Deadly Pursuit (37 page)

“Why’s that? Have you finally decided to explain why I couldn’t attend Jack’s funeral? Or maybe you’re going to explain why the DEA’s finest walked him out of the courthouse in full view of a sniper rather than sneaking him out through the underground garage, which is the normal procedure when there’s a threat?”

Cocking her head, she tapped her lip with mock concentration and hope. “Or could it be that you’re going to explain why he was issued a vest that was so faulty it let a bullet right through, no problem. Is
that
what you want to talk—”

“I want to talk about your letter-writing campaign, ma’am. Complaining to our senator and every other higher-up with a mailbox? Not cool.”

“What?” Oh, this was too much. Waaay too much. “You have the nerve to complain about my behavior when I am merely trying to get to the bottom of your administration’s incompetence and—”

“Shut up and get in.”

Excuse me? Federal officers weren’t supposed to talk to taxpayers like that, and she was about to tell him so when he grabbed her upper arm, swung her around and all but threw her into the passenger seat.

“Ma’am,” he added, like that one polite word could disguise the fact that she was being abducted off a public street. Before she knew what’d happened, Mateo Garciaparra, kidnapper extraordinaire, had jumped into the seat behind her and they were pulling away from the curb and speeding off into the night.

“What the hell are you doing?” she screeched, addressing the driver, Mateo, the guy sitting beside Mateo in the backseat, God, and anyone else who might be listening. Her legal training kicked in and she asserted her rights. “Where are you taking me? Because if you’re charging me with something, you need to charge me. And if you’re not charging me, then you should release me—”

The driver, a dark-skinned guy with no traces of mercy or humanity in his expression, looked over at her with his implacable gaze. “You might want to do a little less yakking and buckle your seat belt,” he drawled. “Ma’am.”

It was on the tip of Amara’s tongue to tell him exactly what he could do with his seat belt, but then they turned the corner onto the highway entrance ramp, whereupon he stomped the accelerator into the floor.

She buckled up and lapsed into a seething silence while she made a mental list of all the things she was going to sue the federal government for—false imprisonment, for one, assault if a bruise showed up on her arm, for another.

Cheered slightly by this prospect, she stared out the window and was surprised when, less than ten minutes later, they exited and followed the signs to a small private airport.

Great. They’d found a way to deport her even though she was a U.S. citizen.

She was eyeing her briefcase on the floor and wondering about her chances of fishing her cell phone out and punching 9-1-1 without anyone noticing—not good, probably, but what other options were there?—when they bypassed the terminal and zoomed straight into the open doors of a hangar and pulled up beside a small plane.

Determined not to miss a single detail for when she filed her formal complaint, she twisted around in her seat in time to see the massive doors close behind them, sealing them all inside with more swarming DEA agents and busy-bee mechanics, who seemed to be getting the plane ready for takeoff.

Now what?

Not fully up to speed with whatever plan they had for her—were they sending her back to Cincinnati, or maybe to Washington for some kind of debriefing?—she floundered and belatedly realized that everyone had gotten out of the SUV but her.

She got out, too, glancing around the hangar, which was lit like the Vegas strip on New Year’s Eve. Though she had zero to no familiarity with private planes, she could see that this one was fairly new and decent-sized. Had they seized it from some Columbian drug lord? That was a happy thought. It was probably a Cessna or a Lear, not that she knew one from the other, and it was big enough that she wouldn’t be white-knuckled with terror to fly anywhere in it.

Which was apparently the plan because Garciaparra jerked his head toward the steps. “Get on.”

“Now wait just one minute—”

Whoa. The rest of her sentence shriveled and died. One good look at the flashing light in his eyes told her that something unpleasant was in her immediate
future if she didn’t climb those stairs. “Get. On.” His teeth were gritted this time.

Fine, she thought.
Fine.
Wheeling around, she stomped up and into the plane with her chin in the air as if it’d been her idea in the first place.

Wow. Nice. Through the doorway were several spacious seats and the kind of wood paneling she might find in a Lexus. Huh. She hadn’t known the federal government rolled like this. No wonder her taxes were so high.

There was a noise behind her, the small scuff of an approaching footstep or some such, and she stiffened with renewed annoyance as she tossed her briefcase on the nearest seat. This was bullshit. Bull. Shit. The DEA couldn’t dispatch goons to track her down just because she’d ruffled a couple of feathers by asking some questions that needed to be asked. This was the United States. People didn’t do things like that here.

Was this the guy in charge? Great. They needed to have a little chitchat. Pronto.

“Could you please tell me what I’m doing here?” she began, turning in the narrow aisle to face this latest looming DEA bully in all his dark finery. “Because I really don’t appreciate—
Oh, Jesus, God
.”

The plane dipped and swayed, and she staggered back a step, grabbing for a seat back to keep from toppling over.

Her peripheral vision registered the sandy curls and skin underneath the DEA baseball cap, the five o’clock shadow, the endless height here in the cabin’s tight space, and the broad shoulders that practically spanned the width of the plane.

The image hit her with the sudden sharp snap of a cracking whip.

He looked like Jack.

She froze, afraid to turn all the way and more afraid to take a good look because Jack was dead, which meant that he wasn’t up and standing around on government aircraft, and she was losing it because she saw him everywhere she looked. Every face was Jack’s these days and he hid around every corner, just out of reach, but
this
…

The shakes hit her in a terrible wave and the sobs were already coming, great, choking sobs that she couldn’t control because … oh, God, he looked just like Jack.

The ghost or whatever he was moved closer until he was right there and she swiped at her eyes, well aware that she was making a fool of herself.

Look, Amara. Just look. Deep breath. You can do it.

She turned her head quickly so she could get it over with, like ripping a bandage off, and she stared into his face. Their gazes connected and understanding hit her in a lightning flash of clarity that had her doubling over.

Those eyes. Brown crystal with long lashes, shining now with tears, intelligence and something she could almost mistake for love. No one else could have eyes like that.

“Jack.”

He caught her before she collapsed, crushing her against the body that was so achingly familiar. They clung to each other, grappling to get close enough, his hands settling in her hair and his face in the hollow of her neck. His tears were hot, his sobbing breath against her throat even hotter.

The words poured out and his hoarse voice was like angels singing in her ears.

“Amara. Amara, Amara,
Amara.”

The shock of his touch was still vibrating through her when the anger came. Black and bitter, it stretched from the center of the earth to the far corners of the universe and back, strangling her in its hold until she lashed out at him and ripped away from the hands that didn’t want to let her go.

“How could you do this to me?”

There weren’t enough accusations to hurl at him, no words ugly enough to convey what he’d done to her, no punishment bad enough. She went bat-shit haywire, hissing and kicking and hitting with the intent to maim so he never pulled a stunt like this again.

“How could you do this to me?”

Apparently he’d expected something like this. She got one good slap in, right across his beautiful, beloved, treacherous face, and then he caught her arm when she raised her hand again.

Infuriated, she twisted and writhed because she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d drawn a gallon or two of his blood, but she’d have had more luck attacking the side of a bus. He subdued her easily, catching her around the waist with her arms trapped at her sides, and staggered back a step or two to the nearest seat, where he collapsed with her sprawled across his lap.

She raised her hand again and he jerked it out of the air again, and then everything shifted in that one arrested moment.

Openmouthed and panting, they stared at each other for one beat … two … and then she scrambled to straddle him between her legs, where he belonged, and kiss him with the pent-up passion and grief of this last agonizing month.

They held each other’s faces, nipping and licking,
their tongues surging deep. He tasted like tears and clean sweat, hope and joy, and every delicious thing she’d remembered about him since he’d left her.

After a minute his hands began to search, roaming under her coat to her breasts, hips and butt, pressing her up against his raging erection until she moaned with the perfection of it.

“You’re so thin.” Worry creased his brow and she could almost laugh to see it. “You’ve got to eat. You can’t waste away on me, okay?”

This was no time for lectures.

“You didn’t say good-bye,” she cried, trying to catch her breath, her tears streaking wet against her cheeks. “You promised you’d—”

“I’m sorry.” He said it over and over again and she could tell that he was; pain shone in his dark eyes, a festering wound that was still taking a terrible toll on him. “I didn’t know when they were going to do it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.”
Frustrated tension tightened his body into marble. “How many times have you almost died since you hooked up with me? How much longer was our luck going to hold out? And besides that—I wanted you to be free. I wanted you to live your life and be safe to walk down whatever street you want to walk down. I wanted you to forget about me and find someone who—”

“Forget about you?”
Amara gaped at him. “Are you that stupid?”

“This isn’t a joke—”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

They glared at each other and she felt a real urge to continue her assault. There must have been something
amusing about her mulish expression because his mouth softened into the beginnings of a smile.

“God, I’ve missed this face, Bunny.” He stroked her cheek. “You have no idea.”

“I have some idea,” she snapped. “Where have you been?”

“They moved me to the Detroit office temporarily. Now they’re transferring me again to one of the foreign offices.”

God, she couldn’t breathe to get the words out. “Where?”

“Panama City.”

Panama City. Great. And wasn’t that an easy commute from the greater Seattle area? She could feel her body shutting down again, the cold washing over her and locking her inside a place so still and empty that hell would be a welcome change.

“And why have you resurrected yourself to give me this news flash, Jack? You want to make sure I have your address so I know where to send your Christmas card?”

The attempt at sarcasm hit a sour note with him because his lips thinned and stretched into a fearsome thing that was just this side of a snarl. “I want you to stop stirring up trouble and drawing attention to my tragic and untimely death. Otherwise, you’re going to blow this whole—”

Of course. Ignoring the disappointment plummeting to the deepest pit of her belly, she focused on her anger as she jerked free and tried to get her wobbly legs under her.

“So that’s it, then?” The rising screech would add to her humiliation later, when she had a chance to think about it, but for now there wasn’t a damn thing
she could do to control it. “You just popped in for a quick, ‘Hey, how’s it going, I’m still alive so don’t screw things up—”

Jack watched her rant from under his lowered brows, his eyes flashing as he tracked her arm-waving and pacing. Then, all of the sudden, he reached some invisible limit. Lunging to his feet with a cry, he chased her down, backing her up against the galley counter, where she cowered and he trapped her between his arms.

“Shut the fuck up, Amara.”

Bravado kicked in. Inflated with outrage, she pointed at his nose. “How dare you—”

Wrenching her hand aside with a muttered curse, he kissed her, long, hard and deep, and everything inside her responded with a fierce primal urgency. When he pulled back enough to let her breathe, she didn’t even think of arguing.

“Here’s the thing,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “You drive me out of my freaking mind. You’re so bossy and annoying I spend half my time wishing I had some duct tape to slap over your mouth. You feel me?”

She nodded, light-headed with excitement because his words sure didn’t match the blazing light in his eyes.

“On the other hand …” Lowering his head, gentle now, he kissed her again with the kind of feather-light brush that made yearning tie a knot in her belly. “You’re the bravest, smartest, sexiest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and you’re under my skin. I can even sleep when I’m with you.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I’m so in love with you I can’t see straight.”

“Oh.” Crying again, she swiped at her eyes and
prayed he wasn’t about to ask her to be a special pen pal when he moved.

“So, even though I’m obviously crazy for thinking of it and you’d have to be insane to say yes, I want you to come with—”

“Yes.”

He paused.

She knew what he was thinking. Hell, she knew what
she
was thinking:

Was she insane? To give up her home and her career to head off to parts unknown with this man who had to live in hiding for the rest of his life? To say good-bye to everything she’d worked for?

Hesitating for a minute, she tried to make it into more of a choice. Tried to really think on this and make a reasoned decision while considering everything she was leaving behind. Then she looked back into his brown eyes and there was no choice at all.