by Em Petrova
A tenth of a second didn’t seem like much time for him to be ahead, though he felt confident in the lead. He knew from watching several races that most drivers had more ambition than speed, and they burnt out quick. This asshole would be no different.
In order to clone himself to Moreau, he’d required a bit of help from Roman. The asshole might not be able to beat him on a racetrack, however he possessed a master skill in disguise. His tips and tricks to give Lars’s face and jawline a new structure by using prosthetics gave him enough confidence to pass himself off as Moreau, while the real Moreau sat safely tucked away in a secret spot with one of their missionaries as guard.
Once the race ended, and Lars walked away from the crash meant to kill Moreau, then the driver would be heavily guarded until they ran the hitman to earth and took the guy out. When it came to hitmen…well, Lars had a motto that only one of them could come away alive, and it’d always be him.
He braked heavily coming into a turn. The car closed in on his left this time. A light brush of his bumper against the side of Lars’s car gave him a burst of adrenaline. They approached the main stands now. Surely this asshole didn’t want to dance right here, right now, so early into the race.
Yes, he fucking does.
Lars took the hit at top speed. The impact slammed him, but he used all his training to brace himself in a way that would lessen the pain factor and keep him from blacking out as they collided. His car rolled, hit a wall. His mind called the shots, though, and he made a critical move that stopped the momentum before he went into a death spiral.
With a brutal impact, the car touched down again, landing on all four tires. The odor of gasoline flooded his nose. His mind caught up to the situation, and he stripped off his harness and bailed out as the hiss of a gas leak sounded.
He dived out, hit the asphalt, and rolled. He darted away from the car a split second before the explosion. Screams erupted from the crowd, and he looked up in time to spot the gunman standing close to the track. His team scattered, as had others. But a woman stood too close to the shooter. Moreau’s press agent.
Whatever she said to the gunman swung him around. He took aim…and Lars threw himself forward.
* * * * *
A popping noise echoed in Lillian’s ears just as the crushing blow knocked her sideways. A hard steel band circled her waist, cutting off her air supply, and she hit the ground. Screams and chaos erupted around her, and the heavy weight didn’t budge from atop her.
Am I dead? Is this how it feels to die?
A fleeting thought of her parents came right before the dream she’d clung to since childhood…of owning a small, peaceful corner of the countryside to live out her days. She’d never see that now, or her parents’ beautiful, smiling faces.
“Stay down.” Moreau’s voice came out gritty in her ear.
She realized he sprawled over her, protecting her. A second later, her mind came into harsh, terrifying focus. Moreau’s car had hit the wall and flipped several times, right before it exploded. He couldn’t have walked away from such an accident, yet, she knew that voice in her ear.
Eyes pinched shut, she took in the things her senses told her. More screams sounded. That pungent smoke and gasoline clogged her nose. A hard chest flattened to her spine and thick, muscled thighs pinned hers.
That’s not Moreau.
Her fogged mind confused too much. Of course he was Moreau. She’d seen his face as he struck her with his full weight and power, knocking her flat before a bullet wiped her off the face of the Earth.
Someone tried to kill her. Who? Why? She’d only been standing with a photographer at the side of the track. While the man snapped photos of the track and Moreau’s car approaching, a strong panic swept over Lillian for no apparent reason. A heartbeat later, Moreau’s car spun out of control.
Now she lay on the ground, her cheek smashed into some tiny rocks. The sharp pain kept her mind whirring like one of the hub caps spinning on the asphalt, though she still couldn’t make out the situation.
A scream collected in her lungs, but with Moreau’s weight on her, she only issued a squawk.
“Hurry, Lillian. Get on your feet.”
She didn’t have time to process the order before he dragged her up as though she weighed nothing. Thank goodness her sensible boots made it easy to run, because Moreau clutched her forearm in a vise grip and forced her to run through the crowd.
“Who tried to shoot me?” she called back to him over her shoulder.
“Never mind. He’s in custody, but there will be others in on it.” His voice took on a strange cadence.
She wanted to turn and look at his face though no chance of that as he rushed her past security gates. A motorbike stood parked there for the guards, and he threw a leg over the seat. With a glance back, he said, “Get on.”
Blinking, she made the quick decision and jumped on behind him.
“Hold on tight.”
Oh God. She sat on the back of a motorbike driven by France’s top racer. She threw her arms around his middle as they shot off.
Seconds later, her mind focused on stupid things. Such as how broad the back under her check was. So layered with muscle. Moreau was a fit man, but he didn’t carry much muscle mass.
A quick glance at the back of his head showed her Moreau’s thick wavy dark hair and the olive complexion all the women melted over. Yet everything in her body screamed out that this man could not be the driver she represented.
“What’s happening?” She raised her voice to be heard over the wind and whine of the engine as Pierre pushed the limits.
He didn’t respond.
He’d almost died. He should have died. Why hadn’t he died in that crash? Nobody could walk away from such a thing, yet he’d somehow escaped the wreckage before the explosion. The reek of burning rubber and oil still lay thick on the back of her sinuses. She wished she could rub her nose or sneeze in order to gain a breath of fresh air.
With her arms aching from holding on to his waist, she let them slip down his body to ease the muscle fatigue.
“Where are we going?” She tried to get her bearings, but the roads all resembled each other in this region. When she plied her brain, she had no memory of leaving the racetrack. Her mind felt like a layer of leaked oil slicked over it.
“Pierre, where are we going? What’s happening?”
“Be still. I’ll talk to you when we stop.”
A shiver ran through her. She closed her eyes against the world speeding by her vision and tried to control her breathing. Motion sickness overwhelmed her in a wave, and she had to open her eyes and breathe shallowly until it eased.
What felt like an hour passed, while she had no sense of time or reality anymore. And the more she pressed her face to Moreau’s spine, the more she wondered how she’d missed seeing the thick muscle stacked on the man’s body. Under the stench of the fire he’d barely escaped, she detected a hint of his personal musky scent. She didn’t recall that from Pierre either, and she and her client kissed in greeting every day they met.
Her arms quivered, and her thigh muscles too. She exercised, and she had enough stamina for most outdoor games or long treks. However, staying upright on this motorbike while they sped away at speeds she didn’t wish to know made her muscles ache.
The green landscape flew by. After several minutes, she realized she could see the details easier—they’d slowed down.
A small hamlet flashed by, and she spotted a landmark she recognized. She didn’t come to the countryside nearly often enough, but she’d been here before.
He geared down again and took a corner. The cobblestoned street bumped underneath their tires, and she clung more tightly to his middle.
“Why are we here?” she asked.
“Plain sight.” His answer made no sense. His tone also made her wish she could see his face.
He stopped the motorbike and planted his legs to stabilize it. “You can get off now, Lillian.”
She d
id, quivering from her ordeal. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled despite the warmth of the day, and watched him climb off the bike.
Without looking at her, he took her by the elbow and led her across a small gravel courtyard with a stone water fountain and flowers in fat clay pots. He opened the door and led her inside.
The place smelled as though it had been closed up for some time. She turned to stare at him.
“I want you to stay right here while I take care of some business.”
She blinked. “I-I don’t understand what’s—”
He gave a harsh shake of his head. “Trust me. I’ll explain more in a bit.” He walked over to the side of the room where a bar cart stood with glass bottles of alcohol. He poured her what appeared to be a sherry and returned to hand her the glass. Her fingers brushed his, and she realized how cold she was in comparison.
Searching his face, she tried to put her finger on the changes she saw in him as well as figure out what the hell was happening.
He watched her for a moment as she steadied the glass and brought it to her lips. A sip of the alcohol burned her palate and slipped down her throat, into her belly, providing her the only comfort she could cling on to.
He left the room. She walked to the window and peeked through the thin curtains at the courtyard. No traffic came down this remote street, and she felt better knowing that.
Long minutes later, she heard the back door open and close. She followed the sound through the country home and saw a door off the kitchen that probably led to a garden. Glancing up, she saw Pierre’s broad shoulders through the window.
Her insides hadn’t stopped quaking, and she took the liberty to find the bathroom. The home’s simple design echoed her parents’ home, and she took a measure of comfort from that. As she brought cold water up to splash on her hot cheeks, she froze. Her chest seized even as her bowels turned to water.
Jelly-like forms resembling skin lay on the vanity top…in the exact hue of Pierre’s olive complexion. She bit off a scream and ran out of the bathroom. She made it as far as the kitchen when the man stepped through the back door again.
Hysterical cries built in her throat. She didn’t know the man standing in front of her, but she recognized his body well enough. She’d just spent most of an hour clinging to it on the back of a motorbike.
She waved a hand at him. “Stay away from me!”
“Lillian, I won’t hurt you. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t speak in Pierre’s voice now, and it hit her that he’d been in disguise. His jawline, the shape of his face, spoke of roots far beyond Pierre’s French heritage.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Terror racked her, but she held her ground, glaring at him with her best don’t-fuck-with-me stare.
“Lillian, please. Just listen to me. I’m not Pierre.”
“I guessed!” she spat in English.
Without a blink, he switched languages. “Pierre is not the target right now—you are. That man shot at you for a reason.”
Her jaw dropped. She gaped at him for several heartbeats.
“They wanted Pierre to die in that crash, but he didn’t die. Or I didn’t, rather,” he said.
“What the fuck!”
“I’ve heard that French girls use bad language, though I’ve never experienced it for myself.”
“I’m half American, and you can go fuck off! I’m getting away from you.”
She made it all of one step before the wall of man stopped her dead in her tracks. “Lillian, I know this is difficult to wrap your head around, but you’re in danger, and I’m here to protect you from those men.”
Another shock. “I’m in…danger?”
“Didn’t you realize it when that man shot at you?”
“It wasn’t aimed at me.”
He leveled his stare at her. The eyes were still Pierre’s dark hue with amber flecks, and she couldn’t reconcile the change in this man’s face with what she saw in his eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“My name’s Lars. The less you know of me the better. We’ll just keep it on a first-name basis, shall we?”
She tangled her fingers in her long hair and tugged at the strands, hoping more blood flow might reach her brain and help her comprehend what was going on.
“Listen, we’re only making a stop here. I’m waiting for…” He tipped his head, and she heard it too—the crunch of tires on cobblestones as a car traversed the road.
Backing up against the wall, she wrapped her arms around herself and scouted the kitchen for a butcher knife to use as a weapon. Dammit, she’d left her knife in her suitcase back in her hotel room. Her skills ended on a kitchen cutting board, but if need be, she could thrust a sharp point into a man’s stomach. Or neck. Maybe the neck would be a better target.
Target. The word flooded her mind again. I’m a target.
The man—Lars—moved to the back door and spoke to someone she couldn’t see. “Thank you. Let him know she’s safe, but they cannot see each other. Not until the situation is neutralized.”
She slid down the wall. Her backside hit the warm hardwood, and Lars turned to find her that way.
His gaze softened. “You’re bleeding. Come with me.” He reached down to her, and she let him pull her to her feet.
At the racetrack and during their escape, she hadn’t realized that her blouse sleeve was ripped and the cut bled through the fabric. Now that some of her adrenaline faded, she felt the sting.
Lars led her to the bathroom. She must have made some noise at the sight of the jelly-like pieces of flesh because he swept them away into a garbage can. “Sit down,” he told her.
She sank to the toilet seat and watched him as he located first-aid supplies as if he knew exactly where everything was kept.
“Can you roll up your sleeve?” His dark eyes still confused her. How did they look so much like Pierre’s?
She fumbled her sleeve over her forearm. The cut drew a jagged line down the front of her elbow and forearm.
“You must have gotten it when we landed on the ground.”
She said nothing. He cleaned her cut with antiseptic wash and then retrieved a ball of cotton and dabbed more antiseptic on her cheek.
“Someone’s trying to kill me?” she whispered.
His gaze sank into her. “Honey, a bullet was coming right at your head. If I hadn’t hit you at that moment, you wouldn’t be my ward right now.”
“What does that mean? Ward?”
“It means I’m your bodyguard until I deem it’s safe for you to return to your normal life.”
“When will that be?”
“I’m working that out. Why don’t you come sit down and rest?”
“I’m not an infant. I’m not fragile.”
Chapter Three
He begged to differ. One look at Lillian’s slender limbs and slight, almost boyish shape told him she’d be on the losing end of any fight. Plus, her hazel eyes burned with fear, and he had to look away.
A need to comfort her beyond what his job entailed twisted him up as he held out a hand to her. “How tolerant of alcohol are you? I think you need another drink.”
She glanced away and refused his hand.
He dropped into a crouch before her.
She skated her gaze over his face. “I don’t know you—you could harm me. I don’t know your intentions. I thought you were Pierre back there, but your face is much more angled and chiseled than Pierre’s without those…whatever they are.” She shot a look at the garbage can where he’d dumped his prosthetics.
“There’s a hit on Pierre’s life. I stepped in to pose as him.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “You were posing as him the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Are you DGSE?” She named the French equivalent of the FBI.
“No.”
She sent him a look that revealed her distrust of him.
He drank in her pose, her arms wrapped around her
self. God, he wished to hell he only had Pierre to worry about. His last three missions dealt with women, and he was actually eager to have a male ward, but that wasn’t to be.
“Lillian, listen to me. We’re making a small stop here long enough to figure out the steps to keep you safe. We’ll move in the morning.”
“I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s sunk in that you’re in danger and I’m protecting your life.”
“Then take me to my parents’ home. I’ll be safe there.”
“No.” He didn’t mean for his tone to come out so flat, and she blanched even whiter. “Lillian—”
He broke off again, and this time he heard the crunch of feet on gravel through the small bathroom window facing the courtyard. Not one set but several heavy, stomping, grinding steps that could only mean they were about to receive company—and they weren’t fucking welcome.
Goddammit, he’d hoped to buy more time. Lars could operate on much less planning than this, but flying by the seat of his pants wasn’t something he enjoyed. He ticked off the list in his mind. Impersonate the driver, live through the crash, find the hitman. Well, he completed some of those tasks. Then the shooter turned on Lillian Delphine, and Lars could only guess it was because she recognized the man. Men like that would protect their identity at all costs.
Right now, he and the woman had one way out of this house, and three men approached the front, with an unknown number in the back. He pulled out his sidearm and threw her a look. “Stay behind me. Keep hidden.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting us out of here.” He gave her one more pointed look. Damn if he trusted the woman to do his bidding. She certainly seemed the type to question his every move. After doing this work for so many years, he’d seen all sorts. Silent, scared mouse types, bold brass-ballsy types. So far, all he could make out about Lillian was she talked too much.
Slipping up to the door, he twitched his head to Lillian to get her to move behind him. He shielded her with his body as he silently rushed through the house to the front door. With his back, he pressed her to the wall.