Last Call (5 page)

He half glared at her. "Versus staying in said
crappy part of town? Yes."

"You don't know who you're dealing with
here."

Nick's brow lifted. "And you do? Please, do
tell."

Rhys bit her lip. "A man put a gun to your
head. That's not indicative of fair play."

"Do you know
anyone
who plays fair?" A tired grin
dressed his face. "Hell, I sure don't."

"You don't know or you don't play
fair?"

He sighed, digging the heel of his hand
against his jaw. "Could you please not fight me on this? In case
you've forgotten, someone put a gun to your head, too. We need to
get out of here, and we've got a ride. I kind of like the ease of
it all."

Rhys blinked. Had Nick Massey just
said
please
? And
was she really still wrapped in his arms? She tried to pull away
but — sandwiched between him and the wall — there wasn't room to go
anywhere. "Get up if we're going," she muttered, unable to shake
his penetrating warmth. Letting him sear her skin hot was a
dangerous game. And Nick didn't play
anything
to lose.

She stumbled to her feet as soon as he moved.
Her legs threatened to buckle — not from Nick, she assured herself,
but from an extended period of immobility — and when he caught her,
he left her feeling dizzier than when she started.

Amusement decorated his eyes. "You're getting
soft on me, Clark."

"Yeah, I think I get some leeway considering
the last few cumulative hours I've spent with you have been
following blood loss. So thanks for that."

"Only partially responsible." He looked to the
door, through which he then quickly — gently — ushered her. With
any luck, the change of scenery would offer distraction.

Outside, the storm argued persuasively with
the night. Rhys had a bit more trouble climbing off the boat than
she had boarding, but with a boost from Nick she managed to
disembark without pitching headfirst off the other side.

He followed, hopping easily from the vessel,
then pulled her close for the walk toward a waiting van.

Squinting through sleet and wind, Rhys was
several steps from the vehicle before she got a good look. It was a
standard dark unmarked van. The realization didn't sit well. A mild
sense of panic shot through her, but without reason. Then a
chilling thought hit her: she didn't know how she'd gotten to the
wharf. In fact, she was missing a whole lot of time between the gun
and waking up to Nick.

Anything could have happened.

Anything
might have.

Her stomach turned. With the sinking feeling,
the cold wind curled right through her.

"Nick, I can't."

Either the wind took her words or he ignored
them. Before she could react further, he'd ushered her into the
waiting vehicle.

Inside was as black as the outside. Stale
cigarette smoke choked the air, taking her breath. A radio station
played mostly static. Piles of fast food garbage filled the
second-row floorboard, and behind her head a wire cage divided the
passenger rows from the cargo area. The details trickled in more
vividly than she could justify in her fiery haze. Had she been in
this van before?

No
. Rhys
shook it off. The effect of the painkillers wore thin, which she
ascertained not from remembering any medication, but because the
edge of pain returned in steady nauseating waves.

"Where you headed?" the driver asked in a
gruff, smoke-stricken voice.

Nick named a chain motel across
town.

Rhys agreed with his choice. The area he'd
indicated wasn't affluent, but it kept them off the usual stomping
ground for the undesirables. A criminal would have to clean up well
to blend in around there.

Looks like our little game of hide
and seek is over.

Rhys straightened. The words hit her out of
nowhere, bringing with them the image of the gunman. Irrational
apprehension rallied, the trash and smoke and darkness closing in,
volleying her fears into sheer panic.

Nick placed a steadying hand on her arm. He
didn't speak, but his brow furrowed over questioning
eyes.

She nodded slightly, hoping it would keep him
from drawing attention. She didn't know why, but she didn't want
the driver looking at her. And for that matter, she didn't want
Nick looking at her, either. She could only assume she read too
much into those eyes, colored with emotion. They were just the way
she remembered in their last moments — her pain reflecting against
his horror. Sorrow, dark and heavy hung between them — a veil still
there, months later, like no time had passed.

Only now she had a secret — one she didn't
want to keep. It tangled with pockets of memory, driving what she
knew — and what she didn't — to a treacherous muddle of bits and
pieces that made no sense. But she was too far off kilter to open
up to anyone. Not even Nick.

Uncomfortable silence infused the ride to the
hotel. The driver said nothing beyond his initial question and
seemed to pay them no mind. But Nick's stare grazed her skin. As
the throbbing pain in her arm and shoulder intensified, Rhys's wits
sharpened — the line between what she knew and what she didn't
growing more finite by the minute.

"This the place, Detective?"

The driver's voice shot through her
thoughts, his words sending her racing heart into a treacherous
skid.
Detective
.
Rhys looked past Nick through the filthy glass to the hotel's
lights. Without meaning to, she found his eyes.

Questions filled them.

"I thought this was anonymous," she mouthed.
Her heart beat so frantically she thought her pulse might bruise
her skin.

"I'm sorry, sir.
Detective
?" Nick spoke
without losing his focus on her.

His intensity was getting to her. She looked
toward the windshield, but the pressure didn't abate. Rather, the
persistent attention nagged her peripheral vision.

The driver's eyes found hers in the mirror.
"Miss—"

"This is the place," Rhys interrupted. "This
is fine."

Nick's phone beeped, prompting him — finally —
to move his head from her direction. He lifted an eyebrow in
response to the text. "On the side," he told the driver.

"Sir?" But the driver's eyes remained on Rhys.
He smiled, baring crooked yellow teeth.

Looks like a double header
tonight, T.

Nick pointed. "Side of the building. Side
entrance."

The words sounded distant and made of
tin.

Rhys let loose the breath she held but
couldn't swallow the tension. Not until she and Nick were on the
curb and watching the van's tail lights coast away in the predawn
darkness.

He didn't speak until the last trace of the
van dissolved into the sparse traffic. "Look for a potted
plant."

"What?"

"A potted plant."

"You want me to find a potted plant in the
dead of winter under freezing rain?"

"Should be easy in that case," he said,
shooting her a sharp look. But before she could move, Nick had
pulled an envelope from behind a large concrete planter.
"Gotcha."

Rhys looked around. Not seeing anyone, she
asked, "What's that?"

"Cutter took the liberty of renting us a room.
Keeps us away from the front desk. The fewer folks who see us, the
better."

"Cutter did?" Rhys asked, her curiosity
screaming. She'd never before laid eyes on Cutter. He'd always been
a voice on the line — a man without form. Thinking of him doing
something as ordinary as renting a room had the same weirdness
quotient as the first time she'd seen one of her teachers in the
grocery store.

"I'm assuming he sent someone else to do it."
Nick sounded off. Strained or forced. Or angry.

A ball of unease in her throat, Rhys followed
Nick through the nearest door into the long, brightly-lit hallway.
He paused before a room, glanced to the envelope in his hand, then
swiped the keycard. "Home sweet home," he said, holding open the
door for her.

She edged past, requiring her to get far too
close to him for her own comfort. In two years of working side by
side, she'd managed less body contact with Nick than she had in the
last few hours; a dizzying — if sobering — reality. And when he
followed her, a surge she could only define as sexual erupted
within.

Like Nick Massey would ever take her to
bed.

Like hell she'd let
him
.

Sleeping with him was something from which
she'd never recover, but her inner denial didn't stop the swell of
desire forming deep inside.

Rhys paused near the doorway and glanced back
at Nick, getting an eyeful of his broad back. Wet fabric clung to
him, making visible every muscle beneath in the dim entry light.
She longed to flatten her palms against him — feel his skin heat
under hers. Her hands tingled, her trance leaving her glued to the
spot. She wasn't sure if she needed another hit of painkillers or
if she should avoid them altogether. Either way her thoughts made
no sense.

You've been shot.
The reminder should have been needless, but the
way she vibrated on his frequency had her second guessing
herself.

Nick shut the door. Then he pivoted and his
eyes narrowed at her. In one swift movement, he'd spun her around
and backed her against the wooden slab. She gasped at his sudden
aggression and at the intensity of having him so close to her.
Through the dull pain of her injury, old feelings rushed in — her
belly swirling with the delight of his proximity.

"Tell me," he said coarsely.

"Tell you what?" she stammered.

He leaned closer, propping himself
against the door with his forearm, leaving precious little space
between them. With his face inches from hers, he drawled, "You seem
to forget how well I know you, babe. You're keeping something from
me. The driver called me sir. And I'm pretty damn sure that
Detective
salutation was
all yours, considering he reiterated with
Miss
when you questioned him. Plus,
earlier you said you couldn't tell me anything about an open case.
All things considered, I think it's in your best interest to fill
me in."

Her head throbbed in response. "I
don't know," she said. Even though she might. Not being on a case
hadn't kept her from pursuing a few unanswered questions about the
one that ended her career. But that wasn't all she wasn't sure of.
Now, in the relative safety of Nick's company, the last few missing
hours of her life closed in. What had happened?
Why
didn't she know?

He lowered his head until he was a breath
away. "Oh, but you do," he whispered, punctuating the words with a
cat-like grin.

Cat and mouse — her and Nick to the bitter
end. Even when everything changed, some things never did. Rhys
pushed his chest with the heel of her hand, not budging him. Tears
heated her eyes but she fought them off. "That's just it. I don't.
I don't remember."

Nick took a step back. "Don't remember
what?"

She took a deep, shaky breath and chose her
words carefully. "The shooters. I knew one of them but I can't say
from where."

He swore. "Knew how?"

"I just said I didn't
know
how." She shoved him
aside, this time with both hands. Pain shot through her injured
shoulder and she focused her frustration there to keep herself from
crying. A year ago, she'd been in utter control of her life. They
were neck deep in a multi-million dollar drug bust — a real bonus
to her resume, not to mention a community service with deep
personal meaning. She had the ideal partner in Nick — sexy and a
total pain in her ass, the latter keeping her from succumbing to
the former — and her parents with their questions about
grandchildren, settling down, and getting a job that didn't put her
life on the line were off on a mission trip, largely out of
contact.

Her parents.

"My mom and dad—"

He hadn't moved."Are they still out of the
country?" When she nodded, he continued. "I'm sorry. I have no idea
if they've been informed of your death. I'm guessing not,
considering the time frame."

Tears sprang to her eyes and this time she let
them. "They'll be devastated."

"Maybe they won't hear before we get this mess
straightened out. But you can't send word to them until we're
clear. Regardless of how you ended up skipping out on your
post-mortem protective custody, the PD reported you dead for a
reason. Until we know why, you can't take the risk of going public.
According to the thug who handed you over, there's a death penalty
for that." He closed the distance between them, causing her heart
to cartwheel. He had a newly-formed bad habit of invading her
personal space, and her traitorous body hadn't failed to
respond.