by J. Kenner
I blink, releasing the tears that have pooled in my eyes. “We can’t get back what we had,” I tell him, hating the pain that I see cut across his face, even as I feel the swelling of my own heart. “I’ve told you before—it wasn’t real.”
“Lin—”
I press my fingertip over his lips. “But here’s the thing—I don’t care.”
His eyes crinkle in confusion, but he says nothing, so I barrel on.
“I don’t care if it wasn’t real in the past. Don’t you get it? It’s real now.”
He stares at me, his face completely expressionless. “What are you saying?” Unlike his face, there’s emotion in his voice. An edge. As if he’s just waiting for me to push him over a cliff.
I hadn’t planned to say any of this, but it’s all there, pouring out of me. I think I started to realize the truth in Llano, and last night—that desperate, primal need for him—sealed it. “I’m saying that the past was wonderful,” I tell him. “At least until that part where I died. But that’s not something we can build on.”
“Linda, please don’t—”
“No. Hear me out. We can’t build on it, but I don’t think it matters.” I pause as I gather my thoughts. More and more I’m realizing how much I’ve missed him. How much he meant to me. And how much I still want him in my life.
“This isn’t about what was between us. It’s about what is between us. It was different before, because our conversations never touched on our real lives. The deep down truth, I mean. But I still loved you, even if it was all an illusion. But now—”
I see a hint of trepidation in his eyes and hurry to finish.
“Now I know the real man. And I’ve fallen in love with him all over again.”
His head tilts to that side with an intensity familiar to me from those long years ago. “Baby,” he says. “What exactly are you saying?”
“That I love you,” I tell him. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Oh, Christ, darlin’, I love you, too.”
“I know,” I start to say, but he cuts off the words with a kiss, his mouth claiming mine as he gently pushes me back on the bed, then tugs on the sash to open the robe. “I want you,” he whispers.
“And you have me,” I say.
We share a smile before he kisses me, starting at my lips and working all the way down my body. We make love slowly and sweetly, and nothing at all like last night. But it’s wonderful and it’s perfect.
Most of all, it feels like coming home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite the horrific circumstances under which I’m meeting the team at Stark Security, I can’t seem to get rid of the grin that keeps demanding to touch my lips. A decidedly sensual smile that has been threatening to light up my entire body all morning.
“You’re glowing,” Winston murmurs as we enter the SSA.
“If I look unprofessional, I blame you.”
“I can live with that.” He tugs me to a stop, hooks an arm around my waist, and then kisses me as Damien Stark walk by, as gorgeous in person as he is in the press and on social media. He’s with his wife, a stunning former beauty queen who now runs some sort of tech company, and another blonde I don’t recognize.
“Winston! Not in front of everyone.” I’m not sure whether to laugh or smack him. All I know is that I couldn’t have survived the horror of finding out the truth about Collins without him. Honestly, I’m not sure I could stand to be without him, period.
“It’s okay,” he teases. “I told them we’re married. Besides, hardly anyone is here.”
He’s right about that. I glance around the contemporary office space in The Domino, a business park in Santa Monica that was designed by Damien Stark’s half-brother, Jackson Steele. Other than the Starks and Nikki’s friend and the folks already gathered in the glassed-in conference room, the office is empty. Winston told me that it’s Ryan’s policy that unless being in the office is essential, any work that needs to happen on a weekend at the SSA is supposed to be handled virtually.
“Well, in that case.” I rise up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Enough flirting.” I draw in a breath, letting myself think about why we’re here. “We have a meeting.”
I see the compassion when he meets my eyes. “We do.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “I was a mess last night, but you made it better.”
He says nothing, but takes my hand as we go to the conference room. Emma’s deep in conversation with Anderson Seagrave, who looks up at me and smiles. I return the grin, then come to both of them. “Uncle Andy,” I say, laughing as I bend to give him a hug.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, “despite the difficult circumstnaces.”
“You, too,” I say, shooting Emma a quick smile as well.
Ryan is seated and talking to Renly as I return to my side of the table and Winston.
Nikki and the blonde have disappeared. I glance around and see them at one of the computer consoles in the main office area, Nikki standing behind the other woman and pointing at something on the screen.
“Software installation.”
I turn to find Damien Stark standing behind me. That’s all he’s doing, and yet he has a complete air of command, and when he extends his hand and smiles in greeting, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve passed some sort of test.
“Um, installation?”
“My wife, Nikki, and the one with the curlier hair is Abby Jones, her partner.”
“Did you say Abby Jones?” Renly stands up at the table, his head angled to peer around us and into the room past the glass. “Did she grow up around here?”
Damien frowns. “I think so—wait, yes. She grew up in Santa Clarita.”
Renly leans back, an odd smile on his face. “Well, what do you know…”
I’m curious enough to ask what he means, but that’s when Seagrave says, “I have an update.”
He wheels closer to the conference table and puts down his phone. I glance at Winston, and we both take a seat.
Immediately, Seagrave turns to look at me, his gold-flecked brown eyes and graying temples that give him an air of authority. “Linda,” he says. “I’m sorry about Collins, but deeply relieved that you are not what we believed.”
I nod, fighting the urge to reach for Winston’s hand. This is a professional debriefing. Not a wake, after all.
“Obviously, you—and the rest of you—have personal knowledge or have been briefed on the situation. Though it gives me no pleasure, I’m sorry to report that we have confirmation beyond the material in that vault that Dustin Collins was intimately involved in a number of foreign and domestic criminal operations. He’s in custody now, and we expect to find more evidence in the coming days, beyond what the team already recovered from his home.”
My mouth is dry, and despite my attempt at professionalism, I sag with relief when Winston reaches out to close his hand over mine.
“And Hawthorne?” I ask.
Seagrave’s face hardens, the sympathy fading. “We have no sign of him. It’s possible Collins was able to send him some sort of last minute signal, warning him to stay away from his home and boat.”
“So he’s in the wind,” Ryan says.
“Our best operatives in the Chicago area are on it. We’ll find him.” He holds out his hands. “That’s all we have at the moment. Linda, considering your knowledge of both men, I’d like you to come to the SOC tomorrow for an interview.”
“Of course.”
“Also, I’m sure you’re aware that the SOC has watched you for some time. Granted through the wrong lens, but either way, we can’t deny the extent of your skills. I know you must be feeling dislocated, and I hope it eases you somewhat to know that you have an offer to join the SOC if and when you want the position.”
“Oh.”
I glance at Winston, who’s looking not at me, but at Ryan.
Seagrave laughs, and I think I’m the last to get with the conversation when he says, “Then again, you may have comp
eting offers.”
I look toward Ryan, then Damien. Both men smile. Beside me, Winston squeezes my hand. “Thank you. It’s a lot to consider.” I turn to smile at Winston. “But I will consider it.”
The meeting wraps up quickly after that, and Winston and I ask Renly and Emma if they want to come by Winston’s house for a quick drink and a recap of the whole story in which they’d both played key roles.
Renly looks like he’s going to decline, but then he shrugs and accepts. I turn around, then smile when I realize that Abby’s gone. But I feel no guilt. I’m sure they can get reacquainted later. As for Emma, it turns out that Tony is with some friends until the evening, and she’s all in.
We came in Old Blue, Winston’s battered pickup truck that I both love and remember from Texas. We head back first, and Winston parks in the drive instead of the garage so that it’s easier to see which house is his.
We order in, and soon the four of us are laughing over delivered quiches, fruit salad, and mimosas made from the juice and champagne in Winston’s refrigerator.
“I’m impressed you have this,” I tell him.
“The champagne’s leftover from Christmas,” he tells me. “Consider it well-aged. And as for the orange juice, I’d just gone grocery shopping before I was shipped off to Texas to reunite with my wife.”
“Reunite,” Emma says. “I like that. Much better than hunt her down.”
I scowl. “Do you want a mimosa or not?”
“Yes, please. I’ll be good.”
I pour, then pass it to her. “Why do I doubt that?”
She meets Winston’s eyes. “It’s like she knows me…”
We all laugh, and Emma turns her attention to Renly. “So?”
His eyes widen as he looks at all of us. “I need a little bit more to go on.”
“Abby,” Emma says. “What’s the story?”
His eyes crinkle at the corner, and I think his mouth curves into the slightest smile. “No story,” he says. “She was just one of my friends in junior high.”
I look at Winston to see if he’s buying that, but unlike me and Emma, he doesn’t seem interested.
I shrug, then lead everyone to the living room.
All in all, we spend a solid three hours laughing and talking. And while I hadn’t been thinking about it consciously, I know now that I won’t be joining the SOC. I like Seagrave just fine, but I want to work with these new friends. And, of course, with Winston.
“That was nice,” Winston says as we stand on the driveway a half hour later. With the breeze, it’s actually chilly, and since I have no coat of my own, I’m back in Winston’s suit coat, which pairs well with my jeans. Tomorrow is definitely a shopping day.
Emma is long gone, having hurried away the moment Tony texted that he was home. Renly has just left, and I can still hear the roar of his Ducati in the distance.
“I’m going to run down to the corner and get some more juice,” Winston says. “Come with?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m going to take a walk to the end of the block to check out the view. Then I’m going inside, getting undressed, and waiting for you in bed with a half-filled glass of champagne. To which you can add juice when you return.”
His forehead crinkles. “Add juice,” he repeats. “Is that a euphemism?”
“You have a dirty mind,” I say primly as he slides into the driver’s seat. “I love that about you.” I bend to give him a quick kiss, then walk down the driveway to the street. I give him one last wave, then put my headphones in and turn on some music. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to just walk and listen, and I—
Ka-boom!
I jump, turn around, and my scream sticks in my throat. Old Blue is alight with flames. A car bomb.
Winston was in the car.
Oh, dear God, no. Please, please, no!
I try to run, but it’s as if my legs are spaghetti, and I sink to the asphalt. A van stops behind me, and I turn around, intending to beg them for help.
Instead, I scream.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Winston sat in the cab of Old Blue, and watched as Linda walked down the road, looking sexy as hell in his jacket. He smiled to himself, not quite able to believe that she was truly his again. He started to pull the car door shut, thinking that he would pick up flowers along with the orange juice, then remembered that he left his damn wallet on the table by the front door.
Well, hell.
He gave the driver’s side door a gentle shove with his foot, then stepped down. His eyes were still on Linda, and that was a mistake, because he lost his balance, and ended up windmilling his arms like an idiot as he stumbled forward and away from the truck, trying to right himself.
He didn’t make it.
Instead, he was suddenly, strangely airborne. He landed hard on the grass, the world having exploded around him. His body ached from the impact of his fall, and his ears rang. The smell of fuel and burning metal filled his senses.
This was more than a fall.
His mind was slow. Groggy. And nothing around him seemed to be the right color. It was all grey and, oh, man, the ringing in his ears. It was...
Explosion!
Oh, God, it really was an explosion.
Finally, in a rush, rational thought returned to him, and he shoved himself up onto his knees, looking around frantically. She was there, on the street, screaming his name as two men grabbed her by the elbows and hauled her to her feet before tossing her into the back of a black van and tearing off down the street.
No. No, goddammit, no.
He didn’t remember running, but he was on the street now, the sound of sirens swirling around him. But not for her—they were for the fire. He had to get to her. He was her only chance.
And Old Blue was a burning husk.
Think, dammit, think.
“Get on!”
The voice was Renly’s, and he gestured to the back of the Ducati. Winston didn’t hesitate. He got on, grabbed hold of Renly, and prayed that this was the miracle he needed as the other man shot off after the van like a rocket.
They didn’t talk—they couldn’t talk—and it was all Winston could do to hang on for dear life as Renly swerved desperately in and out of traffic, trying not to lose the van, but also to not get too close and draw attention.
The whip of the air was bringing Winston’s senses back. His skin felt raw, and he knew that he’d been somewhat singed. It could have been worse, though. He could be dead.
Linda, he realized, believed that he was.
Linda. His Linda.
It was Hawthorne. It had to be. And Winston was going to kill the bastard with his own hands, and watch the life drain out of that prick.
Finally the van pulled into the driveway of a shitty little house in—hell, he didn’t even know where they were. On a street lined with shitty houses. The kind of neighborhood where everyone minded their own business and the primary employer was the street.
“We walk from here,” Renly said, killing the engine as three people got out of the van. Winston recognized Hawthorne with two others.
“Get her settled for me, then make yourselves scarce,” Hawthorne said. “My old friend, Linda, and I need to have a little chat.”
“Any chance you’re armed?” Renly said.
“Ruger LCP,” Winston said. It was small, a .380. But it was reliable and it would work in a pinch. It had a clip, and was snug in the waistband of his jeans, his go-to weapon when he wasn’t on the job.
“You?”
“A Glock 19,” he said. “I keep it tucked into the compartment under the seat.” He opened the seat in demonstration, revealing the small Glock 9mm that barely fit.
“Good,” Winston said. “Call for backup, then do something about the two who are heading for the house. Careful, they might not be alone.”
“Not my first rodeo.”
“Right.”
“You’re going for her on your own? Let me cover you.”
&nb
sp; Winston shook his head. “For all we know they’ve got monitoring equipment. If they see us before we get Linda, we’re dead, and so is she. You want to help? Take them out. Agree?”
“Affirmative.”
They waited low by the bushes as the two thugs entered the house and Hawthorne went into the garage. For the briefest of moments, Winston saw her there, strapped to a chair, her tear-stained face breaking his heart. He knew what she was feeling—not just scared for herself, but believing that he’d died in the explosion—and he was damned if she was going to feel it any longer than she had to.
Slowly, he circled the house. He needed a way to infiltrate the garage without Hawthorne seeing or hearing him. But he also needed to move fast. Hawthorne was the kind to enjoy drawing out the kill, but in the end, he would kill.
Bottom line, Winston needed to move quickly, and he needed a clean shot. He had one chance. Miss the target, and Hawthorne would ensure that Linda was dead in a heartbeat.
One shot.
He crept around the perimeter, searching. He just needed a way in. Some way to get him a direct line of sight to Hawthorne.
A clear shot for a kill.
But there was nothing. Not on the front of the garage. Not on the western wall. Not on the back.
Then he reached the side of the garage that abutted the back yard. And there it was.
At some point, the home’s resident had owned a dog. A big dog that used the garage as dog house.
It wasn’t ideal, not by a long shot. But Linda needed him.
He smiled, cold and dangerous.
Yeah. He could make this work.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You fucking little bitch. You goddamned whore.” Billy Hawthorne paces in front of me, his white-blond hair seeming to glow in the dim light of this garage.
I just sit there, my arms and legs strapped to this wobbly old kitchen chair, as his words bounce off me as if I were a wall and they were rubber. I’m too numb to feel. He’s dead. Oh, dear God, Winston is dead.
