Shiver (29 page)

“Sam—”

Whatever he had been going to say next was lost as Tyler came bouncing back into the room. Marco quit talking. His mouth closed into a firm line. Sam tried to wipe all negative emotion from her face.

Luckily, Tyler seemed happily oblivious to the tension between the adults. His gaze slid past Sam toward the sliding glass doors as he asked, “Mom, can I go outside now?”

Hostilities instantly—and very temporarily, at least on Sam’s part—set aside, she found herself instinctively shooting Marco a quick, inquiring look.

“Hang on a minute,” Marco said to Tyler. Scooting his chair back, he spoke to Sam. “I don’t see why not, but I’ll check out the backyard.”

“Shouldn’t we be getting Sanders—the U.S. Marshal—to do
that?” Okay, so there was still some bite—a lot of bite—in her voice.

If Marco heard, he ignored her, getting to his feet with the combined help of the table and the chair back. From the way he grimaced, Sam was sure he was in pain, and found herself wondering sourly how many pills he was going to have to swallow to control it. Enough to make him “loopy” again? Even thinking about that was infuriating—and, if she was honest, a little humiliating. The idea that while she’d been going up in flames in his arms he had been too bombed out of his mind to know what he was doing made her nuts.

I want you so much I’ve got a hard-on right now . . .

Arggh.
She could still almost hear him saying it.

I’m not going to think about that. I’m not going to think about
him.
And I am
not
going to look at the front of his pants. I’m going to be smart for once in my stupid life, and keep sex out of it, just like the rat bastard said.

“Here, Trey.” As Tyler darted into position to hand over Marco’s crutches, one at a time, clearly eager to be of help, Sam turned her back on them and crossed to the sliding glass doors to look outside for herself. Pushing the blinds aside, she saw that the backyard, while not overly large, was indeed surrounded by a six-foot-tall solid wood privacy fence, at least as far as she could see. There was a concrete patio complete with lawn chairs and what looked like a grill, with a basketball goal set into the ground at the far end. The grass had been cut recently, and was thick and green. Sunflowers towered in a corner. Best of
all, hanging from what proved to be a big, leafy red oak, was a tire swing.
Tyler’s going to love that.
Instantly transported, she reached for the handle to open the door.

“Sam. You want to wait for me.” Marco’s warning was soft and almost casual. Glancing around at him—he was getting the crutches into position under his arms, while Tyler (got in the way) assisted—she understood from his expression that the warning was serious, although he was doing his best not to make Tyler think there was any reason to worry about what might be waiting outside.

Instant visions of snipers on the roof, assassins hiding behind the tree, murderers of all types and stripes and in all possible locations ready to blast the first person who appeared sprang into her head, making her heart lurch, and she quickly sheared away from the door. Beneath the dangling blinds, it was one big panel of glass, after all.

“Shouldn’t we
all
wait for Sanders? Having you go outside first seems a little silly, considering everything.” Meaning considering that he was the one the killers were really after, although with Tyler listening in she didn’t want to be too graphic. She couldn’t help uttering the warning, however, and never mind how irate she was feeling toward Marco at the moment. She might not want him to die, but a lesser bad fate, like having him fall flat on his face on the kitchen floor if one of his crutches caught on, say, a table leg, suited her just fine.

“Oh, right.” Something about his tone struck her as a little odd, like his mind was having to switch gears to acknowledge that he was the primary target. But then she forgot about
that as their eyes collided. Instantly she felt the flash of (oh, so unwanted) attraction between them, and caught herself wondering—damn it!—if there was something wrong with her, that she was consistently drawn to men who turned out to be total losers, Tyler’s father and this guy being two obvious cases in point.

Before she had a chance to follow that thought through to its obvious conclusion—something in the nature of,
you’re an idiot
—he added, “Cover your ears,” to Tyler. As Tyler obeyed without question he bellowed, “Hey, Sanders, you’re needed in the kitchen, pronto,” before maneuvering out from behind the table, careful and slightly awkward on his crutches.

Tyler’s hands dropped away from his ears as he scrambled to pull a chair out of Marco’s way. “You yell really loud.”

Watching Marco smile down at her boy, Sam felt her chest tighten. Hero worship shone out of Tyler’s eyes. Clearly she and Marco were going to have to have another talk, only this time she was going to be the one to spell things out: bottom line was, she didn’t want him getting too friendly with Tyler. Because soon, she hoped, Marco would be out of their lives. Really out of their lives, as in, on his way to prison or something. The downside to that was that Tyler would be the one who was left behind, hurt by the ending of the association. If she could prevent it, Sam vowed, that just wasn’t going to happen.

Marco’s expression as he crossed the kitchen left Sam in no doubt that he was indeed in considerable pain. This time she absolutely refused to feel sorry for him. Instead, despite the nervousness brought on by the idea of possibly exposing herself or
Tyler to the danger that might be lurking outside, she followed Marco and Tyler to the door and looked out over Marco’s broad shoulder through the glass.

Everything she could see looked peaceful and serene.

“What’s the problem?” Sanders entered the kitchen fast, his footsteps loud on the tile floor, his hand reaching beneath his jacket, which, Sam knew, was where his gun was kept in a shoulder holster. She, Tyler, and Marco all looked sharply around at his appearance.

Sam answered him first. She’d had it with being told what to do, and absolutely refused to find the burly marshal—or any of the men around her, for that matter—intimidating. “Tyler wants to play in the backyard. Before I just let him go, I thought somebody should check it out.”

Hand withdrawing from beneath his jacket, Sanders looked at Marco with disgust. “That’s what you were yelling about?”

Seeming unbothered by Sanders’s barely veiled antagonism, Marco shrugged. “Seemed smarter to check than not. And as the lady pointed out, I’m probably not the one to do it.”

“Worried about catching a bullet in the head?” Sanders’s tone made it almost a sneer. Sam’s mouth tightened as she watched Tyler’s eyes widen, watched him cast a quick glance up at Marco. Sensitive Sanders was not. “What does the kid need to go out for, anyway?”

“I don’t have to.” Looking abashed, Tyler sidled a little closer to Marco’s side.

“Sure you do.” Marco looked down at him. “It’s a pretty day. I want to go out, too. No point in us staying locked up in the
house.” He looked at Sanders. “You can check out the backyard or I will.” His voice had hardened just enough to be noticeable. His quick assumption of authority reminded Sam once again that he, too, had been a federal agent before he had betrayed everyone who had believed in him. That, she realized, was the guy she was attracted to. The other part of him—the weasel—well, she didn’t know that part. Or maybe she just wasn’t very good at recognizing it.

Whatever, for now she and Marco were on the same side.

“You’re supposed to be protecting us, aren’t you?” Sam’s eyes challenged Sanders before he could growl back at Marco, which she could see from his expression he was getting ready to do. So Marco was the bad guy, and Sanders was the good one. Much as it annoyed her to face the truth, she liked Marco more. “So protect already. Make sure the backyard’s safe.”

Sanders’s face tightened as he looked at her. “I wouldn’t push it, if I were you, Ms. Jones. Left to me, you wouldn’t be here.”

As he was already moving toward the door to do as she’d asked, Sam didn’t reply. Unlatching it, sliding it open, Sanders stepped outside, looked around, took a quick walk to the left out of sight, and came back.

“Should be fine,” he said, stepping back into the kitchen. “Just stay in the yard and don’t unlock the gate.”

“Yay! Come on, Mom.” Skittering around Sanders, Tyler darted out the door, with Sam a few steps behind him. As she slipped past Sanders, who was now closest to the door, Sanders said to Marco, “We’re here to keep
you
alive, not baby-sit a damned woman and her kid.”

Even as Sam bristled, she heard Marco’s reply: “Kid’s part of the package now. So’s the woman. End of discussion.”

“Fuck,” Sanders said bitterly. Then the door closed behind Sam, and there was no way to hear more.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and Marco maneuvered through it, then swung across the patio toward her.

After that first quick glance, prompted by the sound of the opening door, Sam didn’t look at him, except peripherally, which she couldn’t help. But still, by the brightness of unfiltered daylight she saw that the swelling in his face was definitely going down. His nose was almost normal size again. It was going to be straight and high-bridged, a handsomely masculine nose, when it had healed.
Put him out of your mind,
she told herself fiercely, and in the spirit of making sure that happened deliberately concentrated all her attention on her son. Tyler was already climbing onto the tire swing. Despite everything, his obvious enjoyment, coupled with the absolutely beautiful weather, made her feel a tad more cheerful. As in, a little more optimistic that maybe they would actually get out of this alive. Now that she had reminded herself of the danger, though, she darted apprehensive looks around, searching, she supposed, for places a would-be killer might lurk. Close at hand, the second story of the town house next door, the one in which the marshals had set up base, looked into their backyard, and next to that she could see the tops of two more, nearly identical town houses that all seemed to be connected. At the very back of the yard, appearing to be maybe a back alley or another backyard away, the black-shingled roof of what she thought must be a single-story house
was just visible. From the apparent absence of any residences on the other side, Sam deduced that the one she and Tyler and Marco were staying in must be the last town house in the row. Since she didn’t spot snipers on any of the roofs, or gunmen in the windows, she allowed herself to relax enough to take in the rest of the view. In the distance, a line of purple mountains iced with snow drew her eye. Overhead, the sky was a perfect pale blue. The temperature, which was in the midseventies, felt wonderful after the ninety-plus-degree heat East St. Louis had been enduring. Sam took a deep breath, savoring the fresh-cut-grass scent in the air.

“Listening to Sanders, I get the feeling that if bad stuff starts going down, Tyler and I are on our own,” Sam said without looking at him as Marco stopped beside her. She could feel the connection between them, feel the attraction like a physical pull. Folding her arms over her chest, she grimly ignored it.

“No worries.” Marco leaned on his crutches, his eyes on her face as she resolutely kept hers fixed on Tyler. Still, she couldn’t help seeing the slight smile that curved his mouth. “You’ve got me.”

At that, Sam shot a look at him. Out here in the bright sunlight, it was all too easy to see the tightness around his mouth, and the shadow of pain in his eyes. The pills might be making him too loopy to get a handle on whom he was kissing, but they clearly weren’t doing a whole lot to relieve his distress. Not that she cared. Not one bit.

“Like I’m really going to count on that,” she scoffed, and stepped off the patio to give Tyler a push on the swing.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

L
ater, after Sam had cleaned up the kitchen and fed herself and Tyler a peanut butter sandwich for lunch—everyone else was on his own, as she said maybe a little too forcefully to Tyler when he suggested that she make Trey one, too—she took Marco’s suggestion and presented Sanders with a list of the obligations that she needed to have taken care of in East St. Louis so that she didn’t lose everything she owned. While Sanders was looking it over, pursing his lips and frowning, she announced—didn’t ask—that she needed to make a quick trip to the Walmart they had driven past on the way in, and added that since she obviously couldn’t use a credit card (not that she possessed one that worked, although she didn’t tell him
that
), she needed a means of paying for her purchases. Although she hadn’t invited Marco to take part in the discussion, he emerged from the den where he’d been holed up in time to hear the last part of what she had to say, and told her (and reminded Sanders) that the marshals had plenty of government-issued cash and could easily fork over the funds she needed. Once Sanders was
made to understand that the marshals could either go out and find and purchase the clothes and other personal items she and Tyler needed or she could do it herself, he quit insisting that the trip to Walmart was a nonstarter. Instead, after telling Marco to butt the hell out of the conversation and then, a little later, not to even think about it because he wasn’t going with her, which last part at least Marco didn’t dispute, Sanders agreed to let her go and deputized Groves to go with her. Sam hated leaving Tyler behind, but as he was barefoot with only his pajamas and a choice of too-big white T-shirts to wear, and was emphatic in saying he didn’t want to go anyway, there wasn’t much choice.