Trust in Me (Hawkeye Book 2)

by Sierra Cartwright

  “Yeah.” He breathed out, as if understanding exactly what she was saying. “Then you’d better get naked.” His tone was commanding, and response flooded through her.

  “Yes, Trace.”

  She sat up, and he scooped her T-shirt off, then tugged her shorts down.

  He stood and pulled off his thin sleep pants before offering his hand. She took it, trembling from his strength.

  “On your knees, preciosa.”

  She cupped his balls with one hand, and she closed the other around his shaft, squeezing firmly before leaning in to suck the precum from his slit.

  “Enough,” he ordered, and the gravel in his voice made her grin. “Bend over the bed, Aimee.”

  He helped her up and moved her into the position he wanted her, with her body wide open, exposed to him, for him. “Wait there.” He grabbed a condom from his wallet, then sheathed himself before trailing his finger down her spine. “I love seeing you like this.” He toyed with her clit before sliding a finger against her pussy. “Love that you’re already wet for me.”

  “Take me,” she pleaded.

  He placed his cockhead against her entrance, and she thrust back, urging him on.

  “You’re mine, Aimee.”

  He’d said so before, but this time, there was a bar of possessive steel in the statement. He dug his fingers into her shoulders.

  She lost track of time, of fear, of grief, and she was wrapped up only in him.

  He wrung orgasm after orgasm from her, smacking her ass, filling the room with her whimpers and sighs and moans.

  When he came inside her, his domination was complete. Aimee was his. Despite her best efforts and rationalizations, she’d fallen in love with Trace Romero.

  As he shifted their positions so he could kiss her hard, she wondered how she’d ever survive him.

  Chapter 10

  Something woke Trace.

  Or rather, the absence of something.

  He reached for his phone and checked the display. Blank.

  Schooling his pulse, he turned on a lamp and double-checked the time. Fifteen minutes after midnight. There should have been a message from Bree Mallory. The team had signed up for three-hour shifts. Laurents had taken six to nine. Riley had relieved him. Then Mallory was on until three, followed by Barstow at six a.m.

  The lack of a message from Mallory didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could have forgotten. The reception might be poor.

  And he didn’t buy it.

  The entire team had met soon after arriving and agreed to the protocol. Hourly perimeter sweeps until dusk, then every thirty minutes overnight. Anything suspicious would be reported immediately, to the team, and if possible, to Lifeguard, their point man at headquarters. Check-ins were required, and everyone had a radio. He grabbed his, keyed it, listened for a response.

  Beside him, his sweet Aimee moved, then blinked her eyes open. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “But…?”

  He didn’t believe in hiding things from his clients. As he’d told her earlier, a little fear might keep her sharp. “I didn’t get a message from Mallory.” He kissed her on the forehead and then climbed from the bed while she gathered the blankets around her.

  He dressed hurriedly, grabbed his radio, then tucked his gun into a holster beneath his arm. Before leaving the room, he took a moment to look at her, not sexually, but to communicate how much she mattered to him. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Hopefully less.

  “Should I contact my sister?”

  “She would want to know. Even if it’s nothing.” He curled a finger into her hair. “Do not leave the house. My orders are absolute.”

  She nodded.

  “Anything out of the ordinary, contact Lifeguard.” All Hawkeye phones were programmed for the assistance. All they had to do was press the number nine and Send.

  “Trace…”

  At the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I love you, Aimee. I’ll be back for you. Trust no one but me. Promise me.”

  At his raw, ragged confession, Aimee’s heart raced. He… “Trace?”

  He was gone.

  She hardly heard him descend the staircase or cross the living room, and she doubted she would have known he was gone except for the soft snick of the lock on the front door being slid home.

  Obeying his last order, she called her sister, then dressed and went downstairs to wait for Trace.

  Trace had spent too many years as a hunter not to recognize that faintly metallic smell on the night air. He froze, backed up, got his bearings, adjusted his night vision goggles, then continued on cautiously.

  The scent got stronger and stronger as he moved farther away from the cabin.

  Then he saw her. Bree Mallory was lying on the ground in a pool of blood. It was a miracle she hadn’t already bled out.

  Shit.

  He fell to his knees.

  Her throat had been slit.

  “Tried,” she whispered. “Tried… Stop him.”

  He scowled, calculating his options. He needed information and struggled against his instinct to care for her. With the right care she might survive. If he left her alone… Shit.

  “It was…” She closed her eyes, then managed, “Riley.”

  He leaned closer to her mouth.

  “Go. He can’t… Please.” Her eyes rolled back, and she gasped, gurgling her own blood.

  “Direct pressure, Mallory. That’s an order.” He grabbed her cell phone and contacted Lifeguard. Because of the GPS location transponder in the phone, he left it with her. “Fucking hang in there.”

  She faded from consciousness.

  Goddamn animal was going to pay.

  Something scratched the window. Aimee rationalized that it could be anything. The wind, an animal, even Trace returning. But when Eureka growled, she knew it was none of those. She moved into the kitchen, keeping her back to the counter. Silently she moved toward the dish drain and grabbed the vicious-looking knife she’d seen Trace use earlier. Then, as silently as she could, she climbed the stairs, then moved to the closet in the farthest bedroom. Her heart was pounding, even though she tried to reassure herself that the sound had been nothing.

  Someone pounded on the door. Her first temptation was to answer it, but Trace wouldn’t knock, or if he couldn’t get in, he’d announce himself. Right?

  Huddling behind some clothes, she juggled the knife and the phone. Her hands shook, making the phone waver. It took her three tries to push the number nine and Send. The call took forever to connect, each second dragging into an hour. Please, please, please answer.

  “Lifeguard. I got you.”

  She exhaled. Until then, she hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing. “It’s Aimee Inamorata. There’s someone at the door.”

  The scratching became louder. Then a window shattered. “Broken…” Fear choked off her words. “Window.”

  “Help’s on the way. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The line went dead. She squeezed her eyes shut as she fumbled the useless device. It clattered to the floor. Fuck. She froze, paralyzed as the clatter echoed in the silent house.

  “I’ve come for you, Miss Inamorata. Romero sent me. He wants me to bring you to him. He wants you to trust me.”

  Agent Riley?

  For a moment, she almost responded. Instead, she stuffed her hand against her mouth as Trace’s words echoed. “Trust no one.”

  “Aimee!”

  At Eureka’s scream, she clamped her mouth shut. A loud crash ripped through the air, and Eureka shrieked again. “Aimee!”

  She fought back tears.

  “Trace is hurt!” Riley called. “He needs you.”

  She gripped the hilt of the knife with both hands.

  The unmistakable sound of boots on the wooden stairs made her hands slick. Be brave. Be brave.

  Her breath strangled her.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

 
; Was he certifiable?

  “I want you, Miss Inamorata. Only you. You’re more valuable than anything. Just come out, and no one else will get hurt. That’s what you want. Right?”

  No one else will get hurt?

  “If you don’t want to come out and play, I’ll just wait here for Romero. I’ll shoot him dead while you watch. It’ll be on your head. You want to save him, don’t you?”

  Trace had asked her to trust him. At the time, she’d had no idea what that would entail. He would come for her. Hawkeye Security would come for her.

  “It’s you I want.” Riley’s voice was singsongy. “Come with me. Be a hero. Maybe I’ll let your sister live if you give yourself up.”

  What the hell did he want with her? She had nothing.

  Light flooded the room.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d had no idea that panic could so completely consume her, shutting down the circuits. She wasn’t operating from her higher brain any longer, but from the animalistic part fighting for survival.

  Every one of his movements jolted her. The scrape of his shoes on the floor, crashes as he upended or threw things.

  Then there was silence, followed by the chill of his laughter as he ripped down what had to be the shower curtain and rod.

  “You’re running out of places, Aimee, and I’m getting a little mad at you. You don’t want me to be mad, do you?”

  She swallowed and forced herself to breathe the way she would if she were running. Dubnium. Dysprosium. She needed something to stop adrenaline from consuming her. Einsteinium… Aimee shook her head. Einsteinium.

  She could do this.

  “Time to come out, Aimee.”

  Her breaths were shallow, hollow, when he flipped the light switch on in her room. Survival instinct urged her to run. But she was buying seconds.

  “Are you under the bed, Aimee?”

  At the way he whispered her name, she shuddered, envisioning a million spiders crawling over her.

  He was getting closer, his boots on the floor, the sound dragging down her spine. His shadow crept beneath the door, and she fought off her scream.

  Riley turned the knob and opened the door a crack. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

  The barrel of his gun swept inside the closet. Biting her lip, she backed up until the wall stopped any farther retreat.

  “I’ll bet you’re here!” He ripped the door open the rest of the way.

  Scared senseless by the sudden motion, she screamed and lashed out, stabbing wildly. She slashed over and over, slashing and gouging, ignoring his shrieks, not caring about anything except getting that gun out of his hand.

  “Bitch!” he screamed, reaching in, grabbing her hair, and slamming her head into the wall.

  A scream tore across the night.

  Not just a scream. A scream from his woman.

  Consumed with fury, Trace dived through the broken window. Daniel Riley was a dead man.

  Gun drawn, Trace moved quickly through the cabin and up the stairs to the back bedroom.

  The sight astounded him.

  Riley was on his knees, trying to light the oil from a smashed kerosene lamp. Aimee was crawling from the room, drenched in blood. “Trace!”

  Fuck. Yes. He was damn proud of her.

  He leveled his gun at Riley. “Freeze.” Trace said

  Riley looked up. “I can’t lose, Romero. They’ll kill me.” He dropped the lit match.

  His training kicking in, Trace holstered his gun, then grabbed Aimee from the floor and threw her over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry before heading down the stairs.

  Fighting his fury, Trace headed for the front door, grabbing the birdcage on the way.

  Laurents and Barstow emerged from the woods, ripping off their night-vision goggles when they got closer.

  “The fuck?” Laurents asked.

  “Riley’s in there.”

  “Goddamn. It’s your cabin, sir.”

  “I’ve got the only two things that matter. He cut up Mallory, left her in the woods. Counterclockwise on the perimeter. Lifeguard has the coordinates.” He nodded at Barstow. “Go.”

  Trace opened the back of his vehicle and set Aimee down, the parrot next to her. Then he grabbed a blanket to wrap her in. Her eyes were wide, and she stared at him, her eyes unfocused. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her arms. “I just… His blood.”

  “You did well.”

  She lapsed into silence and continued to rub her arms. She needed to sort this out, make sense of it any way she could. It would take time and patience, and lots of it.

  He smoothed back her hair, and his hand came away covered in her blood.

  Within minutes, the sound of sirens pierced the night.

  “This time, I’m glad the cavalry is here.”

  Ms. Inamorata and Torin Carter, a Hawkeye trainer, arrived within minutes. Their speed shouldn’t have been possible.

  “Carter’s in charge of the op from here,” she said by way of a greeting. “He’ll interface with the authorities and ensure all statements are consistent.”

  With a tight nod, Torin nodded and moved off, toward Laurents, leaving Trace alone with Ms. Inamorata. She looked as perfect as ever, not a single hair out of place, makeup perfectly blended, and she was in her own version of a uniform, a pencil-slim skirt, feminine blouse, and heels. She carried a briefcase, and there was a smaller bag slung over her shoulder. Rue the man who didn’t think she kicked ass and took names.

  In the dim light, he saw the betrayal of emotion in her eyes, so like her sister’s. Unshakable Inamorata, Hawkeye’s right-hand woman, was walking through her worst nightmare. She had to know Aimee would have never been dragged into this if it hadn’t been for her. Despite that horror, she’d been making things happen, arranging the cleanup, making sure everyone was taken care of.

  “Concussion, most likely, according to the doctor you pulled out of bed,” he said without being asked. “Nothing more.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” She looked over her shoulder at the still-smoldering structure, or what remained of it. “You’ll get a new cabin.”

  “My parents will appreciate it.” It gave him satisfaction to know Riley would continue to burn in hell.

  “Where is my sister?”

  “Back of the Suburban. She’s ah…talking to a shrink.” He curled his hand in a fist, impatient to be with her.

  “I’ll get you back by her side in less than ten minutes.”

  “Five. Five, or I’m taking her myself.”

  “Agent Romero, these things take—”

  “Five minutes, Inamorata.”

  “How bad’s the headache?”

  Aimee grabbed hold of her sister’s voice like the lifeline it had always been. She looked up and gave as much of a smile as she was capable of.

  “Family,” Inamorata told the counselor, one of their own. “You can have her back tomorrow. Tonight she’s ours.”

  The counselor nodded and left.

  “You’ll need to be debriefed, all sorts of formalities. I’m sorry.”

  “I kind of figured.”

  “Torin Carter’s with me. We’ll hold off the authorities until tomorrow.”

  Because of the grief he’d nearly drowned in following his partner’s death, Torin was as tough as he was thorough. He’d understand what she was experiencing, as well as what her sister was enduring. Everything he did would protect them both.

  “You’ll have as many people to talk to for as long as you want. There’s going to be no pressure to return to Hawkeye, I promise you that.” She gave a ghost of a smile that revealed her pain. “And if you never want to come back, I’m sure there are dozens of Silicon Valley firms that would want you. Hawkeye will give you the best recommendation in history.”

  “I just don’t understand what happened.”

  “It will take a while to figure it all out. Our guess is that he was a double agent. Russian. Once the injector w
orked, they wanted the technology. It turns out that Riley volunteered to be on your detail.” She exhaled a ragged, short breath. “Also guessing that he broke into your house to cause alarm so that a detail would be assigned.”

  Aimee wrapped herself even tighter.

  “It seems fair to guess that he planned to hold you for ransom. In exchange for the entire software package.” She paused. “You stopped him, Aimee.”

  Despite the blanket, Aimee had never been colder. “Do you know anything about Bree?”

  “She’s alive.” As usual, her sister offered no false promises. “We had her helicoptered out. She’s receiving the very best of care.”

  Aimee didn’t ask anything else.

  “I’m afraid Trace has only given me five minutes with you…something about coming after you himself otherwise.”

  “He would too.”

  “This is about you, Little Sis. If you don’t want him, he’ll be gone.”

  “I think I like him.”

  The sisters exchanged smiles. Then tears swam in Inamorata’s eyes. “Jesus, Aimee… I’m sorry.”

  “You couldn’t have known.” This was the first time in their lives that she’d been the one to soothe her big sister. They held hands, and Aimee repeated, “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I’m supposed to keep you safe.”

  Aimee accepted the comfort when her sibling wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They were still like that when Trace rejoined them.

  “Scram,” he told Inamorata.

  “Silver-tongued devil,” she said.

  “I want the nicest hotel room in Winter Park.”

  “It’s yours. You’ll have a text message with directions.”

  Aimee was stunned, and not just from the blow to the head. Her sister was taking orders from Trace, and she seemed happy to be doing it.

  The dynamic astounded her. Her sister had always looked out for her, now she was not so voluntarily abdicating the position.

  “Here’s a bag of stuff you might need, extra clothes, toiletries. They’re my clothes, so they’re probably too big, but Trace will take you shopping tomorrow.”