by Joan Swan
Yeah. Good idea. Note to self: Don’t do that again. Your control isn’t as strong as you think.
Keira redirected her thoughts to the desert view in the headlights as she resettled into her seat when all she wanted to do was climb across the console and straddle Luke’s lap. “How did you beat us here?”
“I flew.”
She raised a brow. “I assume you mean that figuratively.”
“No, literally. I flew. You know, in a plane. One with wings and a propeller—”
“Smart ass. There’s no . . .”
Her words died. In the distance, lights twinkled against the night, illuminating a rudimentary airstrip and a couple of industrial buildings surrounded by chain link. Within the confines of the fence, one small engine plane sat waiting.
“Oookaaay,” she said. “Did you get your pilot’s license in the last three years in addition to changing careers?”
She couldn’t help throwing in a dig about his job change, considering the hell he’d given her when she’d decided to leave firefighting.
“I didn’t change careers,” he said. “I’m still in the fire service. ”
“Last time I looked, firefighters didn’t carry subguns.”
“So, I’m a fire cop.” Luke slowed the car and squinted through the windshield. “And, no, I didn’t get a pilot’s license.”
Keira followed his gaze to a man descending from the plane. “Is that your pilot?”
The car came to a complete stop a half mile away from the plane. Luke leaned forward, both arms folded over the steering wheel.
“No,” he said. “That’s not my pilot.”
“Goddammit.” Luke sat back and pounded the steering wheel. “Could one freaking thing go right today?”
“We’re alive.”
“Thanks, Pollyanna.”
Keira kissed Mateo’s head. “Don’t grow up to be an ass like some people, okay?”
Luke ground his teeth as the creep inspected the plane. The pilot he’d met at the Las Vegas airport had been wearing black pants and a white shirt before donning an olive-colored air force flight suit. The prowler wore tan cargo pants and a jean jacket. And he was Caucasian. Luke’s pilot, Joe Marquez, had been Hispanic.
Before Luke could figure out the next step, another man emerged from one of the hangars. Still not Joe.
A touch grazed his arm. He turned to look at Keira, but the heat traveling up his shoulder and across his chest came from Mateo. The kid was sitting up, his big brown eyes glazed as if his mind was somewhere else. “Einai entaksei, Lucas.”
He had no idea what the boy had said, but was reassuring nonetheless. He reached over and ruffled the curls Keira loved so much. “Guess we need to go to plan B, huh, buddy?”
“What’s plan B?” Keira asked.
“Don’t have one.”
A hard knock clattered on Keira’s window. All three of them startled. Luke and Keira drew their weapons at the same time and pointed at the glass.
A man stood outside in a partial crouch, hands up, palms out. “It’s me. Marquez.”
Luke released the air caught in his lungs. “I’m going to die of a heart attack before this night is over. It’s my pilot.”
Keira didn’t move. “How do you know you can trust him?”
“Because he’s Mitch’s friend.”
Her gun lowered, and she twisted to look at Luke over her shoulder, eyes bright with renewed interest. “Mitch? Mitch got the plane?” A smile drifted over her mouth as she hit the button to roll down the window. “I’m going to be giving that man an appropriate thank-you next time I see him.”
“Over my dead body,” Luke muttered.
“That can be arranged.”
“Hel-looo.” He pointed at himself. “I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who’s risked his ass half a dozen times today, not that pansy wannabe.”
“You’re so exaggerating. Twice, and one of those is washed out by the fact that I saved your ass once. Don’t worry, by the time this is over, I have a feeling we’ll be even.”
“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”
“Hey, there, ma’am.” Marquez offered his hand through the window. “Colonel Joseph Marquez, United States Air Force, retired.”
They shook. “Keira O’Shay, Special Agent, FBI, seriously wishing I were retired.”
Marquez chuckled.
“You forgot your SWAT title,” Luke muttered.
“Oh, yeah. That, too.” She looked down at Mateo, who was peering at the man from his customary spot leaning against Keira’s chest. “This is . . . well, we think his name is Mateo.”
Marquez reached in to take the boy’s hand. Keira expected Mateo to shrink, but he didn’t. He let Marquez engulf his hand and shake.
“Hey, little man. You sure are cute.”
Keira lifted her chin toward the airstrip. “What’s going on over there?”
“No idea.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Sure would love to know how they got out here so fast, though.”
“Probably followed the flight plan,” Keira said.
“Nope.” Marquez leaned one forearm on the window ledge. “Flying under the radar tonight.”
“Get in.” Luke hooked a finger toward the backseat. “We’ll figure it out on the move.”
“Nah.” A glint of excitement sparked in Marquez’s dark eyes. “I’ve got a few buddies and the cops coming. Those guys will never mess with one of my planes again.”
He reached into the front pocket of his jumpsuit, fishing around for something. “Take this road back the way you came. In a quarter of a mile, turn right. The road dips into a shallow valley, so no one coming this way will see your headlights. It’ll dump you back onto the highway past the road the cops will take to get here. Hawthorne is a hundred miles northwest. Carson City is another sixty.”
He pulled out two business cards from his jumpsuit and handed them to Keira. “If you run into any trouble, if you need anything, these guys are pros. One in Hawthorne and one in Carson. They’re also indebted to Mitch, so you can trust them. I’ve called ahead. They’re ready if you need anything. And if I get any info out of these yahoos”—he nodded toward his plane—“I’ll pass it on to Mitch.”
Luke relaxed into the first sense of control he’d had since he’d set foot on this baked Nevada dirt. He reached across Keira and shook Marquez’s hand. “We owe you, man.”
“I could do favors for Mitch the rest of my life and not adequately repay him. We’re good.” He popped a hand against the window ledge. “Now get out of here before the cops show.”
Marquez jogged into the darkness. Luke swung a U-turn and started back.
After an extended silence Keira said, “Do you know . . . exactly . . . what Mitch does?”
“I know he defends criminals. Does a lot of work for military guys.”
“I know creeps come in every shape, size, and color, but Marquez sure doesn’t strike me as a criminal. And if they’re dirty, why are all his clients found innocent?”
“Because he’s a damned shark,” Luke muttered. “A good one.”
Keira turned those sharp blue eyes on him. “Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t particularly like him.”
“Jealous?”
He scoffed. “Of what?”
“His money, his power, his lifestyle, his intelligence, his success. His looks.”
“No.” Luke slanted her a glance. “You hot for him?”
She grinned. “I could be.”
He narrowed his eyes in a glare before refocusing on the road. “What irks me about the guy is his arrogance.”
“Confidence.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s interesting coming from the most confident man I’ve ever known.”
Luke slid her a look, sure he’d just heard her wrong, only his chest was warming with an uncomfortable sensation.
“When you turn off,” she said, “pull over and switch seats wi
th me. I need a break from this living appendage.”
He didn’t like the idea of stopping. Not here.
“It’ll be fast,” she said. “I’ll just slide across the seat.”
Irritation rolled through his shoulders. “Only if you’ll tell me how to get you out of my head.”
“You banished me from your head a long time ago, Ransom. This is just a temporary setback.”
He stopped, put the car in park, and held his thoughts until he was outside. Whether or not that would keep her from hearing them, he didn’t know.
Temporary. She would walk out of his life again when this was over. And where would he be? Back to women he couldn’t connect with? Who didn’t understand him or his life?
The cool night air washed over him but didn’t ease his distress. When Keira was situated in the driver’s seat, Luke dropped into the passenger’s side and took the sleeping boy into his lap.
He pulled Tony’s wallet from his pocket, unfolded it, and peered at the driver’s license. “Oh, well. What can you expect from the DMV?”
Keira ignored him.
He opened the billfold and whistled, pulling out a dozen twenties. “Looks like drinks are on Esposito.”
“Luke,” Keira chastised, as weak as water.
“Keira,” he mimicked, then brought reality into play. “Do you happen to have any cash on you?”
She quirked her lips and looked away.
“I didn’t think so.” He stuffed the money in his pocket and started pulling cards from the wallet slots. “Visa. This sure as hell isn’t where I want to be.”
“That’s not their tagline anymore.”
“What is it?”
“Life takes Visa.”
“I like the other one better.” He pulled out another. “MasterCard. Whatever money can’t buy—doesn’t interest me.”
Keira rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Men’s Wearhouse. I didn’t particularly like the way he looked. But you may have had a different opinion.”
“Don’t start.”
He yanked several more cards. “Seven department stores—Nordstrom, Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue . . .”
She shot him an incredulous look. “How can he afford to shop there?”
“I’m guessing the shadow agent business pays well. Is this guy a fucking clothes whore, or what?”
“You should really stop swearing in front of the kid,” she said in a voice that mimicked his earlier condemnation of her language.
“Funny.” Another compartment contained more plastic. Luke sifted through them. “Furniture. Tools. I don’t even know what these other places—oooooh.” A black card with red cursive writing across the face sparked his interest. Then shot a stab of anger through his chest. “This is interesting.”
Keira’s head turned toward him. “What?”
Luke watched her expression as he turned the card to face her. “Frederick’s of Hollywood.”
One side of her face crunched. “That’s not interesting. It’s . . . Ew.”
He went back to the wallet. “He never brought you home a teddy?”
“Don’t even go there.”
“Or the stockings you like with those things . . .” He waved his hand to nudge his memory—for the name, not the image. He’d never forget how she looked in those sheer black stockings that stopped at the top of her toned thighs, held up by straps attached to some thread of silk tugged low on her flat belly. The way he’d been able to slip off the matching panties—if you could call the scrap of fabric she’d been wearing panties—and slide into her with that sexy lingerie still on.
Keira hit the brakes. In a reverse déjà vu, Luke held tight to Mateo and hit the dash with the opposite hand.
“They’re called garters, and the answer is no,” she growled before he had a chance to figure out why she’d stopped. She stared straight ahead, jaw pulsing, voice low. “You really don’t want to get into this game with me, Lucas. It would be wise of you to remember that it’s my gift, not yours. I’ve had it for five years. You’ve had it for five minutes. If you insist on playing, not only will I win, I won’t show you any mercy.”
He shouldn’t find that threat sexy. There was something really wrong with the way his mouth went dry and visions of dominatrix role-playing—which he’d never engaged in, nor even been interested in—flashed in his mind. Considering who and what she’d become, personally and professionally, his heart should have been terrified to a dead stop by now. This was not the tentative young woman who’d walked away from him three years ago—smart, independent, but still growing and reserved in so many ways.
This was a woman who had found herself. Had tapped into her strengths and polished them to a blinding gleam. Mature, intelligent, savvy. Definitely a handful, as her boss had so accurately described her. And she was blazing hot.
But there was still some of that softer side underneath. The side she tried to hide. He’d heard her back there in the desert whisper against his shoulder. This is where I belong.
“Like I said before, O’Shay”—he leaned back in the seat, confused over the complex new feelings of both loss and excitement—“save it for someone you scare.”
Once she’d reached cruising speed again, he added, “And just for the record, this is not a competition. And you’re right, I don’t have control over my brain the way you do, so I’m sorry if my thoughts offend you. I’ll try my best to . . . unproject. Or whatever.”
Keira remained silent—both verbally and mentally.
He finished studying the credit cards, checked a few other empty slots, then found a stack of business cards. “Well, he carries more credit than cash. Definitely lives the American way.”
“He’s no American.” The edge in her voice drew his gaze. Her fingers squeezed the steering wheel until they were white. “He’s a psychotic mini-Hitler wannabe.”
Luke waited a beat. “Do you want to expand on that?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Oooookay.” He sifted through the cards. “CPA, Attorney, Hair Stylist, Masseuse, Manicurist . . .” Luke raised his brows, tilted his head in her direction. “Metrosexual, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Right.” He returned his attention to the cards. “Chiropractor, General Physician . . .”
The next card shocked him into silence. If he thought the Frederick’s credit card lit him up, this one jacked him one hundred eighty degrees. He couldn’t be seeing it right, because it looked like . . . He held it closer to the ambient light drifting off the dash’s clock. Yep, it was a . . . well, porno might be a little strong. Then again . . . maybe not.
“What did you find?” Keira asked.
“Uh . . . Well . . .”
He wasn’t sure how this would hit her. Wasn’t thrilled with the possibilities, either. Best to just get it over with. He held the business card between his fingers and faced it toward her.
She squinted; then her eyes popped open along with her mouth. “What is that?”
“I believe that is fondly referred to as the reverse cowboy.” He turned the card back around and looked at it, one edge of his mouth turning up. Goddamn, he had a hard-on. Didn’t take much nowadays. “Surprised you don’t recognize it. Isn’t it one of your favorites?”
“It shouldn’t surprise you that I don’t recognize it if you can’t even remember what sexual position I like.”
Oh, he remembered. But it was damn fun to bait her.
“Rapture.” He read the card, caught between turned-on, disgusted, and so jealous his hair was about to catch fire. “A full-swap or soft-swap swingers club for the exclusive couple.”
She rested her forehead in her hand and slid her fingers down to rub her eyes, then returned her gaze toward the road with a shoulder-rocking sigh.
“So.” Luke snapped the wallet closed, tossed it into the glove compartment, and tapped into the Internet on his own cell. He wanted to be distracted when they went through this par
t of the conversation. “Give me the real deal on Tony. And when did you pick up this . . . swingers fetish? But, wait.” He looked up from his phone. “First, I have to clarify. That’s like . . . everything goes, right? Even women on women? ’Cause the thought of you . . . and . . . oh, babe.” He laughed, held up a hand to her. “Stay out of my head right now.”
A fist slammed his chest. His broken ribs shook. Breath stalled. Pain radiated. Lungs seized. He coughed, holding his chest against the shooting stabs.
“We weren’t seeing each other,” she growled through gritted teeth. “We worked together.”
“Right.” He sucked in air as the pain ebbed to an ache. “I always kiss my coworkers.”
“Yeah, I heard that about you, Ransom. Heard you get around. Wife shopping, they say.”
His head swung toward her. “Who says?”
“Everyone.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“It’s a small town. Word gets around.”
“You don’t even live there anymore.”
“You think I don’t have any friends? You think I don’t talk to anyone anymore just because I live a couple hours away? Have you ever heard of e-mail? Skype? Social media? I keep up.”
A sinking sensation burned down the length of his belly. He didn’t like the possibility that she knew everything he’d been doing the last three years. He’d made his share of mistakes. Every damn one of them out of a search to fill the void she’d left. And seeing her again, experiencing her quick mind and sharp wit, made him feel even lonelier than when she’d left. How humiliating was that?
“Nobody says a word to me about you,” he said, trying not to pout.
“That’s your own doing.” She snorted an irreverent laugh. “You think I don’t know about your directive?”
Fuuuuck. Luke looked out the passenger window at the darkness. The cold slid in through the window and over his shoulders. “I hate that town,” he muttered.
“Have you found your fairy tale yet, Luke? A woman who will bring your slippers and fill your house with babies?”
Who-oa. That jab hurt worse than the fist. And it landed way lower. His anger built again. But it gave him hope, too. Maybe she didn’t know all the inept details of his life without her.