Last Call (7 page)

Rhys drifted somewhere north of
heaven. What had they done? What had
she
done? He'd given her the chance
to stop it, and… and she didn't
want
it stopped — not even for the
sake of propriety. Suddenly she felt like a teenager again, staring
down her first kiss and the inevitable
what next
.

She licked her lips, tasting him
there.

Oh God.

Nick traced her jaw with a curled finger. He
seemed to draw nearer as the walls closed in, his heat enveloping
her. "Rhys…"

His thumb caught her lip, drawing it to the
side.

Instinctively she clamped down.

Smiling, he drew back his hand, then used it
to thread her hair, his expression something she'd never seen
before. Not on any man.

Tingles shot to her extremities and
raced back again, pooling in her belly, hot and low.
Not like this
, she
pleaded with herself.
Don't fall like
this
. But she knew
too late
when she saw it, and when it
came to Nick she saw it in neon.

The longing in his eyes captivated her. A grin
tugged his mouth askew. "I've wanted to do that forever," he
whispered.

Her heart beamed, lighting her from the inside
out. "What took you so long?"

He grinned and relinquished eye contact to
kiss her neck.

Rhys closed her eyes and smiled at the
ceiling, delighting in the waves of pleasure speeding from every
inch of skin he touched. Her thighs clenched against his hips, the
pressure of his pelvis against hers exquisite. Everything forbidden
about him melted away. She ignored the warning signs, looked the
other way when common sense made a play for her attention. She even
forgot the pain…

"Damn it." Nick pushed away from her. "This is
no flesh wound."

Startled, she looked toward her shoulder and
saw only blood. A lot of it.

He worked himself free of her legs. Standing,
he said, "You need first aid."

Rhys didn't want to shake the haze of what had
just happened, but Nick had already switched gears. "Fresh
bandages," she conceded, "but no doctors."

He cast a wary look. "Fine. I'll run to a drug
store. Will you stay put?"

She stared at the sizeable bulge in his jeans.
"Run?"

He scowled. "Walk. Take a cab. Whatever. I'm
pretty sure you could use a painkiller anyway. Which brings me back
to my question. Will you stay inside? Door locked?"

"I told you I'm not stupid." Her tone lacked
some of the intended bite.

She didn't care.

"I know, Rhys. But I worry."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he leaned
over and kissed her before she got out the first word. "Save your
breath," he said. "I know you can take care of yourself." He turned
to grab his shirt from the table, leaving Rhys to watch his muscles
ripple as he worked the fabric over his head and torso.

Her body hummed approval.

What the hell had they
done?

"I'll be back soon," he said. "Lock and bolt
the door behind me."

Rhys rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir. Anything
else?"

He hesitated a moment, long enough for a storm
front to move in, shadowing the light in his eyes. "Yeah. You can
tell Corey, whoever the hell he is, to kiss my ass."

Chapter Six

Rhys spent a solid minute staring at the door
after Nick disappeared.

Nick was jealous. He was
jealous
and he knew about
Corey. She didn't remember the dream this time, but she had them
often — warm memories sweeping her back to happier times. Then
she'd awaken and all the joy she'd touched exploded into painful,
twisting loss when she realized Corey was still gone. She must have
said something in her sleep. And Nick had kissed her anyway. Holy
hell.

Her entire body trembled with the
shock of his touch and the desire it ignited. And for what? He was
only there because he carried some misplaced sense of obligation
toward her — brought on by guilt, no doubt — and as soon as they
dug out of this mess, he'd disappear again. He'd already proven he
could walk away when she needed him most. But he didn't owe her
anything, and she didn't want his guilt or his pity. As for not
wanting
him
… well,
she'd have to work on that. The effort had just taken several
serious steps backward as evidenced by the ache throbbing deep
inside, but she'd move on.

First, though, she had to reclaim her
life.

Rhys glanced to her shoulder. The blood had
spread considerably, an ugly stain on the bright white robe. The
sight sickened her, tipping her usually ironclad stomach to the
squeamish side. She headed for the bathroom where she'd left her
clothes, stopping en route to close the door latch behind Nick, and
began the task of rinsing away the blood with a cold washcloth. The
icy water numbed the wound, but did little for the shadow creeping
over her heart.

She loved Nick.

Maybe one day she'd tell him about Corey, but
not any time soon.

Outside the bathroom, the door
rattled. Rhys sucked in a breath, forcing calm through her nervous
synapses. Nick had her jittery and out of sorts. It was probably
just the maid trying to get in. Why hadn't either of them thought
to hang the
Do Not Disturb
placard?

The rattling ceased. Rhys peeked from the
bathroom to see the knob turning. The entry door cracked open,
stopping with a clatter when the latch caught. She held her breath
and subconsciously tightened the ruined robe. The world stood
amorphously silent until a click shattered the fog. A thin metal
piece breached the opening and nimbly plucked the latch from its
sleeve.

Rhys quickly ducked into the bathroom, pulling
the door to the frame without risking the noise of shutting it
fully. She hit the light and stood in the dark, listening as
muffled footsteps crossed the carpet, well past the bathroom door.
The low rumble of drawers opening sounded. Rhys quickly did the
math, ascertaining she had enough time to slip into her jeans
before the search of the bureau ended. She made quick time of
getting dressed in the dark, grateful for the embrace of Nick's
sweatshirt — and that she'd left her dirty clothes in the bathroom
after showering the night before.

Outside in the room, her guest spilled
profanity. He or she had already proven to be less than diligent
and silence didn't appear to be much of a consideration,
either.

Rhys balanced on the balls of her feet, trying
to decide if she should make a run for it. Blind decisions usually
required cooperation with her gut instincts, and at the moment her
gut was so turned inside out from her encounter with Nick she
didn't trust it for anything. She had no way of knowing if someone
waited outside the room, or how long she had before the intruder
thought to check the bathroom. Clearly the guy wasn't looking for
her — not unless he thought she'd be stuffed in a drawer. The
entire situation left more questions than answers.

She had to get to a computer.

And she had to come clean to Nick. Her digging
in the past might well have dragged him down this particular
road.

Rhys edged toward the corner and waited. She
didn't have to wait long.

Moments later, the door swung inward on a
silent arc. From her spot outside the illuminated swath, she had a
split second for her eyes to adjust to the light — just enough to
catch a gloved hand reaching for the wall switch.

He never had a chance.

Rhys leaned back and delivered a powerhouse
kick to the intruder's chest. Before the surprised yelp that
followed had fully formed, she took advantage of his doubled-over
position to deliver a second kick, this time to his face. The blow
hurt her bare foot but the move was effective. The perp lay balled
up on the threshold, making no visible attempt to rise.

Chest heaving, sucking air by the
lungful, Rhys assessed the situation.
Stepping over him didn't seem like a wise idea, but she was
cornered in the bathroom — also unwise. Rhys glanced from the
groaning mass on the floor to the towel rack beside the sink. She
edged closer, eyes fixed on her guy. Definitely a man. He looked
more like a desk jockey than a hired goon, but it took all types.
He also appeared thoroughly defeated, though looks could be
deceiving.

She knew that far too well.

Rhys popped the pole from the towel
rack, testing the weight of the new weapon in her hand.
Better than nothing.

"One move," she warned, "and I'll skewer your
eye. Now, you want to tell me what you're doing in my
room?"

The guttural noise that followed gave no
audible clues.

Great
.

Taking aim with the bar, Rhys stepped over her
guest, turning so she faced him as she backed out.

And hit a solid mass of human wall.

Oh God.

"Well, well, well," the wall said, closing a
forearm around her throat. "You've made it easy for me, Detective
Clark, although clearly we can't say the same for my
partner."

Was the voice familiar? She didn't waste time
trying to figure it out. Instead, she rammed the towel bar into the
man's business district.

He spewed profanity, indicating she'd guessed
the location well enough, but the grip didn't loosen as she'd
hoped. If anything, the punishing force tightened. "I think you've
misunderstood how to play this game," he growled, yanking away her
weapon and tossing it to the floor.

"What game is that?" Her hands were free, but
thanks to the pressure on her throat, oxygen grew sparse. Her
vision dimmed, the world growing wobbly and increasingly gray.
Desperate for a new plan, Rhys stopped fighting and forced herself
to go limp. Submission, even faked, rankled her… but it
worked.

The force against her throat lessened. "That's
better. Now let's have a chat, all civilized like."

Rhys didn't dare move. With her back to her
new pal, she had no idea what he looked like, and the unfamiliar
chords of his voice spun uselessly through her mind. From where did
he know her? He outweighed her by a few dozen pounds, but she might
gain the upper hand if she had a grip on his motivation.

Detective
.

The word came up again and again. This thing —
whatever it was — had to stem from her job. But what? And why
now?

Her assailant slipped a hand to cup her
breast. Rhys tensed, forcing herself not to lay into him. She liked
her oxygen just fine, and if she had to let him maul her to buy his
distraction she'd just make sure he paid for it double when the
time came. Which it would.

The guy on the floor rolled to his knees,
inciting in Rhys a degree of panic. She was outweighed,
out-muscled, and now out-numbered. "Wakey, wakey, asshole," she
mumbled.

"What was that?" Foul breath blew past her
ear, lips far too close.

Ignoring the question, she returned to his
original statement. "What kind of civil conversation would you like
to have?" She bit out the words through clenched teeth.

"The man you saw pull the trigger, Detective,
was an associate of mine, and it seems you're the only witness. My
boss would like to speak with you — and I wouldn't mind a go at you
myself — but after that, well, I'm afraid we don't let witnesses
live."

"Then I'm afraid your boys picked the wrong
witness."

"That's where you're wrong, sweetheart," he
said. He pinched her nipple, whispering coarsely in her ear. "You
feel just right to—"

"You piece of shit."

Nick stood in the doorway, one hand on the
knob, the other tangled in a plastic bag.

Her assailant's hold loosened, but was it
enough? Only one way to find out. Bracing herself for another
mother of a headache, she threw back her head, connecting with
something hard enough to be chin. His arm fell away in the same
instant a horrific throbbing invaded her skull.

In a blur, Nick was on the big one.

Rhys steadied herself, willing the stars from
her eyes. Through the haze, the guy on the floor drew to his feet,
his expression as shaky as she felt.

Shit, shit, shit.

Behind her, the grunts of a scuffle turned
into a succession of heavy, solid blows. Unwilling to take her eyes
off the man staggering upright, Rhys prayed it wasn't Nick taking
the beating.

The little guy took an unsteady step in her
direction. She gave him a hard shove, sending him backward into the
dark bathroom, then yanked shut the door. It would buy seconds at
most, although the guy didn't take abuse well. He might be out
longer than expected. Hoping for as much, she scooped up the towel
bar and spun to see Nick unloading on the beefy guy, who sported a
well-bloodied face.