They’d have Moretti on charges of intent to kill, but it wasn’t enough. Sure, it would help the FBI’s case, but that didn’t mean he’d been involved in the murder of Raquel, and it wouldn’t help take down the corrupt cops and judges he planned to pay off. He’d get a slap on the wrist instead of being incarcerated.
“What’s wrong?”
He flicked his gaze to the person who’d started this whole mess. Her voice was small. For the first time since he’d brought her to his room, her voice held a note of fear.
“Moretti wants you dead, that’s what’s wrong.” He tossed the phone on the bed and got to his feet. She widened her stance, as if preparing to fight him off, and he grunted. He didn’t even have the energy to be amused. He paced the room and warred with his thoughts. He knew what he had to do—he just didn’t want to. Didn’t want to end the case. But there was absolutely no other way out of this.
She—how the hell had he not gotten her name yet?—cleared her throat. He snapped his attention to her stark white face.
“You could let me go.” She shrugged. “I’ll take the lifeboat and you can tell them I escaped while you were sleeping.”
He scoffed and dug his hands into his now-wrinkled slacks. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea. At the very least, it’d save her life without him having to call in his team.
But he knew her kind. She’d be back for whatever it was she wanted. He strode to the chair and propped his knee on the seat. He took in the delicate fingers curled around the back of the chair then dragged his gaze up to her shoulders.
“If I do that, I need something from you in exchange.”
Her chin lifted and her honey-hued eyes blazed with fire. “Go to hell, you perv.” She grabbed the lamp on the nightstand, but it was bolted to the surface. She huffed and spun on him. “How dare you suggest—”
“Suggest what?”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Proposition me for sex to save my life.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“You’re a crooked cop. I don’t think that’d be beneath you.”
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Annoyance thickened in his overtired brain, but he held back any response that would blow his cover. “What’s your name?”
Confusion puckered the skin between her eyes. “You’ll let me go if I tell you?”
She wasn’t getting off that easy, but once he got his focus off who she was, he’d be able to think of a logical way out of this. He lifted a shoulder. “It’s a start.”
She twisted her mouth to one side then the other. Then, probably discerning there wasn’t much threat in revealing her name, since he already knew her friends, she shrugged. “Fine. It’s Peyton. Peyton Risk.”
He lifted an eyebrow. Peyton. Crap. He’d heard plenty about Peyton Risk. She wasn’t exactly a wanted felon, but her name had come up more than once in association with other criminals. Max-something stuck in his brain.
“You’ve heard of me?” Her dry tone brought up the edges of his mouth.
“You could say that. You’ve got a pretty risqué résumé, if memory serves me right.”
Her head tilted. “Cute. I’ve heard worse.”
“Hmm. Like Priss? Isn’t that what friends call you?” He liked the name Priss. It suited her. “Peyton” made him think of someone uptight and refined, not like the short, feisty beauty who tested his every nerve.
“You’re awfully clever for a cop. What else do you want from me in exchange for my life, oh master?” Her tone had become downright snarly.
Once again, he opted not to take the bait. He rocked his knee from side to side and her gaze dropped to his leg then traveled up the inside of his thigh and stopped on his crotch. Her throat bobbed on a swallow and desire stirred his blood.
A delicate blush touched her cheeks, and he didn’t even try to stop the hardening of his cock. He cleared his throat. Her already lightly pink cheeks turned a flaming red, the color intensified by the fair hair framing her face.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” He nodded at the bed. “Give me a couple of hours to figure this out. And if I can, I’ll get you to the lifeboat and distract the captain so you can get away.” Even as he spoke the words his brain rejected them. She was injured, vulnerable. Setting her out to sea alone in a lifeboat miles from shore just might be the stupidest thing he could do.
But for now, if it kept her quiet and pacified, he’d go along with it.
She eyed the bed and wet her lips. The slick edges of her tongue prompted a million scenarios to play out in his head.
“What about you?”
He glanced at the double bed pressed against the wall. “I have some calls to make so I’ll be upstairs.”
She removed her hands from the chair and drifted past him. As she moved, she didn’t take her gaze off his form, as if she expected him to jump her.
“Can I trust that you won’t leave this room?”
She pulled up the comforter and dropped it over her knees. “There’s not really anywhere for me to go, is there?”
“Not safely.” He shoved a hand in his pocket and measured his words. He didn’t want her terrified, but he also didn’t need her sneaking around the boat looking for trouble. “If one of the guys finds you, there’s not much I can do to help you.”
Her lashes fluttered as she leaned back onto the pillow—his pillow.
“Okay.” She covered her mouth with a yawn and settled deeper into the mattress.
He sighed, shut the door, and locked it.
Why did it feel as though he’d just locked up a wildcat in a paper cage?
* * *
Peyton lifted her head from the pillow and glanced at the clock. She’d slept only an hour, but there was no way she’d fall back asleep. Had the cop returned while she’d been out cold? She mopped up a dribble of drool on her chin. God, she hoped not.
She sat up and rubbed the heel of her palm between her eyes. In most circumstances, she’d be as lucky as a flying pig if someone caught her stealing and let her go—but this wasn’t a normal circumstance. She couldn’t leave the boat without getting the location Max needed.
She threw back the covers and the scent of man and sandalwood drifted away from her nostrils, stealing the comfort that had relaxed her enough to sleep. He couldn’t be that dangerous—he’d rescued her, and his watchful stare had looked concerned as he’d cleaned up the cut above her eye.
Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open and peered down the dark hall. Empty. It was after midnight. She doubted everyone was sleeping, but at the very least the guards and Moretti would be drunk or high. She turned and scanned the cabin. No weapons caught her eye, and anything that could be used for self-defense was bolted to a surface. She rummaged through Rhett’s drawers, shook out his clothes, and checked the pockets of his pants hanging in the closet. Nothing. Dammit, he wasn’t stupid enough to leave a weapon available for her to find.
The wind rustled outside the window aggressively, but at least the boat was finally stable. She returned to the door and slipped into the hall. Pressing her bare toes against the smooth, freshly polished wood floors, she passed two other closed-off cabins. No noise sounded from inside the rooms and no glow illuminated the cracks between the doors and the floor.
Please, God, let all the guards be drunk somewhere on board and not on their way to their rooms.
Light from the main deck shone down the stairwell and pooled on the floor near the wet bar, and a standing lamp lit the corner of the seating area.
Where the hell is Rhett? Her gaze traveled to a short hallway behind the staircase. She skirted to it and pressed her back against the wall. One room sat tucked away, its door ajar. She moved closer and listened. Not a sound. She’d need a flashlight before entering the dark space. Making her way back to the wet bar, she stopped at a bifold closet door.
As the springs popped she winced and closed her eyes, breathing a curse. She waited a few beats, but no one came to investigate. Pushing t
he door open far enough that the light from the staircase hit the shelves inside, she raked her gaze over the contents.
First aid kit, rations, bottled water . . . and a flashlight. She picked up the thick, waterproof handle and returned to the hallway. She slipped inside the room, shut the door, then flicked on the flashlight.
A wide wooden desk ate up most of the space. A wingback leather chair and a wooden bookcase sat behind it. Moretti’s office. Thank god. If the white envelope holding Jenny’s location was in this room, she’d find it. Unless he’d taken it to his room—then she was screwed. She didn’t have time to search both.
She swung the globe of light over the shelves and rounded the desk. Sitting in the chair, she tugged on the top drawer. Locked. Shit! Without her lockpick set or the key, trying to open it would be useless. If she didn’t get back to Rhett’s room before he did, she’d be in big trouble, so searching for a bobby pin or something small enough to pick the lock wasn’t an option.
She ran her fingers over the items on the desk, lifted a pad of paper and a book . . . nothing. Turning around in the chair, she faced the bookcase. Judging by the office’s location in relation to the bathroom she’d hidden in earlier, he couldn’t have been inside the office long when he’d hidden the envelope. Thirty seconds, tops.
He might have been careless so he could return to the party. She stood and checked under the books, picture frames, and knickknacks that weren’t secured and let out a growl of frustration. She gripped the back of the chair with her nails and swallowed down the rush of tears that stung her eyes. Even after the hell she’d been through the last few hours, she’d still let Max down. Her gaze dropped to the blasted desk drawer, and she felt an urge to smash the lock with the steel paperweight on the desk.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and she dropped to the floor behind the desk and switched off the flashlight. She sucked in a breath and pressed her shaking hands to the floor. Panic rushed through her limbs. If they caught her again, she might not survive. Cupboards opened and closed at the wet bar and then footsteps retreated to the main deck.
Relief released the tension around her lungs, and she turned the flashlight back on and looked up at the bookshelf. A small box on the bottom shelf caught her eye. She’d already looked behind it, but from this angle, she could see a small lip indicating that the box opened. Getting to her feet, she opened the lid.
A lone gold key sat inside.
Yes!
She pumped her hand in the air, grabbed the key, and turned to the desk. She inserted it into the keyhole and turned. It opened. Success tingled her fingers. She dragged the drawer open slowly, prepared to stop at the first hint of a squeak. It didn’t make a noise. Inside, on top of a ledger, sat a crisp white envelope. Even though she was 99.9 percent sure it was the same envelope Jeremiah had handed to Moretti hours before, she couldn’t risk making a mistake.
She ripped open the end and pulled out a small slip of paper.
Jenny Carter
9554 23rd Street
Dilby, Utah
This was it. All she had to do now was hand-deliver it to Max. Snapping a picture and sending the info would be a heck of a lot more efficient, but Beanie had taken her purse and phone. More importantly, Max had specifically said the information she was collecting was much too sensitive to text and the envelope had to be hand-delivered.
She stuck the paper back in the envelope and tucked it into the sweatpants she was wearing. Almost done. She left the room, returned the flashlight to its spot, and dug quietly through the wet bar’s cupboards. Tucked at the back of one of the drawers was a box of resealable sandwich bags. Perfect. After snatching one, she tiptoed back to Rhett’s cabin and pushed open the door. An empty room met her, and her shoulders sagged. Thank god. She didn’t have the energy for another battle tonight. Taking out the envelope, she placed it in the sandwich bag and sealed it. If she got off the boat in one piece, she’d need to protect the information as best she could.
Knock, knock
The soft rap of knuckles on the door made her jump. She shoved the bag back into the sweatpants and retreated until the bed brushed the backs of her thighs just before Rhett entered. He grimaced.
“You’re awake, I see.”
She shrugged. “Just woke up.”
He folded his arms across his chest, seemingly questioning her honesty. Rather than squirm under his scrutiny a minute longer, she shifted the focus to him.
“You said you had a call to make?”
He nodded. “I tried. But Moretti stopped me to see how the interrogation is going.” He brushed past her, and the weight in his voice struck a chord in her. She tried to place the emotion, but only shame seemed to fit.
“What did you tell him?”
He dropped onto the bed. “That you’re starting to cooperate. I promised a full report by morning. He’s pretty bent out of shape about your presence. As badly as he wants to know who sent you, he wants to know what you came here for even more.”
She shrugged. “Tell him I’m a reporter who wanted some dirt.”
Rhett’s eyelids lowered as he surveyed her. “That could work. You’re pretty good at lying on your feet, aren’t you?”
“You could say that. The question is, how honest are you on yours?”
He slapped his palm to his chest and raised his eyebrows in mock offense. “If I weren’t talking to a criminal that would sting. I’m as honest as they come.”
She snorted. “You never lie?”
His gaze didn’t waver. Instead his stare turned hard, challenging. “Never.”
She lifted her lips in a smile and decided not to remind him of the oath he’d taken as an FBI agent. “Good. You promised you’d help me escape.”
Tension creased the skin around his eyes. “I said maybe.”
“You know they’ll kill me if I stay.”
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “They might kill me when they find out you’re gone.” His words were heavy, resigned, as if he’d already made the decision and would suffer those consequences.
A small, very small, pellet of guilt ate through her stomach. She worked her lips together and took a step toward him. She drank in his tall, built form. Despite the fact that he was a cop, and a dirty one at that, his muscular body and brooding glare lit a fire in her abdomen.
She lifted her hand to his chest. His heart beat against her palm, the rhythm intensifying as she searched his face. He didn’t look crooked. She wasn’t always the best judge of character, but Milo was. There was always more to the story than what met the eye, and if this handsome stranger was willing to risk his life to help her escape, he was a decent human being.
She slid her tongue over her bottom lip and her muddled brain worked through a pile of words as scrambled as a haystack. This close, his heat warmed her skin, and the fire in her loins made the delicate, neglected flesh between her legs throb. She kept her stare on her knuckles, reveling in how small her hand appeared against his pec.
“Peyton,” he said, his voice hard and impatient, as if her touch pained him.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his eyes. Their charcoal depths vacuumed the air from her lips. “Thank you,” she managed to say. She swallowed and tried again. “Thank you for what you did upstairs. For stopping them. I don’t care if you’re crooked, I don’t care if you’re only helping me because you know Milo and Serena . . . Thank you.”
His eyes softened. He brought his hand to her cheek and brushed her hair away from her face with his pinky. The touch was intimate, yet barely there. “You don’t need to thank me. Just get the hell out of here alive and promise me something.”
Her heart lurched. Of course, he wanted something. The question was what would her freedom cost her? Nervousness ate through her abdomen. “W-What?”
“Never come back. Stay the fuck away from Moretti and whoever hired you to do this. Deal?”
She worked her jaw and his eyebrows bounced impatiently. He might be as honest as they
came, but she wasn’t. Only this time, for some reason, the lie that was forming burned her tongue and her lips almost refused to speak it.
“Deal.”
He nodded. “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Wait,” she said, grabbing his dress shirt in his hand. “I need you to get a couple of things for me first.”
The line in his brow deepened, and for a second she almost smiled at his displeasure.
“What?”
“My wetsuit and purse, please.”
CHAPTER 6
“I’d like to know how you managed to get this on board, but I’m afraid to ask,” he said, his voice trembling despite the fact that she was on the other side of the bathroom door. He’d retrieved her wetsuit and snorkeling gear from behind the furnace and had found her purse where Beanie had left it—in the living area on the main deck. Thank goodness the guys were all drinking on the top deck and no one had spotted him.
The bathroom door opened and she shrugged. “I have my ways.” The black wetsuit fit her slim figure like a glove, though extra material bunched at her ankles. Her breasts pushed out the chest of the suit, and he could see the outlines of her small, hard nipples. Christ. He’d never been so turned on by a woman whose every inch was covered.
He grunted and took a step toward her, closing the gap between them. “If I ever see you on the streets, you owe me,” he said, as he flicked the zipper at her throat.
“What do you mean?”
It shouldn’t be so difficult keeping his distance, but something about her drew him into her orbit. Maybe it was still the sympathy thing. When she’d thanked him for saving her from Beanie, protectiveness had swept through him. He’d never gotten close to a victim, and sure as hell not one that was a known criminal, but that hadn’t stopped him from wanting to wrap his arms around her and comfort her.
Straight Shooter Page 4