Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

Jack’s eyebrows took flight, his eyes drilled.

  “Claude, my cat,” she hurried on. “He needed feeding. Adrian, my agent, was there… He was…he’d been brutalized. I barely recognized him…so much blood…I tried to help…but…but…”

  Whiskey, now sour, returned to her throat. She immediately shut down the vision of her friend, pulped and dying. Then, needing to gauge Jack’s reaction, she forced her eyes upward. Uncompromising blue stared her down. “I didn’t do it, Jack, but everyone will think I did.”

  “Why come to me?”

  She flinched. Hard not to when faced with a man who could flay skin with his tone alone. “I…I don’t know.” She rubbed at her forehead. The furrow creasing her brow refused to smooth. “One minute, I was running along the alley behind my house, the next I was here. I don’t know why, I don’t even know how I got here. ”

  “Anyone see you?”

  She shrugged helplessly. She had no idea, but guessed instinct would have kept her to the shadows. “It’s him, Jack. He set me up. My home…that scene of depravity…Adrian…”

  Her fingers tortured the sheet at her throat, bunching, kneading, creasing the impossibly soft cotton into desperate folds. “God, what if they think I finally snapped. They’ll lock me up. He’ll be able to get to me. Please, you have to—” She realized Jack had disengaged. Gone all granite-hard, black ops agent on her, all interest beyond the facts locked down.

  “Have to what, Lowry?”

  “Nothing…just…I didn’t do it, not that anyone will believe me, not even the members of your team.”

  “And why the hell should they? You didn’t give them a chance.”

  “I’d been labeled crazy, even before the PTSD,” she defended weakly, tightening her grip on the sheet.

  “Hardly surprising. You were unpredictable, deliberately combative, and that was before you started weaving conspiracy theories…and keeping secrets. Like the fact you were raped. You withheld that crucial piece of information, Lowry, and in doing so you called into question the integrity of every man under my leadership. Men ready to die for you. I made a call. As of ten minutes ago, your ‘sanctuary’ officially became a crime scene. You did yourself no favors by running.”

  Sheet tucked tight with her elbows, she raised her hands and covered her ears. His disgust was too much. His team had been right in their assessment of her. She was crazy—coming here, subconsciously believing Jack would help, proved it. Time to go.

  She wrestled with the swathe of sheets and tried to get to her feet. Hands, hard and heavy, gripped her shoulders. Pressing her down. Not letting her go.

  And her world crashed.

  Limbs crazily uncoordinated, she thrashed, trying to fight. She tried to breathe, but her chest locked tight. Black dots danced before her eyes. From far in the distance, she heard herself whimper, then cry out.

  The hands holding her down lifted immediately. She twisted and scooted to the other side of the bed. She swiped at the tangle of hair blocking her vision and glared, her chest in agony from the too-vigorous workout.

  On his hands and knees, he stalked her across the bed, pulling up short when she raised her hands to ward him off. “Jesus, Lowry, we have got to get you some help.”

  She let her arms fall to her sides. “No. Just…just don’t touch me like that again. And there is no ‘we,’ Jack. There never was, and there never will be.”

  He pulled back. She heard his feet hit the floor. Then he drew himself up to full height. Never in a million years would she have credited the highly delectable Jack Ballentyne as capable of looking ugly. But, just for a moment, he did. “When I get my hands on that bastard, I’ll kill him.”

  She held his death-promise glare for as long as she could, before twisting onto her side and giving him her back. “Thanks, but why bother? Killing him won’t help Adrian…and it won’t fix me.”

  She felt the mattress dip.

  He was beside her in less time than it took her to expel a sharp breath. His forefinger and thumb to her chin, he forced her to look at him. “You’re not broken, Lowry, but you do have some serious trust issues. The call I placed was anonymous and to the police. This is a civil issue. The Service shouldn’t be involved. I’m going out for a bit. Be here when I get back, or I will hunt you down and prove to you the true meaning of insanity. Got it?”

  She nodded. She didn’t doubt he’d have refused to relinquish his hold on her chin, if she hadn’t acquiesced.

  He might have closed the bedroom door softly when he quit the bedroom, but to her, it still sounded like a slam. A loud slam of disappointment. She’d thought her rape would revile him, and maybe it had, but her failure to trust had repulsed him more.

  Her father’s favorite platitude about the futility of weeping over spilled milk swept into her mind. He’d callously used it when her mother died, and he’d muttered it every time she’d done something wrong thereafter. Only in this instance, the milk hadn’t just spilled; it had soured. And it was too damned late to cry about it.

  Years too late.

  The tears wouldn’t come. They never did.

  …

  His body flush against the roof tiles, Jack angled his head so he could see through the skylight into the depths of Lowry’s studio without detection. The front door was open, the flash of emergency blue from the vehicles parked out front casting deep, unholy shadows into her home.

  From what he could see of the scene inside, it was as gore-splattered as she’d described. Adrian—what was left of the poor bastard—lay in situ, grotesquely twisted in a pool of deep magenta. Anonymous white figures were clearing the studio, bagging and tagging Lowry’s personal belongings. Two fussed with small, lurid yellow flags plotting the blood spray and spill. They were particularly busy.

  Official-looking characters in ill-fitting suits stood to one side. Civilian detectives from the local police precinct, he suspected.

  But it was the two men in dark conservative suits—immaculately tailored this time—who snatched his attention. Ramrod straight, in control, hands neatly tucked behind their backs, they exuded silent authority. Intelligence Service. He’d have known that even if he hadn’t recognized them.

  Their rank was the highest, and he wasn’t surprised by their presence. He focused on the most senior of the men. Lowry’s father.

  Stoic to the last, the man wore an emotionless mask.

  The tight fist that had settled in his chest from the moment he’d seen Lowry drenched in blood flexed its grip and twisted. The Commander couldn’t possibly believe his daughter capable of such violence. She might have been a proverbial pain in the ass to her father since birth, but he had to know her better than that.

  Yet nothing in the man’s expression suggested he’d given her even the smallest benefit of the doubt.

  Jack inched away from the skylight, turned on his back, and stared into the darkness.

  If the Commander believed his daughter capable of such carnage, was Jack in any position to refute it? He’d taken orders from that man and trusted his judgment implicitly. Whereas Lowry? He’d never fully trusted her. Too defiant. Too suspicious of authority…and too damned bloody tempting!

  Grit scratched his skin as he scoured his face with a mucky palm. Fuck. What was he waiting for? All he had to do was contact HQ and request that they take her off his hands. What the hell did he care? Lowry wasn’t his problem.

  He inched his way over to the street-side edge of the roof and furtively copped one last look. Lowry’s father and his ever-present lap dog aide, Smith, had moved outside to the narrow cobbled street. Another man had joined them. Patient Peter Forsythe. No doubt, here to commiserate and limit any damage to the Service’s reputation and, thereby, the government.

  Patient Peter’s soft, conciliatory voice caught and drifted on the light breeze. “I know she’s your daughter, Harry, but the risk is just too great. We can’t have a mentally unstable, ex-agent running amok through London. You’ve just witnessed for yourself the level of v
iolence of which she is capable. I give you my word every effort will be made to bring her in safely, but you need to know extreme force has been sanctioned, should she resist.”

  Needle-sharp beads of icy sweat pierced the surface of his skin. Extreme force? Shoot her dead? What son of a bitch had authorized that? No way would Lowry allow herself to be taken into custody without a fight. He’d seen the familiar spark of her old defiance the night he’d confronted her in the gallery. It might have dimmed a bit since he’d shot her, but it had still been unmistakable.

  Fuck. For her own protection, he’d have to take her in himself.

  …

  Jack stared down at the woman slumbering in his bed, the ice white of his sheets hugging curves that dared to be stroked.

  Christ, she was beautifully dangerous, even when asleep. That his body should alight with lust, he could deal with. What red-blooded male wouldn’t harden as the sight of something so bewitching? But the sudden and inexplicable whip of longing to slay dragons and lay them proudly at her feet, damn near had him clawing at his own chest to rip his heart out and stomp it beneath his boot.

  Why couldn’t she have just disappeared into the night? She’d never bloody obeyed him before. If she’d lost her mind completely and decided to put her trust in him, he’d find it hard not to wring her neck. But she did look surprisingly right in his bed—safe, like she was where she finally belonged—a scary thought that brought his own damned sanity into question.

  Blanking his mind to the pale bruises underscoring the crescent of her closed eyes, he leaned forward and shook her awake. Roughly. To remind himself he didn’t care a smidgen.

  She awoke with a snarl. Her ugly cat spat and hissed. He ignored them both.

  Stomping to his dresser, he riffled through the drawers. He pulled free an ancient pair of jeans and a ratty, once forest-green T-shirt. Neither would fit her. Both would have to do.

  “Get dressed. Kitchen. Five minutes. Dress fast.”

  He tried not to slam the door on his way out. And failed.

  …

  Lowry made it to the kitchen in four minutes flat. “What’s going on, Ballentyne?”

  “There’s a black fleece by the front door. Put it on. Use the hood to hide your hair.”

  She’d had bad feelings before, but as far as bad went, this one was the worst. Folding her arms tight across her chest, she lifted her chin and hoped Jack couldn’t hear the voices in her head screaming at her to run. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t afford for them to find you here.”

  Ice crawled through her veins. “I presume you’re referring to the Service. Why should they find me here? Everyone knows you’re the last person I’d turn to for help. Oh, for God’s sake, you didn’t tell them, did you?”

  “No. But…”

  Her heart skipped a few beats. “But what, Ballentyne?”

  Damn. His eyes had gone all permafrost on her. She preferred him yelling and livid. Temper kept him human. His ability to detach completely scared the bejesus out of her.

  “But I’m taking you in.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I said I’m taking you in.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t. Don’t you get it? He’ll kill me.”

  “You’ll be dead if I don’t. You’re the Commander’s daughter. As a professional courtesy, the civvies called in the Service. You’re wanted for murder, Lowry. You’re considered dangerous, and the order’s gone out to shoot should you resist arrest. And I mean shoot-to-kill. Wounding wasn’t offered as an option.”

  She actually felt the blood leach from her face. “Why Jack? Why the need for extreme force? Or didn’t you ask?”

  Pure Jack, he ignored her challenge, his face implacable. “Just move. Door. Sweatshirt. Put it on.”

  She could have argued. Once would have done so. But it would only have wasted time. He’d made his decision.

  Her spine rigid to hide the pain of betrayal, she turned and stomped the length of the darkened corridor toward the front door, her bare feet slapping against the intricate tessellation of antique parquet flooring.

  She finished tucking her hair deep out of sight beneath the hood of the fleece she’d found hanging on a hook and paused to consider her options. The streets would be crawling with agents trying to find her. All cleared to kill; no questions would be asked. She’d be lucky to make it out of London alive. How convenient.

  She looked down at her bare toes peeping out from beneath the overly long jeans. Jack’s. His T-shirt and fleece, too. She wanted to rip them from her body and hurl them in his face. But with her life on the line, pride was cheap.

  She reached for the door latch.

  A deadly click broke the hush of the hall.

  “Touch that door and, so help me, I’ll shoot you again.”

  Chapter Five

  She stared down the ugly eye of the barrel of the gun he pointed, his arm straight, fully extended. He would, too. Shoot her, that is. Jack Ballentyne did not make idle threats. “God, I’m stupid. I hoped you’d just let me slip away. This is wrong, Jack. You know it is.”

  “You’re not stupid, Lowry,” he said so softly, she almost missed it.

  “Jack, I—”

  “Get back in the kitchen,” he cut in. “I don’t have time for this. We leave by the back door.”

  Shoulders in a slump, head down, she braced her back against the hallway wall. “Not without Claude.”

  “You weren’t too bothered about him the other morning.”

  Her head jerked up. “I went back for him, didn’t I?” She couldn’t believe they were about to argue about her cat’s domestic arrangements.

  His detached-mode mask came down. “I’ve only got your word for that. It’s not as if we can question Adrian Wainwright for his version of events.”

  She pushed her spine tighter against the wall to steady the treacherous sway that threatened to knock her horizontal. Jack thought her capable of the depravity Adrian had suffered? Seriously?

  She sucked in a breath. If being an ass is what it took for him to feel better about what he was doing, shame on him. “Claude comes with me, or, by God, I’ll fight you every inch of the way. I was dumb enough to trust you with my life. I’m not trusting you with his.”

  “Fine. Call the animal. Any resistance on his part, and he stays put.”

  He turned his back and disappeared down the corridor. Her jaw dropped. He actually trusted her not to make a bid for freedom? Then, she remembered. Barefooted as she was, he could easily outrun her. And he was the one with the gun. Though not for much longer, if she got her way.

  Jack showed a level of forbearance of which she’d never have credited him capable. Claude was far from cooperative at being stuffed into a large sports bag. She and Jack would carry scars. Jack looked fit to kill. He also stuck rather too close as they crossed the enclosed courtyard, the size of a tennis court, behind his home. But he didn’t touch her. Not even to steady her when she stumbled on a loose paving stone and damn near pitched head first into a potted fern.

  “Jesus, Lowry, wake the whole damn neighborhood, why don’t you?”

  “It’s dark, and I can’t see,” she hissed.

  “For fuck’s sake.” His hiss definitely out-hissed hers.

  Long, strong fingers curled around her own. Heat shot up her arm. Instinctively, she tried to tug her hand free. Which just made Jack all the more determined to hold fast. Slowly, very slowly, her muscles relaxed, and her lungs stopped trying to escape her chest.

  She’d never held hands with a man. Boy-men, yes, years and years ago. But never a man-man. She shouldn’t have, but she quite liked the feel of Jack’s hand. Rough, calloused, sure with intent. A big hand. Capable. Very Jack.

  Jesus, had she just licked her lips? What in the hell was wrong with her? No one indulged a private fantasy while stumbling around in the dark with a man who repeatedly broke faith. Except, it would seem, her. Crazy. Co
mpletely insane.

  Distracted, she almost careened into Jack when he came to an abrupt halt. She followed his gaze upward. No way was she getting over the wall that encircled the rear of his property. Not without help.

  And she damn near separated from her skin when Jack stepped behind her and fixed his hands, yes, those very large and capable hands, around her waist. She didn’t as much twitch as jerk like a puppet with its strings yanked.

  “Easy,” he growled, clearly misinterpreting why her body should flex violently and then lock tight. “You need a boost. Once up, straddle the wall. I’ll pass you the damn cat.”

  The cat which she nearly tripped over in her hurry to escape further physical contact when he lifted her. Stupid fleece. Stupid T-shirt. Both had ridden high beneath his sliding hands, laying bare her naked skin from breastbone to navel. But at least she hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t even yelped. Not even inside her head.

  Once astride the top of the wall, she hastily tucked the wayward T-shirt into the bagging waistband of her jeans as if it were life-saving Kevlar. She definitely wasn’t right in the head. Her skin should not be tingling—not with pleasure. Her blood should not be hot—not with thrill. And she sure as hell shouldn’t want his lips hard against hers. Not now. Not ever.

  She chose to jump down from the wall, her ankles unimpressed by the impact, rather than wait and let Jack assist her.

  “Jesus,” he whispered furiously, staring down at her, his hands full with the sports bag and cat. “What’re you trying to do, kill yourself?”

  She reached up to take Claude. Jack swiveled onto his front and lowered himself from the wall. She spotted the outline of his gun, resting snug against his spine. She’d have that off him the first opportunity that came her way, she promised silently. God alone knew what had driven her to run to him for help, but whatever insane instinct was responsible, it had been way off base. He’d betrayed her. When he had to have known that with her medical history, not to mention her reputation for being delusionary, she wouldn’t stand a cat’s chance in hell with the authorities.

  Factor in the way her body hummed, the way her mind wandered a dangerous path—wanting, longing, tempted by him—and that instinct had to be…well, fucked. No better word for it. To save herself, she had to get away.