Swept Away (21 page)

She smirked, giving her head a tilt. “It’s a cat, not a guy.”
He arched one knowing brow. “But it’s a guy cat.”

She couldn’t hold in a small trill of laughter, yet they both slapped hands over her mouth as
soon as it leaked out—and all merriment fled the scene as they recalled exactly why they were huddled together, crouched down against a big rock in the forest. She looked into his dark eyes as the seriousness of the situation took back over.

Now would be a really easy time to kiss him. Because his mouth was so close and his gaze so
possessive. And because maybe it would make her feel safe, just for a minute, as it did when
they were talking, as it did simply to have his body so near.

But she couldn’t do that, of course.

“Tell me what else,” he said, eyes never leaving hers, voice low and deep. “About your life.”

Wanting to kiss him had her a little flustered, so she bit her lip and searched for something
significant to say. “I went to the U of F and majored in art history with a minor in ceramics.”

“Ceramics?”

She shrugged. “I know, that sounds about as complex as Basketweaving 101, but I’m a potter, and it’s a highly specialized trade.”

Now he looked interested, which she couldn’t help liking. “A potter? Like you make pottery?”

She nodded. “That’s why my hands are such a mess.” She held them out, displaying her short
nails and always-dry skin. She wasn’t sure why—maybe because she was afraid he might have
noticed. Acknowledging it, explaining why her hands weren’t soft or supple like other
women’s, made her feel better.

He took one of her hands between his. “They’re not so bad,” he said, then winked. “I’d still let
you touch me with them.”

She rolled her eyes, but it came—unwittingly—with a smile. “I work with my dad in the gallery, too,” she went on. “I could have taken the art history degree in a few different
directions, but like him, I really do love art, and the gallery. And it also fits with my passion for
pottery. I’m having my very first show there next month, in fact.”

“That’s nice, kitten,” he said warmly.

“On Saturdays,” she felt inspired to add, “I work with less-fortunate kids—helping them learn
to use the wheel and throw pots. It’s good for them. And for me, too, I guess. It makes me feel
like I’m doing some good in the world in my own way.”

She had a feeling she’d run on at the mouth again as she seemed to have a habit of doing
around him, so decided to shut up. As dedicated as she was to working with the kids, she
didn’t want Brock to think she’d become some holier-than-thou do-gooder. Not that she knew
why she even cared. Yet therein lay the problem. As much as she wanted to stay true to Ian—
she still wanted Brock to want her.

“That’s really a good thing, honey,” Brock said, and he meant it. Even if it surprised him to find out Kat knew less-fortunate kids existed, let alone went out of her way to make them feel
special. Hell, twenty-five years ago he might’ve been one of those kids.

How might it have influenced his life—or Bruno’s—if someone had taken the time to teach
him some craft, something he could make from nothing? If someone had treated him or Bruno
like they mattered a little?

He tilted his head to one side and looked at her long and hard. Kat, an artist. He’d thought of
her in a lot of ways over the years, but he’d never imagined her working with her hands,
getting them dirty, and the image appealed for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“What?” she said.

“Maybe you’ll show me your pots sometime,” he said. Although the second he spoke, he knew
it had come out sounding more like he wanted to see something else. Her underwear, maybe.
Or what was underneath.

Her eyes widened, luminescent as a ray of sun sifted down through the canopy of green above to light her face. “Um maybe.” Yeah, she’d heard the sex in his voice, too. But he didn’t mind.

“Tell me about the FBI,” she said.

He cast a chiding look. “That’s the thing about the FBI, kitten. Can’t talk about it.”

She pursed her lips, clearly perturbed. “Well then tell me how you got into it. Surely you can
say that much.”

He gave a slow nod. That he could share. “First thing I did was go to the police academy—just
wanted to be a cop.”

“Why?” she asked, cutting him off before he’d really begun.

“I told you this part the other day. Just wanted to do something with my life.”
She nodded, and he went on.

“So anyway, one of the instructors at the academy kind of took me under his wing. Guess he
saw some potential in me, but he thought I needed more than the academy. At first that pissed me off, but deep inside, I knew he was right. He encouraged me to take night classes at a
community college—so I took a couple English courses, a literature class—”

For some reason, her knowing smile stopped him cold. “Where you learned Shakespeare.”
He returned a grin. “Yep. Also took a speech class.”

“It all shows,” she said, admiration in her gaze. He at once liked that and hated it. When he’d
known her before, he’d prided himself on not caring what anyone thought of him, and it was easy to go back there with her, easy to want to keep their connection purely sexual, as it had
been then. But the reality was, life had taught him that people’s opinions of you mattered, and it
filled him with masculine satisfaction to know Kat thought he’d turned out well.

“After the academy, my instructor said he thought I had the makings of an FBI agent. Plus, the fact that I didn’t have much family is a big draw for them, too. So I checked it out, did the
interviews and physical tests, went through the program at Quantico, and made it in.”

“And then what?” she asked.

He would have liked to have told her. Everything. Every detail of every mission he’d ever
worked. For some reason, his mind flashed on the two of them, lying naked in bed, spending a
whole Sunday, him just talking, telling her the things he’d never been able to tell anyone
before. Pure fantasy, of course. “Then nothing. ’Cause that, kitten, is where the story ends for
you.”

She gave a saucy little shrug that jostled her breasts slightly. “Fine. So—are you in danger like
this often?”

“And do you win, or do you lose?”

He flashed an arrogant grin. “I’m here, aren’t I? I always win, kitten. Always.”

“Kitten.”

She was resting, asleep, and Brock’ s voice flirted somewhere on the periphery of her mind,
softer than she’d ever heard it.

“Kitten, honey, wake up. Quiet now, baby, but open your eyes.”

So soft and deep, that voice. She could drown in it. She smelled the musky scent of him all
around her, snuggled instinctively closer against his chest.

“This is serious, kitten—wake up for me now.”

Something about that particular whispered plea broke through her sleepy fog. She opened her
eyes and looked at him. Remembered they were hiding in the jungle. It was very serious. And
his expression said something was wrong.

This time he didn’t make a sound, just moved his lips. They’re back. Don’t move.

All the air drained from Kat’s lungs. She held herself motionless, or tried to anyway—she was
still trying to get full control of her mind and body. Sleep had been too sweet.

That’s when she heard the startlingly loud rustle of leaves, then the crack of a twig. God, they
sounded close enough to touch. Fear shot through her, finally waking her up, but also
knocking her a bit off-balance inside. Bile rose to her throat, made her want to clutch at her chest, but she knew she couldn’t move a muscle.

Beneath her palm beat Brock’s heart—steady, sure, his chest warm. How long had she been touching him like that? She lifted her gaze to his, let their eyes lock. Felt for him a deep
affection she shouldn’t, and tried desperately to push it away.

The foliage shushed loudly once more, then ceased.

Still peering into Brock’s eyes, emotion overwhelmed her—fear and attachment and confusion
—and she let out the breath she’d been holding. Then accidentally shifted her foot against a fern, jarring the fronds.

Her stomach dropped. A cannon blast couldn’t have sounded any louder.

She instinctively moved her gaze from Brock upward—to find a dark-skinned man with a thin
mustache looking back, a different guy than the one they’d seen earlier.

“I almost hoped I wouldn’t find you, Jimmy,” the man said.

“You can pretend you didn’t,” Brock replied, his voice persuasive. “You can keep on walking,
tell him you never saw a thing.” But despite the troubled look in his eyes, the man shook his head. “No, you lied. You made a
fool out of me in front of my brother. I have no choice now, Jimmy—or whatever the hell your
name is. I have no choice.”

“Then just let her go. Take me and let her go free.”

Every nerve in Kat’s body stood on end. This isn’t real. It can’t be happening.

“Can’t do that, either,” the man replied, but his expression looked downright pained now as he
reached to push a sweaty lock of dark, curling hair out of his eyes.

And it was just as Kat noticed he held his gun limp at his side that Brock said, “Run, Kat.”

Chapter Eight

Brock gave her a shove, forcing her to take ßight, simultaneously bolting upright to place
himself in Carlos’s path. As she tore away through the woods, Carlos looked after her, then
met Brock’s gaze, but never made a move with his feet or his gun. Brock had suspected he
wouldn’t.

And now he had to bet Carlos wouldn’t shoot him, either, as he took off sprinting in the
opposite direction from Kat, tossing a hard taunt over his shoulder. “You’ll never get me, you
stupid son of a bitch.”

Behind him, Carlos followed—racing through the jungly growth, and Brock thought, That’s
right, chase me, Carlos. Chase me so she can get away. And then his mind moved right back to
Kat: Run baby—run and hide and don’t come out, no matter what happens.

Turned out, though, Carlos was swifter than Brock would have guessed, keeping pace with
him, damn it. So he tried to shut out everything else but the running—don’t think of Kat, and don’t think of the bullet that might come ripping through your back at any moment. He
concentrated instead on not tripping over roots or brush, on not getting tangled in any of the
vines dangling from above.

Shit, why are you guys even here? The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. He’d
held on to a niggling concern they might return, but that had been more overzealous caution—
and maybe instinct—than logic. If they’d had any real doubts that they hadn’t killed him, they’d
have never left the first time. Two days had passed—so what had happened to bring them
back?