

  “Will do. See you soon.”

  Shane ended the call, replacing the phone in his pocket.

  “Fallon.” He turned and smoothed her hair from her face. He cupped her cheek even as urgency screamed through him like a runaway train. His heart twisted, and a corresponding ache knotted his gut. Jesus, she looked so young in his overlarge T-shirt. She maintained her composure, but her flattened mouth, quick breaths, and jerky movements telegraphed her tension and awareness of eminent danger. Still, she didn’t cry out or crumble into hysterics. His respect and admiration for her rose when he didn’t think it was possible. “Go upstairs back to the bedroom and lock the door. Got it?”

  “Shane, no! You could get hurt—”

  He cut her off with an adamant shake of his head. “Anyone coming after you would have to get through me first. That was my vow,” he said. “I meant that. Nothing is going to happen to you. Or me. But I can’t concentrate if I don’t know you’re safe. So stay there. Okay?”

  She inhaled, then released a shaky breath. “Okay.”

  Shane crushed a hard kiss to her mouth. His tongue plunged deep, marauding, tasting so he would carry her with him. He released her, and after brushing her fingers over his lips, she darted up the stairs.

  “We need to hash out a quick plan—” Shane stilled. Cocked his head to the side.

  “I heard it, too,” Tristan murmured, his voice lower than a whisper.

  Scratches at a door. As if someone were trying to pick a lock.

  The noise emanated from the first floor and the back of the house instead of upstairs. Since he’d just watched Fallon disappear up those steps, he couldn’t contain the almost soundless release of breath.

  Adrenaline shot through his veins. His concern for Fallon bled away, replaced by the ice of determination and training. When Jonah Michaels had come after Fallon, he’d signed his own fucking death certificate. In blood.

  He gestured to Tristan, and on silent feet, they stole down the hallway toward the rear of the house. He pressed his back to the wall, his arms extended, pointing the muzzle of the gun toward the floor. Across from him, Tristan mimicked the same stance. The careful creak of the back door inching open echoed like a screech, as if someone were attempting to be careful…sneaky.

  Eyes narrowed, he listened and counted. One soft shush of a footstep over tile followed by another a second later. Another. And another quickly f
ollowed. Two people crept through the room and down the hall toward him and Tristan. Two assailants looking for Fallon to kill her. He shoved the murderous fury underneath the sheet of ice. Couldn’t afford to be blinded by rage.

  When the first large, dark shadow appeared in the entranceway, Shane swung, his fist clipping the intruder under the chin. The figure went down, and Tristan tackled his partner, who rushed after him. In quick work, they had the two intruders under control. Satisfaction whistled through him as he holstered his gun, and reached for the asshole he’d laid out. Gripping the back of the man’s T-shirt, he hauled him to his feet. Young. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, though the hatred gleaming in his dark eyes and the marks pocking his face tagged him as much older in life and street experience. If not for the fact he broke into their safe house and was after his woman, Shane might have a little sympathy for the punk.

  The harsh cacophony of shattering glass penetrated the hall. Shit. It’d come from the direction of the foyer. Pounding on the stairs reached him right before air rushed from his chest on a pained expulsion as a heavy body straddled him. His back seized up, and a hard spasm had him gritting his teeth to trap the harsh roar filling his throat. Not now. Not fucking now. Inhaling deeply, he breathed through the aching throb, pushing past the agonized clenching of his muscles.

  “The bitch is gonna die, and so are you.” One moment of distraction, and the kid grinned down at him, the smile nasty and promising a hurting. He raised his fist, brought it down toward Shane’s face, but Shane blocked it at the last moment. The contact of bone meeting bone zipped up his arm and to his shoulder in jarring vibrations. Shane bucked hard, dislodging the youth long enough to scramble to his feet. As the kid charged him, the deafening boom of gunfire ricocheted down the hall.

  …

  Fallon jumped about five damn feet in the air at the blast. She stared, horrified and frozen, as a fist-sized hole appeared where the doorknob used to be.

  Move, damn it!