The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (28 page)

“Are we one hundred percent perfectly clear, Charlie? That’s the arrangement you make right now. Do you understand?” The blood had left my face, but my feet felt firm, grounded.

It was an extremely fair and logical proposition. I needed to have faith, and he needed to show me the way.

“Yes. I accept your terms.”

He glanced up to the ceiling and back down at me.

“Right then. Like I told you before, I’m putting up walls between me and the past—that’s the only way, because the truth is, you can’t reverse a life like mine. But you have to understand, I can’t get there without real power, Charlie. And getting that’s a process, a slow climb up a one-way ladder. Now I promise you,” he pledged, “I’m going about it the smartest, safest way I know how to make sure I come out on top, and in a place where I can still look at myself in the mirror . . . in a place where I deserve someone like you,” he added, his voice breaking.

I held my breath, letting his confession work through me, searching for truth. His face was tense, on the brink of shattering.

But there was something else in his eyes. Hope.

And I knew then . . . I felt the connection I had only seen or experienced briefly. It was stronger now, there, without being sought. Alive, on its own.

I couldn’t
not
believe him. I could not be the one to not believe. I could not inflict that hurt upon him.

Tears streamed down my face.

“Okay,” I said.

His face lifted. “You believe me?”

“Yes.” I glanced up, and said it properly: “Yes.”

He pulled me to him, which was good because I could not hold his burning gaze, and held me there for a while.

I felt his vulnerability, or rather, no, I did not feel it, I
knew
his vulnerability. I had been right about him: he did not want to let himself down. He did not want to let me down. I was astonished I knew this innately. I didn’t just believe him, I believed
in
him. And perhaps that is what he had asked for just now.

I squeezed him tight and soon our hands were all over each other. We made tender, needy love right there on the bathroom floor until we both grew tired . . . no finale, just putting it on pause.

It was not until after, dazed, rising up that I inspected the floor closely.

It was very sanitary, thank goodness.

“I love this place, and I have never loved any particular geographical location before,” I said to Jace, sipping my white wine, sitting beside him at a small single table set in the red desert. Our view: the majestic Ayers Rock. We had dined side by side, alone, discussing places he had yet to visit, places I had always wanted to see, arguing who should have been cast as the next Batman, me struggling to explain what I love about winter. We had just finished playing a coy, silly game he liked to play, where he provides examples of things he likes me more than. It starts with, “Do you know how much I like you?” “No. How much?” I answer. “More than Bondi surf in a storm.” Tonight it was, “More than a barbie and a sunset over a World Heritage Site.”

While deep down I would have preferred to sit in silence—almost out of respect for the landmark—I engaged in silly chatter to help stave off the inevitable, wanting to prolong the wonder, the happiness, the peacefulness. But . . .

Jace needed to know that ASIS was spying on him—and what Interpol thought of him. On his way to becoming a better man, he was in danger. And I wished for him to reach his end goal, the top of the ladder.

Yes, I would sell out Sullivan Blaise, the man who had, in the end, wished to help protect me, in order to ensure Jace could protect himself. I would insist on Sullivan’s safety, in a promise from Jace that he would make sure Mr. Bennett did not hurt him, of course. Jace might be mad at me, for having
almost
spied on him, I reckoned. Or, for not telling him sooner. But deep inside I felt confident that he would forgive me when he understood how trapped I felt.

Or . . . perhaps I would wait until we headed back. Yes, I would tell him on the plane.

Timing was not one of my strengths, so I was delighted I had determined it should be a consideration here.

The golden sun had just disappeared, and the bright orange mysterious flat rock merged into the night sky. Darkness fell very quickly.

I shivered. The torches surrounding our table were our only light.

“What’s wrong now, Charlie?” he asked quietly after a spell of silence. “I can feel the tension in you.”

“I have something horrible to tell you.” My eyes flashed wide. Words had never come out of me unplanned as often as they did around him.

He glanced at me, and even in the dim light I could see his invisible wall going up (pleased I spotted it).

I immediately apologized. “I don’t want to ruin this—”

The sound, almost like a large raindrop hitting the ground, only louder, stronger somehow, gave me pause. But, I thought, it could not be rain, because it had not come from the sky, it had come sideways, from back at the tents, fifty yards behind us.

Jace’s arm curled around my body, precisely at the same moment my brain connected the ting of metal on metal and thought: . . . ! . . . a bullet?!!

“Fuck,” he hissed, forcing me down to the ground so fast I bit my tongue.

With a great crash, he flipped the table onto its side in front of us. My heart was just beginning to beat again. Sweet metallic taste in my mouth. Blood.

“Are you hit?” he hissed.

Am. I.
Hit
.

Muscles, including ones I did not know I had, tensed with the impending awareness that a tiny piece of metal would tear through my tissue at any moment. Bullets?
Why?
No sound. Silencers? Of course, so tourists on the other side of Ayers Rock wouldn’t hear them. I glanced at my body, quickly feeling for injury, panicked that any second a red stain would suddenly appear on my white sundress.

“No,” I gasped.

He had ripped open his dress shirt and was taking it off. “Take off your dress,” he ordered.

I stared at him, numb, as he scrambled on his back, outside the safety of the table—no!—and, using his long legs, kicked the torch lights down and out. First on the left, now on the right.

Whumpf
. The sound of wood ripping—I yelped, covered my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut tight.

“Fuck,” he hissed again, and backed up behind the small table, huddling near me. I dared to open my eyes. We were nearly invisible except for the faint quarter moon’s light. I cried a little into my hand.

Why? Why was someone shooting at us? Why would someone do that?

I watched, at first emotionless, then confused, as Jace flopped his body around on the ground like a dog with an itch, rubbing himself using his hands, too. Oh. He was using the fine red powder clay as camouflage!

He grabbed hold of me, and smacked my cheek lightly.

“Charlie, do what I fuckin’ say or we’re going to die.”

The word “die” punctured the hold fear had on me.

He pulled at my sundress. Oh, right. He had said to take it off. In a violent rage-fueled frenzy he ripped it right off of my body, and thrust me into the red earth. I did as he asked, flopping around hopelessly in the clay-like substance, and he helped me get it all over my underwear and skin. He was breathing heavily—no, wait, that was me. I was panting.

I rubbed it into my face with my shaking hands like he said to do.

My entire body was shaking and I could not catch my breath.

Someone was shooting at us in the dark.

I longed to see in his eyes, for his voice, it held so much fear. “Now follow me. Stay behind!”

He crawled face forward so fast I sucked in air—
do not leave me alone!
—and I crawled after him in a moment of terrified madness, for it defied logic even as I was doing it.

I heard distinctive foreign patters on the ground and whimpered as I struggled, teeth clenched, after his feet—disappearing from view—clay flying into my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth . . . more bullets!

A sense, a terrible tingling imminence that at any moment one would rip into my flesh, was all that propelled me forward.

We crawled an interminable distance, my skin raw from rubbing the earth, my muscles rigid—listening for the distinctive patter, waiting for some kind of terrible pain, maybe even . . . the end . . .

But it did not happen. Maybe they had stopped firing!

I had lost sight of Jace momentarily when I felt his hands on me, grasping my shoulders and hauling me speedily to him, hugging my limp body to his fiercely.

I had never felt more helpless in my life.

We were resting up against a large rock, one I had seen just outside the edge of the camp. He was steadying his own breathing. We were sticky with sweat and red clay that now felt like glue. “Gotta get to the boot of the car,” he whispered.

He did not wait for me to answer, just let go, and I cried a little, and he hissed “
shh
” while glancing around the edge. The camp was still lit. I had seen that much through the mist of red clay and desperate fear.

Where were the six bodyguards? Jimmy? They would help, surely.

Yes, and . . . “I’ll wait here,” I whispered, quite frankly unable to move any farther.

“No!” He spun around and grabbed both my limp arms. Hushed, he added, “Think they’ll leave you alive? Follow me,” he added very quietly.

He squeezed me, briefly, and let me go.

This time he darted around the edge and headed in the direction of the three vehicles. But . . . they had to be at least twenty-five yards away!

Wait—leave me alive? Who was
they
? Why was someone trying to kill us? Why me? I never did anything to anyone. But . . . it did not matter because murder was not logical in any way. Someone was trying to murder us. Suddenly, everything I had ever thought, my entire twenty-four years of clamoring for knowledge and growth, shrunk down into a microscopic blip in the world’s time line—meaningless, empty, inconsequential.

But it was mine. And I wanted it.

I dashed after Jace instantly, crouched low, head spinning with the impending loss, the thought of impending death, not knowing if I was heading toward it or away from it.

I reached the vehicles, long after him . . . He was nowhere to be seen! Incensed rage surged within me—that he would go so far ahead without me. I would never forgive him. Yes, I felt that then. This was his fault.

I heard the quietest click, and followed it. I found him, kneeling behind one of the three large SUVs we’d driven here in. His arm . . . he was holding a gun with a long silencer!

He buckled on a belt and slipped the gun into it.

My brain was fuzzy, as though I was not seeing right.

He did not even acknowledge me. It was like he had expected me to find my own way to him. And there he was . . . strapping on a gun like he was putting on a backpack.

From his crouched position he raised up slightly, and brought down two more guns from the trunk, a handgun and a larger one which he stuck in the back of his pants after checking the ammo with the dexterity and experience . . . of a . . . of a soldier.

He turned to me, put his finger over his mouth.

It was only then that I noticed the silence. It had never been so sinister before.

He seized hold of me, and I thought he intended to hug me—as I was greatly in need of physical reassurance—but he lifted me up, right off the ground, swiftly, the gun pressing against the bare skin on my stomach, and . . . I was falling backward.

When my brain made the connection, I struggled against him, but he had already plopped me into the back of the SUV onto a bed of sharp, chunky, cold metal. I clung to him, desperately, as he leaned over me. My face twisted in protestation, but he said in my ear, “Don’t open the boot for no one except me.”

His hand slid out from under mine. He shut the door down against me.

Wait.

He was . . .
gone
.

I was alone.

No. No!

The void was tremendous. Greater than any emptiness I had ever felt. I trembled all over. At the void.

And then came the truth, after the horrifying calm.

Jace had gone into the darkness.

Armed.

He was going to die! He would be gone forever.

He could not. We could not. I could not.

Why was he doing that? Why did we not just leave? Why did we not just get in the car and drive? Why did I not think to demand that?

Because I wasn’t thinking at all.

I fumbled around for the inside latch opening and clicked the trunk open, holding onto the hatch to keep it down, open just a tiny crack. Shaking, I listened.

The sound of something thudding on the ground . . . I sucked in air and covered my mouth with my free hand.

Those were footsteps, maybe. Yes, feet slapping the ground. I strained to listen.

I thought I could hear more pattering of bullets, muffled whooshes of propulsion. Lots of them.

I clenched my teeth, shaking.

I needed to hold the hatch down steadier. I tried to inhale, but my chest was clenched so tight it was like trying to work a cramp out of a muscle. My eyes burned from tears and clay.

Shouting! I sucked in air and nearly choked. Men’s voices in the faraway distance. A short, sharp command.

Russian
.

Then nothing.

Nothing
.

What was worse?

As long as there was a fight then Jace and his detail could still be alive—

A man screamed out—very close to me.

I shivered with horror.

Was that Jace? I nearly opened the door before I remembered his words:
don’t open it for anyone except him
. But what if he was the one who was hurt, lying out there? The man groaned. What if he was coming back for me, to escape in the SUV? Because, clearly, that was absolutely the best course of action.

Yes. The logic was sound here. I needed to check. So we could get out of here. I pursed my lips and lifted the hatch a little, attempting to peer out of my cramped quarters. I could make out very little. A flash of light from one of the tents. I sucked in air—there! A body. On the ground, face forward, hands above the head. Jace.