Men of Danger

by Lora Leigh

  “I remember,” she said hoarsely, aware that her cheeks were getting wet, that her voice was highly unstable, “I remember a boy.” What she was really saying was, Zach, I remember you.

  “Who is this boy, Paige?”

  She ached to see his face. That stern, chiseled face with those steady green eyes. Was he listening? Was his heart pounding as hard as hers? “His name is Zachary Rivers.”

  Zachary Rivers, are you listening to me?

  SHE WAS TEARING him apart with her words.

  Do you know what last night with you meant to me?

  Oh, fuck, he could tear down the walls just to crush her against him.

  “YOU GAVE ME my first kiss,” Paige whispered, unaware that she’d begun talking to him as she wiped away her tears. “And when we were crammed into the projection room to watch the JFK assassination, you stood that whole hour beside me, and the backs of our hands touched. You stood so still, and I stood so still, so that nobody noticed when you hooked your pinky around mine.”

  And you smelled so damned good, I couldn’t breathe.

  “PAIGE. PAIGE, I must ask. The day . . .”

  “And,” Paige added, laughing between her tears, “when I visited the arcade, you thrust me up on your shoulders and taught me how to slam-dunk. And . . . you’re a horrible, horrible liar, Zach. Because I didn’t slam-dunk that ball at all. But you always were so gentle, always said nice things to me.”

  Nah, you dunked it for sure. I remember.

  Zach remembered all of it.

  “Paige baby, throw the ball.”

  “Don’t drop me!”

  “I got you. Now throw the ball, just slam it in there, into the hoop.”

  “O-okay.” Straddling his shoulders and clutching the sides of his neck with the insides of her slim, firm thighs, Paige raised her arms and shoved the ball, all delicate and femininelike, into the hoop.

  The ball bounced at his feet. Chuckling to himself, Zach lifted her from his shoulders and, in one clean swoop, set her on her feet.

  “That’s a slam dunk?” she asked.

  At the risk of every basketball player in the country lynching him, Zach said, “Yeah. You slam-dunked that one.”

  And then, because Zach couldn’t resist those wide, cobalt-blue eyes, because he’d been thinking of her night, and morning, and afternoon, and because these stolen moments were all Zach had, all he was allowed, to be with her, he hauled her up against his body, whispered, “I adore you,” and covered her lips with his.

  And then they were kissing in a way nobody, in school or out of it, would ever suspect Zach and Paige kissed.

  * * *

  “PAIGE. ABOUT the accident.”

  “You hated when I cried,” she said hoarsely. “You’d start cursing and at the same time getting all cuddly on me.”

  No, sweetheart, I don’t hate it . . . well shit, maybe I do.

  “PAIGE. THE DAY your father died,” Sue Ellen tried. And for the first time Paige realized the hypnotist’s voice wasn’t steady anymore.

  Fear skewered into her heart. Daddy.

  “Tell us about the accident.”

  The accident that killed her strong, upstanding, stern dad, who rarely gave hugs but loved to give lectures.

  The horrifying scene darted past her mind all of a sudden, stumbling forth in flashes. Red Camaro . . . forcing us off the road . . . herself screaming, screaming, screaming, and then . . .

  A stillness.

  Daddy gulping for air. Talking to her.

  “There’s a false back in his bookshelf,” Paige rushed, “in his study. Behind Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. The driver was driving a red Camaro. He threw us off the road. Daddy said—” She broke off, Dad’s words distressing to remember. He’d been sputtering blood. Dying beside her. Saying he loved her. He was sorry. He’d been wrong. Oh, Daddy.

  “A red Camaro, you say? Whose red Camaro?”

  Paige went numb, her mind stopping blank.

  “Whose red Camaro, do you recognize this car?”

  Her heart seemed to wilt inside her. Her stomach caved in on itself, and as a wave of nausea struck her, she brokenly, wretchedly admitted, “Zach’s.”

  THE REVELATION slammed him with the force of a bazooka.

  “Zach’s?” Zach dumbly repeated.

  “She said Zach’s,” O’Neill stated.

  Bewildered, Zach put his head in his hands, swamped with confusion, torn by the memory of her, broken, weeping, in that little hospital bed, and suddenly he was shaking to his knees with a rampant need for violence. A red Camaro. His old Camaro. “Fuck.”

  He was beyond speaking, beyond pissed, beyond anything human.

  Someone. Some asshole. Had used his car. To kill the judge. To nearly kill Paige.

  The rage was fulminating, eating at his liver.

  Zach wanted to kill.

  He wanted to find this bastard, take his gun out, and ram it down his throat so hard and fast, the guy would eat each and every bullet he spewed into his mouth. He’d gotten glimpses of this man inside him— one with a death wish, one with a streak of rebelliousness, one that was his father’s son, and now he was afraid of him.

  Of what he would do if he came face-to-face with this bastard who’d ruined his life, taken Paige away from him, killed her father.

  FUCK!

  Regarding Zach in distaste as he crushed his empty soda can against his chest, O’Neill raised one eyebrow. “You always did have a motive, didn’t you?”

  Zach scowled, his gut twisting so violently he was sure inside of him, deep where it most hurt a man, he was bleeding. “The car was reported stolen,” he ground out, rising to his feet. “Check your goddamn files.”

  “Her mother once took out a restraining order against you, Detective,” he pointed out, and tossed the can into the wastebasket. “Or should I say, Stalker?”

  His blood curdled in his veins. For a moment he wanted to smack his CO’s face in.

  Clinging onto the few threads of control he had left, he said, “I’d never hurt her. All I did was try to see her.”

  “It was Zach’s red Camaro. And was Zach driving his Camaro?” Sue Ellen asked through the screen, more demanding. “Was he the driver, Paige? Is he the killer? Is Zachary Rivers the killer?”

  Paige covered her ears, releasing a low, anxious sound.

  Wide-eyed, Zach watched her. Her sudden silence, her hesitation to deny this, was so wrenching he could barely stand on his feet.

  “Is he the killer, Paige?”

  She spoke in a hiss, “I don’t know!”

  Floored, Zach fell into the chair.

  She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. Did she think it was him? Had her memories been distorted? Corrupted? Did she believe he would ever, ever, do anything but want to love and cherish and protect her?

  “Paige,” Sue Ellen soothed. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here. I know it may hurt to remember because you trusted him. Didn’t you? You loved him?”

  Her head jerked up and down in a mockery of a “yes,” her hands cradling herself as if her brain were bursting. She was weeping so hard Zach became enraged. He wanted to slam his fists into a wall, tear into that room, and demand that this charade stop.

  And then she broke through his anger, his sanity, his already-shattering composure, and whispered, as though she only meant for him to hear, “Zach.” More like a plea, like when she’d called him last night, when he was inside her, their bodies entwined.

  An awful suspicion took hold of him— and the back of his neck pricked with alarm. He approached the monitor with a harsh, ominous scowl. His chest felt crammed with foreboding even as his heart began to pound. Protect, protect, protect.

  “Your wife has taken this a little too far, Lieutenant.” His hands opened at his sides, and his fingers tingled, for her, for his guns. “Want to tell me why?”

  Lips thinning in distaste, O’Neill stopped recording. “Not looking so good for you, Detective,” he said with asphalt-
dull eyes.

  “SO IT WAS ZACHARY Rivers who killed your father?”

  Paige couldn’t stand it. The woman’s words were ringing in her head, deafening her ears, robbing her eyes . . .

  Her stomach recoiled in protest, and her skin crawled in denial. No. It wasn’t Zach. Couldn’t, wouldn’t be, wasn’t. Why did she ask? Why did she insist?

  If she weren’t writhing in her own pain she’d be flinging herself at the woman, screeching out, Liar!

  “It was him, Paige?”

  God, would she shut up!

  She scrambled in her mind to get a look at the driver, saw his face only feet away as the car rammed into them, and then raised her voice until she yelled at the hypnotist in return. “No!” she cried. “It’s not Zach. It’s not! It’s . . .” Who was it? “The driver was . . . he wore a stocking over his face but he was bald. And Dad said there was evidence in an envelope, and that I should get it to the district attorney. He said that . . .” O’Neill is dirty.

  Her body tensed. Her entire system jolted back to full consciousness. O’Neill.

  Bald. Stone-faced O’Neill.

  If you dare open your mouth I swear to God I’m going to break your boyfriend into little pieces. And then I’m going to break you.

  Zach was with him.

  “What does your father say, Paige? Who did you see?”

  Emergency alarm bells clanged inside her head. She’d lost Zach once. She’d lost him once to this man. She would not do it again. No no no no!

  The camera. It was honed in on her. Zach could see her. But O’Neill watched, too. How could she signal? Let him know the danger? Oh God oh God oh God.

  Her mind raced. Her blood was rushing so fast inside her she thought she’d collapse. She could barely hear her own words through the cacophony of her roaring heartbeat. Striving to appear dazed when in fact she had never felt more alert, all she could think of saying was, “I should button up my sweater.” A heartbeat. Two. God, he didn’t remember, he didn’t understand. “I should button up—”

  Wood splintered as the door came crashing down.

  Zach filled the doorway, gun drawn, and Paige would never forget the wild, love-filled look in his eyes.

  She wanted to fling herself at him, say, “I love you! I’ve been quietly fighting to come back to you!” but she was paralyzed by her terror.

  Sob catching in her throat, she pointed toward the figure of O’Neill looming behind him, now raising something gloomy and glinting to Zach’s head. “It’s him.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MELLOW OVERHEAD lights dimmed in Zach’s eyes as if a cloud had passed over them. Dread, ice-freaking-cold and paralyzing dread, slammed over him.

  O’Neill.

  Lieutenant O’Neill.

  Every face he’d seen that day in the hospital seven years ago flashed across Zach’s mind— mocking him.

  He’d seen Paige’s friends. Her mother. The doctors. Nurses. The cops. The old lead investigator, Lieutenant O’Neill, who’d interrogated Leticia Avery that day along with two other detectives, had been there.

  Son of a bitch! No wonder O’Neill had never allowed him to reopen the case. He’d never let anyone reopen it because he’d killed the judge.

  And he’d tried to kill Paige.

  Her skin had lost all color, and her eyes were wide and pleading on his. “Zach,” she said in a strangled whisper, horrified by the sight of O’Neill’s gun jammed into the back of his head.

  Zach stared at her, a thousand conflicting emotions rushing one after the other.

  They’d been trying to frame him. All those years ago and now. Using the one thing, the one thing, Zach gave a shit about. Using her against him.

  Once, he’d had a death wish. Once, he’d physically welcomed any pain that could even reflect the pain he’d had inside him. But at this moment, when he had never in his life wanted to live so badly, he was stunned by the force of his fear. Fear of failing her, fear of losing her, fear that after O’Neill shot him, she was next.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Fuck.

  His Glock clattered to the floor.

  Sue Ellen jumped to her feet, shaking her head as she clasped her hands to her chest. “Please, no! Larry, you said no one would get hurt!”

  “Sue Ellen, yes. This can still work.” O’Neill shot the distraught woman a desperate smile. “He did it. He has no alibi, and we caught part of her testimony on tape. His car was used to run the judge off the road. Tangible evidence. I know where that sucker is hidden. He killed the judge, and when she remembered, he shot her. I had to shoot him to defend you and myself. It can work!”

  Sue Ellen cried, “Larry, you said you only wanted to know how much she knew, for me to help confuse her, nothing else!”

  “They can talk, Sue Ellen.”

  “So what if they do!” Anguished, Sue Ellen covered her face with her hands, her cry muffled by her palms. “It’s gone on long enough!”

  O’Neill pressed the barrel of the gun harder against the back of Zach’s head. “Nice and slow, Rivers, lean over and take out the backup piece and drop it.”

  “Ease up, asshole,” Zach growled as he leaned down and slowly withdrew his backup piece from the ankle holster.

  He could dive and try to shoot O’Neill as he rolled. He could swing around and knock the fucker down, but dammit, he could not risk Paige getting hit in the crossfire.

  He let the weapon fall on the plush taupe carpet, his eyes flickering to hers. Her face was a mask— surprisingly contained. Christ. His brave, sweet Paige.

  “Drop everything else,” O’Neill instructed.

  Zach reached behind him. He extracted the tape recorder and gingerly pressed REC before he dropped it. A small pocket knife followed. His cell phone. Dropped it.

  “Now, turn around and back away. It won’t do for you to get shot in the back.”

  Zach did so with gradual, prolonged steps that kept Paige firmly out of view behind him. In his crisp gray suit, O’Neill remained thin-lipped and stoic, completely emotionless except for the determination in his eyes.

  “Away from her!” he barked, waving the weapon. “Off to the side.”

  Zach docilely moved to the side. And kept moving. Dragging that piercing brown gaze with him and away from Paige. Searching for calm. Calm. Calm. So he could fucking think.

  O’Neill picked up Zach’s piece from the floor and aimed it at Paige with his left hand, keeping his other weapon trained on Zach.

  Paige’s cell phone bleeped and O’Neill’s eyes shot to her.

  “Detective Nordstrom is on his way, Lieutenant,” she said in a tremulous but defiant voice, her chin up at an angle. “He knows about the papers. I just sent a text.”

  Amazed, Zach looked at her. She was holding up her cell phone, waving it in the air, and the screen was lit. And she appeared . . . damn, quite haughty and rebellious all of a sudden.

  “You’re bluffing.” O’Neill’s voice was adamant, laced with bitterness. “You just wouldn’t die, would you? Oh no, you had to come back, didn’t you!”

  Zach said, taking a step in his direction spreading out his arms, “No way out, O’Neill. Nordstrom may already have those papers in his hand.”

  “Is that a fact?” His smile was sharp and cutting as he took a step forward, his aim holding. “The last man who got his hands on those papers died, Detective.”

  “Larry, no!” Sue Ellen screamed, sliding behind her fancy carved wood chair, gripping its back until her knuckles were white. “You can’t do this! Not in our house!”

  Zach met Paige’s concerned expression for a moment, trying to send a message that said . . . hell, he didn’t know. Hang on, baby.

  This bastard had already hurt Paige more than Zach could bear. And he hadn’t been there to hold her, help her, save her. But he was here now. Fuck it, he was here now.

  Hot, heady adrenaline flooding his veins, he gauged the distance between him and that bastard. Five steps. One second. Still not fast enough
, dammit. His backup gun was on the floor, but it was no match for two guns already drawn. Even if he could avoid getting hit, Paige might die. No choice but one.

  Stall for time.

  “So the judge was on to you,” he said, fishing for answers.

  Sue Ellen bit.

  “His work is his life . . .” she choked, tears streaming down her face. “He would not hand in his badge for anything.”

  “Shut up, Sue Ellen,” O’Neill said desperately.

  “No!” She glared at him before looking at Zach again. “It’s been going on for years. Car theft . . . robberies.”

  “Does it bring you comfort, Sue Ellen?” Zach pressed, arching his brow. “That your husband killed a man so you could continue living like this?” His arms spread to encompass their lavish surroundings.

  “Silence! Rivers killed the judge, and that is that!” O’Neill roared, glowering at his wife. “He’ll either meet with his maker or meet up with his dad in prison. Like father, like son. The old man was reckless. Vehicular manslaughter, killed a whole family.”

  Zach could envision his fingers quite clearly pressing into the bastard’s trachea, wrapping around his throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

  “You’re right,” Zach said in an even, casual tone. “Dad’s in jail for reckless vehicular manslaughter. Now try me for reckless, Lieutenant.”

  O’Neill narrowed his eyes on him. “Leave the room, Sue Ellen,” he crisply commanded.

  Gasping, Sue Ellen pushed away from the chair. “Larry, I won’t let you do this.”

  “Goddammit, woman, leave!”

  The instant O’Neill’s aim on Paige strayed and his angry wife started toward him, Zach took his chance. He yelled, “Get down!” and charged. He slammed into him with his entire weight, grappling to unarm him, but before he succeeded he heard the blast of two gunshots.

  He jerked violently on impact. Pain seared his shoulder, and an eerie opaque light exploded in his eyes. He stumbled back a step. His vision blurred. The room faded into shadows. Motherfucker . . .

  His legs gave. He sucked the air for oxygen as a sticky wetness began spreading across his shirt.