Last Call (4 page)

No matter how much life and circumstance had
hardened her since Nick, Rhys didn't have a chance of resisting
him. She already felt the comfortable edges of their old dynamic
closing around her.

"Perhaps we can agree on one point, which is
your purported death. Clearly you're not dead." His mouth
slanted.

Frustration or amusement?

"Yeah. Not dead."
Not sure what else to say, she focused on his
mouth, studying the smooth contrast of his lips against a couple
days of stubble.

"Fair enough. Your so-called murder
was on the news — with your full name and past profession — within
a couple of hours of the
incident
." He raised an eyebrow. "We
both know it doesn't work that way, Rhys. What's going on? Let me
in here. You once trusted me with your life—"

"Yes, and you nearly killed me."

They stared at one another. The air
thickened.

He reached and took her hand. "And I have
regretted it every single day since."

His touch caught her off guard — so much so
the tipping hull and the storm outside the walls faded. Leaving
him.

Her hand grew deliciously warm in his, and she
relished the contact. Her heart tumbled with the sinful feel of his
calloused skin against hers, traitorous for holding onto feelings
she should have long since banished.

The past hung between them.

The future lay uncertain.

Rhys took a breath. "I don't remember much. I
wish I could, but I just don't."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Trusting me."

Rhys cast a pointed look at their
surroundings. "I have a choice?"

Something dark flashed across his face in the
dim light. "You always have a choice."

Not when you left, I
didn't.

He shifted, releasing her hands and leaning
against the seat. "I need to know what I'm dealing with," he said,
"and as you can see, my resources are limited."

She sighed and fidgeted. "I was out jogging on
Foster Avenue. Most of the stores are boarded up and the rest were
closed, although for the record, the crime rate is — or was —
statistically at zero after they tore down that blighted apartment
complex. The renovations thus far have been pretty amazing. Anyway,
it wasn't late, but the clouds dimmed what was left of the light.
When I heard gunshots I ducked into one of the inset doorways
hoping no one would see me, but obviously they found
me."

"They?"

She shrugged, wincing. If she'd been treated
to painkillers, they must have worn off. "All I remember is that
gun so close. Then… it fired."

"The weapon discharged?"

"Yes."

"In your face? As in point blank
range?"

She nodded. "Or arguably close to
it."

He frowned. "No one misses that shot on
accident. They must not have wanted you dead." He gestured toward
her shoulder. "Do you know what your injuries are?"

"There's a chunk missing, but I believe they
referred to it as flesh wound."

He shook his head. "Let's back up a bit. Why
were you out there to begin with?"

If he thought asking the same question ten
times until she cracked would work, he had another thing coming.
She was as well schooled in interrogation as he. "Like I said, I
was jogging."

He swore under his breath. "Fine. What
happened after the gunshot?"

"I don't know. I woke up in the hospital with
an armed guard and a flesh wound."

The news had him leaning closer. "So you were
in police custody?"

"I think so. I was a little out of it. Someone
told me I was going into witness protection, but that was all
fuzzy. I went back out."

"And…"

"And I woke up staring at you."

He fell against the bench in another cloud of
profanity. "So the PD is behind the cover-up for one reason or
another, otherwise they wouldn't be holding a press conference
announcing your death. The question is whether they intended for
you to go into protective custody, or whether someone else
did."

She gazed at him, silent. His words made
sense, but things had happened fast.

"You said
Wood
. Does that mean anything to
you?"

Rhys hesitated. "No… I don't know. Every time
I think I'm going to remember something, it falls
apart."

He pulled out his phone. "In the warehouse,
someone put a gun to my head and told me you were to stay dead.
Don't think that's part of code, so I think it's safe to assume
we're not dealing with the cops."

"So what do we do? Hang out here until…
what?"

"Nope," he said, dialing. "We can't hang out
here. It's shelter for now, but there will be activity on the dock
before sunrise and we need to do a little better with this storm.
You're probably freezing, and I'm going to go out on a limb and
assume you're going to need some pain killers."

She reached without thinking, placing a hand
on his arm. "What are you doing?"

He looked at her hand, then slid his gaze to
her face. "Getting a ride," he said, an uncharacteristic drawl
putting a hitch in the words.

"You just said I was supposed to stay dead.
You think that's going to happen if you call a cab?"

"Give me some credit, Rhys. I'm calling
Cutter."

His words sent unease crawling
through her. She trusted Cutter, but that was her other life. That
was
Nick's
other
life. Going there again just didn't feel right. "You're off the
force. You can't call Cutter."

"I already have," he said softly. "I wouldn't
have found you if not for him."

"You risked my life—" She didn't mean to raise
her voice, but panic honed as her pain intensified.

"Who the hell do I trust if not Cutter? Who do
I call?"

She said nothing.

Nick put the phone to his ear.
After a moment, he said, "I need a ride. A
discreet
one. You know
where."

Rhys strained to hear Cutter's voice, hoping
familiar tones would settle her nerves, but the wind and water kept
it at bay.

Nick ended his call and looked at her. "I've
got this, okay? Don't know what the hell is going on, but I swear
on my own life, I've got you."

Which was exactly what she was afraid
of.

****

Nick's stomach knotted with the possibilities,
none of them good. Had Rhys's so-called death been planned all
along or was it a botched job? Either way, why would Rhys be
involved with the cops? And involved or not, splashing her face
across the news wasn't the most prudent way to protect her or any
uncover investigation with which she was involved. She'd used an
alias, but there was no forgetting those deep blue eyes or the way
her natural blonde highlights fell tousled around her face…as if
she'd just crawled out of some lucky bastard's bed.

His world felt uneven and it had nothing to do
with the random pitch of the boat.

"Nick?"

He glanced up. It took him a moment to
focus.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For helping
me."

He wanted to tell her not to thank him, that
they were long past formalities, but the words would be wasted.
They'd end up in the same old circles, and propriety be damned, he
wasn't going there again. So, wordlessly, he slipped off his seat
and joined her on the bench. As gently as he could, he gathered her
in his arms.

He had long wondered what would happen if he
touched her like this. It was a cheap shot under the circumstances,
but Rhys didn't have a vulnerable bone in her body. Wounded or not,
she'd lay him out if he crossed a line — knowing as much, he braced
for impact. He just wasn't prepared to get hit where it hurt the
most: his heart.

He swallowed emotion, the pure
pleasure of holding her more intense than he bargained for. All
those lies he told himself about being over her scattered, the jig
up.
Damn
. He
couldn't go there, if for no other reason than a nagging
inclination there was more to her story than she let on. But the
feel of her sent warmth sluicing over him like a hot shower and
rendering him very much in need of a cold one. He'd always been a
rule bender, but now he teetered on the verge of what promised to
be a very pleasurable break.

"Where are we going?" she asked, the words
humming against his chest.

"I don't know. I'm guessing my
apartment isn't safe since someone managed to track me to a prepaid
anonymous cell phone. And after I walked away from my job, my list
of trusted contacts dropped to one." Frankly, he
didn't
know where they
could go, though Cutter might. Nick didn't want to abuse the
illicit ties to his old friend, but he didn't have much of a
choice. He hadn't forged with his new department the kind of
connections he shared with the old.

"Why did you leave?"

The whispered trace of her words
hit him with full physical force. He stiffened. Why did she catch
him off guard like that? It's not like he didn't know she'd ask.
He'd asked the same question of himself a thousand times but had
yet to come to terms with the answer. Being a failure — as a
partner, as a
man
— wasn't high on his list of admittances.

"I had to, Rhys."

She turned slightly, giving her a glimpse of
her profile. "I never had a chance…"

He willed her to complete the
sentence — to say
something
— but even with the thought unfinished the mere
suggestion tore at him. He'd taken something from her by leaving.
He'd expected as much, but hearing her allude to it tore him apart.
The languid trail of her voice suggested a sort of wistfulness he'd
never allowed himself to hope she'd feel where he was concerned.
For that matter, they'd spent their entire relationship in a verbal
sparring match. This new lesser combative side of her — a medical
side effect, no doubt — kept him off balance. He couldn't get his
footing without their old dynamic of trading insults. Worse, with
her cradled in his arms, there was only one kind of jab he had on
his mind…and it wasn't the type of thing a man mentioned to a woman
who'd just been shot.

Much less one shot a second time.

He consulted his phone. Few moments
had passed. Cutter promised to give him an all clear when he had a
man at the docks. Nick briefly wondered what kind of favor a guy
had to owe to show up in this part of town in the middle of night
without question. One could only assume there wouldn't be police
involvement, but there was no telling. And Nick wasn't sure where
they should go. His
employer
hadn't been kind enough to offer parameters, but
Nick knew not to assume there weren't any. They might as well be
stuck in the middle of a hornet's nest with strict orders not to be
stung.

But Rhys
had
been around. She might recognize
a hornet or two. He cleared his throat. "Any rumblings in the news
that might explain what was going down when this happened?" he
asked.

She didn't answer for a moment. Then, "What
kind of rumblings?"

The sleepy hue of her tone caressed him,
bringing to his attention how little rest he'd had. He'd been
running on grief, then adrenaline, but now with his wildest dreams
coming true — Rhys in his arms, albeit under piss-poor
circumstances — the quiet lull and rock of the boat opened the door
to exhaustion.

But he wouldn't allow himself to give in. "Any
drug rings flushed out? Mob stuff? I don't know."

"Come on, Massey," she murmured, turning her
head into his chest. "You know I can't discuss a case."

A case?
Could she really be back on the force? No, despite the
direction suggested by his earlier questions, he knew the protocol.
She'd lost too much use of her arm to reclaim her old job. Maybe
between the painkillers and a dose of déjà vu she'd mixed up the
months. He knew from personal experience you just didn't peel off
the cop inside when you turned in your badge, but his inner alarm
wailed anyway. Suddenly alert, he asked, "What case?"

Her only reply was the deep breath of
sleep.

A little too convenient for his
taste.

Chapter Four

"C'mon, Rhys. Wake up. Time to
move."

She demanded her eyes to open but they stuck
like glue. Lead glue. She struggled to sit and found herself
tangled with Nick, his arms strong around her. He nudged her thigh
— the heat of his touch traveling straight to her
center.

"Cutter just called," Nick said, oblivious to
the fire he'd just set. "There's a van outside. Driver says we're
clear."

Common sense — or perhaps self-preservation —
needled through the fog. She peered at him. "Are you telling me
we're going to climb into a van with a strange man in the middle of
the night in a crappy part of town?"