Betrayed by a Kiss (2 page)

He’d miss his flight, despite his hunger to put this case behind him, because saving this woman’s life came first. It had to. Life was about the living. His case was about the dead. He pressed his cheek to her forehead. She still felt cold. Too cold.

A fire. Dry clothes. He ran through a list of what he needed to keep them alive. She opened her eyes and recognized him. He could see it in her expression. It distracted him enough to stop admiring her and look at her as a cop rather than the randy teen her beauty tapped into.

He didn’t know her. He would have remembered that face, that tilt of her nose, sharp jawline and wide, high cheekbones. Stick-straight black hair made him think Asian, maybe, or Latina, he wasn’t sure. Her nose wasn’t quite aquiline, but it was straight enough to think one of her parents were Caucasian. Her eyes were gorgeous—there was no better word—widely spaced with irises so dark they appeared black. He’d never seen the like. She was afraid, though. He saw that clearly. Four miles from the nearest road, no gear, no jacket, drowning, she had a story to tell.

“You’ll be okay.” He hoped he was right.
He
was freezing to death.

The couch sat in front of the fireplace, but the coals were barely warm. He needed to get out of these icy clothes, then he’d light a fire. His hiking boots took the longest time to shuck. With numbness wearing off and his fingers burning, pins and needles distracting, the wet lacings were a bitch to untie. That done, it was a relief to strip and leave his clothes where they fell. It was only as he made his way to the bin with clean laundry that he realized it might not be okay that he was completely naked with a helpless, strange woman a few feet away. She was probably freaking, and who could blame her?

Hurrying, he donned a T-shirt, flannel shirt, black wool sweater, briefs, flannel-insulated jeans, and wool socks before he glanced over his shoulder to gauge how horrified she was. He detected a hint of a twinkle in those glorious eyes of hers. Okay, she wasn’t on death’s door if she could admire a man’s ass.

He rummaged for some of Elizabeth’s stuff; his daughter’s sweats, their store tags still hanging from the waistband, looked like they might fit her. He wasn’t sure. Dane sucked at all things girlie. His wife was supposed to take care of that stuff, but Alice was dead and he was doing his best. Guilt and frustration had him slamming the bin cover closed. Thank heaven his sister, Harper, had agreed to finish her degree online and move back to New Hampshire to help with Elizabeth. He didn’t know what he would have done otherwise.

“I’ll light a fire,” he said, “but you have to get those wet clothes off. Try these on.” He put them on the couch and turned his back to her, despite being uncomfortable doing it. Until he knew if she was trouble or in trouble, she’d make him nervous.

The fire took moments to reignite as he blew on it and added kindling to the tiny flames. When the heat hit him, his muscles began to unclench. “Coffee.” If he was this bad off, she had to be feeling worse. He hung the kettle over the flames, knowing this morning’s leftover brew was sloshing inside. It would be bitter, but it would do.

She needed something hot and stimulating. Inappropriate thoughts popped into his head, warming him from inside. It shocked him. Then he told himself to calm down. It was normal to feel desire around such a desirable woman. He and Alice had been estranged for six months before she died. Two years was a very long dry spell, and he’d inadvertently stripped naked in front of a gorgeous woman. He was a guy. All of that was a recipe for inappropriate thoughts.

She hadn’t moved on the couch, but her eyes were open, watching him. Instead of the fear he’d expected, he saw calculation. Dane found that odd. A little unsettling.

“Do you need help?” He knelt in front of her and touched her hand. Still alarmingly cold. Maybe he’d misread her expression. It was dark in the cabin, and the firelight could be playing with his head. Far from calculating, she now looked as if she were about to pass out. “Sorry about this. I have to get your clothes off.” His face flamed as he wished he’d chosen different words. “If you’re lucky, you won’t remember this in the morning.”

With impersonal hands, averting his eyes whenever possible, Dane stripped her to bra and panties. She flinched. That’s when he noticed the gunshot wound at her waist. A graze, but damn. She’d been shot. The wound was fresh. She was shivering now, which was a good sign, but her lips were still blue. Trouble and
in
trouble. He had to get her warm.

His daughter’s sweatpants fit her, barely, and after he slipped one of his T-shirts over her head, he removed her wet bra and then pulled her arms through the sleeves. Covering her with the wool blankets again, he pushed the couch closer to the fire. He hung her clothes over some bins and set both their boots on the hearth just as the kettle whistled. He poured two cups and set about getting the hot fluid in her. Her hands shook as she reached for the mug, but with his help she was able to sit up.

Questions couldn’t wait. Whoever shot her might be close. “Who are you running from?” She stared at him, silent. He thought his closeness might be off-putting—compared to her, he was huge. So he stepped back, casually sipping his coffee as he attempted to put her at ease. “You’ve had a shock. Hell, I’ve had a shock. It’s not every day a man fishes a woman out of a creek.” He wiggled his toes in his woolen socks, trying to work out the pins and needles. He caught her staring at the front door, worried, as if she feared company. He could have told her trip wires around the perimeter of the cabin’s wood line made that unlikely. Once tripped, the area would light up with solar-powered floodlights and a buzzer would sound in the cabin, but he was more interested in what she had to say. “What’s your name?”

“Marnie Somerville.” Her voice was unfamiliar also. He wondered how she knew him.

“Ah, so you’re not dumb.” She glared at him, making him feel guilty for teasing her. She was scrappy even half drowned. “Meaning mute, incapable of speech. I’m Dane MacLain, but you know that already.” He paused, giving her a chance to spill her guts and explain how she knew him. Nothing. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?” She bit her lip, poised to speak or not.

Then Marnie cleared her throat. “I know who murdered your wife.”

Chapter Two

There was a time when Marnie had thought MacLain was a bad guy. Just another bad guy. When she finally realized the truth, it was too late, and then everything went to shit. He was in danger here. They’d come in five minutes or a day, but they’d come. “Account managers activated.” They were already coming.

She had to save him, because he wasn’t a bad guy. Far from it.

“We need to run.” Damn. Her voice broke on the last syllable. She sipped the coffee, hoping it would give her energy. Most men would go on alert at news like that, maybe freak out, but not MacLain. He wasn’t the panicky type, but she already knew that.

“You know who killed my wife? Well, so does anyone who reads the paper. Tuttle was charged, convicted, and sits on death row as we speak.” All MacLain’s comforting smiles, protective posturing, and sexy charm fled the building. Now he was sharp angles and threatening stares. She found it comforting. A cuddly bear was useless when the wolves were hunting.

“We both know Tuttle didn’t do it.” Though Tuttle had confessed. “Your insistence that the MPD caught the wrong guy is what got you kicked off the force.”

“I broke my lieutenant’s jaw. That got me fired.”

“He wouldn’t allow you to pursue Alice’s real killer. You were trying to wake him up. It’s not your fault the guy has a glass jaw.”

There was curiosity in his expression, but also a hint of humor. “That’s my line.”

She feared he wasn’t taking her seriously. “Listen, I know all about you, and I promise to tell you what I know, but we have to go. We’re not safe here.”

He shook his head. “Tuttle confessed. What do you know?”

“He was paid for the confession. I know you saw his bank statements. I know they went missing, mysteriously wiped from his bank’s servers. I know you’re going to the Cayman Islands to track the original transaction. So do they.”

“They, huh?” MacLain looked positively savage with interest. “And you know this because?”

She’d snooped and gotten emotionally involved. A recipe for disaster. “That’s a conversation for the road.”

“Lady, you’re half dead and there’s a storm out there. Do you have a death wish?”

Time wasn’t on their side. Her hands were shaking again. Aftershock, she supposed. “No choice. We have a head start, but I suspect he’s better than I hope he is.”

“There’s always a choice.” He sat on the floor before her, leaning back on his palms, his coffee cup discarded. “And who is he?”

The heat must have relaxed his huge muscles, because the awesome tenseness he’d been projecting was fading. He no longer seemed clenched, ready to strike. The firelight played with his features, emphasizing his strong jaw and the hollows of his cheeks. It reflected a fiery glow in his eyes, highlighting the haunting vibe she found so attractive. He was damn good-looking, projecting manly power and confidence, as if there were no obstacle he couldn’t surmount, no challenge beyond his capabilities. She could still see him gloriously naked in her mind’s eye, a gift she would dream about later, when they were safe. She had to keep him alive.

“Look, I don’t know you,” he said. “You want me to run, I’m going to need answers. Who is after you?”

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Really, I don’t. I wouldn’t trust me, either, but look in my eyes. I’m scared. I don’t know how much time we have before he breaks down the door. We need to go now.” The last thing she wanted to see was the blue-eyed shooter pointing his gun at her again.

MacLain arched a brow. “If not Tuttle, who did kill my wife?”

“I don’t know his name.” It was the truth. She didn’t. There hadn’t been time to figure it out, but she would. It’s what she did.

MacLain grew calmer, and if possible, more intense. “Is my wife’s killer coming here?”

“Yes.” The shooter was the same man that killed his wife. When she opened the files on Whitman’s personal server, she’d been searching for files on MacLain. That’s when she found the video of his wife’s death. Her blue-eyed shooter had a starring role.

“He caught me stealing the files and followed me here. I think I lost him, but he’ll backtrack, try to find me.” MacLain’s deadpan expression was replaced with anticipation. Not what she’d hoped for. “He shot me,” she said. “Did you hear that part? Might already have found my car off-road. He’ll wonder why I chose this part of New Hampshire to run to and what files I’ve stolen. It would take a quick call to the office to get a tech to run a search on the server to discover what I took. It will lead them to you.” She’d expected shock, concern. She saw a feral grin.

“Files?” He was like a hound on the scent.

“I’m here to warn you.”
To save your life.

“I don’t know you.”

“Well, I know you.” She sat up, fighting dizziness, thinking of the daughter he loved, who loved him back. If he died, Elizabeth would be orphaned.

“Yeah. I picked up on that.” He moved to the window, pushing aside the drape a mere inch to surveil the front of the cabin. “Tell me about the files.”

“We need to leave.”

He stepped to a large bin and pulled out a black case four feet long. It had a sophisticated lock pad with a touch screen. He put in the code and opened it, revealing a gun safe filled to the brim. “Tell me about the files.” First thing he took out was a shoulder holster. He slipped it on.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“How so?”

“You want to fight him. Them. There’s every reason to believe he’ll bring friends. The company has a lot to hide. They won’t take chances.”

“Your point?”

“You need to run. That’s my point, for shit’s sake! He killed your wife, and I understand the need for vengeance. Any other time, I’d applaud it, but it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know.” MacLain’s family was only one family in a long list of victims. Killing one man wouldn’t blot out the damage Whitman Enterprises did—and was still doing. The company needed to be destroyed, not just Alice’s killer.

“Vengeance?” He shook his head, put out. “Honey, if you think I’m looking for vengeance, you don’t know me at all.” He slapped a clip into his ten-millimeter Glock. “I have a family living in limbo right now, wondering why bad things happened to them and no one is willing to make it right. Tell me, how am I supposed to make my daughter feel safe when the people that kidnapped her and killed her mother are out there, able to come for her again? Vengeance? This is about survival.” The raw pain of his confession shocked her silent.

Yet he couldn’t hide his anticipation to go toe-to-toe with Alice’s murderer. “Elizabeth needs you—”

“Elizabeth needs this over.”

“She needs you alive.”

He acted as if she’d insulted him. “I’m not the one dying tonight.”

Events were out of control. She couldn’t risk staying here when Whitman’s men crashed this party. She had people who relied on her, commitments to fulfill and reparations to make. And besides, she didn’t have the training or stomach for what MacLain was planning. “I’m trying to save you.”

“Not very hard. You’ve done nothing but claim a killer is coming to my door. No proof. Forcing me to take the word of a stranger. How exactly is that helpful if you don’t tell me what files you stole and why that inspired someone to chase you here?” He tucked the Glock into his shoulder holster and took another one from the gun safe. He repeated his ritual, checking the magazine and chambering a bullet, then tucked it into his waistband.

“It was supposed to inspire you to run away with me.” She didn’t mean to make it sound like a proposition, but it did. MacLain’s jaw dropped. She’d rendered him speechless. Damn. Her brain wasn’t working right.

Whatever thought stymied him, he shook it off and pinned her with his baleful gaze. “You said my wife’s killer is coming. Let’s see if you’re right.”

Dead of night, storm still raging, Marnie was having a hard time processing MacLain’s disinterest in being saved. Survival meant moving, so they needed to move. And failing to save this stubborn man’s life was a deal breaker. Grabbing her wet boots from the hearth, she stuffed her feet in and tried to think. The lump of the flash drive in her boot’s lining rubbed against her ankle. It was still hidden, a symbol of WE’s demise. Was she supposed to be okay with MacLain not surviving long enough to see her destroy Whitman? Because she wasn’t. She was not okay with that.
No.

When she left this cabin, she’d never see him again. There’d be no Skype calls with him and Elizabeth to hack into. No reading his emails, trying to help him get ahead in his quest to find his wife’s killer. She understood that. This wasn’t about her. But she knew herself enough to know at the end of the day, she needed MacLain alive, out there living his life. Maybe not happy, but alive. She wouldn’t leave him here to die. Couldn’t.

Problem was, she had no idea how to motivate him to leave. Telling him about the flash drive was off the table. The full story of what she had and knew would only complicate things when she needed his focus to be on survival. Maybe if she worked him from a different angle, pulled on his heartstrings, convinced him she also needed saving. He’d have to abandon this suicidal plan to go out with guns blazing.

She shrugged into an insulated raincoat she found hanging on a wall hook. “I have to go and you need to go with me. I’ll die out there unless you come with me. Let’s go.”

“No way.”

“Picture me out there, MacLain. The sleet, hail, the cold…I’ll be dead in under an hour.” She gripped the doorknob, calling his bluff.

“Tell me what you know first.”

She turned the knob and startled as he forcefully pulled her from the door. Her instincts took over, and Marnie didn’t think, she reacted. Stomping on his foot, she aimed a punch at his throat, which he tapped off without noticeable effort, but it broke his grip and made him release her arm. Marnie scurried away, wondering what had just happened.

“Dammit, MacLain!” The last time someone looked at her the way MacLain was looking at her, she’d just been caught picking his pocket. “Do you have to be so grabby? I’m not a fan of people touching me!”

“Duly noted.” He circled around her, keeping his body between her and the door.

There was something threatening about his manner. She’d read his military and police force records. She knew his training and what he was capable of. She’d just never seen him in action, and he was intimidating. “I don’t want to fight with you.” She licked her bottom lip, wondering how things had gotten all twisted up.

“This isn’t a fight. I don’t fight little girls.” He wasn’t looking at her as if she were a little girl. He was calculating odds, gauging his next move. “You’re the one that said you were probably followed. Open that door and you run the risk of getting shot by a scoped rifle. It’s how I’d do it.”

He was right. She’d made a stupid mistake, but he was making a mistake, too. “I came here to save your ass,” she said. “You don’t want to be saved, well, best of luck. He’s blond, about your age, and he wore an expensive business suit. If he shows up at your door, shoot first. He certainly will.” She could see MacLain reining in his impatience. Well, she was mad, too.

“I’m not shooting the first blond that shows up at my door.”

Marnie moved around the room, looking for a way out that didn’t require them to leave by the front door. They couldn’t stay. Running was always the answer. “Men like you don’t live long.” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but she was glad she’d said it. The man had no right to risk his life this way. People cared about him! All kinds of people. She, though they were strangers, cared about this guy. “We need to run.”

He stayed a fair distance from her, hands in the air as if to say he wouldn’t touch her. “You’re cold and exhausted. You have no business going out in that storm.” He wasn’t wrong, but it was a frying pan–or–fire sort of decision. Moving meant living.

The cabin windows lit up, and a buzzer sounded all around them. Marnie joined MacLain at the window, peeking past the drape. She saw six people in assault gear caught in the floodlights’ glare at the edge of the field out front. They quickly disappeared into the woods beyond, only to have that area light up also.

“What the hell?” she said.

“It could be a hunting party.” He barely tried to sell it, and she certainly wasn’t buying. “They could be lost, like you.”

“Except I wasn’t lost. I’m here for you. What is that buzzing?” It was low and irritating, making her skin crawl.

“It tells me when the perimeter trip wires are hit. It doesn’t happen often. Usually it’s deer.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “They’re here to kill us. You get that, right?”

He scanned the cabin as if looking for something. “It’s the why that’s a bit fuzzy.”

She lifted her sweatshirt and showed him the bullet graze. “The shooter didn’t say, ‘Hey, what are you doing in Ian Whitman’s office?’ He just pulled the trigger and shot me.”

MacLain stopped his scan of the room and gave her his full attention. “Ian Whitman of Whitman Enterprises?”

“Yes!”

His eyes lit with a fiery excitement. “Shit. Well, why didn’t you say so?” He gave her the gun he had tucked in his waistband. “Glock nine millimeter. Works well in rainy situations. Shoots no matter what. The recoil isn’t so bad.”

She held the gun but wasn’t happy about it. “I don’t do guns.” Guns led to killing, and Marnie was more of a computer geek.

“You do now.” He stepped to the window’s edge again, making sure he was shielded from view before nudging the drape aside. “If they have long-range rifles, they probably have night scopes, which makes us a target the moment we open the door. And stay away from the windows. How many did you say you saw?”

“Six.”

“Me, too. But we can’t assume that’s all of them. I need to make sure.” He hurried to the fire, dumping the remnants of the kettle on the flames. Light from outside streamed in through the two small windows next to the front door. MacLain shrugged into a black leather jacket and black baseball cap, and then filled his day pack with extra ammunition and magazines. “When this is done, I’ll need you to ID Alice’s killer. Tell me if he’s among them.”