The Reunited (17 page)

The ramble of thoughts in her mind stopped him from sensing anything else.

Then he stepped into her path and the dazed, numb shock replaced her rambling thoughts as he closed the distance between them.

Seconds later, there was no dazed, numb shock.

Just dazed, delighted pleasure as he caught her face in his hands and took her mouth.

She tasted of salt and sweat and woman.
His
woman, Joss thought. He groaned against her lips as her hands came up, gripped his wrists, her short, neat nails biting into his skin.

Her mouth opened for him and he growled with satisfaction, tracing the opening with his tongue before swooping inside to taste more of her, to
take
more of her.

It was heaven. It was perfection.

Then it was over, as she tore away from him, her chest heaving, her face flushed.

“You again,” she muttered. A look that might have been fear came and went in her eyes as she glanced around.

Bugger—what if they caught up? If they saw that . . .

He couldn’t keep up with her thoughts—her shields were too solid, and once she’d shored them up, he could only follow fleeting glimpses.

There was enough, though, to let him know she was afraid.

Very afraid.

Who would follow you?
he wanted to ask.
Why be so afraid?

But now wasn’t the time.

For either of them.

But he wasn’t about to let her leave so soon. Advancing on her, he watched as she backed away one step. Then another. “I guess I shouldn’t be pawing you in the middle of the sidewalk,” he said, crooking a smile at her.

She arched a brow. “It would be nice.”

“I’ll do it there, then.” He glanced over her shoulder, watched as she did the same. A blush crept up her cheeks as she eyed the motel. “You think I’m going to let you grab us a quicky motel? I don’t even know your—”

She stopped abruptly, swallowed.

“My what?” he asked.

She paused, eyeing him nervously for a moment. “Your name. I don’t even know your name.”

Joss continued to walk forward, one slow step at a time, waiting until she backed up. A few more steps had them in the shadow of a big RV—exactly where he’d been planning. “Now that’s not true, baby girl. You know my name just fine.”

“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t.”

But the echo in her mind said otherwise.

Grinning at her, Joss dipped down and nuzzled her neck.
“Liar . . .”

As his lips cruised along her bare skin, she groaned and arched her head back. “This is insane. Completely insane.”

“Yeah.” He traced a path along her skin with his tongue, heat punching inside him at the taste of her. It was different. She was different. Stronger. Wiser. Sadder. And she didn’t remember him, but he didn’t care. That may change and it may not, but he didn’t fucking
care
. She was here, she was with him, and some part of her
knew
him. He could tell, could feel it.

As she pressed closer to him, he slid a hand around her and curved it over her lower back, spread his fingers wide until he could feel the firm curve of her ass. Lifting his head, he said, “What’s my name, Dru?”

She stared at him through her lashes, a dazed look in her eyes. Shaking her head, she leaned in, seeking out his mouth.

He wasn’t about to argue with that. When she opened for him, he tugged her closer. The feel of her, all soft and warm and female, was almost too much. Through the sturdy fabric of the sports bra she wore, he could feel the soft swells of her breasts, and he wanted to peel the material off her, lick away the sweat, then make her sweat again . . . as he brought her to climax a dozen times.

His cock ached, throbbed, and each light brush as she moved against him was the sweetest torment.

Fisting his hand in her tank top, he dragged it up, baring skin damp from her run. Higher, higher, until it caught under her arms. Leaning back, he stared down at her. The utilitarian black sports bra shouldn’t have been so fucking sexy, but it was. She could have worn sackcloth and ashes and she’d still be beautiful to him.

In his mind’s eye, an image from a time long past drifted—her standing before him, in white petticoats edged with lace, presenting him with her back and asking for his help in lacing up her corset.

Swearing, he dipped his knees and wrapped his arm around her hips, boosting her high. Her breasts were on level with his mouth and he nuzzled them, wishing he could strip her naked, take her here.

“Joss . . .” she gasped out.

*   *   *

T
HE
look in his eyes should have infuriated her. It was amusement, mixed with triumph . . . and something else. But as he dipped his head and brushed his lips along the edge of her sports bra, all she could do was cradle the back of his neck and wish she could get even closer. “You do know my name,” he murmured, pleased.

“We’re out in public,” she snapped, reaching for the icy, snotty tone she’d crafted and refined so long ago. Really, it should have worked.

All he did was shoot her a lazy, slow smile.

“Yeah. It’s a good thing, too, or I’d have you naked and I’d already be so deep inside you . . .” He raked her skin with his teeth. “It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway, duchess.”

For a minute, she let herself believe him. Let herself believe it could happen. Believe it would.

But then reality came crashing down on her, and she made herself think about what was
really
going to happen sooner or later. In a matter of weeks, she’d be married to Patrick Whitmore if she didn’t find the proof she needed
before
then. If she didn’t find it, then she’d marry him and keep on looking until she found it.

Either she’d find it . . . and get away from him.

Or she’d end up dead when he discovered what she was up to.

In all likelihood, the second option was what would happen.

She dreamed too often of her death, death at the hands of a violent, angry man who hated her.

She
knew
how likely it was if he discovered what she was up to. There was no point in pretending otherwise, and no point in trying to think up other options. Every time she did that, she ended up having to talk herself out of running. She couldn’t run away from this. Too many girls had already died, and if she didn’t do something . . . who would?

Big, strong arms came around her, and a gentle hand stroked her back. She didn’t even realize she’d collapsed against him, her head against his shoulder, gripping him tight and close as though she never wanted him to leave.

She didn’t. This man she’d seen exactly twice.

Yet some part of her felt as though she
knew
him . . .

Joss.

The dream.

“What’s wrong, duchess?”

She shivered as he whispered it, his lips pressed against her neck as he spoke.

“Whatever is wrong with you, calling me that?” she said, swallowing around the knot that had lodged in her throat. Easing away from him, she eyed him nervously before glancing around. Nobody could see them from here, unless of course Patrick had managed to stash his men in the hotel. Not likely, that.

“I dunno. Seems to suit you. The accent. The way you carry yourself . . . all smooth and elegant.” He touched his finger to her lip. “What scares you?”

“I don’t see how that could suit me,” she said faintly, ignoring the last part of his question as she tugged her tank down.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, putting himself in her way.

With a brittle smile, she shook her head. “I’m not afraid,” she lied.

“Don’t lie to me. You know as well as I do, it doesn’t work. You’re terrified, damn it. Why?”

Dru shook her head. “It doesn’t do any good to talk about it. You can’t help anyway. I must go.”

Part of her questioned why she wasn’t furious with him—this was a
stranger.
She didn’t know him. But all she could think about was how much she wished she could stay. How much she longed to go back to him . . . lean against him, touch him. Taste him.
Take
him.

But when he reached for her, she evaded him.

“Meet me here tomorrow,” he said flatly.

“No.” She continued to back away, glancing around for signs that one of Patrick’s men might have caught up with her. Nothing. There was a shiny black car in the parking lot of the Waffle House across the street, but it wasn’t one of Patrick’s. If it was, she’d know. She’d feel it somehow.

“Dru, talk to me.”

She shot him another look. Then,
finally
, fury and frustration sparked inside her, and she glared at him as it bubbled over and spilled out. “Stop. Damn you, why couldn’t you have come into my life a year ago? Two years ago? Why
now
? I can’t have you now.”

Without bothering to explain, she took off running.

She was torn between hoping he’d follow, and praying he wouldn’t.

*   *   *

I can’t have you now—

The utter heartbreak in her words was enough to gut him.

He went to take off after her, but a strange burning tingle down his spine stopped him. The chiming tone from his phone two seconds later had him swearing.

Now.

Of course,
now
Jones comes on the scene. Still staring at Dru’s back, he pushed a thought toward her. He didn’t know if it would work—he didn’t know what her skill set was, but Jillian’s was strong enough, he should be able to make a
corpse
hear him.

We’re not done, Dru. And you’ll damn well talk to me. I can help . . . whatever it is.

She stumbled a little.

Then kept on running.

Yeah. She heard him all right.

Blowing out a breath, he looked back at the Waffle House. Taylor Jones was standing by his car. Dez wasn’t with him . . . but he wasn’t alone.

Joss recognized the blonde from here.

He didn’t know her name, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen her before.

This was the woman Patrick had been checking out the night before.

And Joss knew her vaguely. He’d seen her around. He just couldn’t remember where.

*   *   *

“J
OSS,
have you met Nalini Cole? She’s with the unit. Fairly new, though.”

Joss slumped on the couch, eyeing the long, cool blonde narrowly.

“I’ve seen her around,” he said, directing his words at Jones, but still keeping his eyes on Nalini. “Can’t recall where just yet.”

She laughed. It was a clear, bell-like sound. Almost angelic. It matched that pretty, pale hair, matched the clear, refined oval of her face.

But it didn’t match those dark, sultry eyes.

Her face said
angel
and her voice seemed to echo it.

Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, the way she watched people . . . all of that screamed . . .
devil
. Or maybe trouble.

As she leaned forward, a smile curved her red-slicked mouth. “Now that’s not entirely true, is it?” she asked. She posed prettily, the swells of her breasts on display as she continued to watch him.

“Well, I did see you . . . last night. Just not entirely with my eyes. Before that? Don’t recall just where I saw you, and I don’t have time to wade through the maze of information I’ve got crammed into my brain.”

Cutting his gaze to Jones, he said, “What’s going on, boss? I’ve got a bitch of a job to do, and we’ve got some serious logistics we need to hammer out.”

Jones opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Nalini said, “He wants a blonde, doesn’t he?”

She toyed with her hair. It was done up in a series of tiny braids . . . no. Not braids, exactly.

“Dreadlocks,” she offered. She gave him a serene smile. “They’re called dreadlocks.”

“Next time I’m grilled on the hairstyles of women, I’ll keep that one in mind.” He raked her over from head to toe and then shook his head. “You’re all wrong.”

“No. I’m perfect.” She leaned back, abandoning the seductive pose, the sex kitten smile, and gave him a grim look. “And more . . . I was pulled here for just this. I knew the minute I saw that fuck last night why I was down here, but I’ve been having nightmares, bad fits, things that I can’t even explain, and it’s been going on for weeks. My . . . abilities don’t normally work like this, but something has been pulling at me, guiding me. I headed down here over a month ago.”

“A month . . .” He shot Jones a look. “I thought you said she was with the unit . . . unless she’s been working this, too?”

“Freelance,” Jones muttered. “Cole has commitment issues.”

She snorted. “I also have issues of being wanted for crimes I didn’t commit—you don’t want that on your plate, sugar.” She continued to stare at Joss. “I’ve been down here a month. I’ll be sitting at a table, and I’ll hear a scream. But there’s nobody there. Then I’ll feel a knife, and it’s like I’m dying. Or I’ll feel hands on my wrists, my ankles. And somebody’s tearing into me, raping me. Over and over. But I’m alone in my hotel room. The worst . . .” She paused, her lashes falling to shield her eyes. “I was in the middle of a mall, walking around, and then I was on the ground. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. But I could see . . . I should have seen the roof of the mall over me, but I saw trees, blue sky. And then there was something big, and fast . . . and I felt pain like I’ve never felt before. It was over in a few minutes, but it seemed to last forever.”

Leaning back in his seat, Joss studied her. “You are . . . what, precog?”

“Not so much.” She sighed and pulled something out of her purse, laying it on the table between them. Joss leaned forward, eyeing the gold chain, the silly charm that hung from it. “I found this at a pawn shop up in Atlanta. It shouldn’t have ever been sold . . . the guy who sold it screwed up. They aren’t supposed to take stuff from the girls they grab, but this one does. He takes whatever jewelry he sees on them and pawns it. This . . . I saw it in a store and for some reason, I had to touch it.”

“You’ve got psychometry,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. It’s the weaker gift and I thank God for that.” Shaking her head, she scooped the necklace up and tucked it back into her bag. “If I had a stronger connection to what was going on, I think I’d go insane. It’s hard enough sleeping right now.”