Lost in Shadows (6 page)

“I vote for calling the auto club, snagging the presidential suite at the Ritz, ordering champagne and strawberries from room service and sharing a long hot soak in a Jacuzzi,” he said. “What do you say?”

She smiled at his resilience. He had to be in pain and obviously wasn’t relishing a night bivouacked on a mountain in the snow. “Sounds great. Tell you what, Cavanaugh, we get off this mountain in one piece, and I’ll take you up on that.”

“I’m going to hold you to that promise, Ryan,” he said. Something in his voice made her look up, but his gaze was focused into the darkness before them.

Vinnie busied herself with the gear. He was a strange bird. She’d thought he almost kissed her, before she told him about Michael. She was glad he hadn’t, she didn’t need that kind of complication in her life. It hurt too much to even contemplate getting involved with another man. No one could ever love her like Michael had. 

She was an all or nothing kind of girl—at least that was what Michael said. He told her she wasn’t a girl he could date or be casual friends with, announcing his intentions to marry her a few hours after they first met. 

At first, she’d been turned off by his outspoken aggressiveness. His Irish temper and her Italian one mixed like whiskey and fire, leading to furious battles and even more intense reconciliations. He’d proven to be just as stubborn as she was, eventually wearing her down until she relented. Only time in her life Vinnie had ever given in, but it was worth it. Together they had made a life so rich, so full, as if the whole was far greater than the sum of the parts. 

Right up until the night she watched him die. And was helpless to save him.

Vinnie blinked away tears, her hands fumbling as she filled a Nalgene bottle from the five gallon jug parked in the back of the Forester. She looked over at the man whose life she had saved tonight. Another city boy, Irish like Michael, another lawman, another man who carried a gun. 

One of the good guys, Lucky had said—she’d seen that in his eyes when she first helped him.

She’d keep her promise, she vowed, jutting her chin up to the heavens, daring God to try to stop her this time. Ed Cavanaugh was going to make it out of here alive.

All or nothing
. She smiled, hearing Michael’s voice in her memory. She was just that kind of girl.

CHAPTER 6

The black spots before his eyes and the lightheadedness passed once Lucky found his sea legs. Or rather snow legs. 

He moved around to the back of the car to where Ryan was sorting a variety of equipment. 

The woman had ropes, a whole clip of metal implements that he thought were for rock climbing, but could have been some kind of kinky sex toys for all he knew, first aid supplies, MRE’s, a wide assortment of socks, long underwear, and Gortex outer garments, both a wet suit and a dry suit, a hard hat with a lamp attached, and more tools than he’d ever seen outside of a Home Depot.

Jeezit, he was on the lam with Smokey the Bear. He had the distinct impression that VD Ryan was the kind of woman who liked to be prepared for whatever life threw her way and who didn’t appreciate being chucked a curve ball. 

Like a shot-up ATF agent on the run from the worst posse of outlaws on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

“Any of this stuff irreplaceable?” he asked, grabbing a set of jumper cables and a roadside flare.

She glared as he rummaged through her belongings. “Why? Do you think they’ll take it when they find the car?” 

“Honey, when they find the car, they’re also gonna find a nasty surprise.” He came upon a camp stove with a can of white gas. “Oh yeah, this is going to be a beaut.”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he doused the front seats with the fuel. “Hey! Stop that!”

“You’ve got insurance, don’t you?” He popped the lid, wrestled with the battery connections. 

“It doesn’t cover turning my car into a bomb.” 

“Got any duct tape?” he asked as he struggled to open his Leatherman with one hand.

She traded him a roll of duct tape for the Leatherman, opened the multi-tool and returned it to him. Lucky turned to grab the jumper cables but she was right there, holding them out to him. Smart girl, his Smokey.

“You do know what you’re doing?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Trust me, you’re working with the best demo guy around. Bombs are my life.”

“Give me a heads up before you blow everything to kingdom come, will you?” She moved back to the rear of the Forester and continued packing the gear they would need. “Won’t the fire bring them here all that much sooner?”

He grunted as he lowered himself to the ground and hooked the wires to the metal of the door. Had to get this right the first time. One spark and they were toast.

“Nothing’s going to happen until they open this door,” he said, hauling himself to his feet and starting to shut the door to set the trap. This should work, but he was used to design and repeated analysis before he ever built a device—all in the safe confines of his lab. He held his breath and oh so gently edged the door shut.

Yes
. Finally something had gone right today.

He returned to the rear of the car and looked through the gear she had discarded. No way he was leaving those roadside flares. Magnesium fire stick, that could come in handy. Jackpot, another canister of white gas. Some of the rope might make for a good fuse. He scooped the items that interested him into a pile. 

“These need to come with us,” he said, turning to face her.

She had stripped down to her silk long underwear top, showing no modesty although the thin material clung enticingly to her well-formed breasts. Lucky tried to pull his eyes away, but primal instinct prevailed over civilized manners. 

He watched as she re-dressed in a fleece pullover followed by a zippered vest. She kicked her shoes off, pulled on two layers of socks, then did a shimmy out of her khakis that had his blood roaring.

He’d been right about her ass. Her Lycra tights revealed every sinuous curve of her hips down to her calves. Muscled but sleek, well rounded, just like the rest of her. 

Lucky swallowed hard against the impulse to lean her back against the bumper and let his fingers peel the layers from her, revealing the woman beneath. He imagined her moving beneath his body, graceful, matching him pleasure for pleasure as they explored each other. 

She seemed oblivious to his lustful flight of fancy as she bent over to pull on ski pants over top of her tights, giving him a glimpse of Nirvana.

Smokey Bear his ass. If it weren’t for the blizzard, being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no room service or any semblance of civilization, and the men trying to kill them, this could be fun. He grinned. What the hey, carpe diem and all that.

He sighed as she finished dressing, lacing up a pair of well-worn hiking boots and standing before him, hands on her hips, a look in her eye that he didn’t like. 

His mother got that same look every time she visited his apartment. That “we can do better than this” look. Usually followed by some kind of hard labor on his behalf.

“I don’t suppose you even have gloves or a hat?” she asked, her doubt at his abilities to dress himself clear in her voice.

Lucky looked down at his leather car coat and jeans. This was what he always wore in the winter; he’d never had any problems before. 

“I was on my way to a wedding,” he reminded her.

“Right. Who’s the lucky girl anyway?”

He smiled. Was that a hint of interest in Smokey’s voice? 

“Her name’s KC—you’d like her, she’s one tough babe. Kick ass looker, too.” The glare she sent his way could have started a forest fire on its own. 

“Is that how you think about women? Maybe this girl should be thanking me, it might be her life I’m saving by keeping you from the wedding.”

They both knew it wasn’t Ryan keeping either of them out here, but it was a nicer image than that of The Preacher’s men chasing them, guns blazing.

“I wasn’t going to marry her. Well, I might have if my best friend hadn’t asked her first. I was supposed to be the best man.” 

She helped him shrug into a nylon poncho and rain pants. He tried to shy away from her attentions. It was galling to be so helpless, but then she looked up at him with those large dark eyes, eyes he could melt into, and he lost his train of thought.

“I can’t keep calling you Ryan,” he said when he found his voice. She’d turned away to add his collection of demolition supplies to her backpack. “And I refuse to call you VD.” The glare she sent his way told him that not many who did would live to tell the tale. “What’s the V stand for? Vicky?”

“Nope.” She handed him a pair of neoprene gloves, thick wool mittens, and a fleece balaclava. “Put these on. What’s wrong with Ryan? It’s my name.” 

He tugged the hat on, but left the face mask part folded up, watched as she tossed some clean socks, a couple of garbage bags, a topographic map, a few bandages, a knife, a small Maglite, a Ziplock bag of matches, and a few MRE’s into a waistpack. She added a water bottle and handed it to him.

“Too heavy?”

“No. Ryan’s your husband’s name. You’re obviously not Irish. It doesn’t fit you.”

She bristled at that, cutting him a sharp look as she fastened the waistpack around his hips. Then she effortlessly shouldered her own larger and he was certain, much heavier pack. “Ryan fits me fine.” 

“Okey dokey, Smokey.” Damn, the woman was touchy. “Don’t forget the computer.”

His gaze lingered as she leaned into the car and retrieved it from the passenger seat. 

“Ready?” she asked, her hand on the door.

He took a few steps. It felt off balance to have his left arm out of commission. “As I’ll ever be.”

She hesitated, then reached into the car for one more item. “Here, this will help.” 

She handed him a beautifully carved walking stick with a wicked looking point on the end, designed to bite into the ice and snow for added traction. From the way she avoided looking at it, he knew it had to belong to her husband. The late husband, dead cop. 

He wrapped his hand around the thick grip and wondered if he really wanted to carry a souvenir of a ghost. But one step through the thick snow and he knew he needed the walking stick almost as much as he needed her. The thought galled him. 

Before he could thank her, she slammed the door shut, and they stood in complete darkness and silence.

As if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

CHAPTER 7

“Chase Westin,” KC said as she entered the dining room, pulling her robe around her, hair still wet from her shower, “who taught you to set a table? The forks go on the left, not the right.”

Her husband-to-be straightened from his position bent over the china and silver, his tuxedo pants were on, sans cummerbund, held up by suspenders. His shirt hung open, revealing his well-muscled chest. 

“Don’t mess with me,” he said. “I’m on the edge here, woman. First those damn studs that came with this monkey suit and now you’re telling me I’ve got to start all over again? Look, I’m right-handed, when I dig into my food I don’t want to waste time with a cross draw. The forks should be on the right.”

He turned to her, planted his feet and waved a fork in defiance before placing it on the right hand side of the next place setting. KC let her gaze range over him, six feet of former Marine, still in fine fighting shape, with thick blonde hair that begged to have a woman’s fingers run through it, dark blue eyes and large, strong hands that could make her melt with the slightest touch.

She squared off with him, hands on her hips, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “What about the lefties? Rose is left-handed and so is Marion.” Their small wedding party was composed of Jay, Chase’s younger brother who was to stand up for her, and Lucky, Chase’s best friend as his best man. 

The rest of the guests were Chase and KC’s colleagues at the Special Threats Response Team. Including Rose Prospero, their boss, and Billy Price, the ex-Delta Force member who was Rose’s second in command. As the new kid at the STR, KC was anxious to have everything go smoothly.

“Marion doesn’t mind a cross draw and Rose will rearrange everything to suit herself anyway,” he said with a smile. He threw the rest of the silverware onto the table with a clatter. “Hell, let ‘em all suit themselves.” 

He reached for the belt of her robe and drew her close.

“We don’t have time for this,” she murmured as his hands slid beneath the terrycloth to glide over her still wet skin. “You’re not even dressed.”

His mouth found hers, immersed her in a heated kiss, then moved down her throat. “You’re not either.”

“Seriously, Chase, I’ll help you with your studs.”

He shook his head. “I decided on a new fashion statement. I call it the Fabio look. How do you like it?” She giggled as his tongue found a sensitive spot. “I’m the only stud for you,” he said in a fake accent that sounded more Schwarzenegger than Fabio and lifted her onto the table. 

He straightened, and KC didn’t like the gleam in his eye. She had the feeling she’d need another shower soon. 

“Wait, I have a present for you.” He reached behind him to the buffet and took a small flat box with a bright red ribbon from it. “Here, open it.”

KC pulled the ribbon off and raised the box lid. Two pairs of fur-lined handcuffs lay inside. 

“You like?” he asked with a gleam in his eye. “Pink for you, blue for me—his and hers.”

“You’re a wicked man with a perverted mind,” she told him. “Where’d you find these?”

“Yesterday morning, Lucky and I found a little shop—”

“Yesterday morning when you and Lucky were supposed to be getting haircuts?” She wound her fingers through his long, shaggy hair that curled just below his shirt collar.

“Hey, I shaved didn’t I? Anyway, this was more fun. Wanna try them out? It’s your turn.”

“Last time I had you in restraints, I was arresting you, Westin. I am
not
,” she emphasized the last word, “going to participate in any of your childish fantasies.”