Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2) (7 page)

Michelle paced the length of the room for the thousandth time. There were exactly eighteen steps from the bathroom door to the sad excuse of a table. Not the biggest rooms here at the OTE.

A long moan drifted through the left wall followed by a slam, then rhythmic banging.

“Oh, God.
Yes
,” a woman cried. “Give it to me, daddy.”

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.
The cheap picture over the bed rattled with “daddy’s” frantic pace.

Michelle rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Really?” she asked the stained tiles. As if her situation wasn’t bad enough, she now had to listen to a bad porno.

She glanced at the clock. 5:22 p.m.

Her fingertips felt cold. She went to rub her hands together only to find her palms had a thin layer of sweat. How messed up was that? Darn nerves.

For years she had fantasized about this moment. So many versions ranging from innocent to completely far-fetched had captivated her dreams. Only Fate would deliver the version where she was holed up in a seedy motel with Big Daddy providing the sleazy soundtrack.

“Yes! Right there! Harder!”

She tuned out the “Oh-Gods,” and the “That’s-the-spots” and replayed her favorite fantasy. The one where Captain Jeremy Malone sought her out only to find out she had been given a new identity and placed in Witness Protection. Devastated by the government’s unwillingness to tell him where she had been relocated, he made it his personal mission to find her. Though it took years, he finally discovered she became a park ranger in Indianapolis. He immediately requested leave from the military and showed up at her apartment door.

She laughed at her foolish daydreams. Even if the man had hunted her down, then what? Her track record since Colombia had been Michelle, zero; Disaster, every time.

The looks of disgust on her partners’ faces when they saw her body usually killed whatever passion she had been able to muster through the fear and memories. Only one man had seen beyond carnage and made her feel as if it would be okay.

A hoarse shout bled through the thin wall followed by a lot of groaning. Hopefully that signaled the end of “daddy’s” session.

Had she done the right thing calling Cappy? How long had he been in Indianapolis? God, had she been this close to him all this time? What if he’s seen the news? Would he call the police, FBI, Army to tip them off? She started to panic. Oh no. What had she done?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Michelle jumped at the sound on her door. The blood drained from her face and her heart pounded against her ribcage. No way in this short span of time could it be another drunk with the wrong room. Which meant . . .
He’s here
. All her insecurities rushed through her brain as she stared at the door. Everything from her thunder-thighs to her lack of makeup and hungover status swamped her.

“Michelle?” a muffled, deep male voice called on the other side. She’d know that intonation anywhere. It slid over her, tightening the knot in her stomach. She rubbed the dancing area and snagged on a button. Jerking her head down, she started cussing. She still had on the ugliest uniform ever. Not one ounce of sexiness could be wrung from the drab olive and gray clothing.

Sweat pooled under her arms, not helping her confidence and—

Wait, what was that? She squinted and dabbed a spot on her shirt. Great. She had on the most god-awful
stained
uniform ever.

This was so far from her fantasy she could only hang her head. About par for the last twenty-four hours.

Knock. Knock.

“Michelle,” Captain Jeremy Malone said again. “It’s safe to open the door.”

No one shouted “POLICE” or “FBI.” That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Didn’t they have to identify themselves first before entering? That meant he was alone, right?

She threw her shoulders back and strode across the room. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and opened the thin wood.

Holy Cheesus on wheat toast.

How could she not recall how HUGE he was? And that was saying something, since she was considered tall. But he had to be at least a half a foot over her head. Not only tall, but ripped with muscles . . . Like no-way-could-this-exist-in-real-life muscles sprouted beneath a tight T-shirt. Since he had worn a helmet the last time they met, she had never gotten to see he had dark brown hair, buzzed in a military crew-cut. His stance was all business; exuding strength and power and don’t-mess-with-me-cause-I-know-eighty-ways-to-kill-you. But one feature commanded her attention—the same one haunting her for years. His eyes. Those wonderfully expressive deep coffee-colored eyes.

“Cappy.” She shuddered. After so many years of longing, she was finally staring into their depths . . . and he was staring right back.

“You’re real,” she whispered, her brain trying to catch up to her eyes. “Not some made-up vision in my nightmare, right? I mean,” a depreciating laugh bubbled out, “I know I just talked to you, but . . .”

“I get it. I’m a little disoriented too.”

Huh? What did that mean? Twenty emotions shot through her, all vying to interpret his statement.

“Ah, yeah,” a male voice said from behind Jeremy. “Not to be a total buzzkill but can we move this reunion inside? We
are
outside room sixty-nine. I don’t want her pimp to come asking questions.”

Her hero winced and closed his eyes briefly.

“Sorry!” she rushed to say. “My fault. I should have invited you in.” She moved back and motioned for them to enter. Wait.
Pimp? Sixty-nine?
Then she got it.
Stupid missing nail.

Captain Jeremy Malone filled the doorframe. Her nostrils flared and she couldn’t stop herself from inhaling. Fresh, clean soap and something she could only dub “all male” hit her as he tread within inches of her. Her body tingled and a part of her she never thought she’d feel again woke up, clawing to get closer. No sign of fear, just lust slammed into her. Her nipples strained against her bra and . . .

She bumped her chin against his passing shoulder.

Dear Lord
, had she actually leaned forward?
Smooth, Michelle. Really smooth.

She glanced at the second man and her breathing stuttered. Frost radiated from a pair of emerald eyes as they raked her from head to toe, slowly. His black fitted T-shirt with the slogan “I don’t hold grudges, I remember facts” probably summed him up perfectly. Late-twenties to early-thirties, the scruff lining the bottom half of his good-looking face most likely had the women sighing, but nothing warm or welcoming exuded from this man.

Ice shot down her spine.

Perfect.
A Stone Cold Killer just joined her nightmare. As if there weren’t enough monsters and things out to get her.

For a split second her instincts screamed to run
out
the door, not close it, then her eyes collided with SCK’s. As if sensing her inner struggle with him in the mix, SCK actually had the nerve to wink with a knowing smirk plastered on his face.
Oh, heck no.
She slammed the door shut, crossing her arms.

“Talon,” Jeremy said softly, with plenty of warning. “Knock it off.”

SCK lifted his palms as if to say “Who me? I’m innocent.”

Her hero didn’t appear fooled and, instead, scowled fiercely at SCK, who shrugged and dropped onto the rickety wooden chair. She was surprised the chair didn’t crack under his weight. He wasn’t as brawny as Jeremy, but he definitely held his own in that department.

She couldn’t resist asking, “You think I have a pimp?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Independent? Good for you keeping all the money for yourself.”

Of all the . . .
She stepped forward and pointed at the jerk. “Listen up, buddy—”

“Talon,” Jeremy’s voice whipped through her tirade. “Shut the fuck up.”

Her eyes shifted to the man who captivated her dreams. His scowl slowly ebbed as they continued to hold each other’s gaze. Her heart rate inclined with each passing second and she couldn’t drink him in fast enough. The intensity in his rich irises as he stared at her made her core tighten and liquid heat flood her system. No one had ever made her feel as if she were the sexiest woman alive—especially since she didn’t own a model’s body—but the blatant approval in his eyes as they tracked down her physique then up slowly had her
this close
to flinging herself at him.

“Wow,” Talon muttered sourly, breaking the spell and reminding her they weren’t alone.

Jeremy’s eyes flashed; the emotion flitting by too fast for her to interpret. “You, uh, look really good.”

The heat from her blush crept up from her neck, overtaking her face. “Thanks.”

“Before I throw up more in my mouth, I’m Talon,” the man at the table said. “Though I doubt with all the tension, anyone cares.”

She reluctantly pulled her gaze away from Jeremy to acknowledge the—

Dear God. Her heart stuttered. The man sat sprawled in the chair holding a knife. Not a simple pocket knife either. No, this sucker was wicked with its onyx-black blade.

“Talon,” Cappy barked. “Knock it off.”

“Christ,” SCK retorted. “I haven’t done anything.” He tapped the flat of the blade on his knee.

“Put. It. Away.”

Talon’s eyes flew to the knife. His irises widened as if surprised he had been holding it.

How could anyone not know they were toying with a thing that deadly? She clutched her shirt for lack of something to do with her hands. Lord, please don’t let this be a mistake.

Talon kept the knife out and locked his icy emeralds onto Jeremy. “I couldn’t help noticing she addressed you as
Cappy
.”

Jeremy stiffened and the tips of his ears pinkened.

What the heck did that mean? Why would Talon care what she nicknamed him six years ago?

“Interesting,” SCK continued. “If I recall correctly when we met over five years ago, you—”

Cappy clapped his hands, causing Michelle to start. Dang it, she was tired of swallowing her heart.

“We can get into all that later,” Jeremy said over Talon’s snickering. “First thing we need to do—” his voice stopped when an insistent buzzing filled the air. Both he and Talon reached for their phones.

Talon bolted out of the chair at the same time Jeremy cursed and typed a message back to whomever texted him.

“I saw a dry cleaners two buildings over,” Jeremy snapped, jamming his phone into the holder clipped to his cargo pants. Opposite his gun.

Talon saluted with the knife. He didn’t acknowledge her as he jogged past. Seconds later, the sound of a window opening filled the room, then nothing else.

“What’s—”

“Pack your stuff—”

His phone buzzed again and he ripped it back out, glanced at the message, then put it away.

“Shit.” He jogged to the bathroom, then back.

She could barely swallow around her heart thundering in her throat. Her feet rooted to the floor in a way that had nothing to do with the layer of grime on the carpet. “What’s going on?”

“We gotta go. Now.” He physically turned her toward the back of the room. “Follow Talon’s lead and jump out the window above the toilet.”

She pulled back, stunned. “Go? And you want me to do what?”

Jeremy crossed to the front window and swished the curtain back an inch. “Damn. We don’t have time for this.”

She trotted forward and placed her eye close to the gap he caused in the flimsy material. Full-body awareness trumped all the other conflicting feelings and she had to fight her overwhelming desire to lean against his strength.

He shifted behind her and a flash of being cradled in his arms as he ran for safety consumed her.

She sighed.

His stiffening posture jolted her back into the real world.
Get a grip
. She peered through the opening in the curtains. It took her a moment to comprehend the fast moving cars on the road were not only headed this way, but appeared to be of an official capacity.
Crap!

“What the—”

“Got it now?” he asked, snatching her purse and cell phone off the table and tugging her hand. “We gotta go, unless you
want
to greet the FBI barreling this way.”

“FBI?” The air left her body and she stumbled at the lightheadedness. No! They’d put her in handcuffs.

Despite the panic seizing her brain, the electricity from the contact zinged up her arm.

“How did they know where to find me?” A dawning awareness seeped over her and she halted their progress. “You called them after we hung up?”

Son of a witch. She yanked against his grip, but he held firm. She had been so caught up in their history and fantasizing about how special she was to him that it didn’t click until now: Those words on the helicopter had just been blurted out by a man who figured he’d never see her again.
Idiot. Of course
he’d repeat them back to her on the phone, he must have some stake in the authorities finding her location.

A thundercloud eclipsed his handsome face and he jerked her forward. Leaning in close, he enunciated slowly, “I didn’t call anybody—”

“Fine, then,” she snapped, trying not to notice the proximity of his lips or his beautiful, angry eyes. “Your
associate
did.”

“
Neither
of us talked to
anyone
in the FBI.”

She clenched her teeth. “Then explain to me how they’re about to converge on this room?”

“You see that
I’m
the one trying to get us out of here, right?”

She had no good response to that bit of logic, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

He straightened and exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “Did you take a cab to get here?”

Michelle’s stomach flipped.

“He called it in.”

The staccato words hit like little punches. “And you know this how?”

“We’ll have to get into that later.” He pulled her hand again. “Hurry up and get your ass out that window before they surround the place.”

When she still hesitated, he stated frankly, “You called me to help you. Now, cut me some slack and scoot.” He motioned to the small window, her purse squishing with movement.

The only reason she took a step forward was because of their history. She had to trust that something on a deeper level knew calling him was the right choice. But the questions of who tipped him off about the cabbie’s call, why he had a memorial webpage, and what he had been up to for the past six years plagued her.