Too Hot to Hold (30 page)

“I’m the press, not the news,” she protested.

“If your article does what it’s supposed to do, you’re going to be both for a while. And my traveling with you isn’t the smartest thing,” he pointed out. “I can’t be involved in this.”

She hadn’t thought about that. Correction, hadn’t wanted to think about it. But yes, having Nick photographed coming off the plane with her in Virginia wouldn’t do his career any good. “One more night.”

“It’s not going to change anything.” He let go of her arm and lay on his back. “How many calls do you get about Cutter?”

“At least two a week,” she admitted.

“And it’s not going to stop,” he muttered.

“No, I can’t imagine it would.”

“And isn’t your paper—your public—going to wonder why you stopped writing about the Winfields?”

“Maybe. Probably. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not going to stop writing—you’re too good. Look at what you did for Clutch.”

“We don’t know yet what I’ve done for him. We don’t know anything.” She heard the frustration in her voice.

“What good did I do for you, if after this is all said and done, I can’t be with you?”

Nick didn’t answer her and she realized that staying in Africa might only prolong the inevitable. All her years of training, her ability to question, to wear down, to search and dig and find every bit of the truth, to make things better went out the window as defeat settled over her for the moment.

Clutch had stayed in the hospital a grand total of five hours. After a round of IV antibiotics, he’d insisted on pills and a shot and he’d gotten off the table.

No one would stop him—there was really no one who could, except for Sarah, and she understood his reluctance to remain strapped to anything, especially now. She’d followed behind him while he made his grand, bellowing exit and then half collapsed onto her for the remainder of the walk to the car.

She didn’t say a word about that, said nothing when he lay in the backseat biting back groans as she drove them to a hotel. Instead, she dragged him out of the car and into the room, shoved him on the bed.

He slept for hours, only dimly aware of her hands with the cool washcloths for his forehead or rousing him to take medicine or drink something or to change his bandage. At one point, he heard himself asking her for his gun and her sharp reply of
No way
.

But when he finally stirred and opened his eyes for longer than five seconds, she sat next to him and waited. He knew what he wanted to ask her, but the words were a long time coming.

“A U.S. marshal left you a message on your phone, asked you to get in touch with him. He wants to know what you need,” she said finally. “After that phone call, that’s when PJ left.”

It made sense—PJ’s stepfather was a marshal. Now that PJ’s sister was involved, it probably set the wheels in motion. “I’ve got everything I need right here.” He heard the unnecessary gruffness in his voice as he rubbed a hand along her thigh. “Listen, there are still people who could find me—you know that, right?”

“I think we can take care of ourselves. I think it’s time. There’s an old house along the Cote d’Ivoire. Lots of rooms upstairs. It needs work… but I think it would be perfect,” she told him.

“You bought it.”

“Maybe.”

Stubborn. She was still stubborn—enough to wait for him, to refuse to think he’d leave her forever.

Stubborn enough to believe that one day they’d begin rebuilding themselves together. “I know that must’ve been hard for you. You’d always said you didn’t want a home, didn’t want to be in one place.”

“I was wrong,” she told him. “We’ll be all right, Bobby.”

Bobby
. The word wrapped him in a blanket of comfort, brought back memories, which was short-lived because she was off the bed and rifling his bag.

“What are you looking for?”

She lifted her head, a small frown creasing her forehead. “Did you keep that picture? The one of you in the Hawaiian shirt. You didn’t destroy it, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. I know how much you like that picture.”

“Not like. Love. Pictures are a way of making things permanent,” she said. “Even when my relatives died, I was still able to page through the old albums and see them, before I lost the albums.”

“Well, then, go ahead. Make it permanent,” he told her. She stood uncertainly, watched him as he stripped the sheets off his body, naked except for the bandages. He wanted to be reborn, and he wanted to do it through Sarah’s eyes. “Please. Take some pictures.”

He thought back to their early days together, when he’d nearly killed her for trying to take his picture. He’d never allowed her to, not during all the times they’d been together. She’d attempted to sneak a few shots in, sure, when she’d thought he hadn’t been looking.

But now, this was the first invitation for her to do so.

Her eyes widened and her cheeks held that special glow they always got when she was truly happy. He hadn’t seen that glow in a long time; it looked good on her. And within minutes, she had her cameras out of the bag and the whir of the shutters mingled with her laugher.

The flash bathed him in warm light. He stared straight into the lens, but he didn’t smile.

“Some people would say you’re lucky—that you get a fresh start.”

He snorted. “Some people don’t know shit. I don’t know who I was, who I’m supposed to be.”

“It’s all right to be angry about it.”

“I’m tired of being angry. I just want…”

“Tell me what you want, Bobby.”

“I want my life back,” he said softly. “I want my teenage years to have been normal. Proms. Football games.”

“I spent most of mine taking everything for granted.”

“That’s the way it should be.” He ran his hands through his short hair, decided he would grow it again, the way it had been when he’d first met Sarah.

She moved with the grace of someone who was comfortable with her body—like a sleek cat. And even with the tattoos that adorned her arm and her belly and other places that could only be seen when she was naked in his bed, she still managed to look ultimately feminine. Despite the cargo pants and heavy black boots, and the guns she often wore slung around her body.

The look was hot, a complete turn-on. Something he’d tried to rip from his mind’s eye so the ache would go away.

Tonight, she wore only a soft shirt that was nearly sheer, one that came down to mid-thigh.

“I want to take you places. Want us to get dressed up, wash the dust out of our hair and go dancing,” he said. “I can picture you, on the porch… your legs bare and tan. A smile on your face. And you’re waiting for me to come pick you up for a date.”

She turned on the radio—it wafted through the room, low and sweet. And she held out her hand to him. “I can’t do much about the dust and the clothing,” she said quietly. “But we can still dance. We can always dance.”

The ferry moved slowly up the Congo River. Raindrops patterned the murky waters and the boat rocked in a steady motion.

PJ sat toward the back, facing what she’d left behind.

Most people got seasick if they didn’t face the horizon on a moving boat—the opposite had always held true for her. She supposed it was from years of looking over her shoulder, an old habit she didn’t plan on breaking.

She’d waited with Sarah until Clutch had gotten the thumbs-up from the doctors in the small hospital before she’d left. He and Sarah hadn’t bothered to try to stop her—they both understood, maybe more than she herself even did.

They’d take her in if she needed that, but she didn’t want to need. Not anymore. She barely wanted to feel.

She took a deep breath, shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other and tried not to think about Jamie and that sad, little-girl-lost look that had never faded from her sister’s face or from PJ’s memory.

“How far are you going?” The man who’d been standing next to her for most of the trip sucked on his own cigar and offered one to her.

She accepted, lit it and drew the bitter smoke into her lungs like it would cleanse her soul if she tugged deeply enough before she spoke. “Anywhere but home.”

He nodded, looked at the rifle she wore by a diagonal strap across the front of her body. “You know how to use that?”

“You want to find out right here?”

He shook his head and laughed, tugged on the cigar. “I can find you work anyplace but home, sister.”

For now, it would do. It would have to.

23

Once their plane landed, Nick and Chris had hustled Kaylee away from the crowds lining the gates and toward the parking lot where Nick had parked his car days earlier. She sat in the front next to Nick, Chris in the back, humming along with his iPod as Nick drove her back to the big white house until they could figure out what to do next.

It had been nearly thirty-six hours since the article was published. She’d been listening to the radio since they got in the car, hoping to hear anything at all mentioned about the story, since they’d gotten through the airport too quickly for her to check the newsstands.

And finally, she pulled out her phone and called Roger to let him know she was home. “I have to know,” she told Nick, who nodded.

“When are you coming home?” Roger demanded when he picked up, forgoing the usual
Hello
.

“I’m here. What’s up?”

“What’s up is that your piece is generating major interest. We need a follow-up.”

“Why?”

“Rumor is that the president wants to convene a cabinet to investigate matters concerning GOST. If that happens, there will be members of Congress who will want to interview you. They’ll need to know how you came by your information—you need to be prepared.”

“That’s protected information, Roger.”

Her boss’s voice softened. “I know. But if you want to help those people, you might have to talk.”

It was her turn to pause, and then, “Some of them didn’t make it. Most of them.”

“But some did, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll need to write this article,” Roger said. “Look, Smith, we’ve managed to keep your anonymity for now. For how much longer is anyone’s guess.”

After that, K. Darcy and Kaylee Smith would meld into the same person. For better or for worse.

You saved lives. You did what Aaron would’ve wanted
.

But if Nick wouldn’t stay at her side, that victory would be meaningless.

She hung up and relayed to Nick what Roger told her. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll do the right thing. Nothing you can say can hurt Clutch and the others more than they’ve been hurt already.” He pulled the car into the garage and turned off the engine. “Come on—you’d better get to work.”

Once inside, Chris told her and Nick he’d give them some time alone. “Dad and Jake will be here soon, though,” he added and Kaylee wondered what that would be like, if they’d be angry with her for all that had happened.

There was no way she could start work now—she had to resolve things between herself and Nick first.

She waited until she heard Chris leave the house and then she turned to Nick. “Look, I’ve been thinking—the Winfield thing… I could go there, to Walter’s, I could talk to him.”

“No.” It was loud and emphatic and it made her start. “You stay out of that.”

“Hey.” She shoved his shoulder and he looked surprised. Good. “I want to help you, the way you helped me. I want to be the one who makes you forget all about it—and any other trouble you might have. Because that’s what you do to me … for me.”

“Shit.” Nick ran a hand through his hair. “You keep doing shit like that and I’ll start to think…”

“Start to think what?” she urged when he didn’t continue.

“That you might really love me.”

“But I do, Nick. I love you for who you were, who you are … who you’ll be. Can you get that? Nothing else matters.”

“But other things do matter, Kaylee. I have to finish this in my own way. Do
you
get that?”

“Yes.” She tugged hard at his shirt, practically tearing it off his body as the buttons hit the floor and the walls. “I want you, Nick. I don’t care about anything else. After all we’ve been through, I know we can get through anything. I want to get through everything with you. Do you get
that
?
“

A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “You’re manhandling me.”

“Just the way you like it.”

“Yeah, it is.” His head bowed to her shoulder. “I can’t refuse you anything, Kaylee. Why the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know, but I like it,” she told him. “If it makes you feel better, I can’t refuse you anything either. So let me help you, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Finally, Nick stopped arguing, and for that moment, she was back in his arms.

An hour later, Nick left Kaylee sleeping and wandered the kitchen aimlessly, restless energy threatening to overwhelm him.

He knew, just fucking knew that he was definitely in love with her. Probably from the first goddamned moment he saw her. Anger and pain collided with that feeling, until they were all wrapped up together. He didn’t have the strength to separate them.

He’d showered, let the water beat down on him until it hurt, in an attempt to soothe the ache that went far deeper than his muscles, and tried not to think about what he needed to do now.

But it wasn’t working.

Instead, he went into the bathroom and he threw up. He spat and saw the blood, and yeah, the childhood ulcer was back.

When he turned to the sink, he caught sight of Jake in the mirror. His brother was standing in the doorway. He still wore his BDUs, was probably just off the helo and had bat-out-of-helled it over here.

Just in fucking time to see him on his knees spitting blood, from the look on Jake’s face. Fucking guy moved like a ghost—always had, learned from the necessities of his childhood that it was better to be neither seen nor heard.

“Walter came here to see you? Tell me that’s not fucking true, Nick.”

“I wish I could.” Fuck, his voice was nearly gone.

He brushed his teeth and when he turned around, Jake had moved away from the doorway and into the kitchen. When Nick followed him he found his brother at the stove, watched him silently brew him the special tea that Maggie and Dad used to make whenever his voice was starting to go. Which was pretty often.

But Jake, who never went into the kitchen except to demand that someone make him food… well, fuck.

“Here. Drink.” Jake slid the mug to him. Nick drank, let the liquid filled with herbs and honey soothe his throat and his ulcer at the same time.

Fucking Cajun magic bullshit.

Jake spoke calmly. Too calmly. “Chris told me about the reporter you’re fuc—”

Nick slammed the mug down and stood so fast the chair hit the floor behind him. Jake held up his hands in silent surrender, a funny look on his face. “The reporter you like. Is that better?”

Nick nodded, sat and finished the rest of the tea in one gulp, and waited with his best friend and brother, the way they had so many times before this, bonding quietly. Not talking about the fear they both felt.

“Jesus Christ, I leave for a few days and you’re with a reporter, Chris is screwing some FBI agent and you’re all running off to fucking Africa.” Jake slid a hand through his hair, far too long to ever pass for a military cut. “What the hell’s happening, Nick?”

“I need to finish things with the Winfields,” he admitted finally.

“Sometimes it’s better to just leave things alone.” Jake’s voice didn’t hold judgment, but Nick still felt the fight rise up in him, familiar and strong as though they were both fourteen again and fight or flight was the only way they operated. “Sometimes it’s the best course of action.”

“When you’re fourteen and you don’t know how to fight, maybe it is. But I’m not fourteen anymore, and I’m tired of running, of fighting it.”

“Fighting didn’t do me any good.” Jake’s eyes got that faraway look, the way they always did when he thought about his past and his abusive stepfather.

“Fighting got you the woman you love,” Nick pointed out and then he told Jake what Chris hadn’t: “Kaylee—she’s the reporter. She knows.”

Jake sat like a stone. “She knows what, Nick? Because I know you didn’t keep your secret all this time so you could spill it to a reporter.”

“She’s not just a reporter to me. And I didn’t spill it to her—she saw Walter come here.”

“Fuck.” Jake slammed a palm down on the table, making the cups jump. “Do you really think she’s going to keep your secret? She’s probably got the whole story written already.”

“She’s had plenty of opportunity to do that—and she hasn’t.”

“Tell me what happened in Africa.”

Nick told Jake everything, from the story of Aaron to what happened with Kaylee.

“Do you love her?” Jake asked finally.

“Yes. And don’t worry—she’s not going to expose me.”

The fear and tension that ran between the two men was palpable, but slightly dissipated when Kenny Waldron walked through the back door and hugged both of the men tight. Or tried to—Jake pulled away from Kenny, his face drawn.

“Did you know about this? Why didn’t you tell me?” Jake demanded of his father.

“No one interfered when you were screwing things up,” Kenny said quietly, and Jake backed down, the way he did only for their father.

Kenny not only had their love, he had their respect, and it was a powerful combination, especially for Nick and Jake, who’d never been taught to respect anyone or anything.

Chris came in behind Kenny and it was the four of them, the way it had been so many times before around the old oak table. Except things were different, were changing. Soon, there would be a fifth here—Isabelle, the woman Jake was marrying.

“Where’s Kaylee now?” Dad asked.

“She’s sleeping. I want to be with her, Dad. It’s not that
I
don’t trust her with what she knows. It’s the rest of the free fucking world.”

“I know that.”

“How do you always know this shit?”

“Your heart makes the decision before your head. That’s what I see, the heart,” Kenny explained patiently.

“How am I going to move forward if I keep getting pulled back by the Winfields?”

“I want to help you, Nick. Stop you from getting on the train again, so to speak. But you’ve already got this figured out. Now you have to decide how far you’re going to go to fix it.”

“I’ve already decided. I’m talking to Walter,” Nick said finally.

“No. Fucking. Way.” Jake’s voice was controlled but there was no mistaking the anger in his tone. “You’re not asking that man for anything.”

“He owes me. After all he’s done, the least he can do is make an announcement to tell the fucking press that I’m dead.” Nick glared at his brother as Kenny put a hand on both their arms.

“I’m not letting you two fight this one out, not this time,” Kenny told them as Chris leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Let them fight—better than having them act like women,” he drawled.

Kenny shot Chris a look. “That’s enough, all of you. We don’t need any more trouble. Let me speak with Walter for you.”

“What happened to it being my mountain?” Nick asked and got silence as a response. And so he pulled out his phone and he made the call he’d been itching to make since he returned home, as his brothers and Dad watched. Then he shut the phone and told them, “Walter’s waiting for me. I’m making the drive to New York. When Kaylee wakes up, just tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jake told him. “Or Chris or Dad, or even Kaylee. You shouldn’t do this alone.”

“You and I both know that alone is the only way I can do this. It’s finally time.” With that, Nick walked out of the house and got into his car and made the long drive to New York.

The Winfield’s house was grand—grand and stifling. Nick tried to think if there were any good memories here, even one that would soften the blow. But then he remembered that he’d been allowed in the house very few times, that for the most part his home had been the Manhattan brownstone, with the various nurses and sitters who’d been paid to watch him.

“Mr. Winfield will see you now.” The large security man attempted to pat him down. Shit like that did not sit well with Nick—never had—and the touch to his shoulder immediately had him putting the man to his knees with his arm twisted behind his back.

“Josh, leave him. He’s fine.” Walter stood in the doorway of his office. Nick vaguely remembered him doing that, when they were both younger, when Walter had cut an imposing figure standing in that doorway. When Nick had wanted nothing more than to gain access to that room, to his father and his family.

Now Nick was granted that right, stepped into the room—and by doing so, even by stepping into this house, he was entering what would’ve been his life.

The thing was, if he’d continued down the same path he’d been on before he left the Winfields, stealing cars and getting into trouble, he’d have no doubt received the same treatment his uncle Billy had at the time he’d been pressed into military service. Nick would’ve ended up in the same exact place he was now, though he’d be a much different man.

Fucking synchronicity.

Nick waited until Walter shut the door and then he turned to face his biological father. “I want you to set me free.”

Walter looked pained. “I did that a long time ago. I hurt you more than a father should ever hurt a son.”