U.S. Marshals: Hunted (U.S. Marshals Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  Only in her head could she admit she wanted him to be curious about her. She was certainly curious about him. What were his political views? What were his thoughts about the Middle East? The economy?

  Most of all, Gillian wanted to know about his wife. The woman he’d loved so much that even though she’d been dead for over two years, his torch for her still burned clear and true.

  “Joe?” she asked. “You awake?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” In her current inquisitive state, she’d take that as a yes.

  “How did you propose to Willow?”

  If he hadn’t been awake already, that question would’ve done it. Eyes half-open and gazing her way, he groaned. “What kind of question is that?”

  She shrugged. “No biggie. Just wondering. I mean, you’ve told me lots about you, Willow and Meggie, but what was your relationship with your wife like before you had your little girl?” What were you like before earning those frown lines on your forehead?

  Before business or diapers, had he been a flashy romantic, bearing gifts of chocolate and teddy bears? Or more of a closet romantic, bringing Willow one showy bloom plucked fresh from her neighbor’s garden? Gillian wanted to know what kind of friend he was. More specifically…what kind of lover. And since she was only wondering all of that in her head, no one—most especially her boss and co-workers—need ever know.

  “What can I say…I asked her to marry me.”

  “Yeah, but…” Gillian shifted on the blanket so they sat face-to-face. “How did you ask?”

  Grinning, shaking his head, he said, “It was stupid. Really embarrassing cornball stuff.”

  “So. Let’s hear it.” Gillian rolled onto her belly, propping her chin on closed fists.

  He laughed. “Okay, well, I wanted it to be really special, so I bought this big bouquet.”

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t have afforded roses, so it must’ve been something cheap like carnations or daisies. Anyway, Willow had this mangy old cat she’d found in the alley behind her apartment. She named it Ralph. Ralph liked being fed on a regular basis, but he didn’t like being hidden in her bedroom. Seeing how her roommate was allergic to cats and her landlord had rules against pets of any kind—most especially male cats—her bedroom was where he lived. Well, I showed up for our standard Friday night date—knowing full well the roommate from hell had gone home for the weekend—with this massive cheapo bouquet with Willow’s microscopic-diamond engagement ring tied to one of the stems. I figured she’d take a big whiff of these flowers, see the ring, then start squealing and crying about how much she wanted to marry me.”

  “Oh no.” Gillian rolled onto her side. “Did her roommate show up and find the cat?”

  “Worse. Wanting to make a big impression, I used the spare key I knew Willow kept hidden under this big rock in the front yard. She was all the time locking herself out. Anyway, I used the spare to let myself in ahead of time. Spruce the place up. I popped a gourmet frozen pizza in the oven. Unscrewed a bottle of wine. Lit a candle. Everything was all set when I looked over at the table and saw that damn cat eating the flowers. How it got out of the bedroom, I’m still not sure, but I went to grab the ring, only it wasn’t there. Figuring the cat must’ve bit through the string I’d tied it on with, I looked all over the floor, but couldn’t find it. I looked back up and there’s Ralph, back on the table, chomping still more flowers. I picked the furball up and started shaking him. You know, not too hard, but hard enough that if he’d eaten Willow’s ring, he might cough it up. I mean, geez, I paid, like, five-hundred bucks for that ring, and back then, that was a helluva lot of money. Took me six months to save up.”

  Gillian nodded. “So then did the roommate show up?”

  “Worse. Willow walked in on me holding her mangy cat upside down, giving it another shake. Just when she’d really started yelling at me for animal cruelty, Ralph yakked all over the carpet and me and Willow’s shoes. I mean, that cat must have thrown up eighteen dozen flowers.”

  “Did he throw up the ring?”

  “Oh, yeah. But by then, Willow was so ticked at me for hurting her cat, she wasn’t speaking. Then smoke starts pouring out of the oven from that pizza that’d set me back six bucks. The whole thing’s laughable now, but hell, she wouldn’t talk to me for a good week. Then I couldn’t get my money back on the ring because part of the gold had chipped off.”

  “Bummer,” Gillian said, snatching another cracker. “High quality jewelry does that sometimes.”

  “Watch it,” he warned, landing a playful slug to her shoulder. “Or I just might shake you like that cat.”

  Grinning, she said, “You’d better watch it. I just might report you for marshal abuse.”

  They shared a nice, long laugh, then Joe sobered. He put his hand on her shoulder, flooding her with confusion over what his touch was about, then what she wanted his touch to be about. He finally said, “Thanks.”

  “For what?” She barely heard her voice over her pounding heart. Geez, he’d just cupped his fingers on her shoulder. It was no big deal. So why did the heat flooding her upper body bring a tidal wave of emotion?

  Almost as if he’d felt something, too—only he couldn’t have because he still cared so much for his wife—he slowly withdrew his hand. “For making me consciously remember good instead of only bad. I mean, I dream about happier times, but try not to blatantly remember.”

  “Why?”

  “Too hard. I’m afraid the pain of it might crush me. But just now…” He shook his head. “I don’t know, remembering that crazy night felt good. A couple weeks later—after sanitizing Willow’s ring—I tried again, and she said yes. I didn’t try any advanced romance techniques, just went for the straight proposal. She squealed and cried and we started kissing and things were really getting good when—”

  “Let me guess,” Gillian said. “The roommate walked through the door?”

  “Worse. Willow’s uptight parents.”

  * * *

  That night, long after Gillian had fallen asleep on Joe’s couch—she’d insisted, and he’d been too tired to fight her—he sat at the kitchen table, staring at the calm sea.

  He still wasn’t sure what to make of the picnic. The late supper they’d shared of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches had been equally confusing. Gillian had long since told him all he needed to know for the trial, leaving only nice, raw personal stuff to discuss. And like at the picnic that afternoon, Joe had found himself opening up.

  This time, it was about Meggie’s disastrous third birthday, when the party planning service Willow had hired sent stripping twins instead of Pokie’s Mobile Petting Zoo.

  Joe drank from the glass of water sitting in front of him, chuckling over the memory of Willow’s upper-crust mom trying to pretend everything was normal as the twins got good and wound up to a particularly raunchy Prince song.

  Seemed like he and Willow had always been running into disasters like that. And back then, it’d all been part of their family charm. God, he’d loved being part of a family.

  Where usually the futility of this thought—the knowing he’d never be part of a family again—led his mood straight into the toilet, this time it merely made him wistful, sad and feeling very much alone.

  Gillian stirred on the sofa. Chirped a sharp laugh in her sleep. What was she dreaming? Why this sudden urge to know?

  Finishing the water, Joe got up to find something to read. He’d thought tonight might be the night he finally found sleep, but he’d been wrong. Tonight was the night he’d only think about sleep…

  In between thoughts of her.

  He grabbed a book on deep-sea fishing, but instead of finding a seat, he went to the kitchen’s big picture window.

  It was a clear night. Moonlight shone white on black water. Maybe a quarter mile offshore, a cabin cruiser gently bobbed, dark save for red and green running lights. Gillian’s team?

  The sight should’ve given hi
m some measure of peace, but it didn’t. Before, when he’d run, he’d done it on his own terms. Now, his life was once again in someone else’s hands.

  A thump sounded on the front porch, causing Joe to flinch.

  Probably just a fallen branch, but unsettling all the same.

  “What was that?” asked a sleepy feminine voice from the sofa. Before he could answer, she was up—with a gun.

  “Where’d that come from?” he asked. “And why’d you feel the need to sleep with it?”

  “Official government business,” she said. “And while you tell me what you’re still doing up, would you mind stepping away from the window.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” Gillian said, still not recovered from the muffin incident. Once he’d abided by her wishes, but not before casting her a dirty look, she took her own peek out the window. Nothing, save for Kavorski’s team’s boat in the distance. “I’ll be back,” she said, creeking open the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just to have a quick look around.”

  “There something you’re not telling me?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why all of a sudden you’re back in marshal mode?”

  “I never left marshal mode. I’m good, huh?” She made sure he was well behind her before unlatching the lock, then slipping into the night, weapon at the ready, damning herself for not having oiled the creaky door.

  Outside, her hammering pulse made more noise than the crickets.

  On the small porch, a sizable log had fallen from the pile of firewood.

  Coincidence?

  She set it back on the pile, testing just how hard it would be to topple a log of that size.

  Too hard for her to buy that it’d just fallen all on its own. Which meant what, exactly? That she and Joe weren’t the only ones on the island? That both teams had allowed some of Tsun-Chung’s thugs to slip through and they were now playing with them? For whatever sick reason allowing them to live a little while longer?

  Queasy, hot and sick all over, Gillian gave the immediate area one last glance, then headed inside.

  “Well?” Joe asked.

  “All clear,” she said with a forced smile. “You should really try getting some rest.”

  “I will,” he said. “Just as soon as you level with me. What made the noise?”

  She sighed. “A fallen log from the firewood pile. No biggie.”

  “And that’s why you have a white-knuckled grip on your gun?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a trip to the restroom.” She bolted the cabin door. Only when she was in the bathroom with its door closed did she turn on the water tap, then reach for the radio she’d earlier stashed under the sink.

  “Kavorski?” she said into the mic, as quietly as possible.

  “Go ahead,” he replied a few seconds later.

  “We’ve got trouble.”

  7

  * * *

  The next night, after finishing the few dishes—Joe had made spaghetti from a jar, so it was her turn to wash up—Gillian crossed the living room, the wood floor chilling the soles of her sock-clad feet. At least they’d match the rest of her, frozen by the idea of sharing more time with Joe, pretending everything was as it should be. Despite Kavorski repeatedly assuring her not a soul could’ve gotten on the island without one of the two teams seeing them, every nerve in her body told her something wasn’t right.

  All around her were classic symbols of contentment. A fire, complete with merrily dancing shadows flickering on the walls. An adorable snoozing dog. Sweet smells of wood smoke and an after-dinner pot of coffee. Everything practically screamed, Be well, be happy, this is a good, safe place. So why, if all that were true, did she feel with every step closer she came to Joe as if she were stepping through a minefield?

  She wanted to tell him about not just the missing muffins and log she suspected had been knocked off the pile by something more than the wind. A part of her—the part growing more fond of Joe by the minute—felt she owed it to him to be honest. The marshal in her told her if she breathed so much as a hint of the truth—whatever it was—Joe would run so fast they might never find him again. Certainly not before the trial, starting in a little under two weeks.

  Gillian reached the sofa and sat cross-legged at the end opposite him. Her pose may have been casual, but inside, she remained on alert, ready to pounce.

  In the fire’s glow, Gillian studied Joe. The devilish slash of hair over his forehead. His dark gaze, brooding and intense. He was a good man. Exactly the kind of guy she might’ve picked had she been in the dating market. As it was, she was all about the job. Who had time to date? Perhaps more to the point, who wanted to date, knowing her getting hitched would thrill her dad.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to make her father happy. It was the principle of the thing. He wanted her brothers to live their lives off in the great, wide world, and her home raising babies. He didn’t think she was smart enough or strong enough to hold her current position, but this was the case that would prove her over-protective father and brothers wrong.

  That all he is? A case?

  Well…

  “Willow and I met in college.” This statement came out of nowhere. Was he even talking to her?

  “Oh?” Gillian said, for lack of anything better to say.

  “She was Miss Everything. Sorority queen, head of the student council, Phi Beta Kappa. When I say she was everything, I mean it.” His eyes turned glassy. A ghostly smile played about his lips. “Just the sight of her blew me away.”

  “But, Joe, you’re not so—”

  “Shh…This isn’t about me, but her.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” He seemed to be in a trance. Was he okay?

  “Don’t be sorry, just let me get this out.” He rubbed his forehead. “She was totally out of my league. I come from hardworking, God-fearing folks who never got a damn thing for free. Willow, on the other hand, had an air of expectation about her. I don’t know how to describe it other than to say that, her whole life, practically all she’d had to do was want something and it appeared. From ponies to Porsches, furs to fantasy vacations, she’d had it all. She came from a life I could only dream existed. And yet to marry me, she threw it all away. Oh sure, her parents came around to eventually forgive her, but we had a few lean years.” He laughed, but the sound, far from being joyful, was heartbreaking. “I took her from imported cheese to macaroni and cheese. From sitting front row center at Broadway plays to sitting on a lumpy old couch watching Redbox’s movies because we couldn’t afford Netflix. How could she have ever stuck by me? What had she seen in me?”

  Gillian scooted closer to him on the sofa and tentatively placed her hand on his thigh, telling herself to ignore the current she imagined flowed between them. He was foremost, her professional assignment. Second, her friend—but only within the limits her job would allow. “If you ask me,” she said softly, “not that you did, only that—”

  “What, Gillian? What did she see? I am asking, because for the life of me, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I haven’t known you very long.” Only the two years she’d studied his file and everything about him, from his favorite foods while in the safe house to the agonized look on his face when he’d left the courthouse the last day of the trial. “But since you’re asking, I’d say she thought you were the total package. Smart, funny, full of ambition. You know, the usual stuff girls go for.” Not to mention the fact that you’re seriously hot.

  “Funny, huh? There’s not a damn thing funny about the way I miss my wife and daughter. They mean the world to me….”

  “Joe…” Not knowing how to put what needed to be said into kind words, Gillian scooted closer still, moved her hand to his shoulder. “If you wanted, we could get Meghan up here for you tomorrow. But as for Willow, you’ve got to accept the fact she’s gone.”

  “Don’t you think I know?” Where he had been
staring into the fire, he now snapped his gaze to hers. “I know it forwards and backwards and sideways and up. What I don’t know is how I can ever make up for what I’ve done with my daughter. Even if all this crap with Tsun-Chung clears up after the trial, what’s left? Because of me, she no longer has a mother.”

  “Would you stop with that? Willow’s death was not your fault. You avoiding Meghan in the name of protecting her is.”

  The look he cast her was so elemental, so raw with pain, she wished more than anything to take her words back.

  If she were brutally honest with herself, maybe she so desperately wanted Joe to move on with his life so he’d see what a great woman sat beside him.

  Just thinking such a thing filled Gillian with guilt. But there it was. Out on the table.

  She had a thing for Joe Morgan. But as long as that thing never went any further than the confines of her own heart, they’d both be just fine.

  “Meghan needs you,” she softly said. “Okay, so she might be growing up like some pampered princess with Willow’s folks in Beverly Hills, but can you honestly tell me all that money makes up for one hour spent playing catch with you?”

  “Why won’t you leave me alone?” He planted his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “What kind of spell do you have over me that makes me want to spill stuff I never—”

  “And admit it, Joe, it feels good, doesn’t it? Just like when we went on that picnic, it felt good laughing again and—”

  “What’s with you?” he raged, pushing himself up from the sofa to yank open the front door. “Why won’t you mind your own business?”

  “You’re the one who started this! Remember?”

  Too late. He was already out the door.

  Where the perimeter alarm went off.