Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body) (9 page)

In seconds, he pealed out of the driveway and hit the street, speeding in the same direction of the sirens and incoming police. As several patrol cars flew past his truck, he eased off the accelerator. But as soon as they disappeared in his rearview mirror, he floored it.

Urgency pumped through his veins like a drug. Until he hit the city limits, got rid of the SUV, and arrived at the safe house, he would remain on edge.

Unnerved.

As of now, he couldn’t trust the cops or law enforcement.

Because outside of Khalil, Maddox, and Ciaran, only one other person had been aware of Fallon’s location. Had known Shane intended to move her this morning.

One of Boston’s finest.

Tristan.

Chapter Ten

“God, Shane. Your CD collection is from last century.”

Shane gritted his teeth against the crinkle of flipping plastic sleeves and Fallon’s irritated grumble. They’d been on the road for forty-five minutes. A
long
forty-five minutes. If it didn’t mean a possible fiery death by car crash, he would have closed his eyes and counted to ten—or a hundred. Anything to clamp a stranglehold on his patience.

Damn. Bad analogy. Especially when his gut still clenched in terror and rage at the thought of her being incinerated by a car bomb and most recently by an assassination squad. He would never forget the terror on her face. Damn it! His home was supposed to have been a haven for her. Instead it’d been turned into a firing range with her as the paper target.

Six years in the service and three years with GDG had exposed him to several precarious situations. But facing down the enemy on foreign soil or protecting a client from an obsessed stalker hadn’t prepared him for the stark horror that darkened her lovely eyes from silver to almost black.

Never. Never again would he allow danger that close to her.

He glanced toward the passenger side, needing to look at her, reassure himself she was unscathed. With a muttered curse, he jerked his attention back to the road.

At some point during this ride he was going to need to figure out how not to stare at her slim thighs in those ridiculous—sexy—jeans. Christ on the cross. He shifted in his seat, prayed she didn’t notice the growing erection along his thigh. Explaining why he sported a hard-on in her presence notched right under shaving his balls and above watching a
Sex in the City
marathon.

He slid another glance across the bucket seat in the large SUV. Those frivolous—gorgeous—curls that had always fascinated him brushed her high cheekbone and jaw as she continued to peruse his binder of music. Except now he knew the silken, sensual feel of them tangled around his fingers. And no amount of rubbing could erase the sensation.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened until the ridges dug into his fingers. A dull ache flared in his joints, protesting the punishing hold. Maybe if he squeezed hard enough, his mind would focus on the danger pursuing them instead of her thighs, her wicked mouth, and her absolutely delicious scent permeating the confines of the car.

“Queen? Greatest hits?” She plucked the disc from its pocket and waved it. “For real?”

By the time they reached their destination, he would be breathing enamel from all the teeth grinding. “They’re classic.”

She snorted, replaced the CD, and once more blessed silence filled the vehicle.

Then she started singing.

He growled, and she broke off mid-“Bohemian Rhapsody,” hands shooting up in the age-old sign of surrender. “Fine, fine.” She smirked. “But being the big bad security specialist, you miiiight want to bump some Jay Z or slip a couple of 50 Cent CDs in here. I’m just saying.”

He shot her a glare, and she shrugged. Moments later, the sultry notes of Alicia Keys’s “If I Ain’t Got You” streamed from the speakers. He jabbed the forward button at the same time she reached for it. Their fingers bumped in their haste to skip the song that had been playing from the living room when Fallon had cornered him the kitchen those years ago.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t scrubbed every detail of that kiss from their mind.
Christ, just don’t let her ask why I have the CD in the first place.
He didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make him look like a schmuck.

She lowered her arm and cleared her throat as the next track played.

“So where are we headed?” she murmured, and he detected the traces of the fear she’d covered with the derision of his musical tastes.

Rage edged in helplessness flowed through him, obliterating all traces of embarrassment. Rage at the killer who would snuff out such a vibrant, beautiful life as easily as he would a cigarette butt. Helplessness because no matter how much Shane assured Fallon nothing would happen to her while under his watch, the subtle, bitter tinge of fear stained her steady, calm voice. He ached to strangle Jonah Michaels for that alone.

“Cape Cod. Eastham.”

The location was ideal; in May, tourists would be flocking to the coastal town. Two more would go unnoticed. Especially since he didn’t plan on venturing out of the safe house more than necessary—Fallon, not at all. A good part of the houses dotting the shore were rentals and vacant during the week, providing privacy and cover.

Ten minutes later, he exited off I-93 steered the SUV into a supermarket lot, and parked next to a gunmetal Range Rover. The driver’s door of the Rover opened, and Ciaran stepped out of the vehicle.

“Wait here for a minute,” he said to Fallon. But her hand was already on the handle, tugging on it, and pushing the door open. He sighed and followed.

“Ciaran,” she crowed, delight in her voice as she ran to his best friend and threw her arms around his neck. Shane gritted his teeth and fought against the inexplicable primal urge to yank her out of his friend’s embrace and back to his side. “It’s been forever.”

Ciaran grinned, squeezing her hard. “Hey, sweetheart.” He twirled a thick curl around his finger and gave the strands a playful tug. “Still right smack in the middle of trouble, I see.” He chuckled when she smacked him on the arm, but an instant later his smile faded, his expression sobering. “I don’t want you to worry, okay? We have your back and aren’t going to let anything happen to you.”

“I know.” She glanced over her shoulder at Shane before shifting her attention back to Ciaran. “I’m in capable, if musically challenged, hands.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered as Ciaran snorted.

“You must’ve seen his CD collection,” Ciaran said. “Chicago, right?”

“Queen, you rat bastard,” Shane growled. “Now, give me the keys so we can get out of here.”

With a snicker, Ciaran tossed a pair of keys to him. “Fallon, I have a pair of sneakers in the passenger’s seat for you.” He aimed a pointed look at her bare feet and arched an eyebrow.

“Thanks.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, then climbed into the Rover.

Shane waited until the door closed before turning to his friend and business partner. “Thanks for picking up everything for her.”

Ciaran shrugged a shoulder. “Thank your sister. If she hadn’t
told
me what to buy, I would’ve shown up with a toothbrush,” he said, dumping a load of sarcasm on “told.” Shane grunted, he could just imagine how his bossy younger sister had instructed the other man.

“What have you found out?” Shane crossed his arms, glancing down at his watch. 7:20. Only an hour and five minutes had passed since he walked into the kitchen to find Fallon cooking breakfast. Jesus, it felt like days. “Anything on the shooters?”

Ciaran shook his head, his features tightening. “Nothing. I’ve been listening to the police scanners and, even with descriptions from your neighbors, somehow the cops missed them. They do have the car, though. Good thinking popping those tires.”

“They can pull fingerprints from it at least.” Shane rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “What about the security cameras from the businesses where Fallon’s car was parked?” Khalil had been working to retrieve the footage from the stores on that street to see if the cameras had caught images of the ones who’d placed the bomb on the convertible.

“Most of the angles were wrong and didn’t catch anything. But the bakery and pawnshop did capture something. About eleven o’clock, a hooded figure paused beside her car. It isn’t very clear what he was doing, but he did spend about three minutes there. Just from the limited amount of time he took, the device couldn’t have been very sophisticated. Maybe a pressure-cooker bomb or pipe bomb. Either can be detonated with a cell phone or digital watch. I can ask Tristan if they received the bomb squad’s report yet—”

“No,” Shane said, voice flat. “From now on we keep everything in-house.”

“Shane, I know what you said, but—” Ciaran began, frowning. But once more, Shane cut his friend off.

“I get it, Ciaran,” he snapped, frustration and the churning in his stomach lending a jagged edge to his tone. “I do. I don’t want to believe Tristan could betray us like that.” He shook his head. A part of him
refused
to believe it. “But he was the only other person besides us who knew my identity, where I lived, and that Fallon was with me. I can’t let friendship blind me to that fact. Not when her life is on the line.”

“Yeah, I understand, but…” He scrubbed a palm over his clean-shaven jaw. “He’s already calling, wanting to know where you and Fallon are.”

“Just tell him I moved her to the safe house and that we’ll be in touch.”

“Got it.” He sighed, resolution tightening his mouth, though his blue gaze remained troubled. “Listen, we have everything covered in Boston. One of us will contact you whether we find something or not. Maddox and some of our guys have been staking out the Lords of War territory and haunts, see if they can spot Michaels. So far he’s in the wind, but we’re staying on it.”

“Add Tristan to that surveillance.”

Mouth in a grim line, Ciaran nodded, the gesture terse. “On it. You just take care of our girl.”

Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Shane clasped his friend’s hand, then tugged him in for a quick, hard hug.

“Be careful,” Shane warned gruffly. As an ex-soldier, he longed to be in the middle of the investigation, the battle, hunting his enemy, and neutralizing the threat. But something deeper, more primal overrode that need. The need to protect. To defend his…his… His what?

Friend? Not only had that ship sailed, but it had been blasted to Davy Jones’s Locker.

Labels. Goddamn labels. She was his to keep safe.

Fifteen minutes after pulling into the parking lot, Shane guided the gray Range Rover back onto the interstate with Ciaran headed in the opposite direction toward Boston.

An hour later, Shane drove down a private dirt road and parked in a shell driveway behind a beach house. The two stories of white wood, brick, and glass that soared up above the Cape Cod Bay waterfront was an investment they’d made to bring their wealthier clients. But other than comfort, the secluded location of the home was ideal. The nearest neighbor lived a mile down the road, and the dense border of trees provided more privacy. To the rear stretched a long, remote band of beach with its own stairway and the Atlantic Ocean. Isolation aside, the trees worried him. They provided cover if someone wanted to approach the house undetected. But the other two safe house sites were more populated, offering greater risk of Fallon being discovered. So the beach house it was.

Twenty minutes later, he had their small number of belongings stashed in two of the three bedrooms. Walking through the house with Fallon by his side, he ran through a quick tour. Eight rooms with fireplaces in five of them, a deck
and
screened porch, a huge kitchen with decorative bricks on the floor… He shot a glance at Fallon, who stood at one of the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows that granted a view of the light brown shore, endless ocean, and cloudless sky.

This—the luxury and wealth—probably didn’t shock her. As a privileged child of Boston’s social and financial elite, she’d grown up surrounded by affluence. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover her family owned one of the McMansions that colonized the Cape and surrounding islands. Yet another difference between them—their worlds.

Turning away from the tempting and oddly vulnerable sight of her at the window silhouetted by massive sky and ocean, he exited the room. Khalil had driven up the night before to ensure the pantry and kitchen were fully stocked and prepared so they wouldn’t have to venture out too often. Checking their supplies and the security on the home would provide his hands and mind with something to do.

Moments later, Fallon appeared behind him at the front door, his first stop in securing the residence.

“So this is one of your company’s safe houses?” she asked, rubbing her arms. He glanced over his shoulder, strong-arming the urge to replace her hands with his own. Damnit, no. He returned his attention to the double-bolt lock and alarm pad. Touching was strictly prohibited.

Because if he started touching her, he wouldn’t stop. That was the bare, raw truth of it. He wouldn’t stop until she twisted and moaned beneath him.

Yeah. Looking and/or touching her right now? Bad idea.

“Yes.”

“It’s nice,” she continued in spite of his abrupt reply. “Your firm must be doing really well. Addy said in the three years it’s been open, you’ve had a steady clientele.” When he didn’t reply, instead forced himself to focus on his task, she continued. “I meant to ask you. Isn’t there some sort of policy against you guarding me? Because of the personal connection?”

He set the alarm system, then without sparing her a glance, he strode toward the kitchen and back door.

“If I was a police officer, probably. But I’m an owner in the company. And you’re like family,” he said, frowning at the simple knob lock. A well-placed shoulder and enough force would bust the door wide open. He’d have to fortify it. “Your safety and welfare is my top priority.”

Her scent enveloped him right before her arm pressed into his. Like a coward, he retreated and reversed course for the living room. Fortunately, most of the windows had blinds, which he shut. The wall-length windows weren’t ideal, but at least they faced the rear of the property, and he would have a clear view if anyone tried to approach them from the beach.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and performed a thorough search before returning to the main level where Fallon waited for him.

“I, uh, overheard your conversation with Ciaran this morning,” she hedged.

He arched an eyebrow, assuming her former position by the expansive glass. “You mean you eavesdropped.”

She shrugged. “Semantics,” she said, flicking his accusation off with a wave of her fingers. “Anyway, he mentioned Tristan.” She hesitated, and he almost turned away from the soft, but incisive, scrutiny. The suspicion of Tristan’s duplicity tasted like acrid ashes in his mouth and nose, even as his heart fought against the possibility. “Do you really believe he’s capable of betraying you?”