Deadly Pursuit (11 page)

Snatching the washcloth away, she went to the sink, ran some water on it, wrung it out, and came back to gently wipe his skin with it. “With brains like that, I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep yourself alive for this long. This guy who’s after you must be a real idiot, huh?”

He laughed again and the sound was strange to his own ears. His laughter didn’t get much of a workout these days and hadn’t for years. There’d been more than one or two dark moments when he’d thought he’d never laugh again.

Forgetting himself—he always forgot himself when she was around—he stared down at her wry smile and felt connected to another human being in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever been. But then he remembered and the moment became too intimate and delicious.

Don’t get too close, man.

He turned away on the pretext of grabbing his bag from the floor, slinging it onto the dresser near the TV and rummaging around for some fresh clothes. With tremendous effort, he focused on the hot shower
he was about to take and tried not to feel her silent presence behind him.

She’d be gone soon, so it was best to concentrate on that.

The problem was, she was here now.

Don’t look at her,
he told himself.
Don’t look… don’t look… don’t—

Angling his body just slightly and cursing himself for a fool, he kept her in his line of vision because you could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make the dumb bastard drink.

Having peeled back one corner of the spread to reveal a bright white sheet—the Princess wouldn’t want to put her precious ass on any soiled linens, now, would she?—she sat with one leg tucked under her and did that vacant-stare thing again.

There was something forlorn and exhausted about her, poor thing. He was used to this lifestyle, but she wasn’t and never would be. Compassion reared its ugly head and he wanted to tell her that she should take a nap, that it would be a couple of hours before the cavalry rode in, but he wasn’t sure what the sight of Amara lying in a bed within touching distance would do to his limited reserves of self-control.

Besides.

He sort of liked her company. Sort of liked not being alone for once.

He’d be alone again soon enough, so there was plenty of time later for that.

Digging through the bag, he tried to remember what he’d been doing. What was he looking for? What was he about to do? Oh yeah—shower. That was it.

With his hands wrist-deep in his clothes, he couldn’t
think of the first damn thing he needed. How could he think when it was so much easier to stare at Amara?

Yeah, he hadn’t been so busy fighting professional killers that he’d failed to notice the fine details of Amara’s
Penthouse-worthy
body. And she’d flipped the light on and backlit every inch of herself. It wasn’t that he’d been trying to see everything, but Jesus—what was he supposed to do? Ignore those dark-tipped tits and shapely legs? Pretend he didn’t see the soft curve of her belly and enticing triangle between her thighs?

What was the point of that ridiculous sheer nightgown she’d been wearing? He’d seen Band-Aids that provided more coverage than that. Why not just go to bed nude?

Amara. In bed. Nude.

Now there was an image he wanted to back away from before he got hurt.

But … her face. He could watch it for days and never get bored, maybe weeks. It was all big eyes, cute nose and fantasy-come-to-life lush mouth. That mouth could do a guy some serious damage—if he was lucky.

And where’d all that hair come from? All that long, wavy, silky-sexy black hair. What was she thinking, hiding hair like that by piling it on top of her head? Although … on second thought, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. It didn’t stretch his imagination too much to imagine her sparking car accidents and/or riots by walking down the street in all her glory.

Her drop-dead looks. Yeah. That was the problem.

And yet … her beauty wasn’t the problem at all—wasn’t even a fraction of the problem. The problem was way more than he wanted to admit, ever.

As though she finally felt the hunger of his gaze on the top of her head, Amara looked up at him and he saw, to his pained surprise, that a new sheen of tears sparkled in her eyes and her bottom lip trembled.

Aw, fuck.

There was childlike hope in her expression.

“Is J-Mart really dead?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

He swallowed. Wet his dry lips. Wished he could die on the spot rather than cause that light in her eyes to go out. “Yes.”

She nodded, accepting the worst.

In the echoing silence, he ignored the crushing pain in his chest and turned back to his bag. Underwear. He needed underwear, deodorant and—

“What’s going to happen now, Jack?”

“Well …”

Extracting the kit with his toiletries, he tried to think. “For now, they’re sending someone—a team—to pick us up. They’ll figure out how to protect you—”

“They didn’t seem too enthusiastic about that, did they?”

“I plan to help them along with their enthusiasm level,” he said flatly.

“And you’re going to Cincinnati? To testify?”

Oh, shit. Had he said that? Out loud? Why couldn’t he remember that this woman was a sponge with a clever brain worthy of a CIA operative?

He said nothing, and she knew. She always knew.

“When can I go home?” she asked.

“Soon. I think.”

“When can you go home?”

He opened his mouth to say it, but it wasn’t so easy
getting the words out. They clogged his chest, swelled in his throat and tasted bitter against the back of his tongue. “I don’t have a home.”

That lip of hers trembled again and she twisted her mouth in her effort to control it. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “When can you stop hiding?”

“When he’s dead,” Jack told her.

“What about if he’s convicted?” she persisted.

Was she joking? Could anyone really be that naive? Was her middle name Pollyanna or something? “When he’s
dead.”

The information finally seemed to penetrate her stubborn brain, thank God. Nodding, she wiped her eyes. He, meanwhile, tried to pretend he didn’t see her crying, tried not to know that those precious tears were for him.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re not?”

He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“Can you ever get used to this?”

Opening his mouth, he tried to activate his voice. It took a long time. “No.”

Another nod. They stared at each other for a couple beats, neither speaking, and then she did a snort-laugh thing that had no humor in it.

“Want to hear something sad, Jack?”

“Sure. Because I haven’t had enough sadness in my day yet.”

This time her laughter was the genuine article. Quick but genuine, then gone like a streaking comet. “When I was throwing my stuff in the bag, I kept thinking I should call to let them know I’m okay—”

“Who?”

“That’s the sad part.” She looked exhausted and empty suddenly, as tragic as the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust. “There’s no one to call other than the office, and I’m on vacation anyway. If I’m gone, they’ll replace me by the end of the week. They won’t find a better lawyer than me, but I’m thinking they’ll round up someone who doesn’t piss everyone off like I do.”

“You’re irreplaceable.”

She stared at him and he gave himself a swift mental kick in the ass.

Because he hadn’t meant to say it and definitely hadn’t meant to say it like
that,
with all the enthusiasm and fervor of the president-elect taking the oath of office.

Stammering, he changed the subject. “W-what happened to your parents?”

“I don’t have parents.”

“Everyone has parents.”

“Forgive me.” Her lip curled in an ugly smile, an abomination. “I never knew the man who donated the sperm on my behalf, but he was one of my mother’s”—she swallowed hard—“clients.”

No. Oh, no.

“She was a prostitute. Before she died of AIDS.”

She hitched her chin up, waiting for his reaction, daring him to feel sorry for her, and he suppressed that urge only with great difficulty. Instead, because he knew she needed it, he shrugged and finally fished a pair of boxers out of his bag.

“Forgive me if I don’t pull out my violin. We’ve all got our hard-luck tales, don’t we? Maybe we should run a contest, see who wins.”

She glared, looking as though she could happily smash his face with the butt-ugly lamp on the night-stand. After a minute, she continued.

“While my mother was, uh,
busy,
her younger sister watched me. But then she got into drugs and I got into trouble at school. One of my teachers called protective services. They put me in the system—”

“The system?”

“Foster care.”

“Oh.”

“I was ten.”

“Oh,” he said again because there was nothing else to say.

“I went to Washington State on an academic scholarship. And then to the University of Washington for law school.”

What else? He’d expected nothing less. This was not a woman who could be held back and he was damn proud of her for it. “Good for you.”

“Do you have family, Jack?”

Family. Looking to the plaster-chipped ceiling for some kind of divine intervention, he wondered if this night could possibly get any worse and if he could have just a few more reminders of the things he’d lost and the things he’d never have.

But God was, per his usual practice where Jack was concerned, silent.

Fine, God. Fine.

Angry again, Jack yanked the bag’s zipper closed, threw the whole thing to the floor and kicked it into the corner as he stalked to the bathroom.

“I’m taking a shower,” he called before he slammed the door.

Kareem Gregory got home just as the first yellow rays of sun were cracking through the trees. Man, it was late. He checked his watch again, wondering why he hadn’t gotten a call yet from Yogi, telling him they’d dealt with Parker. He’d better hear soon.

Meanwhile, it was good to be home. It was a great crib—a Tuscan-style villa, 10,000 square feet and $ 1 million of it—in one of Cincinnati’s best neighborhoods, surrounded by a solid brick wall and security cameras.

All in Mama’s name, of course, because that was the way these things were done when you ran a string of customized auto shops, the customers often paid in cash, and the feds were therefore constantly breathing down your neck, wondering where all the money came from.

The DEA would love to seize this house. They still might. God knew they were working on it. Too bad he was always one step ahead of them.

He tried not to make too much noise and wake
anyone up, not that he was creeping in. He didn’t
creep,
not in his own damn house.

Although … if Kira’d give him what he wanted, he wouldn’t have to step out, but Kira wouldn’t let him touch her. Why? He hadn’t been exactly honest about some of his business dealings before they got married. Hadn’t really mentioned that his auto shops didn’t account for the bulk of his income. Why should he? Did a man have to fill out a disclosure form before he got married? Hell, no. He was an entrepreneur; he owned some businesses; he had some money. That was what he’d told Kira, and that was all she needed to know.

He was a businessman. Maybe he didn’t have a college degree with his name on it, but he was a visionary, the same as Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, who had an organization with rules and layers, profits and projections and losses.

But he’d lied.

Partially because Kira had been trying so hard to escape the ugliness from her childhood that she’d never marry into a situation that might send her back down the same road. Mostly because he needed to see that innocence in her eyes, to know that she looked to him as some kind of knight with the shining armor and black stallion and shit, an honest man who would rescue and protect her.

An honorable man. That’s what she’d wanted and that’s what she’d gotten. He had ethics and principles that he lived by and that he required of those who worked for him. They just weren’t the ethics and principles that she thought.

So they’d gotten married and they’d been happy.

Two years after that, it all went to hell. Thanks to the DEA and their undercover agents, assorted snitches
and entrapment, his beautiful life had gone south on an express bullet train riding greased rails, and she’d turned away.

He hated her for that.

What had happened to the
for better or for worse
part? Huh? Her pretty little manicured hands weren’t clean in this mess. Oh, no. She’d played her role. She’d been—what was the word?—complicit. Yeah, that was it. She’d pretended she didn’t know that drugs were paying for her house and her clothes and her college education, but she
knew.
She saw guns and the bodyguards, the feds and their warrants and their searches and their Big Brother routine.

Kira was complicit, the same as Carmela Soprano was complicit in Tony’s business activities, the same as Kay Corleone was complicit in Michael’s. Wives
knew.
They always knew. And they accepted.

So why wouldn’t Kira act like his wife?

Halfway down the hall, he heard the light jangling of tags and the click of nails on the polished floor, and met up with the stupid little dog she’d gotten while he was in the pen. Fucking beagle. She’d named the little yapper Max, which was idiotic.

But Kira liked Max, and Kareem wanted the privilege of screwing his wife again, so he pretended he liked Max, too. “Hey, doggy.”

Inside the kitchen, the smell of coffee had already alerted him that someone was awake. It was Kira, sitting at the built-in desk, dressed already with her curly black head bent over her homework.

Nursing.

While he’d been rotting away in federal prison, she’d been working on her degree, and getting damn good
grades, too. She’d graduate soon, with high honors. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or proud.

She ignored him for as long as possible, then troubled herself enough to look up from her notes and give him a vacant Stepford wife smile.