I finished wiping my face and neck, then cleaned off my arm and blotted the blood from my T-shirt as best as I could. I didn’t bother with my jeans—the dark denim masked the stain well enough—and I walked into the other room to begin my search, leaving the bathroom door open so I’d hear the guy when he woke up. I wrinkled my nose at the cut-onion, peppery smell in the room and opened a window to let in some fresh air. I was nervous at the thought that my hostage might wake up and make enough noise to attract attention, but I had no choice. I had no idea how long he would take to revive, and I was stuck in the motel room with him until he did.
After a few minutes, the air was noticeably clearer and the headache that had been building between my eyes lessened. I moved quickly as I searched the room, pulling out dresser drawers and looking under the bed. The newspaper he’d mentioned was there, but nothing else. I moved on to clothing, feeling pockets, the lining of his coat, and even the toes of his work boots, though I was loath to stick my hand inside. Nothing turned up and I felt ridiculous going through the motions of my futile search, like I was playing at cops and robbers, but I fished around under the mattress anyway. I even looked between the pages of the New Testament I found in the wreckage of the nightstand. But still, nothing. The more I searched, the more stupid I felt.
What had I expected? This wasn’t a Jason Bourne movie. Maybe the guy really was what he claimed to be—a redneck asshole who was a little too into his right to bear arms. I crossed my arms in frustration as I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
My gaze fell on the framed print that had been knocked off the wall in the scuffle and I picked it up to hang it back on the wall. It was a futile gesture, but it felt good to restore some order to the room. I turned it over to locate the hangers on the back of the frame, then froze.
There was a slim manila envelope taped to the back.
I tore it off the frame’s cardboard backing and let the print fall forgotten to the floor. I flipped the envelope over, but there was no label and nothing written on it anywhere. I lifted the flap and slid out the contents.
Huh. I raised my eyebrows. High definition surveillance photos, shot against the familiar backdrop of Hawthorne. But there didn’t seem to be anything worth photographing in them. I could make out the form of a woman, shot from a distance, but the photos had been taken in public places and didn’t depict anything suspicious or blackmail-worthy. Aside from that, the focus was so fuzzy you couldn’t even tell who she was. Whoever had taken the pictures was obviously not a professional.
Was this really why the guy in the bathroom had shot at me? To protect a few blurry photos? If so, he should have saved himself the mangled wrist. You couldn’t even tell who the subject of the photos was, much less what she was up to.
I flipped through more blurry, badly focused, taken-from-behind shots until suddenly, the quality of the photos improved drastically. Either the guy who’d taken them had gotten past his learning curve, or someone else had taken over. I held one of the better, clearer photos closer to my face and squinted. Like the others, this one had been taken from behind, but in this one there was no mistaking the familiar long, blonde hair.
I dropped the photograph and took a shocked step back, sucking in a sharp breath as though distance from the photos would protect me from what I saw in them.
It was me. I was the woman in the photographs. Miller and the man in the bathtub had been stalking me.
There was one of me in the parking lot at the Graceful Mermaid. Me running errands. Me out for a rare jog in my sweats—which told me just how long they’d been watching me. Since I hated working out and relied on being on my feet all day at work to keep in shape, I only jogged about three times a year.
Nausea rose in my throat and I had to swallow hard. The man in the bathtub had been spying on me, invading my privacy for months. But why? Was he just your average, everyday pervert, or was he up to something worse? My mind leaped to every horrible scenario I’d ever heard on the news. Kidnapping, rape, torture. The New England Slasher.
Was that what had been planned for me? Normally, I laughed at conspiracy theories, but that was before I’d discovered I was a Fury. Before people started attacking me.
I flipped through the photos again, heart pounding, and felt a rush of fierce satisfaction at the thought of the man lying unconscious in the bathroom behind me. Whatever he and Miller had planned for me, it hadn’t ended well for either of them. I wasn’t sure yet which of them was going to end up worse off, but with Miller dead, the man in the bathroom was left alone to face the anger quickly overwhelming my nausea. And as angry as I was becoming, my money was on him.
Alecto writhed in my head, urging me to go hit the guy until he gave me some answers, and this time, I didn’t argue. I dropped the envelope and took a couple steps toward the bathroom. I was about to get Furious when I heard a noise outside. With difficulty, I forced myself to calm down long enough to walk into the center of the room and listen. I cocked my head, standing as still as I could while I strained to hear. Were those footsteps?
I held my breath.
Yes, definitely footsteps, and coming my way. I froze. What if these guys had another friend who was in on it—whatever it was—and he was coming to finish the job they’d botched? Should I hide in the bathroom to make sure my prisoner stayed quiet, or should I face whoever was at the door? I willed my legs to move in one direction or the other, to do anything but stand there in the middle of the room like a deer in headlights. But by the time I finally took a step, my indecision had cost me. The footsteps stopped in front of number five, and the doorknob turned.
Why the hell hadn’t I thought to lock the door while I searched the room? I swore under my breath. Even if whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t a threat, they were bound to have questions about the wrecked room. I’d thought the last thing I needed was for the injured man in the bathroom to let out a scream of pain, but I realized now I’d been wrong. The last thing I truly needed was some innocent bystander poking around, misunderstanding things and calling the cops on me.
The door opened and I whirled to snatch up the gun from the TV stand before whoever it was made it all the way into the room. I shoved it into the waistband of my jeans and pulled my T-shirt down over it, then leaped across the room to pull the bathroom door shut. I planted my feet and prepared to face the intruder. My breath accelerated and I felt my face flush, while my stomach clenched in anxious anticipation. I took a deep breath to steady myself and prepared to meet whoever it was head-on.
Chapter 6
A pair of heavy boots stepped into the room, and my gaze traveled up over a familiar leather jacket to meet Jackson Byrne’s eyes. The remembered scent of his leather jacket was almost as strong as the pepper spray spiciness that lingered in the air of the motel room, and I closed my eyes in frustration at the surge of inappropriate lust that hit me in the gut.
“What are you doing here?” I spit out when I opened them again. “And haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
I was annoyed at him for being there and with myself for forgetting to lock the door, but I was most especially annoyed at my body’s instinctive, uncontrollable reaction. What was it about the man that was so damn irresistible?
“I followed you.” Jackson stood in the doorway. “We need to talk.”
And there was that accent to answer my question—that sexy, aggravating Southern accent I remembered from the bar.
Acting on reflex, I rushed over to the door and grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket, peering outside at the parking lot. There was a man at the vending machine next to the main office, but he wasn’t looking in our direction, so I hauled Jackson inside and shut the door. I didn’t particularly want him there, but I couldn’t leave him standing on the threshold, attracting attention.
“What do you mean, you followed me?” I demanded as the fine hairs on my arms stood up in alarm.
Was he involved in whatever Miller and his friend wer
e up to? It suddenly seemed like a pretty huge coincidence that he’d been the only other patron at Spyder’s the night before. And that he’d arrived just moments before the other two men.
Hell, he’d even stepped outside and seen me with Miller. Maybe that was how he got his rocks off.
And then there was the DeVille connection. Miller and his friend both worked at the new hospital site—and hadn’t Jackson said something last night about hiring on there?
“We need to talk,” he repeated, then screwed up his face and coughed. “Is that pepper spray?”
“You made it pretty clear back at Nora’s that you don’t want to talk to me,” I pointed out, avoiding his question as I edged away from him. How was I going to get rid of him?
“We need to talk about the fact that Nora lied to the cops for you. And had me lie to them, too.” He looked at me like I was a piece of gum he hadn’t been able to scrape off the sole of his boot. “Whatever you’re up to, it’s trouble. And I’m not about to let Nora get involved in it.”
“You’re not about to let her? How enlightened of you.” God, how could Nora put up with this caveman?
Unbidden, the thought conjured up an image of Jackson, naked and reclining next to a campfire, his face hidden by shadows and his body revealed by flickering tongues of firelight. My face burned and I had to look away. What was the matter with me? There was every chance he was one of the bad guys and I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about him naked. I was disgusting.
I shook my head slightly to clear it of the disturbing image I’d conjured up. “If you followed me because you wanted to talk, why did you wait so long before coming to the room?” Or better yet, why hadn’t he just said his piece back at Nora’s?
I backed away a little farther. Maybe it was because he wanted to cut me into little pieces and leave me somewhere in a gym bag. I winced at the thought—ugh, no. Don’t go there. What if he sensed my fear?
Or worse, what if he liked it?
“I thought you might be…busy.” He looked around the room. “I wouldn’t have interrupted at all, but I couldn’t wait all day.” He hesitated, then continued, “Look, personally I don’t care what kind of business you’re in, but you need to leave Nora out of it. If she gets mixed up with you, it’ll only be bad for her and Ruby. Do we understand each other?”
“Sure,” I agreed. “You got it. I will absolutely leave Nora out of things from now on.” When he made no move to leave, I added a fake, cheerful, “Bye now,” and gestured toward the door.
At that point, I would have promised Jackson I’d dance the Macarena naked in the town square if it would get him out of there sooner.
He reached for the doorknob, then looked back at me, his dark, sexy features arranged in a scowl. “I’m not trying to come across like I’m on some high horse, judging you for making a living. Everyone’s got a story—I know that better than anyone. I just don’t think your line of work is something Nora and Ruby should get mixed up in.”
“What?” I squinted up at him. Was he…apologizing? He certainly didn’t sound like someone who’d been stalking me for months. And what did he mean, my line of work? Was he seriously worried hanging out with a waitress might get Nora into trouble? She was a bartender, for God’s sake.
Then his words sunk in. He probably had no clue I was a waitress. In fact, all he knew about me was that I’d been sucking face with some guy in the parking lot of a bar last time we’d met. And now he’d found me holed up in a cheap motel room. I closed my eyes and allowed myself a brief second of mortification.
He thought I was a hooker.
His assumption galled me, but I gritted my teeth and pasted on another fake smile. “Well, see you around.” I gestured at the door again, in no position to correct his mistake. I just needed him gone. Like five minutes ago.
But still, he didn’t leave.
“Hey, are you all right?” He looked beyond me to the destroyed motel room for the first time since entering. Then his gaze returned to rake over my body, taking in the still-damp, faintly pink splotches on my white T-shirt and the darker, drying patches of blood on my jeans.
“Sure am.” I stepped closer to physically herd him toward the door. “Never been better.”
He looked unconvinced and I ground my teeth together even harder. What could I do to make him leave? I was going to need a root canal if he didn’t get out soon.
“Um, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but I’ve got a client coming soon, so…”
The same part of me that was crazily, foolishly attracted to him yelled at me for letting him continue to think I was a hooker, but what choice did I have? I leaned past him to open the door, hoping he’d take the hint and leave already.
He still frowned doubtfully, but reached for the doorknob anyway and my hand landed on his. The skin-on-skin contact felt like I’d just been tased, and I pulled my hand back as if stung. I swayed a little as I looked up to gauge his reaction. Had he felt that too?
Jackson’s jaw was clenched and his pupils dilated as I looked up at him. He stared down at me, his six-foot-something frame towering over my five-foot-five, and it got harder to breathe the longer he eyeballed me. My new and improved hearing picked up a change in his breathing.
Oh, yeah. He felt it.
I leaned back against the door for support, all thought of opening it gone. The gun dug into the small of my back, and I absent-mindedly hoped it wouldn’t go off and shoot me again. For some reason, the prospect didn’t alarm me as much as it would have before Jackson’s touch sent an electric charge zipping through me.
Then Jackson leaned in toward me and I forgot about the gun altogether. I bit my lip hard. This was stupid. So, so stupid. I was supposed to be getting rid of him, not giving in to what felt like a bad case of horny teenage hormones. I looked up at him and opened my mouth to tell him to stop, but the words died in my throat as I inhaled another breath of his clean, male scent.
He braced himself against the door with one hand and pressed himself against me. He ran his other hand up my thigh and over my hip, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. He was hard all over, especially where he pressed against my belly, long and thick. I reached up and dug my fingers into his shoulders. My head spun, but I didn’t tell him to stop.
He palmed me through my jeans and lust coiled at my center, hot and wet. He toyed with the zipper of my jeans, teasing me, then swept his hand across my stomach and up my rib cage to the underside of my breast.
“Something about you…” he murmured, burying his face against my neck. “Wanted you last night. Tried to ignore it, but if you hadn’t gone with…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. We both knew what he meant.
His mention of the other man he’d seen me with—the man I’d killed—should have dampened the spark between us. Should have knocked some common sense back into me. But my body didn’t seem to get the memo. As we moved against each other, I only wanted him more desperately.
I growled in my throat. Now. I wanted him now, regardless of the circumstances.
I stroked my hands lower to feel the hard muscles of his abdomen and the cut lines at his hips. I undid the top button of his jeans, cursing his button fly, and he lowered the hand braced against the door to caress my neck, then up to my mouth, where I sucked on his fingers. He leaned in to nip at my collarbone and his hand slid up my neck so he could bury his fingers in my hair.
Then, as he pulled my head back for better access, I flashed back to the night before, to a much rougher hand fisted in my hair. Panic rose in my throat and my breath came in short, harsh gasps as I struggled against the memory. My chest tightened and I began to shake, a cold sweat filming my skin. I pushed Jackson off of me and looked away so he wouldn’t see the fear in my eyes. I forced myself to take deep, steady breaths, confused and embarrassed by my actions—before and after the memory assailed me.
I kept my eyes averted, as I did up my jeans, shame burning my cheeks. What the hell was wrong with me? Not only
had I just thrown myself at a man who had no respect for me, I’d led him on then literally shoved him away. I shuddered at the lingering memory of Miller’s hands on me and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Was I permanently damaged after what he’d tried to do to me?
“What just happened?” Jackson’s voice was tight with frustration.
“What do you mean?” I looked at a point on the wall over his shoulder so I didn’t have to meet his eyes. “You’re an adult. I’m sure you’ve done that before.”
I knew he was really asking why I had stopped—why I’d encouraged his advances then pushed him away so violently—but I misunderstood him on purpose. I was so not about to pour out my heart to this guy.
He stared me down until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
I wrapped my arms around my waist defensively. “Why don’t you just get lost and we’ll forget this ever happened?”
I was beginning to suspect my crazy, irresistible attraction to him had something to do with the Fury in my head, but the charge was gone for now. Chased away by my flashback, and I had more urgent things to think about.
Like how to deal with the guy in the bathroom.
I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over at the door and Jackson’s eyes followed mine.
“You’re hiding something.”
“No, I’m not.” I spoke too quickly, giving myself away.
“Yes. You are. This room’s a mess, there’s blood on your clothes, and what just happened between us…” He pushed past me with a shake of his head and headed for the bathroom door. “I guess you think all men are the same, huh? You distract me from whatever you’re hiding in here by letting me feel you up, and I’m supposed to go on my merry way?”
Damn it. For a man who claimed he wanted nothing more than to be rid of me, he had a real tendency not to leave well enough alone.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I argued, shifting to block his path. “If I was throwing myself at you to get rid of you, why would I have broken it off like that? Why wouldn’t I just convince you to meet me somewhere more…” I surveyed the broken furniture and tacky décor. “I don’t know, more romantic. Sexier. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
Fury’s Kiss Page 6