by Joan Swan
“Kai felt danger for the team, not to any one individual. And he’s a big boy, Keira. He’s also a cop. He can take care of himself. Besides, they want Mateo, not us.”
Keira’s terror streak calmed with the injection of common sense. “You’re right. I’m just . . . wound up. How did he get home? Did he take one of your cars?”
“No, he ran,” Teague said.
Keira’s brows lifted. “Ran? What do you mean ran?”
“I mean he ran. You know, with feet. Legs. Ran. Borrowed a pair of my running shoes.”
“His house is, like, ten miles away.”
“Eight,” Teague said. “He usually runs five a day anyway and said he needed to think.”
He must have needed to think pretty badly to borrow a pair of shoes for an eight-mile run. He was going to have blisters for a week. The sign of a man needing to rid himself of a great deal of frustration or anger or . . . cleansing himself of an erratic, unstable, volatile ex-girlfriend.
No. She had to talk to him. Explain. Tell him all the things she’d held back before.
She swung around and started toward the front hallway. “Where are your keys, Lys?”
“You can’t go out like that, it’s cold.” Alyssa followed. “What’s wrong?”
Keira looked down. She was still in the pajamas Alyssa had lent her—the pale blue cami and silk pants. It didn’t matter. What mattered was reaching Luke before he’d had a chance to think too much. Make too many decisions.
“Nothing. I mean, I just need to talk to him.” She reached for the SUV’s keys hanging on a hook. “Where’s my gun?”
She’d forgo the purse, the shoes, the phone, but she didn’t go anywhere without her weapon.
Teague disappeared into the kitchen, where he kept all the weapons in a locked cabinet.
Alyssa pulled a thin, white sweater from the hall-tree and tossed it at Keira. “Wouldn’t hurt to cover up a little. Shoes might be good, too.” She kicked a pair of flip-flops sitting by the door toward her.
Teague rounded the corner and held out her weapon. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, no,” she said. “He and I need to talk.”
Before Keira could turn for the door, a little body pummeled into her legs, knocking her off balance. Heat sizzled through the scar lines on her back.
“Thia?”
Keira winced at Mateo’s worried tone. She’d been so caught up in getting to Luke fast, she’d forgotten about Mateo for a moment. Forgotten she should have said good-bye. Forgotten he might get upset she was leaving.
Great mother material.
She dropped into a crouch and slid her hands down his arms, fighting back the fear. His straight, dark eyebrows angled down as he frowned, his little lips puckered into perfect cupid buds. He looked so familiar to her after just hours of being with him, as if she’d known him her whole life. Her chest squeezed—with a deep affection and . . .
You have to recognize that you love him differently.
God. She really did love him differently. And Luke had seen it.
“I’ll be back. I promise,” she said, her voice rough. When Mateo only searched her eyes, she added, “I’m going to see Lucas.”
His fingers released their grip on her shoulders. “Lucas?”
Keira tried for a reassuring smile. “Yes, Lucas.”
Kat slipped into the group and distracted the boy with another Barbie, and Keira took the opportunity to disappear out the door.
She tried not to dwell on the bizarre state of her life as she backed Alyssa’s luxury crossover through the gate of their property, but it was hard when two men in camouflage with M14s strapped over their backs guarded the entrance to the small mountain estate.
She didn’t admire the snow-tipped mountains on the ten-minute drive to Luke’s house. Didn’t appreciate the contrast of gold aspens against evergreen pines. Didn’t turn melancholy as she sped through the single downtown strip.
All she kept thinking was . . . five miles a day?
Five miles wasn’t a marathon or anything. She ran that just to stay ready for the heavy demands of SWAT training. But Luke hated to run. He’d play basketball. Baseball. Racquetball. Hell, he’d play volleyball. And he was good at all of them. Athletic and agile. But he hated running. Always said it bored him. Nothing to do but think. Now he was doing it on purpose? Specifically to think?
She didn’t disagree with the method, only that he’d chosen today to do it. Today, right now, she didn’t want him thinking. Not alone and angry and hurt.
As she turned onto Luke’s street, Keira tilted the rearview mirror toward her. One glance and she couldn’t help grimacing. Teague’s touches had helped, but she still had healing cuts and bruises over nearly every surface of her face. There was nothing she could do about that, and Luke had seen her in far worse condition—covered in soot at fires, covered in blood at accident scenes, covered in gasoline at chemical spills, covered in fire at the warehouse.
The remembered tranquility of the area where Luke lived held true—deluxe, custom cabin-style homes nestled among pines and along ridges, looking out over Tahoe National Forest. Luke’s, a small, one-bedroom, craftsman-style, brought heavy emotion rushing Keira’s throat as she approached and pulled into the driveway. Through the square windows along the top of the garage door, she could see his black Explorer parked inside.
She slammed the car into park and let it idle as uncertainty and anxiety grew to an explosive boil in her chest. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel and twisted as if she were wringing out a wet towel. Would he reject her? Tell her, after thinking about it, he’d changed his mind? That their differences were too major? That it was too late?
Sound drifted through the glass and into her thoughts. Her attention shifted from the garage to the wraparound front porch. Music. The familiar classic rock Luke favored. Only, far louder than she’d ever heard him play it, which for some intangible reason, made her uneasy.
She shut down the engine, picked up her weapon, and exited the SUV. She paused to tune in to her senses. She looked up, searched the quiet neighborhood. Nothing appeared out of place. But then nothing ever did, yet she knew damn well that somewhere out there two pairs of eyes watched. One pair belonged to whoever was assigned to watch her that day; one pair to whoever was assigned to watch Luke. She’d tried on countless occasions over the years to tap into the thoughts of her shadows, but had always failed. And she didn’t have time to mess with them now. More important matters waited inside.
Keira held her gun tight and crossed her arms against the cold. As she climbed the steps toward the front door, memories pummeled her from every angle. The fuchsia and grape pansies she’d planted at the base of the porch and along the stairs were long gone. The white wicker rockers she and Luke had bought from a secondhand store, refurbished, and spent so many hours sitting in out here on this very porch had been put away for the winter.
Creedence Clearwater Revival wailed about hearing it through the grapevine and drew her attention toward the front door.
Knock or go in? Neither felt right.
She lifted her hand and pounded on the door to be heard over the music. “Luke!”
She braced herself for his less than enthusiastic response to her visit. But she would face it. And she would face him. If he’d answer the damn door.
She pounded again with the side of her fist. “Luke, it’s cold out here. Open the door.”
She crossed the porch and peered through the window. Unlike the front of the house, where the reminders of her life with Luke had vanished, everything in the living room was immediately familiar. Same camel sofa, same pine coffee table, same colorful abstract area rug—everything she and Luke had picked out together on a snowy Sunday shopping spree in Reno. That had been so long ago, but being there, seeing it, brought her right back to their life together. Yes, there had been pain, anger, frustration, but the love between them and the happiness they’d once shared in this house far outweighed any lingering neg
ativity.
She scanned the dining area, the kitch—
Her gaze halted on something lying on the floor between the kitchen and the dining room. Something barely in view. Shoes. The soles of athletic shoes.
A burning spike of fear tore through Keira’s chest. She pushed to her toes, craned her neck, but couldn’t maneuver a better view.
She took hold of her weapon with both hands. Returned to the door, her back against the wood siding.
Don’t freak. Yet.
Her gaze scoured the neighborhood again. Nothing new. Eyes fell to the doorknob. Hand reached out. Settled. Twisted.
Don’t turn. Don’t turn.
The metal turned.
No.
Her stomach burned cold like dry ice.
Don’t overreact.
Bizarre possibilities filled her head. What if they’d come to question Luke and he’d resisted, like the bullheaded ass he could be, and they’d hurt him? What if they’d finally just had enough of the team’s interference—their questions, their quest to know what or who had started that warehouse fire, what they’d been exposed to and who had been responsible, and planned on killing them all, one by one?
Don’t. Overreact.
Focus.
With two quick, deep breaths, she pushed the door open and swept the living room, dining room with her weapon. Empty.
Steeled herself. Swung into the kitchen.
Shoes.
Just shoes. Not attached to an unconscious Luke, but kicked off haphazardly and left strewn in the middle of the floor.
The breath whooshed out of her lungs. “Fuck!”
She pressed a hand to her stomach, quelling the rush of adrenaline-induced nausea. When her legs felt steady, she walked to the front door and slammed it.
An instant later, the song ended. A moment of booming silence filled the house before the edges of her amped senses softened and another familiar noise drifted in.
The shower.
Between the water and the music, it was no wonder he hadn’t heard her at the door. Some of her fear released from her tense shoulders and stiff arms. But she wouldn’t lower her guard until she saw his perfect, healthy, handsome face.
She eased toward the bedroom and checked the space before going in. She could have been stepping back in time. Everything was exactly the same as when she’d left. Same furniture arrangement. Same unmade bed with the same rich, solid blue comforter and same white and blue pinstriped sheets they’d had twisted around sweaty, sated bodies. Same simple cobalt area rug covering the home’s old hardwood floor that she and Luke had refinished by hand. Same prints on the walls they’d picked at a local art fair one summer. It all made a melancholy joy seep in and eradicate the momentary fear.
Yet something was different. Something was missing. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly, but it left her with a hollow ache.
Keira focused on the closed bathroom door, where light filled the seam between the bottom edge and the floor. A jumble of clothes sat on the floor to the side—gray gym shorts and an olive green T-shirt he must have borrowed from Teague, and the navy boxer briefs he’d been wearing at the safe house. The ones she’d wanted to rip off him before their conversation had brought them to an impasse.
She was just about to lower her weapon when an uncomfortable sensation skidded down her spine like tipped dominoes.
She stiffened. Cut another glance around the room. Tuned into her clairaudience and listened. But got nothing. Was he still blocking her? But why when it took so much effort and he didn’t know she was there?
The unease spread from bone to bone, muscle to muscle, until the serpent-like invader coiled around her body, chest to hips. A slow squeeze made it hard to breathe.
She thought about calling to him through the door, but something cautioned her. With her weapon at her thigh, Keira leaned in, listening. For what, she wasn’t sure, but no sound came from the bathroom except the unbroken stream of water.
Unbroken.
The hair on her arms prickled. She tightened her fingers around the butt of her gun and listened harder. No splashing. No interruption. Which meant no movement. And suggested another possible reason for Keira’s inability to tap into his thoughts. He wasn’t having any.
Oh, God.
Focus.
Her memory roamed the landscape of the bathroom she and Luke had remodeled just months before she’d left. Toilet to the left, double sinks and huge mirror directly ahead, open, half-wall stone shower to the right, the same direction the door opened.
She solidified her stance, the grip of her gun, the hold on the door handle. Her gaze caught on a reflection of light against the floor. On a pool of water seeping out from beneath the door. Growing. Sliding across the slate beneath her feet.
With the shower on the other side of the room and the lack of movement sounding in the shower, there was only one reason Keira could imagine for that water to be leaking from the bathroom—Luke lying on the floor. Unconscious. Dead.
She turned the knob and prayed she was wrong.
FOURTEEN
Muscles strung taut, back pressed against the cold wall next to the door, Luke stared at the door handle, but his mind kept scattering through the contents of the cabinets on the opposite side of the bathroom.
He was naked, dripping wet. Not one goddamned thing he could use as a weapon within reach. Yeah, he could hold his own in a fight, even against others with weapons, but he’d really rather have the gun he’d left in the bedroom.
And with every moment that passed since he’d heard that front door slam shut with no one calling his name, his muscles coiled tighter in preparation.
Come on.
He forced his mind into combat mode, shaving off all distractions until he had beamlike focus. And waited.
The doorknob turned. So slowly, he almost couldn’t decipher the movement. He pressed harder against the wall, fingers stretched toward the handle.
Luke hesitated, gave the person an opportunity to announce themselves. Teague, Mitch, maybe one of the guys they had guarding the other house had come to check on him.
But he heard nothing. Including thoughts.
In the half-inch opening, the bathroom light flashed over a dark weapon. He made the split-second decision to act.
He forced his hand through the door and gripped the wrist of the intruder. Wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the open edge and yanked the door back. His eyes never left the gun as he fought for control.
“Luke! Wait—”
The use of his name registered. Then the female voice.
But all too late.
His leverage on one arm whipped the intruder around as he covered the weapon with a controlling fist. He had just enough presence of mind not to slam her up against the shower wall as hard as his adrenaline would have driven.
“It’s me. Luke. It’s me.”
Every muscle quivered with the need for action, but Luke kept his body forced against hers, pinning her to the stone wall. Kept his fingers closed over hers, covering the gun.
Not only was Keira the last person he’d expected to see, she was the last person he wanted to see. “What the fuck? I could have hurt you.”
“You are hurting me.”
He growled and leaned back to release some pressure. The shower spray hit his shoulder and ricocheted into her face. She squeezed her eyes shut and sputtered.
“What do you expect when you walk into my house, my goddamned shower, unannounced?”
He took the gun from her loose fingers, set it on the ledge of a small window above her head as the shower stream soaked her, and concentrated on easing off the adrenaline high.
“I was not unannounced,” she said. “I banged on your door. I called your name. Then I get these dark vibes . . . I hear the water . . . you’re not in the shower. And I couldn’t hear your thoughts. And the water, it’s leaking. It . . . under the door. It . . .”
Her eyes connected with his, and the terror there took h
im off guard. He’d expected her typical anger.
“I thought something had happened to you.” She bent her head, laid it against his chest, and wound her arms around his back. “God, you scared me.”
The sound of the shower filled the following moment of silence. His mind skipped around but couldn’t land on anything to straighten out the growing confusion. “Did I miss something between you basically telling me to go fuck myself last night and now?”
“I know I was harsh last night.” She pulled back. Regret filled her eyes, and as soon as he saw the familiar look, something pulled in his chest. The first sucker red flag. “I didn’t sleep at all.”
“Join the club.”
He didn’t need this. He was still hurting. Still angry. Still grieving. Their argument the night before had been the tipping point for Luke. The moment when all their discussions and fights on the topic of having kids conglomerated into one solid rock. One he realized couldn’t be broken, cracked, or even chipped away.
Never had he loved anyone the way he loved her. Never would he love anyone like this again. Which left him with the impossible decision: live with his true love and give up his dream of a family? Or fulfill his dream of a family with someone other than his true love?
“I stayed up all night thinking about what you said,” Keira started, “and—”
“I can’t do this.” He gripped her arms, still locked around him, pried them off, and stepped back. “I’m not going through the same old bullshit with you again. You weren’t the only one up all night thinking, and my head feels like a bowling ball.”
“But, I want to tell you—”
“Keira.” His bark cut her off. He sucked in a breath and gathered the threads of his patience, worn bare by pain. “Here’s the thing. When I see you with Mateo, I ache, the way I used to ache when I saw you with Kat. A beautiful, this-is-what-life-is-about stolen moment ache. An if-only-I-could-stop-time ache.
“And it’s not just about having kids. It’s about you and me being a family. A real family. It’s about finding strength in the sum of our parts instead of fighting life alone. Knowing that no matter how bad it gets we’ll be there together, sticking it out.