Last Call (10 page)

"Who had the honors of the announcement?" Nick
asked.

"I didn't recognize him." She played the video
again. "It's been a while since I've been around. Could be a new
hire."

"Press conferences usually come from the
command staff. Check the department website — maybe someone keeps
it updated."

Of course.
Rhys found the web page and scanned the photos, all lined up
in neat little rows. "Only one new face, but no resemblance to
press conference guy."

"Figures." He tapped the steering wheel and
blew out a breath. "Let's think about this mess. First, the man who
shot you at point blank range missed. And he's a pro? That doesn't
add up."

Although true, the sentiment chilled over her.
"No silencer, either."

"Yeah. Definitely an amateur." He shook his
head. "Then we have Vincent Siegal's adversary for ADA murdered.
Vincent and murder, as far as I'm concerned, is never a
coincidence."

"So Siegal put a hit on Woodson?"

"It's a thought. But if he's behind that, why
the fake witness protection?"

"I saw the hit. That puts me on the list of
people Siegal considers a threat who mysteriously wind up
dead."

"You've got that right. No way Siegal would
leave a connection lying around. Do you remember either of the
shooters? Anything?"

"Nothing I haven't told you. The familiar
voice and the reference to T."

"You remembered Woodson. It'll come to
you."

Rhys frowned. It might. But that was the
problem.

That was the reason someone wanted her
dead.

Chapter Eight

Vincent Siegal pounded his desk, sending
whiskey sloshing from its glass. His grip on the phone turned
deadly. "What do you mean your men lost them?"

"I told you I'd take care of it," the caller
growled. "I'm just providing an update. It's not the end of the
game. They ran into trouble in the hotel room is all."

"You can keep your frilly fucking updates
until you have them in custody. Don't waste my time with anything
less. If that has-been detective bitch goes public with what she
saw—"

"What she saw didn't have your name on it.
Relax."

"I'll relax when I damn well want to relax!"
Vincent bellowed. He'd fought too long keeping his reputation on
the up-and-up to be brought down by a bunch of morons. First, one
of his best men failed to use a silencer and now he had to put
faith in a bumbling idiot to bring in the woman. But keeping his
distance meant taking chances, and there was no greater risk than
being caught with Elliot Woodson's blood on his hands.

Besides, the man on the phone owed Vincent.
Owed him big. "I should have killed you a long time ago," Vincent
said.

The caller scoffed. "Yeah, well, hindsight's a
bitch."

Vincent reached for his whiskey snifter. After
a moment of dull silence, he threw back the shot and grinned. He
had his ways. "It's not too late."

The threat missed; his caller laughed. "Surely
you don't think I made the decision to walk in your shit without my
boots. You can kill me, Vincent, but know this. Our association on
this matter won't be a secret long if you do. It's a little
insurance policy, if you will."

That little shit. Vincent, swearing, slammed
down the phone. Pressure built in his head until his vision
wavered. Blinded by anger, he lurched forward in his chair and
threw the snifter, which hit the far wall, shattering.

Release
.
Funny how cathartic breaking shit could be. Vincent leaned back in
his leather chair and watched the liquor drip down the wall onto
his thousand-dollar rug. Within seconds, two bodyguards rushed in,
guns drawn.
Good men
. Vincent grinned and waved them off. Shortly, the maid
hurried in and set to work on the carpet. Calm eased through him as
he watched her ass move in circles with her efforts.

Detective Clark was but a blip on his
radar.

The
gentleman
on the other end of the
line — the one who liked to call himself the Puppetmaster — was the
real prize. His so-called insurance was a mere
technicality.

Vincent Siegal had his ways.

And anyone who crossed him would learn that
soon enough.

****

Nick found the old safe house without much
trouble, which was convenient since he wasn't big on asking for
directions. This wasn't because he carried a burdensome load of
testosterone, but because the more people who knew his location the
greater the danger for Rhys. He'd not yet forgotten how someone
managed to track him to a cell phone, and his brain hurt from
trying to figure out how. Though, frankly, he was
grateful.

As a direct result, he had Rhys.

The thick winter woods sheltered the ground
from the heaviest snowfall. Instead, patchy wet splotches of brown
marred the terrain — so much so he could erase all traces of their
tire tracks from the casual observer. Though anyone looking hard
enough would notice the disturbed snow, the treads were gone, and
the intermittent flakes packed uniformly flat with the help of a
board Nick found behind the house.

He took his time getting back to
Rhys. He needed to be alone with his thoughts — try and make sense
of things without the rage of guilt and desire that seemed to
explode every time she was near. Losing her left him looking at his
life through a web of shattered glass and no matter how much he
regretted his actions after he shot her, nothing could make those
shards whole again. Instead, he was left sifting through the broken
pieces — splinters, cuts and all. But he welcomed the pain. He
needed it. He
deserved
it.

Rhys did not.

Nick stood in the forest, inhaling the heavy
scent of wet wood. The peaceful scene was a far cry from his
rat-infested apartment. And from murder.

The tags from the hit and run earlier had been
reported stolen months ago, which translated into a dead
end.

Again and again, he went back to that press
conference. It bothered him PD would release her name and identity
as a detective — doing so had just undermined months and months of
undercover ops. Worse, the move potentially endangered anyone else
on the inside because once the guy at the top of the dealer chain
caught wind of an infiltration things were likely to go down fast.
People would die.

But had they released her alias, a whole new
set of issues arose. There was just simply no way to put her face
on TV and not put people's lives at risk.

He didn't get it.

With another quick look toward the cabin, Nick
took out his cell phone. He eyed it for a moment, wondering how the
caller had his number. Someone had to have lifted it from the
phone, but when had anyone gotten the chance? He hadn't left the
phone unattended at Bart's and otherwise he hadn't been in public.
Except…

The convenience store where Nick purchased the
phone. The kid behind the counter offered to activate the service
on the store computer, and Nick had accepted. He'd only left the
phone out of sight for a couple of minutes to use the restroom, and
besides the clerk, Nick hadn't seen another soul the entire time he
was there.

Clearly, someone else had been inside — no
other opportunity had existed. Nick wouldn't have guessed the
little store on a rural corner to be a hotbed of anything, let
alone pilfering phone numbers. He looked for a tail as habitually
as he breathed, but going "home" had distracted the hell out of
him.

He'd let down his guard enough to be tracked.
Was it a mistake, or—

Something hit both of his shoulders at once.
He spun, swinging… and nearly put Rhys on the ground.

Or so he'd like to think, had she been anyone
else. As it were, she took a large step back to safety and stared
at him with a crooked, smug grin he wanted to kiss off her face. He
opted for a string of curse words.

"You're losing your touch," she said — unfazed
— the words matching the self-satisfaction in her smile.

He shook his head. "Why would you walk up
behind me like that?"

"To prove I can," she said.

Ah, combat.
Their native language.

"And because standing on the porch screaming
your name wouldn't do if anyone was within earshot."

He'd concede that point, but didn't have to do
so aloud. "How about a heads up next time? Say, conversational
distance?"

She beamed. "Which brings us back to my being
able to sneak up on you."

For heaven's
sake
. "What are you doing out
here?"

"Hey, you're not the only one who can use some
fresh air." A shadow crossed her face — one he barely caught before
she looked to her feet, toeing the mud.

Huh
.

"You okay?"

"I'm alive. The pain is down to a dull ache.
Someone wants me dead, so that's a bit of a stitch off normal.
Otherwise, okay enough. But off the record, I'm teetering here.
Nothing's been the same since… everything changed. When you left…
it's not like you owed me anything, but it still hurt."

Nick swallowed the pain in his throat. His lie
hovered dangerously close to his lips but he couldn't tell her the
truth. He would not put her at risk again. "I know," he said in a
near-whisper.

She crossed her good arm over her chest.
"Nothing ever happened, but I can't say there was nothing between
us. How do I walk away from that? How do I close that door and walk
away like… like you did?"

It was a good question. His breath lodged in
his lungs. And strangely, even though it was one of those odd
rhetorical questions women liked to ask — predominately to evoke
that deer in headlights look — he understood.

"Rhys—"

He wasn't going to say how he
really felt. He loved her but she couldn't know just how much. They
didn't have forever. They had now, and whatever it was they were
caught in, but he didn't have a white picket fence in him. He'd
proven that when he walked away — not just in spite of loving her,
but
because
of
it.

No need to tatter that wound.

And there was still the little matter of her
pal Corey. Just the thought of her with another man heated Nick's
blood to a caveman-inspired boil. Leaving Rhys's past where it
belonged would be a lot easier if she wasn't whispering names in
her sleep.

She shivered, and only then did he notice the
waning light. "We'd better get inside," he said as the first
snowflake hit him in the nose. He fell in step beside her in an
awkward cadence as they navigated back toward the cabin.

Nick tried not to notice the way her lashes
rested on her cheeks while she walked with him, looking down,
lightly hopping from one brown patch to the next. The wet leaf
litter disclosed very little of their presence — good news,
although it saddened him. Even now, when they were the only two in
their world, he and Rhys couldn't exist.

What obstacle would be next?

The cabin was small and well kept, although
not overly so. From the outside, it looked as a casual observer
might expect — gray, weathered clapboard and a rusted tin roof.
Inside, it was neat and in good repair. Shelter, if not luxury. The
only heat source was a huge pile of blankets sitting on a corner
chair.

And body heat.

Nick swallowed. Where the hell was a Linwood
Stove and Fireplace when he needed it? He cleared his throat and
turned to bolt the door, feeling her attention on his back. Then
her hands. He shivered, knowing damn well she felt every ripple.
"This isn't going to last," he muttered to the door.

"That works out well, then," she said, her
breath hot on his neck. "Because we're past the point of starting
anything. In fact, I believe we're staring headlong into how to end
it."

****

When Nick twisted to look at her, his
expression danced somewhere between ethereal and deadly. "You don't
want that with me, Rhys."

"Why don't you stop deciding what I
want?"

"You're scared. And, I might add, still on
painkillers."

"Since when is extra strength ibuprofen
considered mind-altering? And stop analyzing me." She reached for
him and immediately regretted it. Her nerve endings blazed with
false bravado; there was no way he didn't feel her adrenaline
through her fingertips at his chest. She ached with the familiarity
there. Countless hours in close proximity with Nick left her
instinctively aware of his body — of nuances he probably didn't
know himself. Like in that moment, his denial a shield, his excuses
a life raft.

"Look at me," he said.

His voice, at once coarse and soft, drew her
attention from his chest.

"I don't want to hurt you."

What could she say to that? He'd
already hurt her. He'd
shot
her. But that wasn't the source of her pain. The
gunshot had been an accident for which she'd never blamed him. But
the leaving… that had been harder to take. She'd always suspected
the job kept them from intimacy, but he'd walked away from both
her
and
the job.
And Rhys had never stopped wondering why.