Last Call Read online

  For once, his timing was impeccable; he met the curb as the bus did. Ill at ease the over bright lights making everyone inside visible, he paid his fare and took a seat up front near the exit. He kept his head tucked to lessen the extent of which he was on parade for the whole damn city. Using a hand to veil his face, he watched the scenery through the window in a near-futile attempt to reacquaint himself with a section of town he'd wisely avoided when he lived in the vicinity. It wasn't the kind of place an undercover cop would risk exposure. The irony was, as a result, it was exactly the kind of place one would go to disappear… and — if outed as law enforcement — where one just might.

  After a thirty minute cross-town trip, the bus finally pulled up to Nick's stop. He stepped down, pausing on the damp, wind-whipped corner to search the skyline for his bearings in the dark, unfamiliar territory. Few streetlights dotted the industrial scene. Long metal buildings made up the bulk of the landscape, each one separated from the next by an expanse of pitted concrete. In the distance, water sloshed against pilings, meshing with the sound of rain. The desolation was chilling, but it was the caller's words that really got under his skin.

  I've got information about your girlfriend.

  Cutter had warned Nick about the south end, so he headed that way first. The burned-out buildings weren't hard to find with their busted glass and the lingering scent of soot. The fire must have been recent.

  To his left, a massive loading door hung so far off its tracks just ducking under it gave Nick a good shot of adrenaline with the fear the door would fall on him. He cleared the threat, real or imagined, without incident then stopped and waited for his eyes to adjust. Without blips in the long shadows, the warehouse appeared empty, so he took his chances in the pitch black along the walls and hoped he wouldn't trip.

  A few steps in, a shuffle echoed from across the vast space.

  Nick froze. Rain drummed distantly against metal — the only intrusion in the thick silence. He fervently wished for night vision, surveillance, or any of the other gadgetry upon which he'd so often relied. For all he knew, he was flipping out over a rat. But the area was also on the outskirts of gang territory. Nick might well be walking to his death.

  The thought joined a number of others nagging at him, not one of which sat well.

  Tension prickled his skin as he closed in on the warehouse's far corner without incident — the quiet scuffle against the concrete floor led the way, luring him in. Through the darkness, a form began taking shape.

  A body.

  No. Nick shook it off. His imagination was working overtime.

  Only it wasn't.

  The details came to him slowly. A halo of blonde hair, somehow luminous in the absence of light. Slender curves. Mile-long legs.

  Rhys.

  Nick's gut twisted. Mere hours earlier, her case had been open and shut. When closed up in a neat little package, people didn't get dumped in a warehouse — at least not after the fact. He knelt by the body and felt for a pulse. Her skin was terrifyingly cold, but her heartbeat was strong. Trembling with disbelief, Nick stood and fumbled for his phone.

  The distinct click of a gun cocking stopped him. The barrel bore into the back of his skull, prompting him to hold his hands out to the sides. If Rhys had a chance, he wouldn't be the one to get in the way of it. Not this time.

  "You listen good," said a now-familiar voice. It was the man Nick was there to meet, but the realization offered no solace. "Here's the official story, Detective Massey. She's dead. Just like the TV said. You follow me?"

  Nick nodded, his attention riveted on the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Rhys's chest as he fought for something — anything — that might identify the man. Then it hit him.

  Detective.

  Someone knew more than Nick wanted to let on.

  The gun's pressure increased. "You're about to enter a little impromptu witness protection program. Keep her hidden and you might live."

  "Is she hurt?"

  "No, she's dead. And if anyone thinks otherwise, I'll kill you." He punctuated the threat by with a solid stab of the gun against the base of Nick's skull. "Are we in agreement, Detective?"

  "Yes. How—"

  "No questions. The boss will be in touch." The gun's pressure faded. Footsteps retreated.

  Nick didn't turn around. He didn't want to risk a second confrontation with the gunman, and Nick couldn't see anything in the dark anyway. Holding his breath, he knelt beside Rhys. She wasn't wearing enough for the weather. Her shirt was tugged to one side, allowing him a glimpse of the bandage at her shoulder — the same one he'd shot. He winced.

  "Rhys? Rhys!" His urgency funneled into a hoarse whisper.

  Her eyes fluttered open, then widened. "Nick?"

  He swallowed and leaned close, cradling her head. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" The words felt like the lamest line ever.

  "Wood…" Her eyes rolled back in her head, then drifted closed.

  Nick palmed his cell but stopped short of dialing. Calling an ambulance probably wasn't on his new boss man's list of approved activities, but if he was willing to go to such lengths to keep Rhys alive, Nick doubted she'd have been dropped off in dire health. Her wound dressing — what he could see — appeared to be clean and neatly applied. Her heartbeat was steady and her eyes focused on him, however briefly. Still, the temperature hovered near freezing and the mixed precipitation left the air damp. The warehouse provided shelter from the rain — less what breached the high, broken windows — but the bitter wind swirled through, stirring dirt and the rancid smell of soot.

  "Nick," she whispered, tugging on his shirt with her good arm. "Want you."

  Want him to what? Blindly, his mind went to an image of her sitting alone drinking at their table in Bart's bar. His heart leapt. You moron. He gave himself a mental shake. For all he knew, she wanted him to get the hell away from her. And that, he wouldn't do.

  Nick shrugged out of his sweatshirt and helped her to a sitting position. Then he slipped the fleece over her head, threading her good limb through the sleeve and leaving the other cradled against her stomach. With one arm steadying her, he stood and drew her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him, offering warmth against his long sleeve tee.

  He bit back a frown. For all the times he imagined her in his arms, he'd only twice managed getting her there. Once when he'd shot her, and again when someone else had. Or he assumed the latter, though the media obviously had this one wrong. She was very much alive, and his suspicions were more on point than ever. The entire situation screamed cover up, but if the cops wanted to purport her death — something not unprecedented when it came to protecting a witness or an undercover operation — it made zero sense a thug with a gun would be the one handing her over to anyone, let alone Nick.

  That last part had been a mistake. A big one.

  Detective.

  Someone was operating on misinformation. And in a high stakes game, even the smallest miscalculation could be deadly. He knew that far too well.

  Half leading and half carrying Rhys, he exited the warehouse through the same door he'd entered. The wharf's desolation hadn't waned, he thought wryly. Granted, the deserted landscape meant a lack of concerned citizens to report him dragging around a woman in the middle of the night. That worked very much in his favor; on the flipside, borrowing a car would be a lot easier if there was one around. Looking for one without drawing attention would be almost impossible, and a return bus trip was out. After Rhys's stint on the evening news as a murder victim, half the town would recognize her.

  Rhys shivered and trembled against him.

  He had to get her out of the weather. He glanced around — a line of fishing boats caught his eye. "Can you walk? You hanging in there?"

  "I'm okay," she mumbled. She didn't sound it, but she was a damn good cop before he took her out of the business — she'd say she was okay whether she was or not. He liked that about her, but it made having her life in his hands an epic guessing game.
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  "Good," he said, leading her in the direction of the boats. "Pretend you adore me and we'll be fine."

  He could have sworn she laughed; his heart, indifferent to the possible snub, sang as she snuggled closer.

  The third boat from the end offered the solution he sought on the docks. The deck was in such poor shape there was no way anyone made regular use of it; rather, the boat seemed to have become a dumping ground for rusted engine parts. Further indicating abandonment was a pile of sticks and debris formed what looked to be a nest on the flybridge above the cabin. With the engine in pieces Nick felt safe in assuming — storm or no storm — no one would be taking the boat out in the morning. Now he just had to get Rhys on board.

  "What hurts?" he asked.

  She looked up, her eyes — the deep blue of a troubled ocean — cutting right through him. Then they drifted to his mouth, and…

  "Shoulder," she whispered.

  His grip tightened on the shirt he loaned her. He prayed the move would keep his hands busy — too busy to smooth errant strands of her hair whipping in the wind. "Anything else?"

  "I can get on the boat, Nick." Her tone chastised.

  Even with her voice weak, he knew better than to argue. Besides, if he had to fish her out of the water he'd consider his point readily made.

  Almost smiling, he dropped one foot over the railing and dragged the vessel as close to the dock as the moorings allowed. He stood straddling the inky water until he'd helped Rhys step over the side. Once she made it on board, he dropped from his perch and bumped against her when a gust of wind threw him off balance.

  Rhys grabbed his arm, dragging him into full body contact. In the split second it took to steady her touch had him on fire. He froze, drinking in the startling shade of blue behind her appraising stare. Emotions he'd spent a lot of months trying to bury rallied, setting him back a few years in the whole getting-over-Rhys department.

  Falling headfirst into the frigid water would have been less excruciating.

  A blast of icy wind brought him back to his senses. "Let me see if I can get us inside," he said. His hand shook when he settled her against the cabin, out of the wind and away from prying eyes.

  She watched as he worked the lock. Her attention flustered him, but in spite of the distraction he made quick work of the job with his pocket knife. He pushed open the door, then took a step inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. The small cabin wasn't in great repair, but it was empty and dry. Given they had little choice, he'd take it.

  Nick turned to help Rhys inside and, unaware she'd followed him, ran right into her. This time it was he who steadied her, guiding her to a seat at the small dinette. He closed the door on the shrill wind, then sat across from her.

  Talk about hellfire awkward.

  Sorry about that whole shooting thing.

  I shouldn't have left without saying goodbye.

  I haven't stopped thinking about you since the day we met.

  Not surprisingly, none of those options felt right. But months of wanting to be with her had landed in an ungainly pile at his feet; even with all his rehearsing, he remained unprepared for Rhys — as beautiful as she'd ever been, sporting yet another bullet wound and glaring at him over a crooked dinette in a storm-tossed fishing boat.

  God, he wanted to put his arms around her. Nothing and everything had changed in the past eight months. He'd thought he could walk away before. Now… he didn't see how he would ever walk away from her again. But he'd have no choice.

  For all his uncertainty, she didn't seem to share his stroll down memory lane. Her pinched, pale expression spoke of wariness and pain, and he'd caused her enough of that.

  Nick cleared his throat. "I won't mince words. The late news reported your… death. A few hours later, I get a call on an unlisted number to a throwaway phone. The caller said he knew something about my girlfriend—" To that, she lifted an eyebrow. "—and asked me to meet him down here. And that's where I found you. Can we work on filling in a few blanks here? Are you up to it?"

  She gazed at him through sleepy, shrouded eyes. "I think you know more than I do."

  Her words caused him a double-take. Did she know he was still working as a detective? Having a job was hardly a betrayal, but after ending her career he'd felt infinitely guilt over resuming his. The thought of admitting he'd moved on without her nearly broke his heart, but he swallowed the pain and forced himself to relax. She couldn't know. "Let's start with why you were in that part of town at night by yourself," he said, settling against the seat.

  "That part of town isn't so bad anymore — it's undergoing revitalization. And I was jogging."

  He frowned. "The jogging trail at the park closed?"

  "You know I don't like the park at night. Too many shadows."

  "Under the circumstances—"

  She moved to cross her arms, winced, then settled them in her lap. "There weren't any circumstances until tonight."

  Fire and ice.

  "Let me rephrase." He paused, searching for a diplomatic way to learn exactly what he was dealing with. Playing a dangerous game was one thing, but playing it blind? People died that way. "Are you working undercover again?"

  "I couldn't get medical clearance," she reminded him. "Seems I have a problem — now two — with my shoulder."

  He leaned back, appraising her. She'd hesitated — a mere blip, but he caught it. "You didn't answer my question."

  "I believe I did," she countered, drawing further into his sweatshirt.

  Oh, hell. Intentional or not, he got the message loud and clear — he'd studied her body far too long not to speak the language.

  She might not be lying to him, but she sure as hell wasn't telling the truth.

  ****

  Puppetmaster.

  A little overstated, but it fit. Nothing like having the pieces fall in your lap when you needed it most. He'd gotten in a little too deep with the wrong people and damned if Nick Massey hadn't chosen the perfect time to ride back into town, playing hero. Of course, he thought he was playing for the bitch — that punk has-been detective didn't realize he had his armor all polished up for someone else entirely.

  Now, how easy it would be to make them both pay. Child's play. All he had to do was pull the strings and…

  The phone rang. About time. He checked the number display and let out a breath before picking it up. "This better be good news."

  "Hey, Boss. It's me."

  He lit a cigarette and immediately snuffed it out. Damned bad habits were harder to break when his balls were in a vice. "Gathered as much. Are you clean?"

  "As a whistle."

  Good. He needed time. Time…and everything would fall into place, just like he planned. The man at the top wouldn't know what hit him.

  Puppetmaster, indeed.

  A smile stretched so far across his face it hurt. A fake press conference on the fucking steps of the station house. The show had been convincing enough, but it wouldn't take long for those idiots at the precinct to put two and two together. "How can you be so sure?"

  Cold laughter crept through the line. "Because the man they're looking for never existed."

  Chapter Three

  Rhys huddled into the comfort of Nick's shirt, its warmth coming as much from the emotional pull of his scent as the fleece. One bullet and eight months of separation did nothing to cool her attraction for him; if anything, absence made her want him more. She'd avoided crossing that line back then because it was against the rules.

  She had other reasons now.

  Outside, the wind kicked water against the hull, sending a never-ending series of loud sloshes through the cabin. The general disrepair of the vessel worried her enough without the leaky chorus below her feet drilling her nerves. Nausea welled with every tilt of the boat.

  Across from her, Nick shifted on the bench seat and folded his hands like a school boy, his arms resting on the table. Calm. His stare bore into her, threatening to dislodge any chance she had of settling her
thoughts.

  He didn't want to trust her. Too bad. He didn't have a choice. She didn't have a choice.

  Fragmented memories of the attack flailed at the edge of conscious thought, mingling with clear flashbacks from the first time she'd been shot. She'd had months to hone the latter memories to razor sharp, the pain of losing Nick leaving uneven impressions on her heart. She wanted to shake her head — dislodge the cotton balls stuffed inside — but her throbbing eyes warned against sudden movements.

  "Forget how fast they put this out there. Why would they release your real name and risk months of undercover work, not to mention the life of every detective who has infiltrated that investigation. What's going on, Rhys? Are you in on this?"

  She cast him a sharp glance and immediately regretted it. He'd sense her guilt and size her up in a heartbeat; to her surprise though, he didn't appear to be calculating anything. Rather, his warm gaze poured over her. With those long lashes and soft brown eyes, he'd melt molasses in the dead of January.

  No matter how much life and circumstance had hardened her since Nick, Rhys didn't have a chance of resisting him. She already felt the comfortable edges of their old dynamic closing around her.

  "Perhaps we can agree on one point, which is your purported death. Clearly you're not dead." His mouth slanted.

  Frustration or amusement?

  "Yeah. Not dead." Not sure what else to say, she focused on his mouth, studying the smooth contrast of his lips against a couple days of stubble.

  "Fair enough. Your so-called murder was on the news — with your full name and past profession — within a couple of hours of the incident." He raised an eyebrow. "We both know it doesn't work that way, Rhys. What's going on? Let me in here. You once trusted me with your life—"

  "Yes, and you nearly killed me."

  They stared at one another. The air thickened.

  He reached and took her hand. "And I have regretted it every single day since."

  His touch caught her off guard — so much so the tipping hull and the storm outside the walls faded. Leaving him.