Last Call Read online

  Her hand grew deliciously warm in his, and she relished the contact. Her heart tumbled with the sinful feel of his calloused skin against hers, traitorous for holding onto feelings she should have long since banished.

  The past hung between them.

  The future lay uncertain.

  Rhys took a breath. "I don't remember much. I wish I could, but I just don't."

  "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "Trusting me."

  Rhys cast a pointed look at their surroundings. "I have a choice?"

  Something dark flashed across his face in the dim light. "You always have a choice."

  Not when you left, I didn't.

  He shifted, releasing her hands and leaning against the seat. "I need to know what I'm dealing with," he said, "and as you can see, my resources are limited."

  She sighed and fidgeted. "I was out jogging on Foster Avenue. Most of the stores are boarded up and the rest were closed, although for the record, the crime rate is — or was — statistically at zero after they tore down that blighted apartment complex. The renovations thus far have been pretty amazing. Anyway, it wasn't late, but the clouds dimmed what was left of the light. When I heard gunshots I ducked into one of the inset doorways hoping no one would see me, but obviously they found me."

  "They?"

  She shrugged, wincing. If she'd been treated to painkillers, they must have worn off. "All I remember is that gun so close. Then… it fired."

  "The weapon discharged?"

  "Yes."

  "In your face? As in point blank range?"

  She nodded. "Or arguably close to it."

  He frowned. "No one misses that shot on accident. They must not have wanted you dead." He gestured toward her shoulder. "Do you know what your injuries are?"

  "There's a chunk missing, but I believe they referred to it as flesh wound."

  He shook his head. "Let's back up a bit. Why were you out there to begin with?"

  If he thought asking the same question ten times until she cracked would work, he had another thing coming. She was as well schooled in interrogation as he. "Like I said, I was jogging."

  He swore under his breath. "Fine. What happened after the gunshot?"

  "I don't know. I woke up in the hospital with an armed guard and a flesh wound."

  The news had him leaning closer. "So you were in police custody?"

  "I think so. I was a little out of it. Someone told me I was going into witness protection, but that was all fuzzy. I went back out."

  "And…"

  "And I woke up staring at you."

  He fell against the bench in another cloud of profanity. "So the PD is behind the cover-up for one reason or another, otherwise they wouldn't be holding a press conference announcing your death. The question is whether they intended for you to go into protective custody, or whether someone else did."

  She gazed at him, silent. His words made sense, but things had happened fast.

  "You said Wood. Does that mean anything to you?"

  Rhys hesitated. "No… I don't know. Every time I think I'm going to remember something, it falls apart."

  He pulled out his phone. "In the warehouse, someone put a gun to my head and told me you were to stay dead. Don't think that's part of code, so I think it's safe to assume we're not dealing with the cops."

  "So what do we do? Hang out here until… what?"

  "Nope," he said, dialing. "We can't hang out here. It's shelter for now, but there will be activity on the dock before sunrise and we need to do a little better with this storm. You're probably freezing, and I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you're going to need some pain killers."

  She reached without thinking, placing a hand on his arm. "What are you doing?"

  He looked at her hand, then slid his gaze to her face. "Getting a ride," he said, an uncharacteristic drawl putting a hitch in the words.

  "You just said I was supposed to stay dead. You think that's going to happen if you call a cab?"

  "Give me some credit, Rhys. I'm calling Cutter."

  His words sent unease crawling through her. She trusted Cutter, but that was her other life. That was Nick's other life. Going there again just didn't feel right. "You're off the force. You can't call Cutter."

  "I already have," he said softly. "I wouldn't have found you if not for him."

  "You risked my life—" She didn't mean to raise her voice, but panic honed as her pain intensified.

  "Who the hell do I trust if not Cutter? Who do I call?"

  She said nothing.

  Nick put the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, "I need a ride. A discreet one. You know where."

  Rhys strained to hear Cutter's voice, hoping familiar tones would settle her nerves, but the wind and water kept it at bay.

  Nick ended his call and looked at her. "I've got this, okay? Don't know what the hell is going on, but I swear on my own life, I've got you."

  Which was exactly what she was afraid of.

  ****

  Nick's stomach knotted with the possibilities, none of them good. Had Rhys's so-called death been planned all along or was it a botched job? Either way, why would Rhys be involved with the cops? And involved or not, splashing her face across the news wasn't the most prudent way to protect her or any uncover investigation with which she was involved. She'd used an alias, but there was no forgetting those deep blue eyes or the way her natural blonde highlights fell tousled around her face…as if she'd just crawled out of some lucky bastard's bed.

  His world felt uneven and it had nothing to do with the random pitch of the boat.

  "Nick?"

  He glanced up. It took him a moment to focus.

  "Thank you," she said quietly. "For helping me."

  He wanted to tell her not to thank him, that they were long past formalities, but the words would be wasted. They'd end up in the same old circles, and propriety be damned, he wasn't going there again. So, wordlessly, he slipped off his seat and joined her on the bench. As gently as he could, he gathered her in his arms.

  He had long wondered what would happen if he touched her like this. It was a cheap shot under the circumstances, but Rhys didn't have a vulnerable bone in her body. Wounded or not, she'd lay him out if he crossed a line — knowing as much, he braced for impact. He just wasn't prepared to get hit where it hurt the most: his heart.

  He swallowed emotion, the pure pleasure of holding her more intense than he bargained for. All those lies he told himself about being over her scattered, the jig up. Damn. He couldn't go there, if for no other reason than a nagging inclination there was more to her story than she let on. But the feel of her sent warmth sluicing over him like a hot shower and rendering him very much in need of a cold one. He'd always been a rule bender, but now he teetered on the verge of what promised to be a very pleasurable break.

  "Where are we going?" she asked, the words humming against his chest.

  "I don't know. I'm guessing my apartment isn't safe since someone managed to track me to a prepaid anonymous cell phone. And after I walked away from my job, my list of trusted contacts dropped to one." Frankly, he didn't know where they could go, though Cutter might. Nick didn't want to abuse the illicit ties to his old friend, but he didn't have much of a choice. He hadn't forged with his new department the kind of connections he shared with the old.

  "Why did you leave?"

  The whispered trace of her words hit him with full physical force. He stiffened. Why did she catch him off guard like that? It's not like he didn't know she'd ask. He'd asked the same question of himself a thousand times but had yet to come to terms with the answer. Being a failure — as a partner, as a man — wasn't high on his list of admittances.

  "I had to, Rhys."

  She turned slightly, giving her a glimpse of her profile. "I never had a chance…"

  He willed her to complete the sentence — to say something — but even with the thought unfinished the mere suggestion tore at him. He'd taken somethin
g from her by leaving. He'd expected as much, but hearing her allude to it tore him apart. The languid trail of her voice suggested a sort of wistfulness he'd never allowed himself to hope she'd feel where he was concerned. For that matter, they'd spent their entire relationship in a verbal sparring match. This new lesser combative side of her — a medical side effect, no doubt — kept him off balance. He couldn't get his footing without their old dynamic of trading insults. Worse, with her cradled in his arms, there was only one kind of jab he had on his mind…and it wasn't the type of thing a man mentioned to a woman who'd just been shot.

  Much less one shot a second time.

  He consulted his phone. Few moments had passed. Cutter promised to give him an all clear when he had a man at the docks. Nick briefly wondered what kind of favor a guy had to owe to show up in this part of town in the middle of night without question. One could only assume there wouldn't be police involvement, but there was no telling. And Nick wasn't sure where they should go. His employer hadn't been kind enough to offer parameters, but Nick knew not to assume there weren't any. They might as well be stuck in the middle of a hornet's nest with strict orders not to be stung.

  But Rhys had been around. She might recognize a hornet or two. He cleared his throat. "Any rumblings in the news that might explain what was going down when this happened?" he asked.

  She didn't answer for a moment. Then, "What kind of rumblings?"

  The sleepy hue of her tone caressed him, bringing to his attention how little rest he'd had. He'd been running on grief, then adrenaline, but now with his wildest dreams coming true — Rhys in his arms, albeit under piss-poor circumstances — the quiet lull and rock of the boat opened the door to exhaustion.

  But he wouldn't allow himself to give in. "Any drug rings flushed out? Mob stuff? I don't know."

  "Come on, Massey," she murmured, turning her head into his chest. "You know I can't discuss a case."

  A case? Could she really be back on the force? No, despite the direction suggested by his earlier questions, he knew the protocol. She'd lost too much use of her arm to reclaim her old job. Maybe between the painkillers and a dose of déjà vu she'd mixed up the months. He knew from personal experience you just didn't peel off the cop inside when you turned in your badge, but his inner alarm wailed anyway. Suddenly alert, he asked, "What case?"

  Her only reply was the deep breath of sleep.

  A little too convenient for his taste.

  Chapter Four

  "C'mon, Rhys. Wake up. Time to move."

  She demanded her eyes to open but they stuck like glue. Lead glue. She struggled to sit and found herself tangled with Nick, his arms strong around her. He nudged her thigh — the heat of his touch traveling straight to her center.

  "Cutter just called," Nick said, oblivious to the fire he'd just set. "There's a van outside. Driver says we're clear."

  Common sense — or perhaps self-preservation — needled through the fog. She peered at him. "Are you telling me we're going to climb into a van with a strange man in the middle of the night in a crappy part of town?"

  He half glared at her. "Versus staying in said crappy part of town? Yes."

  "You don't know who you're dealing with here."

  Nick's brow lifted. "And you do? Please, do tell."

  Rhys bit her lip. "A man put a gun to your head. That's not indicative of fair play."

  "Do you know anyone who plays fair?" A tired grin dressed his face. "Hell, I sure don't."

  "You don't know or you don't play fair?"

  He sighed, digging the heel of his hand against his jaw. "Could you please not fight me on this? In case you've forgotten, someone put a gun to your head, too. We need to get out of here, and we've got a ride. I kind of like the ease of it all."

  Rhys blinked. Had Nick Massey just said please? And was she really still wrapped in his arms? She tried to pull away but — sandwiched between him and the wall — there wasn't room to go anywhere. "Get up if we're going," she muttered, unable to shake his penetrating warmth. Letting him sear her skin hot was a dangerous game. And Nick didn't play anything to lose.

  She stumbled to her feet as soon as he moved. Her legs threatened to buckle — not from Nick, she assured herself, but from an extended period of immobility — and when he caught her, he left her feeling dizzier than when she started.

  Amusement decorated his eyes. "You're getting soft on me, Clark."

  "Yeah, I think I get some leeway considering the last few cumulative hours I've spent with you have been following blood loss. So thanks for that."

  "Only partially responsible." He looked to the door, through which he then quickly — gently — ushered her. With any luck, the change of scenery would offer distraction.

  Outside, the storm argued persuasively with the night. Rhys had a bit more trouble climbing off the boat than she had boarding, but with a boost from Nick she managed to disembark without pitching headfirst off the other side.

  He followed, hopping easily from the vessel, then pulled her close for the walk toward a waiting van.

  Squinting through sleet and wind, Rhys was several steps from the vehicle before she got a good look. It was a standard dark unmarked van. The realization didn't sit well. A mild sense of panic shot through her, but without reason. Then a chilling thought hit her: she didn't know how she'd gotten to the wharf. In fact, she was missing a whole lot of time between the gun and waking up to Nick.

  Anything could have happened.

  Anything might have.

  Her stomach turned. With the sinking feeling, the cold wind curled right through her.

  "Nick, I can't."

  Either the wind took her words or he ignored them. Before she could react further, he'd ushered her into the waiting vehicle.

  Inside was as black as the outside. Stale cigarette smoke choked the air, taking her breath. A radio station played mostly static. Piles of fast food garbage filled the second-row floorboard, and behind her head a wire cage divided the passenger rows from the cargo area. The details trickled in more vividly than she could justify in her fiery haze. Had she been in this van before?

  No. Rhys shook it off. The effect of the painkillers wore thin, which she ascertained not from remembering any medication, but because the edge of pain returned in steady nauseating waves.

  "Where you headed?" the driver asked in a gruff, smoke-stricken voice.

  Nick named a chain motel across town.

  Rhys agreed with his choice. The area he'd indicated wasn't affluent, but it kept them off the usual stomping ground for the undesirables. A criminal would have to clean up well to blend in around there.

  Looks like our little game of hide and seek is over.

  Rhys straightened. The words hit her out of nowhere, bringing with them the image of the gunman. Irrational apprehension rallied, the trash and smoke and darkness closing in, volleying her fears into sheer panic.

  Nick placed a steadying hand on her arm. He didn't speak, but his brow furrowed over questioning eyes.

  She nodded slightly, hoping it would keep him from drawing attention. She didn't know why, but she didn't want the driver looking at her. And for that matter, she didn't want Nick looking at her, either. She could only assume she read too much into those eyes, colored with emotion. They were just the way she remembered in their last moments — her pain reflecting against his horror. Sorrow, dark and heavy hung between them — a veil still there, months later, like no time had passed.

  Only now she had a secret — one she didn't want to keep. It tangled with pockets of memory, driving what she knew — and what she didn't — to a treacherous muddle of bits and pieces that made no sense. But she was too far off kilter to open up to anyone. Not even Nick.

  Uncomfortable silence infused the ride to the hotel. The driver said nothing beyond his initial question and seemed to pay them no mind. But Nick's stare grazed her skin. As the throbbing pain in her arm and shoulder intensified, Rhys's wits sharpened — the line between what she knew and
what she didn't growing more finite by the minute.

  "This the place, Detective?"

  The driver's voice shot through her thoughts, his words sending her racing heart into a treacherous skid. Detective. Rhys looked past Nick through the filthy glass to the hotel's lights. Without meaning to, she found his eyes.

  Questions filled them.

  "I thought this was anonymous," she mouthed. Her heart beat so frantically she thought her pulse might bruise her skin.

  "I'm sorry, sir. Detective?" Nick spoke without losing his focus on her.

  His intensity was getting to her. She looked toward the windshield, but the pressure didn't abate. Rather, the persistent attention nagged her peripheral vision.

  The driver's eyes found hers in the mirror. "Miss—"

  "This is the place," Rhys interrupted. "This is fine."

  Nick's phone beeped, prompting him — finally — to move his head from her direction. He lifted an eyebrow in response to the text. "On the side," he told the driver.

  "Sir?" But the driver's eyes remained on Rhys. He smiled, baring crooked yellow teeth.

  Looks like a double header tonight, T.

  Nick pointed. "Side of the building. Side entrance."

  The words sounded distant and made of tin.

  Rhys let loose the breath she held but couldn't swallow the tension. Not until she and Nick were on the curb and watching the van's tail lights coast away in the predawn darkness.

  He didn't speak until the last trace of the van dissolved into the sparse traffic. "Look for a potted plant."

  "What?"

  "A potted plant."

  "You want me to find a potted plant in the dead of winter under freezing rain?"

  "Should be easy in that case," he said, shooting her a sharp look. But before she could move, Nick had pulled an envelope from behind a large concrete planter. "Gotcha."

  Rhys looked around. Not seeing anyone, she asked, "What's that?"

  "Cutter took the liberty of renting us a room. Keeps us away from the front desk. The fewer folks who see us, the better."