True Shot (15 page)

“He can do that whether we go there or not,” Mac said. “In fact, he’s probably already making plans.”

She shot him an alarmed glance.

He gave a helpless shrug. “Just saying. It seems like his style.”

“I think it’d be best if you dropped me off somewhere and took a vacation in Montana or Canada.”

“No. No way. You need me, Sam. I’m not leaving you.”

“Why? What . . .” She shook her head, at a loss. “Why are you doing this? I mean nothing to you.”

It took him several seconds to respond. Finally, he said, “I promised your sister.”

“You—What?” Her pulse began to throb in her ears.

“While you were out of it, I called Charlie. I promised her I’d get you home in one piece.”

“You . . . you
called
Charlie? From the motel?”

“No, no, of course not. And not from my cell, either. I bought a prepaid phone at the drugstore. One of those untraceable kinds.”

“They’re
not
untraceable. Yes, your name and information aren’t associated with a specific phone, but the calls can still be traced from the other end.”

The car slowed as he lifted his foot off the gas. “What? No. No, they’re not traceable. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m a spy. Don’t you think I know how this stuff works?”

“Well, there is the memory thing.”

“I didn’t forget this.”

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong. Your name isn’t connected to the phone. But your location
is
. All Flinn had to do was keep tabs on my sisters’ lines in case I called them for help then have the call traced from their end to my location.”

“Shit. That’s how the son of a bitch found us in Front Royal.”

She glanced out the side window, too tired to sustain her irritation at his inability to follow simple directions. She probably hadn’t given him enough information in the first place. She’d most likely said: Don’t use
your
cell phone. And he hadn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I—Jesus, I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes. Why did she feel as though she’d just kicked a puppy? A really cute and cuddly one. One that smelled . . . heavenly. Like leather and fresh rain and . . . hunky man. She couldn’t squelch her urge to ease his anxiety. “We survived.”

“That asshole got his hands on you. If I hadn’t been an idiot . . .”

“There’s no point in beating yourself up about it. Let’s focus on finding a place to stop. We can figure out our next move while we get something to eat.”

His shoulders sagged in the dim light of the car. “Okay. Sure. That sounds like a plan I can live with.”

She realized a moment later what she’d just done: She’d responded in a way that implied that they were indeed in this together. “We
can figure out
our
next move.
” When had she made the transition from “What am
I
going to do” to “What are
we
going to do”?

And was she handing a good man a death sentence?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he Garden City Diner in Orangeburg, South Carolina, was a brown-brick, A-frame building with a bright red roof made of Spanish tiles. Inside, a forest of tropical flowers, potted palms and ferns surrounded red vinyl booths and a long counter with cushioned metal stools.

The diner smelled of French fries and rich coffee, and Mac’s stomach growled in anticipation of some low-country comfort food.

“I hope they have mac and cheese,” he said as he slid across the bench seat in a corner booth. “The baked kind with crunchy stuff on top like Paula Deen makes. And don’t even bother to rib me about a guy named Mac wanting some mac and cheese.”

When Sam didn’t respond or sit, he glanced up. She stood beside the table, anxiety etching lines in her forehead.

“What?” he asked.

“Switch places with me.”

“Why?”

“I need to see . . . everything.”

Instead of arguing with her spy instincts, he switched to the opposing seat and watched her gracefully slide in across from him. With her back to the wall, she quickly scanned their surroundings, evidently searching for possible threats among the other customers ordering up or devouring late-night snacks. It was a hell of a way to live.

The waitress, a middle-aged black woman in tight faded jeans and a pink T-shirt that displayed the words “
life is good
” on her ample breasts, ambled over. “Howdy, folks. Welcome to the Garden City. I’m Roz. Coffee?”

Mac smiled at her. “Please. Fully leaded.”

“Water, please,” Sam said.

While the waitress splashed steaming coffee into Mac’s cup, Sam continued stalking the other patrons with her eyes. The glimpse Mac had gotten as they’d walked in had revealed a couple of trucker-looking guys chowing down at the counter, an elderly couple quietly arguing as they shared a piece of coconut cream pie and a pair of leather-clad biker dudes tearing through matching mounds of fried catfish and hush puppies. Almost all of them paid more attention to the TV in the corner, tuned to a reality show he didn’t recognize, than to their respective companions.

“What do you see?” Mac asked.

Sam blinked before focusing on him with guarded eyes. “What? Nothing.”

“What are you looking for then?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d know it if I saw it.” She scanned the diner again, this time finding something she sought. As she slid out of the booth, she said, “I’m going to the ladies’ room. If the waitress returns, I’ll have a salad. Whatever they have.”

He wondered whether he should follow. What if she slipped out the back door and took off on her own? Of course, if she did, there wasn’t much he could do about it. If he tried to stop her, he had no doubt she could put him down with one karate chop. Or tae kwon do chop. If tae kwon do had such moves. He had no idea. And what did it matter?

Jesus, he was so wiped he could barely function.

When Roz returned with Sam’s water, Mac said, “I can go ahead and order for us.”

Roz took out her pad and pen. “Ready when you are, hon.” Her drawl was low and gravelly.

“I’ll have the shrimp and grits with side orders of hush puppies and mac and cheese. My friend will have the double bacon cheeseburger with everything, French fries, onion rings and the biggest chocolate shake you can make.”

Roz smirked. “I heard her say she wants a salad.”

Mac leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “But she
needs
a cheeseburger. Don’t you think she’s too skinny?”

“Honey, every white woman on God’s green earth would kill for that girl’s body.”

“Well, I happen to like a little junk in the trunk.”

Roz threw her head back and laughed, sending her breasts into a vibrating jig. Her dark brown eyes twinkled. “Then we’ll get your sweetie fattened up in no time.”

She continued to chuckle as she made her way back to the kitchen with a relaxed sway of her rounded hips.

Sam returned from the restroom, her appearance a sharp contrast to Roz’s healthy glow. Her skin stretched taut over her cheekbones, dark circles highlighting the pallor of her complexion. She’d pulled her dark hair into a tidy ponytail, which emphasized the sharpness of her collarbones and the honed angles of her jawline. She appeared so much more thin now, as though the drug that had stripped her of her memories had also stripped her of needed pounds.

Her sharp eyes scrutinized the other patrons again while her fingers began to pick apart the paper napkin holding her flatware.

“You can relax,” Mac said after a full minute. “No one knows where we are.”

Her steel blue eyes shifted to meet his, and he saw that her senses were jacked up as if she’d downed a double shot of sugar-laden espresso from Starbucks. Jesus, he thought, from sleep drunk to wired in the space of half an hour.

“How do we know each other?” she asked.

The question, blunt and out of nowhere, made him sit back. He had to resist the urge to squirm under her unflinching gaze. She must be one hell of an interrogator in her spy life.

“And don’t lie this time,” she added.

He picked up his coffee and took a slow sip, the whole time cognizant of her hyperalertness to his every move. Such riveted attention from such a strikingly beautiful woman unnerved him. He imagined she could undress him with just her shrewd gaze. And, for an unguarded moment, he wished she would. He wouldn’t complain for one nanosecond about getting into bed naked with this woman . . . or getting up against a wall or on the floor or . . .

“Please stop trying to figure out how to answer and just tell me the truth.”

He couldn’t suppress a small smile. Wasn’t thinking about the answer. Was thinking about sex. Hot, naked, sweaty sex with a spy.

He shifted to allow more room in the tightening crotch of his jeans. What the hell was
that
about? He wasn’t some randy teenager drooling over his first
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition. No, Sam Trudeau was
way
hotter than any over-tanned, over-siliconed babe in a bikini.

Before he could summon the brainpower to respond, Roz returned with several plates of food.

Sam frowned at the burger and fries but said nothing. Her eyes widened as Roz set the chocolate shake in front of her. It was served in a Big Gulp–sized frosted glass with whipped cream and a cherry on top.

“Y’all need anything else for now?” Roz asked, her smile wide and sweet.

Mac waited for Sam to protest and insist on a piddly salad. Instead, she muttered, “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”

Roz shot Mac an exaggerated wink before waddling away.

Sam thumped her foot against Mac’s shin under the table, and he yelped. “Ow, hey! What’d you do that for?”

“Don’t flirt with her.”

He grinned, enjoying the fire in her eyes. “Why? Jealous?”

“No, you idiot. She’ll remember you.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard but then said nothing. Maybe she was right. She was the one with the spy skills, after all.

Sam nudged the shake toward him. “This must be yours.”

He slid it back toward her. “Nope. Drink up. Eat up. You need fuel. You haven’t eaten all day.”

She glared down at the huge burger dripping with cheese, strips of bacon drooping over the sides under the crowning bun. “You heard me say I wanted a salad, right?”

“Heard you loud and clear.” He dug into his shrimp and grits and tried not to roll his eyes at how amazing they tasted. Creamy, salty goodness.

She picked up a French fry and sat back to nibble at it, leaving the burger untouched.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He snagged a crispy onion ring off her plate. “Aren’t you about to gnaw off a paw?”

“I’m used to going without when I’m on a mission.”

“How do you know that? Do you remember starving on a specific mission?”

Her frown deepened, bringing out the three vertical lines above the bridge of her nose, but she said nothing.

Mac sampled a fry next. As it crunched between his teeth, he gave in. “If you really want a salad, I’ll go ask Roz to bring you one.” The last thing he wanted was to deprive the woman of at least
some
calories.

“You’ve already done enough to make certain she’ll never forget us.”

He shrugged as he drew the heaping bowl of baked mac and cheese closer to his plate. “I can’t help it. I’m unforgettable.”

She winced at that. The exact opposite reaction from the indulgent smile he’d been angling for. Damn, he hadn’t meant to needle her about her amnesia. Time to change the subject. He could at least give her
something
she wanted. Answers.

“You asked how we know each other. I work with your sisters. Charlie and Alex. At the
Lake Avalon Gazette
. Does any of that ring a bell?”

The way she gazed back at him, unblinking, gave him her answer. Not one tiny ding.

“Your dad owns the paper. Or owned it, actually. Billionaire came in last year and bought him out of the newspaper. Relaunched the
Gazette
with a beefed-up staff and reduced space for advertising as a sort of test to see if the community would buy a newspaper not beholden to advertisers. So far, it’s working.” He paused when she reached for an onion ring. That looked promising. “Your dad’s living for golf these days, and appears to love it.”

“What do Charlie and Alex do at the paper?” Her features softened as she asked, as though she somehow remembered shared affection with them.

“Charlie’s a reporter. Damn good one, too. Alex is a photographer. Also kicks ass. They’re the ones who talked me into going to your family’s cabin for some R&R. That’s actually where you and I met.”

“So . . . no hiking accident.” Her lips quirked at the memory of his lame cover story.

“I was trying to keep you from freaking out. You have to admit that the stuff you told me before you lost your memory was pretty unbelievable.”

“But you believe it now, don’t you?”

“I believe you’re in trouble and that you need my help.”

She nodded, as though she could accept his answer even if she didn’t like it. “So what about my mother? You mentioned my dad and my sisters but nothing about my mom. Is she dead?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all.” But he hesitated, unsure what to say. He barely knew Elise Trudeau. What he did know was that Charlie didn’t talk about her mother. Alex didn’t, either. He’d thought that was because they worked with their dad at the family paper, and so did Mac, so it was natural that their relationships would include their dad but not their mother. He suspected, though, that the issue went far deeper than that.

“Well?” Sam prodded.

“She’s active in the community. Fund-raising, charity events, ladies who lunch, stuff like that.”

Sam’s expression turned shrewd. “You don’t like her.”