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“Clarke
here.”

“Sir,
it’s Agent Langston. I wanted to report that I’ve apprehended Clarissa
O’Connell.”

“Excellent
work! Has she said anything about Solomon?”

Erik
hesitated. “Negative, sir.” He went on to explain about the men who had come
after them.

“All
right, I’ll send a couple of field agents out to clean up the scene. If she
took something from Solomon, I want it, Langston, and I don’t give a shit if
she wants to cut a deal. Get it for me.”

“Ah,
sir, there’s a slight problem.” Erik wasn’t even sure he should mention it, but
knew he really had no choice, not if she was determined to keep it up.

“What’s
that?”

“She
says she has no memory, sir,” Erik blurted. Like a bandage, better to rip it
off quickly.

A
heavy pause. “What?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “Did I hear you right? She says
she has no memory?”

Erik
winced.

“What
the fuck happened, Langston?” Clarke yelled into the phone.

“There
was a wreck; she hit her head. Sir, I’m not one hundred percent positive that
she’s telling the truth. It’s very…convenient.”

“So
does she or does she not have a memory?”

“I
don’t know, sir.” The words felt like salt on his tongue. Erik hated that he
was forced to admit he couldn’t answer the question with any degree of
certainty.

Clarke
cursed while Erik waited in stoic silence for his orders. He glanced back at
the car. O’Connell was watching him steadily from the window. His gaze caught
hers and held. She looked…disappointed.

Erik
jerked his gaze away, concentrating on the orders Clarke was giving him.

“…call
in to the US Marshals Office in Denver,” he was saying. “They’ll transport her
to DC and we’ll get it sorted out. She’ll talk.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“As
for you, get on the first plane back here.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Clarke’s
voice was replaced by Kaminski’s. “We’ll call the marshals and arrange the
transport,” Kaminski said, all business now.

“Thanks,”
Erik replied. “Will you look up a number for me, too? I need any information
you can get on it.” Erik read off the only number that had been dialed from the
cell he’d picked off the dead thug. The phone was a disposable one with
pre-purchased minutes.

“I’m
on it.”

Erik
ended the call and slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans, his gaze
unwillingly shifting back to O’Connell, who turned away.

He
refused to feel guilty for doing his job. Erik would drop her with the marshals,
who would get her to Washington, and they could figure it out from there. No
doubt their interrogation would show O’Connell that it was foolish to continue
the amnesia charade.

Unless
she was telling the truth, his conscience prodded. Then she’d just be helpless,
trapped in a web of federal laws and behind bars. Alone.

No,
she’d have a lawyer, she’d be fine. The damn lawyers made his job harder each
passing year. Hell, she’d probably get a sweet deal for testifying against
Solomon.

So
why did that thought not ease the anxiety churning in his gut?

Clarissa
stared at the road ahead, deep in thought, as Langston drove. It was tempting
to give in to despair. The future looked pretty bleak. She hadn’t needed to
hear Langston’s conversation to know he was taking her in.

She
had to get her mind off it. If she thought about it any more, she’d go crazy.

“Why
did you and your partner split because of me?” Clarissa asked.

“What?”

“You
said you had a disagreement with your partner over my case. Why?”

Langston’s
jaw tightened, but Clarissa didn’t particularly care if he didn’t want to talk
about it.

“He
and I held differing opinions on your importance to the case, your position
within Solomon’s organization,” he answered.

“What
did your partner think?”

“Kaminski
was convinced you were a low-level tech, hired to do the occasional job for Solomon,
nothing more.”

Clarissa
digested this for a moment. “And you? You didn’t think that, I take it?”

Langston
shook his head. “The pattern was too clear, the methods too precise. It was one
person hacking into the accounts, all of which just happen to be Solomon’s
competitors’. He wouldn’t give that kind of job to more than one person, and it
had to be someone he trusted. If word got out he was behind the operation,
they’d band together and go after him. As it is, he’s doing the oldest play in
the book.” Langston turned and caught her eye. “Divide and conquer.”

“And
you think I’m the one who’s doing this? I’m some sort of techno geek computer
hacker?” The very idea was ludicrous. A hacker was some genius misfit with pale
skin from too little sunlight and a problem with authority.

Well,
maybe that last part…

Langston
grimaced before turning back to the road. “You were identified as gifted when
you were eight years old. By the age of twelve you were routinely hacking into
commercial websites, which put you in and out of juvenile detention. By
fourteen, you were writing your own software spiders that crawled the Internet,
installing themselves on vulnerable systems. At sixteen, you hacked into MI6
but didn’t cover your tracks well enough and got another slap on the wrist and
stay in juvie. And when you turned eighteen,” he paused, “you disappeared.”

His
cell phone rang, and he answered while Clarissa mulled over what he’d told her.
Maybe that explained all that computer equipment in her bags.

“I
can take her to their office—”

Langston’s
irritated tone made her focus on him again.

“Sir,
I can’t just — ” His lips pressed into a thin line as he was cut off.

Clarissa
could hear the voice on the other end but not enough to understand what it was
saying.

“Yes,
sir. Understood.” Langston hung up and angrily tossed the phone onto the dash.

“Problem?”
she asked dryly.

“The
marshal’s men don’t have an agent to fly you to DC tonight. The soonest they
have is tomorrow morning.” He shot her a glare, as though it were her fault. “He
doesn’t want me leaving you with them overnight. I’m to keep you until then.”

Clarissa
breathed a quiet sigh, her eyes slipping closed. She’d gotten a reprieve. Now
she just had to use it to her advantage.

E
rik
pulled in to the Walmart parking lot. It was about the only thing in the tiny
town. They weren’t far from Denver, but Erik didn’t want to let O’Connell
anywhere near civilization. If she got away from him in the city, he’d never
find her again. He’d just make sure they got an early start in the morning.

“Why
are we stopping?” she asked.

“Need
some things,” Erik replied curtly. “My luggage is back in a hotel, probably
being thrown out even as we speak. Plus, I don’t know about you, but I’d like a
fresh pair of underwear.”

O’Connell
smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t mind going without.”

Christ.
Like he needed that image in his head. Ignoring her comment, he leaned over and
unlocked the handcuff from her wrist. She rubbed the reddened skin where the
metal had chafed.

“I
get to come too?” she asked. “I thought you’d just crack a window.”

“I
could tie you to the bumper instead,” he shot back. “Would you prefer that?”

By
her pout, he could assume the answer was a no.

“Come
on.”

Erik
took her elbow as they walked into the department store. The traditional Walmart
greeter was nearby taking down a display of New Year’s decorations and offered
them a belated “Welcome to Walmart!” as they passed by.

Grabbing
a handbasket, Erik headed for the toiletries. He threw in a couple of toothbrushes
and a box of toothpaste.

“I
don’t like that kind,” O’Connell protested.

Erik
snorted. “Toothpaste is toothpaste.”

“It
is not,” she insisted. “This kind is better.” She snatched another box off the
shelf and tossed it in his basket.

“Don’t
just grab stuff,” he reprimanded her, sticking the box back on the shelf and tugging
her away. “Like I care what kind of toothpaste you prefer.”

Deodorant
went in the basket, including a girly one that she’d snatched despite his
orders not to do that. He grabbed a packet of razors and a comb. He noticed her
slipping in a brush when his back was turned.

Erik
headed for clothing next, trying to ignore O’Connell’s presence as he grabbed a
pack of underwear and hoped she’d keep her mouth shut. No such luck.

“Tighty-whiteys,
Agent Langston?” O’Connell piped up. “I figured you more as a boxer type of
guy. Kind of like these.”

He
shouldn’t encourage her; he should just ignore her. That’s what he kept telling
himself as he turned to see her holding up a pair of SpongeBob SquarePants boxers.

“He’s
square, just like you!” She grinned.

Erik
ground his teeth, jerked the boxers out of her hand, and tugged her out of the men’s
department, grabbing a couple of shirts on the way with barely more than a
glance at the size.

“Should’ve
gotten Oscar the Grouch instead,” she muttered as he dragged her to the women’s
lingerie.

“Hurry
up and pick something,” he grumbled, watching as she began perusing a nearby
rack of bras. “That one will do.” He pointed to a plain white garment. It
seemed serviceable enough.

“According
to you, I’m soon going to be wearing US Department of Corrections–issued
underwear.” She grabbed a flesh-toned bra that seemed to be nothing but lace,
and not much of it at that, and held it up to her chest for his approval. “The
least you can do is buy me something pretty.”

Erik
swallowed and turned away. “Just make it quick.”

“What’s
your hurry anyway?” O’Connell asked, looking through more lingerie. There was a
ton of it in a rainbow of colors.

Erik
gave a brief thanks that he was a guy and his choices were limited in scope and
color, SpongeBob notwithstanding.

“I
hate shopping,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “It’s a waste of time.”

O’Connell
eyed him as she shopped, moving on to another rack. He followed, not bothering
to conceal his impatience.

“What
do you do for fun, Langston?” she asked.

“Excuse
me?”

“Fun.
Entertainment. Rest and relaxation. You know, that thing you’re supposed to do
when you’re not working.”

She
held up a see-through nightie, and Erik lost his train of thought. What had she
asked? Oh, yeah. Fun. “I work.”

O’Connell
peeked at him over the top of the gossamer fabric, then replaced it on the
rack. “I know you work. After work. What do you do?”

Her
questions irritated him. It was none of her business what he did or didn’t
choose to do. And if he chose to work as much as he did, well, that was his
prerogative.

Except
her questions made him feel about a hundred years old.

“Chess,”
he blurted as she searched through piles of bikinis and thongs.

She
looked at him as though he’d grown two heads. “Pardon?”

“For
fun. I like to play chess.”

“I
see,” she replied, turning her attention back to the scraps of underwear that
were hardly worthy of the title. “And who do you play chess with?”

“Um,”
he hadn’t been prepared for that question, “friends, I guess.” He didn’t
particularly want to tell her he played in the park with Frank, the retired
insurance salesman whose kids had all moved away and who loved to tell Erik
stories of his twenty years in the marines.

“I
bet I know how to play chess,” O’Connell remarked. “We should buy a set.” She grabbed
one more item off the rack, adding it to the armful she already had, and
started walking.

“Where
are you going?” Erik asked, though he had a suspicion.

She
looked at him strangely. “The toy department, of course.”

“We’re
not getting a chess set.”

“You
have any better idea for how to pass the time tonight?”

Erik
had lots of ideas, all of which featured O’Connell modeling the lace and satin
scraps in her arms.

“Fine,”
he growled, shoving the images to the back of his mind. “I have something else
to get too.”

O’Connell
found a cheap chess set and added it to his basket. Erik swung by the sporting
goods section next and grabbed a length of rope.

“What’s
that for?” O’Connell asked curiously.

“Handcuffs
can’t hold you, remember?”

“You’re
going to tie me up?” Her incredulous tone would have been comical if the
situation weren’t so serious.

Erik
looked at her. “You give me no choice. You can’t be trusted.”

Her
eyes narrowed. “Well, Agent Langston. Maybe you’re not so square after all.”

O’Connell’s
sarcastic bravado in the face of what awaited her inspired a reluctant
admiration in Erik, a feeling that was both dangerous and decidedly unwise.

The
town boasted one motel, which had seen better days. Clarissa dubiously eyed the
room Langston had rented for them. The furniture looked old and worn, as did
the cheesy print bedspreads on the two double beds, but it seemed clean. There
were no questionable odors in the air or stains on the carpet.

With
some irritation, Clarissa pulled at the ropes binding her wrists to the bed. Langston
had gone into the bathroom to shower, tying her to the bed to ensure her
continued presence. He’d ordered pizza and had oh-so-graciously untied her so
she could eat.

This
wasn’t going as she’d planned.

Instead
of getting him to talk to her, get to know her, and hopefully getting him to
care what happened to her, Langston was just ignoring her. The few times she’d
attempted conversation had been met with monosyllable replies or grunts. He
wouldn’t even look at her.

Whereas
she couldn’t stop looking at him, especially when he came walking out of the
bathroom wearing only jeans. Clarissa watched him covertly as he grabbed a plain
gray button-down shirt, tore the tags off, and pushed his arms into the
sleeves. She let out a tiny sigh of disappointment when he did up several of
the buttons on the front.

“Do
I get to shower?” Clarissa asked.

Langston
didn’t answer, and his face betrayed nothing as he walked to her and untied the
rope. She rubbed at her chafed wrists.

His
deliberate apathy and distance irritated her. So he was going to pretend there
was nothing between them? Act as if he hadn’t wanted her last night? Jerk. Men
were all alike.

When
she was free, she bounced off the bed and into the bathroom. Before closing the
door, she poked her head out.

“Want
to watch, Langston? Make sure I don’t escape again?”

As
expected, her teasing made a red flush creep up his neck, but his expression
remained stoically unaffected.

“There
aren’t any windows in there,” he replied, grabbing the remote and lying down on
the other bed. He bent an arm behind his head and seemed to dismiss her.

Clarissa’s
eyes narrowed in frustration. “I might slit my wrists, you know,” she snapped.

The
TV changed channels as he surfed. “You’re not the type.”

Dammit,
he was right. In a fit of temper, she slammed the door.

After
her shower, Clarissa held up one of the matching bra-and-panty sets she’d had
Langston buy. If he wasn’t going to connect with her emotionally, talk to her,
she supposed she could try sex. She’d seen the way he looked at her. It was
obvious he was attracted, and she certainly was.

But
the idea of using sex to trick him into letting her go was a distasteful one. Even
as desperate as she was, she wondered if she could do that. The survivor in her
urged to do everything she could, to use every feminine wile in her arsenal. She
decided she’d exhaust every other avenue first before resorting to sex.

Though
it wouldn’t hurt to stoke the embers a little.

With
that thought in mind, she left her jeans off, choosing to wear just her shirt
to bed. Her legs weren’t bad. Maybe Langston would appreciate the view.

After
brushing the tangles out of her wet hair, she emerged from the bathroom to find
Langston watching some basketball game on the TV. Getting up, he went to tie
her again, his eyes flicking briefly to her bare legs.

“I
picked the lock, Langston,” she blurted, eyeing the rope. She preferred
handcuffs to rope. Rope hurt, dammit.

He
paused, the rope looped around her wrist. “What?”

“I
picked the lock on the handcuffs,” she admitted. “But I don’t have anything to
pick it with now, I swear. You can search me. I’d just rather the cuffs than
the rope.” And at least with the cuffs, she’d have one hand free.

Langston
hesitated, then tossed aside the rope, attaching the cuffs to her before
returning to his previous position on the opposite bed. Clarissa didn’t
protest. Suddenly, she felt very tired. Langston’s deliberate distance after
last night made her feel more alone than before.

Her
eyes stung, and she quickly turned away from Langston. If she couldn’t stop
herself from crying, she damn well didn’t want him to see.

Maybe
she just needed a good night’s sleep, that was all. That was why she was feeling
so hopeless. She was just tired. Things would look better in the morning. She’d
come up with a different plan, one that would definitely work.

Clarissa
thought all these things as tears slid down her face into the pillow underneath
her head. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. She was just…having an emotional
release. Perfectly normal; healthy, even. It wasn’t good to keep things bottled
up.

The
bed dipped behind her and Clarissa stiffened.

“Um,
are you all right?”

Langston’s
voice was gruff, as though he didn’t want to be having to ask.

Clarissa
quickly swiped at her face, refusing to turn around. “I’m fine,” she said
thickly.

He
hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I’m
about to be sent to prison for who knows how long and can’t even defend myself
because I have no idea what I have or haven’t done,” she retorted. “You have me
handcuffed to a bed, which under other circumstances would be a good thing, but
not so much at the moment. How the hell do you think I am?”

“You
know,” Langston replied carefully, “if you tell the truth, they’ll probably cut
you a deal. Turn witness against Solomon. That’s your best bet.”

“What
a fabulous idea,” Clarissa muttered with a sniff. “Too bad I have no idea who
Solomon is or what I know that could put him behind bars.”

The
phone rang in the room. Langston answered on the second ring.

“Hello…um,
yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “There’s a problem with the
credit card I used. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Before
Clarissa could protest him leaving her cuffed to the bed, he was gone.

She
heaved a sigh and stared at the ceiling. The sound of the basketball game
playing on the television scratched at her already shot nerves. Glancing over,
Clarissa saw Langston had left the remote beyond her reach, dooming her to
having to listen to the damn game, the bastard.

To
her surprise, the lock clicked on the door only minutes after Langston had
left. Guess he’d realized without his coat, it was pretty darn cold outside.

The
door eased open and a man slipped inside, but it wasn’t Langston.

“It’s
about time the Fed left,” he said casually.

Dressed
all in black, the man wasn’t that tall, maybe just under six feet. He had a
wiry build and a pleasant face, which was ruined altogether by the menace
oozing from him.

“Who
are you?” Clarissa asked, sitting up.

The
man stopped his progress toward her, a brief flash of confusion crossing his
face. “Is that any way to greet me, Clarissa? Especially when you’ve led me on a
merry chase around this godforsaken wilderness.”

“What
do you want?” She couldn’t imagine it was anything good, not with her luck.

“I
know we’ve worked together in the past,” the man said, “but you and I both know
that loyalties in this business are fluid.” He smiled as he loomed over her. “So
please don’t take this personally.”