Redemption (8 page)

When he pulled onto the main road out of Bishop’s Gate, the headlights followed, then dropped back but kept pace when he merged onto the highway and headed toward DC.

He changed lanes. It was nearly dark and he couldn’t make out the model of the car behind him but he didn’t have a hard time keeping track of the headlights. The right one was aimed just a tad off center.

He exited the highway and drove the side roads. The car kept its distance. An uneasy glance at Hope confirmed she was still in her mild state of shock. She was shivering and he turned up the heat, part of him glad she was in her own world and didn’t know what was happening. He kept making odd turns, slowing down, then speeding up until he finally got his chance. The light in front of him turned yellow, then red. He stomped on the gas and sped through it. Cars honked, tires squealed and he gripped the steering wheel, hoping no one would sideswipe them. As he cleared the intersection, he glanced in the mirror as the other car rocked to a stop at the light.

Beside him, Hope leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes but was twisting her fingers in her lap. John wanted to reach over and disengage her fingers and hold them in his own. To offer some sort of comfort. Instead he kept his hands on the wheel.

In less than an hour, they were parking in front of Luke’s place. Hope walked as if in a dream, her gaze straight ahead, her body rigid.

Once inside, John turned up the thermostat to warm the chilly townhouse. “Bedrooms are upstairs,” he said, indicating the steps with a wave of his hand. “Kitchen’s through the dining room.”

Hope stood in the middle of the living room, staring at a blank wall.

“Hope?”

She blinked and turned to him but he knew, by the faraway look in her eyes, she didn’t see him.

“Sweetheart, you need to get to bed.”

She blinked again. This time a tear formed in one eye. One single tear. Not a waterfall. Just a lone tear that seared his soul. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the stairs, realizing this was the first time he’d been the one to initiate contact. The slumbering beast of panic stretched its muscles, a clear warning to stay away and he let go of her.

“Go to bed, Hope. Things will look better in the morning.”

As if on autopilot, she climbed the steps.

“Luke and Kate’s room is the first door on the right. I’ll take the guest bedroom,” he called after her. She didn’t respond, and a few seconds later, he heard the door click closed.

He puttered around the house, checking locks and windows, peering outside. His connection to Hope’s father was tenuous at best. They had a mutual acquaintance in Suzanne Carmichael. Whoever had followed them would have to know about that connection then link John to Lucas and he highly doubted that was possible.

Unless it had been Suzanne who had followed them. But as an escaped convict, how would she have found a car, then travel unnoticed when law-enforcement agencies all over the country were looking for her and her face was plastered all over the television?

Of course, the same thing had happened to Luke and Kate two years ago and that hadn’t stopped them. He checked the street one last time and wondered if Suzanne had someone helping her.

There was nothing out there and he trusted his instincts enough to believe he and Hope were safe for the moment.

He rummaged through Luke’s downstairs bathroom until he found aspirin, shook a few out and swallowed them dry. Fire shot from his left knee to his hip and he rubbed at it.

The doctors had said he may always walk with a limp, but he’d proved them wrong. Now he only limped when he’d been sitting too long or did something stupid like sprint across the street to protect a woman from her best friend. He shook his head, feeling like ten kinds of a fool.

He followed Hope’s path upstairs and stopped to listen outside the closed door. He hadn’t heard the water run or any footsteps after she’d disappeared inside. He knocked and softly called her name. When he got no response, he turned the knob and carefully opened the door. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands tucked beneath her, fully clothed. Tears had fallen but she wasn’t crying now. He guessed she was too tired even for tears.

He rummaged in Luke’s dresser, came out with a worn, oversized T-shirt and held it out to her. “Put this on and get into bed.” Pulling her up by one hand, he shoved the shirt in the other. Funny how this touching thing got easier.

She took it and walked into the bathroom.

John stood by the bed, refusing to move until he knew for certain she was safely tucked in bed.

A few minutes later she came out, face washed, wearing nothing but the thin T-shirt and backlit by the bathroom light. The sight of her had him dragging in a strangled breath and reciting a prayer for strength. He closed his eyes and groaned quietly as long-dead feelings twitched to life.

With that white blonde hair highlighted by the light behind her and her long legs… He was only human. Even though he’d denied himself for so long, his body remembered. And right now it was on full alert and demanding attention, loudly screaming it’d been ignored long enough.

She stopped in front of him and looked at him with wide eyes. Her face, still damp from a washing, shimmered, and her hair fell past her shoulders. Her lips were full and rosy. He’d never noticed them before, how utterly beautiful and perfectly formed they were, with a slight pout on the bottom and a sexy bow in the top. He had a difficult time breathing, laboring to pull in one breath after another. His fingers twitched but he folded them into his palms.

He looked down at her rounded stomach. Right there was proof of what an idiot he was. Not only was she a woman and beyond his reach, but she was pregnant. And had just discovered her father was murdered. That thought had him taking a step back, but the spell woven around them didn’t break as he’d hoped. He cleared his throat and turned to the bed, refusing to even contemplate what they could do in that king-sized monstrosity. He pulled down the comforter and blankets and fluffed the pillow then stepped aside.

Hope crawled in and he had to grit his teeth and look away from the sight of the T-shirt rising up, revealing a smooth, creamy thigh. She turned to her side, tucked her hands beneath her cheek and looked up at him. The absolute trust in her gaze brought him back to earth with a loud thud and he pulled the blankets over her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

A hunk of hair had fallen over her cheek and he ached to brush it away. But that was too personal. Too intimate. Man, he was so screwed up. “Go to sleep,” he said gruffly and turned to leave.

“Don’t go.” Her voice was on that fine edge between fear and barely there control.

“Hope, I can’t…” The thought of sleeping beside her had sweat popping out on his brow.

“Just sit with me until I fall asleep. Please.”

The whispered please was his downfall. Who was he kidding? Hope Stewart was his downfall. He glanced around the room until he found a straight-back chair that belonged to a fussy desk. He grabbed it and positioned it beside the bed.

As she’d done the other night, Hope reached for his hand and only relaxed when he took it. She closed her eyes and after a few moments gave in to the exhaustion dogging her. Her hand relaxed inside his and with some relief, he pulled free, put the chair back and stood at the side of the bed staring down at her. His own fatigue had his eyes drooping, yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep until he assured himself she was resting easy.

No dreams seemed to haunt her. Her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm. Yet he couldn’t leave without… Without what? He needed to do something. It was as if this force were keeping him there until he touched her one last time.

He could have touched her hand. That was safe. That was harmless. But he didn’t. He pushed his boundaries, blocked the panic that reared up and leaned over, touching his lips to her forehead. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just felt her smooth skin against his lips, the warmth of her body and the clean scent of the soap he used and which she now smelled of. For a moment, he enjoyed the feel of touching another human being. Of touching a woman.

Until, inside him, the panic won and he had to pull away. But he took with him a gift. A gift he would take out and cherish when the dark winter nights in his lonesome cabin got to be too much. When he wanted to remember what could have been, instead of what was.

Sleep wasn’t going to come to him this night. He didn’t even try. Instead, John went downstairs and flipped on the gas fireplace, scowling at the modern convenience. He was a firm believer in splitting your own logs, the reward being the smell and comfort of a crackling fire. He settled into a leather chair and stared at the flames, turning what little he knew over in his head.

A man killed, yet no body. A prison escapee who had a link to the missing dead man. No evidence of foul play. No sign of foul deeds. A woman with a faulty memory.

Absently rubbing his aching thigh, he once again tried to put the pieces together. But instead his brain chose to think of the fire shooting from Hope’s eyes as they left Daniel Webster’s house. Damn but that spurt of life inside her had done something to him. Didn’t matter that he was the target of her anger, he’d been fascinated. Until he listened to what she was saying.

Hell, he knew he was scared. No big secret there. But when she oh-so kindly told him what he was scared of, he’d about run off the road. His feelings? Impossible. He didn’t have any feelings. Hadn’t felt anything worthwhile since Peru. So to be afraid of something he didn’t even feel—well, that was just ridiculous.

Your problem is you have too many feelings and you don’t know what to do with them, so you shove them behind that granite wall you’ve erected around your heart.

That granite wall gave a loud crack, bits and pieces of it falling away, revealing what lay beneath. No, Hope Stewart had been wrong. There was no heart behind that wall. Nothing but a black hole where a heart once beat strong and sure. Before Peru. Before Angelina.

Suddenly restless, he stood, needing to do something to keep his mind occupied and away from things that would haunt him. He snapped off the fake fireplace and trudged up the steps. His leg only whimpered a time or two, the aspirin having done its job. As he passed Hope’s room, he paused and placed his fingers against the door. When he peeked in, she was curled in a ball, asleep.

Sometimes sleep was the best thing, unless of course the demons you were trying to escape invaded your dreams. Then sleep could become a prison, trapping you in your nightmares, forcing you to relive things you’d just as soon forget. He walked on, entered the guest room, and while he wrestled with his decision not to call the police, once again checked the streets for any sign of the car that had followed them.

What would he have told the cops if he’d called? Hope’s father had been killed but they couldn’t find the body? She’d witnessed the murder but fled the scene without calling the police? She’d disappeared for three days, claiming to have lost her memory?

His actions on autopilot, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed in his boxers. He stared at the ceiling as he lay on his back, hands behind his head. Outside, a car cruised past but traveled on. Inside, the furnace kicked on and somewhere in the room a clock ticked by the seconds. He wondered if Hope was sleeping soundly. If, even in sleep, she grieved.

Hope.

Funny thing about life was you never knew what was coming next. One day you’re boarding a plane to Peru to kick some terrorist ass, the next you’re imprisoned, tortured, near death. One day you’re saying your final goodbyes to a life that had turned on you, the next you’re caring for a woman who crashed into your yard bringing…hope.

Yeah, funny how things could change in the blink of an eye. He bet Hope never imagined her life would irrevocably change as she walked into her father’s home for Christmas. Probably never imagined running for her life to a man who’d given up on life.

Irony didn’t even begin to describe it.

His lids drooped, and as he drifted off to sleep,
chocolate-colored eyes looked into his. Serious, yet with a spark of humor. Rich, dark hair surrounded a round face. There were crinkles in the corners of her eyes, indicating that at one time she used to laugh often.

Angelina. Her name meant angel. And she was that. At least to him. His angel surrounded by hell. “¿Como esta?” she whispered in her native tongue.

He scooted to a sitting position, trying to hide his wince of pain. “Bien.” It was their ritual. She would ask how he was, he would reply in the positive even though they both knew he was full of shit.

Little did she know—or maybe she did know—that his day revolved around her visits. He would eagerly await the rancid meals she served him. And she seemed to enjoy their too-brief visits as well.

Setting the dented tray at his feet, she threw a worried glance over her shoulder before touching his uninjured leg. He closed his eyes at the feel of a healing touch, a touch that didn’t bring pain and humiliation. “¿Te hizo dańo?” Did he hurt you?

“No.” They both knew it was a lie, just as they both knew there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about his injuries except give what comfort she could.

Concern shadowed her dark eyes. He was already half in love with her even though they spent mere minutes a day in each other’s presence.

“Ah, mi soldado valiente.” She cupped his cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and smelled of the food she’d been cooking.

Brave soldier? He didn’t think so. He was anything but brave, breaking under the terrorists’ interrogation tactics, screaming when the pain became intolerable. No, he was anything but brave. But if she wanted to believe that, he’d let her. He turned his face into her palm and kissed her hand.

She pulled away in surprise, cradling her hand close to her breast. Tears filled her eyes. “Gracias.”

Ah, but he should be the one thanking her. For just a few minutes each day, she made him feel human, made him forget the pain, the humiliation, the terror. “No, Angelina, thank you.” He waved his hand in the air, motioning her toward the door. He didn’t want her to go, but his fear of being caught in something as innocent as a small conversation overrode his own desires. “Go, por favor.”

Her smile faltered, then died. He hated to see it vanish, like the sun setting on another day, not knowing if you were going to be here to see the next one. When he was alone in his cell, staring at the mold-covered cinderblock walls, he envisioned breaking out of this hellhole, snatching his Angelina and carrying her to America. He’d build her a home. A nice cabin on a lake where they could live without fear. He would erase the shadows in her eyes and she would heal the soul the terrorists had ripped apart.

That was his dream. A dream based on a few minutes of conversation once a day. Yet he knew that deep inside of them, there was a connection. Angelina felt for him as he felt for her.

He listened to her soft footsteps as she walked away, heard the laughter of the guards, her squeal of surprise. He surged up. His broken leg crumpled beneath him and, with a cry of pain, he stumbled and slammed his dislocated shoulder into the cement wall.

“Angelina!” He cried out her name before he could stop himself, then cursed his stupidity. The guards probably heard and they would retaliate.

Angelina screamed, the sound echoing off the walls, resounding in his heart and shattering it like fragile glass. He lurched toward the door, pressed his forehead against the heavy bars to see what was happening. There was a scuffle, more laughter. Evil laughter.

“Angelina!” He screamed her name this time, his blood pounding in his ears, hands fisting the rough metal of the bars.

Nothing but silence bounced back at him.

***

Garcia charged into the room, a swirling presence of hot Latino and angry terrorist. Suzanne didn’t know whether to be relieved he’d returned or frightened. She hadn’t heard from him all day, had been left to her own devices in the seemingly abandoned ratty motel room.

She’d thought about escaping, had even gone so far as to open the door of the room and look out. But the presence of one of Garcia’s men outside and the fact that, at this point, Garcia was her only chance at survival, changed her mind.

“The woman is back,” he said, cutting the air with a slice of his hand.

“What woman?”

Irritation crossed his face. “Stewart’s daughter. Tomás has been—how do you call it? Staking out her father’s
casa
ever since she disappeared. She returned early this evening.” His nearly black eyes narrowed on her. “She had a man with her.”

A shiver rippled up Suzanne’s spine and she fought hard not to let Garcia see it. This didn’t bode well for her. They needed Hope Stewart. More specifically, they needed what she had. A man in the picture was not good. The only thing worse would be the police.

“Who is this man, Susanita?”

“What did he look like?”

He placed his hands on slim hips. As always, he was impeccably dressed in all black. And as always, the effect was devastating and dangerous. He was ruthless, brutal and cold-blooded, all the reasons she’d cited when she’d contacted him to help her. If she had only known how screwed up this was going to get, she would have stayed in prison.

A black eyebrow rose as he stared at her with bottomless eyes. “It was dark. Tómas could not see the man well. They were in the house less than an hour. Tómas tried to follow but lost them.”

This was not good.

“Who could she have run to, Susanita?”

“I don’t know.”

He took a threatening step toward her, his eyes flashing. “You play games with me,
puta
?”

She stood from the bed, anger making her foolish. “I am not a whore.”

Garcia loomed over her, the rich scent of his cologne surrounding her, strangling her other senses. “No? Then what are you?” He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Something glittered in his eyes and she refused to acknowledge what. “You ask me for a favor and promise me money, yet I see no money.”

He straightened and she fought the urge to close her eyes in relief. Her heart nearly beat through her chest and her strangled breaths came too fast.

“If I don’t get my money, you will become my
puta
, yes?”

She swallowed, her throat so dry it hurt. “No,” she whispered.

His smile was anything but reassuring. “You will,
mi Susanita
. You will. Now tell me, who is this man Hope Stewart runs to?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, Manco, I have no idea.”

The blow to her face snapped her head back. Stars danced before her eyes and she stumbled backward, falling on the bed. She reached up and touched her bleeding cheek.

Garcia watched her, hands in his pockets, as if nothing had happened but a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. She’d been afraid of him a few times since he’d released her from prison, but her fear doubled and she began to wonder, when she finally found her money, would it be enough?

He shrugged elegantly clad shoulders. “Think of it as a warning,
mi amor
. If I don’t get my money, it will be far worse.” He turned and sauntered to the door, pulling it open before glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and
Susanita
?” He waited until she lifted her head to look at him. “I have decided two million is not enough. I want four.” With that, he closed the door behind him. She could hear him whistling as he walked away, then calling to the guard stationed outside.

She stood on unsteady legs and made her way to the cracked mirror. Her cheek was already beginning to bruise, turning an angry combination of red and purple. A cut along her cheekbone seeped blood. Where had it all gone wrong? Two years ago, she’d been at the top of her game, a shoo-in for First Lady, married to the man America loved and wanted as their next president. She’d attended dinners given in her honor, was the closest thing this country had to royalty. She’d been beautiful and rich.

Her tired gaze met its reflection. Dark circles marred a pasty complexion. Hair that had once been full and lush now hung lank beside her face. She’d once had a figure most women would die for, but was nothing but skin and bones now. She leaned forward, feathering her fingers across the cheek Garcia hadn’t hit, touching the puckered scar that signified everything she had lost. As always when she studied the path of the bullet Luke Barone had shot at her, her anger rose.

It choked her with its intensity and the fiery need to exact revenge. But just as quickly as it came, it dissipated. Two years in a women’s penitentiary tended to put things in perspective. She would dearly love to give Lucas and his whore of a wife a taste of their own medicine, but that wasn’t to be.

She’d thought she’d be happy living outside the bars of hell, away from the country she’d served for so many years. The same country that had turned on her. Maybe some small part of her had known her downfall would come, because she’d had the foresight to stash enough money in overseas accounts to spend the rest of her life in quiet comfort. Provided Garcia didn’t bleed her dry.

She stepped away from the mirror. The past had to stay in the past. The future was all that mattered now. Except there wouldn’t be a future unless they could find the paperwork that would allow her to access the accounts. She’d thought they were tucked safely away amongst Bradley’s papers, but when Bradley died of a massive heart attack last year, the papers had gone to his trusted advisor, Charles Stewart.

Both she and Garcia had thought it would be simple to retrieve what was rightly hers.

Until Hope Stewart walked into the middle of it all.

***

Hope woke suddenly, her body tense. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then her grief came crashing in like huge waves, ripping away everything in its path, leaving nothing but devastation, horror and disbelief. She gulped in air, realizing the whimpers she heard were hers.

John must have left the bathroom light on because shadows danced across the ceiling, while a wedge of light expanded until it failed to penetrate the far corners of the room. It was then she heard the noise. Something other than her pathetic attempt to hold her grief inside.

It was more animal-like. A growl, but human. She sat up and looked around. In the cabin, John had always been a couch-width away and to wake and not find him so close scared her in a way she couldn’t name.