Seduced by the Enemy (Blaze, 41) (6 page)

He made a right at the next corner. “We need somewhere to hole up until we can put everything together. A place as far away from the city as we can get, but still close enough for us to make it back within a day or so.”

“Jared,” she said with a hint of melancholy in her voice. “I know a place.”

He immediately knew where she was referring to, as well. They'd taken their first vacation together there, spending two glorious weeks filled with long walks along the shore, visiting the shops in the village and searching out antiques. They'd made love every chance they'd gotten. He'd known then that she was the one for him. It'd been the first time he'd told her he loved her.

He looked over at her and couldn't help the grin that tugged his mouth. “Maine,” he said.

A soft answering smile curved her mouth. She remembered, too.

“I don't think anyone knows about the cottage, so
I doubt there's any way I can be connected, since I don't own it. It could give us time to figure out what we've got to do to make all this ugliness go away.”

“It might work,” he agreed. The cottage belonged to Harry Shanks, who had probably retired by now from the Biddeford Home. He'd been in charge of maintenance at Biddeford, and the only father figure Peyton had ever known, or rather, come to trust.

“At the very least it might buy us a couple of extra days,” she said.

Okay, so she was right. If they could manage to lead the bastards astray, it just might give them a few extra days to come up with a solid plan to get their lives back. If they made the drive down to Richmond, used one of her credit cards to gas up the vehicle, then shot over to Petersburg to rent a motel room they wouldn't use, it'd look as though they were heading south, down toward Norfolk. Instead, they'd cross Virginia to Roanoke before taking the interior highways north into Maine.

“There!” she said, pointing toward a redbrick home on the right. “A black Expedition.”

Jared slowed. Sure enough, parked in the driveway was a matching vehicle. “You're getting good at this.”

“Yeah. Too good,” she said with a self-deprecating shake of her head. “And that's only one of the things about all this that's scaring me.”

Jared circled the block and parked four doors away from the other Expedition. “Climb over into the driver's seat,” he told her as he killed the engine. “If anything happens, I want you to drive as fast as you can to get the hell out of here.”

Even in the shadows of the interior of the vehicle, he could make out the slight widening of her eyes.

“Shouldn't we keep the motor running?”

He unfastened his seat belt. “No. It's after midnight. An idling vehicle this late could draw attention we don't need.”

He got out and waited for her to negotiate the console and slide into the driver's seat. Her skirt inched up, revealing slim thighs. The denim of his jeans felt tighter than a wet suit all of a sudden. He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now was not the time to be lusting after a woman—especially one who didn't trust him.

He opened the rear passenger door and pulled a screwdriver out of his duffel. “No matter what happens, don't try to be a hero, Peyton. Just drive and get the hell out of here.”

“I will,” she said, her tone somber.

“Do you understand?”

She sighed impatiently. “Yes, Jared. I understand.”

“I want you to go to Cole Harbor, South Carolina. Dee is there. And Chase. He'll know what to do.” Jared caught her reflection in the rearview mirror and gave her a stern look. “Promise me, Peyton.”

After a moment, she finally nodded, then quickly shifted her attention to the quiet residential area around them. They weren't in a position to hedge bets or tiptoe around the truth, and while he suspected she'd had more reality dumped on her than any sane person should be forced to handle in a matter of a few hours, she was holding up damned well.

He closed the door as quietly as possible, then surveyed the neighborhood before making his way up the
street to the matching Expedition. In a matter of minutes he had the plates switched without incident, and was heading back toward Peyton.

After securing the new plates on their stolen vehicle, he drove back toward the city. Relatively light traffic had them making good time, and soon he was heading for the financial district of the D.C. area. He parked around the corner from one of the city's largest financial institutions, which housed a dozen ATMs. The area was relatively well lit, and thankfully deserted.

He parked and scanned the street. Satisfied they were alone, he shut down the engine and turned to Peyton.

“Where's my purse?” she asked.

“In my duffel bag.”

He moved to unfasten his seat belt, but she beat him to it and climbed onto the seat to reach into the back. While she unzipped his bag and searched for her purse, he couldn't help enjoying the view of her curvy backside pressing enticingly against the navy blue fabric of her skirt. His gaze dipped, following the line down to the exposed skin between her knees and mid-thigh. Damn if a surge of desire didn't go shooting straight through his body to settle with pinpoint accuracy in his cock.

He looked away in a vain attempt to cool the sudden heat of his body. The kiss they'd shared in the motel room had made him hot and achy. He was suffering from residual effects. That was the only logical explanation for his reaction to the delectable view of her very feminine posterior.

They were running for their lives. This was not the
time, nor the place, for him to be conjuring fantasies starring the tempting delights of Peyton's sweet body. He was playing with fire, because he was damned sure it wouldn't take much for him to erupt.

She turned and sat down to riffle through her purse. He expected her to slip her wallet out and retrieve her credit cards, but instead she produced a half-eaten candy bar.

She tore away the wrapper and bit down, closing her eyes and issuing a soft moan that had his body stirring once again. He knew that moan, the one that always indicated to him he'd taken the right path that would lead to her ultimate satisfaction.

“Hungry?” he asked, unbuckling his seat belt, hoping to derail the path his own thoughts had taken.

She nodded and took another bite. “Starved,” she said, after she swallowed. “I haven't eaten since lunch.” She glanced at her watch. “Over fourteen hours ago.”

“Once we're safely out of the city, we'll make a quick stop for a bite to eat, okay?”

She gave him a grateful smile and polished off the remainder of the chocolate bar.

“How many credit cards can we use?”

“Six that have a higher cash-advance limit.” She dug in her purse again and found her wallet. “I don't know what the limit is on these ATMs, though. We might only be able to withdraw three or four hundred dollars on each one, and that'd be it for twenty-four hours.”

He held out his hand as she started slipping cards from their protective slots. “Give me half. It could save us valuable time.”

She stared at him as if he'd grown two heads. “You're coming with me?” she asked, a note of incredulity in her voice. “But you can't. Whoever is looking for me will know we're together.”

“That's the point, Peyton. I
want
them to know we're together.”

She shook her head. “No! It's bad enough they're looking for me already. You said they're implicating me to draw you out. Those video cameras take pictures every three seconds. If you show your face in front of an ATM, it's game over. You'll be playing right into their hands.”

He gave her a grin that held no warmth. “That's what I'm hoping for.”

She reached out and laid her hand on his forearm. Her fingers were still chilled, but soft and smooth against his roughened skin. “Jared.”

“Listen, Peyton.” He slipped his hand over her trembling fingers and squeezed gently. “I figure in about two to three hours at the very most, they're going to know you're with me. That's going to tell whoever is pulling the strings that I'm onto them. It's going to make them extremely nervous when they realize it, too.”

“Which means they just might start making mistakes.”

“Right you are, sweetheart. Now give me half of those cards and your PIN numbers.”

She handed him three cards, then looked away. “They're all the same. Numbers have never been my forte. Five, two, seven, three.”

Realization dawned and he understood her need not to look at him. She still had the same number as when
they'd been together. If she'd needed cash during the night, he'd been the one to go, because it wasn't safe for a woman alone around an ATM machine after dark. She'd wanted a number she could easily remember. He'd talked her out of using their address or the last four digits of their phone number, so she'd insisted on a variation of his name to correspond with the telephone keypad. Something she'd said she would never forget because he was permanently etched on her heart.

He reached for the door handle, trying not to read too much into that knowledge. “We'll know on the first try if they've managed to freeze your assets already. Try for a grand on each, then work down in two-hundred-dollar increments until the machine starts spitting out money.”

“Got it.”

“Are you ready?”

She glanced in his direction. “No one is ever ready for something like this.”

“We need to work fast. If a transaction takes longer than thirty seconds to clear, cancel it and get back in the truck.”

They left the vehicle and headed around the corner to the ATMs. He'd wanted to keep the truck out of the way of the cameras so their adversaries would have no idea how they were traveling. “It'll be all right, Peyton,” he said when they reached the machines. “We're going to get out of this.”

“I hope you're right,” she said, then walked up to the machine and inserted her card.

He took the ATM next to her and slipped the card into the slot. After punching her PIN number on the
keypad, he started counting. Within three seconds the transaction screen popped into view. He entered the amount of one thousand dollars, hit Enter and waited again.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Twenty seconds.

A message flashed on the screen, telling him the amount exceeded the ATM transaction limit. Two more attempts and finally the machine began spitting out twenty-dollar bills. In less than five minutes, he'd extracted eighteen hundred dollars. With the couple hundred in his own wallet, that'd give them close to two grand. He'd lived on a whole lot less in recent months. Four grand was going to feel like a luxury.

He tucked the cash, cards and receipts into his hip pocket and turned from the machine. After one step, he stopped. His blood ran cold as he faced down the wrong end of a gun pointed directly at his chest.

“S
ON OF A BITCH
!”

At Jared's harshly spoken words, Peyton grabbed the last of the cash withdrawals from the machine and stuffed everything into the pocket of her blazer. She hadn't known what to expect when she turned around. Anything was possible, from a rejected or, worse, frozen credit card, to whoever was after them. The sight of a tall, gangly youth pointing a small caliber pistol at Jared didn't even come close to her expectations.

“Gimme the money,” the punk ordered. Despite his cocky, gang-land stance, his hand shook and the gun wobbled dangerously in his scrawny grip.

God, what else can go wrong?
She knew better than anyone that life had a tendency to deal her some pretty hard blows, but never had she had to cope with one frightening episode right after the other. Usually her disasters were spaced a respectable distance apart. Her coping skills were definitely getting a major workout tonight.

A cosmic force somewhere in the universe had her number and must be getting its jollies out of pressing the button, over and over again. In less than six hours she'd managed to get herself kidnapped by a fugitive, escape the cops, steal a thirty-plus-thousand-dollar vehicle and now, the crème de la crème—a holdup by a
misguided youth, who figured it was easier to flash a weapon than get a job to pay for whatever it was he wanted. Dressed in a ski cap pulled down past his eyebrows, and the requisite oversize, professional-football-team jacket, he looked like some twisted comic's idea of the Smurfs go ghetto.

She had no idea whether the boy knew if she and Jared were together, or if he thought he'd hit pay dirt and was in for a two-for-one bargain robbery.

Fight or flight. She'd had about as much fight for one day as she could handle. Flight suddenly sounded damned reassuring and extremely logical. Especially since there was no way she'd allow some punk kid to get his hands on the only money she and Jared had to see them through their own horrid nightmare.

A short gust of cold autumn wind whipped around her, tossing her hair into her face. She pushed it aside, then spun around to get the hell out of there, hoping to make it around the corner to the truck. She'd figure what to do to rescue Jared once she had some distance between herself and that gun.

No such luck. The kid turned and aimed his weapon directly at her. “Where do you think you're going?” he sneered.

Let the bastard take a shot at her. It'd be the fitting end to a rotten day.

He looked her up and down with a dispassionate gaze that belied the nervous glance he tossed over his shoulder. She had the sudden urge to charge the little creep and knock him on his bony ass.

“Hand it over, lady.”

She chanced a quick glance in Jared's direction. He shook his head in warning. A reasonable person would
heed that warning. But she was feeling beyond reasonable at the moment. In fact, she was downright angry. It was bad enough she was running for her life; now she had to deal with a twerp with a gun.

“Now,” the kid ordered her. His hand shook, the weapon wavering in his grip.

Well, he could forget it. Fight or flight. Fight suddenly sounded a whole lot better, no matter how foolhardy.

“Sorry,” she said to the boy with a helpless shrug. “My credit card's maxed out. I didn't get a thing.”

“Bullshit,” the punk said, still waving the gun at her. “I saw you pull it from the machine.”

She shook her head and reached into her pocket. Her fingers skimmed past the cash and landed on a receipt. “This is all I got. You want to see it?” she asked, holding it between her fingers. “Transaction cancelled.”

The kid looked at Jared, then back at her, moving the weapon with each shift. Jared kept his eyes on the kid. She prayed he was paying attention, because she was about to hand him a golden opportunity on a silver platter.

“Give it to me,” Ghetto Smurf demanded.

Idiot,
she thought. Obviously he was stupid enough not to realize that the minute his attention was focused elsewhere, Jared would take him down without even breaking a sweat. She felt sorry for the kid. Almost.

She took a step toward the boy, keeping the receipt between her thumb and index finger. Another cold breeze blew around them and she let the receipt fly away in the wind just as the boy reached for it.

The kid foolishly tried to grab for it.

Before she could blink, Jared nailed him with his body, sending them both sprawling across the pavement. The gun clattered to the ground, and Peyton snagged it. Using both hands, she aimed it at the boy's head. “I've had a really bad day,” she said, “and you're starting to piss me off.”

The kid swore at her. Jared clocked the punk a good one in the jaw. The boy's head thumped against the pavement.

Sweet dreams, you little creep.

Jared checked the boy's pulse, then stood, convinced their junior assailant would be fine, other than waking up with one monster of a headache for his trouble. “Okay, Rambo,” he said in a calm, even tone so as not to startle Peyton. “You can give me the weapon now.” He never took chances with someone holding a gun, especially when that someone was as emotionally wrung out as Peyton. If the way her index finger lightly clenched the trigger of the weapon was any indication, he was smart to be more cautious than usual.

She glanced up at him, then down at the unconscious kid before shaking her head. Denial? Or something as simple as her refusal to part with something that gave her a false sense of security?

With her feet braced apart and both hands on the gun, she looked like a pro. Except he knew better. He'd tried numerous times to get her to the shooting range so she'd know how to at least handle a weapon, but had had no luck.

“Come on, Peyton,” he urged, and put out his hand.

She shook her head again. “I think I'd rather keep it, thank you.”

He stepped over the kid and slowly closed the distance between them. “You don't want to hurt anyone.”

She took a step backward and gave him a look that stated loud and clear she didn't agree with him for a second. “How do you know that? You don't know me. Not anymore.”

She had a point. He didn't know her any longer. Maybe he never really had. Had they merely coexisted? No, he couldn't buy that. There had been that special connection between them. Once.

“I know you'd never intentionally harm anyone,” he told her, moving closer still. “This guy's no longer a threat to you, Peyton. You're safe now.”

She laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Safe? I don't think I can ever feel safe again.”

“Yes, Peyton. You can. You will. I'm going to make sure of it.” Not exactly a lie, but definitely a promise he had no right to make, especially since those out to silence him, and now her, held the balance of power in their greedy hands. Everyone knew desperate people took desperate measures. And the people after them certainly qualified.

“Can you really promise me that?”

“Yes.” He did lie this time. If he was going to keep them alive, and clear both of their names, he needed not only her trust, but her complete and total reliance on him. Without it, they were as good as dead. “Now give me the gun, sweetheart. Or are you planning to shoot me?”

She let out a sigh, then spun the small weapon in
one hand to grip it by the barrel before extending the handle toward him. “Here. Take it. The last thing I need is an assault with a deadly weapon charge added to my growing list of manufactured crimes.”

“Or murder,” he said, pocketing the weapon. He took hold of her hand. “We've wasted enough time. Let's get out of here.”

“Wait,” she said. “What if we added to the confusion?”

“Peyton, we don't have time.” The paper trail had already been started. This place could be crawling with feds and other law enforcement in a matter of seconds.

“No. Listen.” She stopped and slipped one of her credit cards from her pocket and waved it in front of him. “Why can't we have them chasing their tails for a while?”

“Meaning?” he asked.

“Leave this one here. With him,” she added, with an inclination of her head to where the kid was lying, still unconscious. “He won't be able to access the ATMs without my PIN number, but he could use it for purchases.”

She was really starting to amaze him. “Peyton, honey,” Jared said, taking the card from her, “now you really
are
scaring me.” He dropped the credit card beside the kid, where he'd be sure to see it when he came to. “I never realized what devious deliberations existed within that legal-eagle mind of yours.”

 

J
UST BECAUSE MOST
of the nation worked a nine-to-five, Monday-through-Friday routine didn't mean that the government followed the same regime. In times of
national crises or games of political maneuvering, the lights inside the Capitol often burned long after midnight, seven days a week.

Steve arrived at his office precisely at 8:00 a.m. Saturday morning following his daily workout at the health club. He set his double-shot café latte on the coaster at the side of his desk, hung his jacket on the hook behind the door, then reached for the newspapers stacked in his In box just as his cell phone rang.

He answered on the second ring. “Radcliffe.” He sat in his soft leather chair, leaned back and propped his feet on the polished edge of his desk.

“Her car's been found.”

Steve was instantly alert despite his relaxed pose. A call this early from his contact within the bureau could only mean one thing—the chance of putting a quick, quiet end to a situation about to spiral out of control was at hand. The fact that they'd located Peyton Douglas's vehicle was a good start in that direction. “Where?” he asked.

“The Horton,” the contact told him. “A low-rent motel near the expressway.”

Steve knew the place. Rooms rented by the hour and a desk clerk who looked the other way, for a price. Whenever the senator had a taste for something low-class and raunchy, the kind of sex even his mistress wouldn't provide, the Horton offered the kind of anonymity necessary in a town where whispered liaisons and scandals were considered appropriate dinner party conversation.

“Any sign of her?” he asked calmly, effectively keeping the alarm rippling along his spine out of his voice. There was no reason for Douglas to frequent
such a seedy establishment…unless she'd been informed of her status as a target to draw Romine out into the open.

“Nothing,” his informant told him. “The place came up clean on a search of the premises by local law enforcement.”

Shit. That was not what Steve wanted to hear. “Do you have reason to believe she's with him?” If Romine had gotten to Douglas before they could, then Steve had all the confirmation he needed that the security breach of a few weeks ago meant Romine was indeed getting closer to the truth.

A long, drawn-out sigh filtered through the phone lines. “There's no way for us to know, Steve. Not without finding solid evidence that will physically place them together. We've had her home in Arlington staked out since midnight, like you asked. There hasn't been a sign of her there, either.”

Steve bit back a string of vile curses. “We should fear the worst and assume they're together.” How had this happened? He'd wanted Romine exposed, but he'd had a bad feeling since things had gotten out of control in Kansas. Romine had been careless then. He wouldn't be so foolish this time around.

“Start looking for a paper trail on the off chance she's not with Romine.”

“Right away. We'll start checking out all of her acquaintances. Could help.”

“How long will it take to start tracing her?” Steve asked. His patience was wearing thin. Damn, he shouldn't have to tell people this high up in the bureau how to do their bloody job.

“These things take time, Steve.” The thinly veiled patience of his contact slipped, as well.

No wonder, Steve thought. They all had a lot to lose.

“There are proper channels and certain procedures—”

Steve swung his feet to the floor. “What the hell kind of dog and pony show are you running up there?” he barked into the phone. “Screw channels and to hell with procedure. You have the authority. Use it. We've gone to a lot of trouble to set up Douglas because we know she'll lead us to Romine, but we can't very well track her if you can't even scratch your ass without asking for directions.”

“Give me six hours. I'll have more to report by then.”

“You do it in three. And I want Douglas's picture on every network newscast and in every newspaper from here to California.”

He disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone on the desk. He'd come too far for one rogue agent with a score to settle to ruin all their plans. There were millions of dollars at risk, not to mention the careers of some very powerful people.

He needed to exercise patience, a skill he'd cultivated and polished. Patience and care, especially when he was so very close to having everything he'd ever wanted. Romine would be found and silenced. Steve knew his opponent's weaknesses, and taking advantage shouldn't be the headache it'd been for the last three years.

Still, he occasionally had his doubts. Romine had been running for a long time. They were never able
to get anything out of his sister, and now she was engaged to one of the bureau's former agents, which made her even more untouchable. Kansas had been a disaster. They couldn't afford any further mistakes.
He
couldn't afford any further mistakes. Romine was a loose end that needed to be tied up. Now, before it was too late.

They were in the middle of a deadly game of chess. All of the pieces were in place, and if he wasn't careful, they'd all find themselves facing checkmate.

Not all of his confidence fled, however. Steve had grown up a fighter, and if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was how to win. No matter what it took.