Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

  “Fine. Lend me your gun, and I’ll shoot you. It’ll hurt, but at least your reputation and your macho pride will still be intact.”

  “Sweetheart, your views on violence? You couldn’t shoot a corpse.”

  He was probably right. Didn’t stop her throat thickened though, her vision fading from color to black and white. “Jack, you ever call me sweetheart or anything similar again, and I swear I’ll prove to you just how wrong you are.”

  He threw her a sharp glance. She ducked it, angled her body to put as much distance between them as the narrow seats would allow, and pulled her knees high.

  Mostly, she’d come to terms with what had happened to her. She was just damn glad to have survived. But certain triggers tipped her over the edge, back into the nightmare of those early days after the rape. “Sweetheart” was one such trigger.

  “At some point, you are going to have to explain to me exactly what just happened, Lowry. Why—” He broke off, shifting gears to overtake a bus. If asked, she’d swear blind she saw the white of the driver’s eyes. His hand gesture, certainly, left no room for misinterpretation.

  “Why explosive hostility, then a sudden and somewhat scary, complete zone out?” Jack continued. “If we are going to be spending time together, a lot of it, I need to know everything. Everything you’re thinking, everything you’re feeling. Consider it a necessary check and balance on that psyche of yours, for however long this takes.”

  Bastard. He still considered her flaky at best, unstable at worst. “However long what takes?” she asked dully.

  “For Nick Marshall to clear your name, and for me to extract that bastard rapist’s name from you.”

  Such confidence that she would fold and share—but she wouldn’t. Never. The first place she’d headed, after bolting from her home when she saw Patient Peter on television, was a public library. She’d Googled him. The number of pages denoting his accomplishments, his pristine reputation for being the best of the best, had run into the thousands. She’d quit reading around about reference two hundred and eighty-six, nauseated to her soul.

  Once an international diplomat of renown, Patient Peter was a “close personal friend” to just about everyone—the Prime Minister, the German Chancellor, the presidents of France, China, Russia, and the United States—the list ran long. More popular than the color green on St. Patrick’s Day, it would appear the man sat right up there with Jesus, Buddha, and the Prophet Mohammad.

  Smart fucker. No doubt wary of a capricious electorate, he hadn’t sought political appointment, preferring to build his field of influence as a civil servant. And as chief liaison between the Treasury and all state departments, he wielded his power on the balance sheet. Supporting, or cutting to the bone, annual government budget allocations. The Service had enjoyed his special consideration for years. She knew that for a fact, having spent three hours cross-referencing the sanitized public accounts of income and expenditure across different government departments.

  Her pointing the finger and screaming “rapist, murderer”—never going to happen. No one would believe her. Not with her reputation for imagining conspiracies. She’d be locked up. Stuck in some psychiatric facility for the rest of her life—no doubt, a very short life, if Patient Peter got his way.

  She wasn’t sure why Jack’s opinion of her should matter, but it did. So she asked, “Do you believe I’m being set up?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe. All I know for certain is that I want the bastard who raped you. You’ll give up his name. Eventually.”

  “Well, just for the record, torture won’t work.”

  He laughed loudly. He didn’t seem able to stop. She liked the sound. Very much. Deep. Throaty. Strangely liberated. Her own lips twitched.

  The too-taut internal wires holding her together slackened a few millimeters.

  Then he had to go and ruin the moment.

  “Torture? Jesus, Lowry, you would try the patience of a saint. Next to your father, you are probably the most insulting person I know. I didn’t ask for this assignment. In fact, I find it hard to imagine a worse one. Refusing it, however, would have meant inflicting you on some other poor bastard. But you so much as hesitate when I give you an order, you cry, scream, or complain just once, and I’ll make you someone else’s headache so fast your head will pull an Exorcist spin. Got it?”

  She nodded. Now she knew where she stood. He would ditch her for the smallest irritation. That helped clear her mind. They’d be parting company just as soon as she devised a plan.

  “Too easy. What’s going through your head?”

  Well, he did ask. “That I don’t trust you. That doing so would be to make the biggest mistake of my life. That I hate you as much as I hate everyone involved with the Service.” She watched his lips narrow. “Would you prefer that I lied about that, too?”

  “No. But I do need you to trust me.”

  “You first. Promise me you don’t believe I killed Adrian.”

  Another sharp look from him.

  Another cringe from her.

  “For God’s sake, I’m thirty-four years old, long past crossing my heart and hoping to die. But no, I don’t believe you killed him.”

  Eu-bloody-reka! She had little experience of anyone trusting her word. She needed a repeat of the rare little zing that had sparked deep inside her. “You sound very certain. What if I flipped out?” she pushed.

  He screeched the car to an abrupt halt. But for the seat belt, she’d have catapulted through the windscreen.

  He turned to face her, seemingly oblivious to the furious blast of horns behind them. “Lowry, that threat I made about dumping you? Add pretending to be crazy to the list of triggers… Okay?”

  She jerked a few little nods, then lowered her head and blushed from the inside out, less than proud of herself for insulting his acute intelligence. Then her heart sprouted wings and fluttered inside her chest. Endorsement felt bloody marvelous.

  “And one other thing, Lowry, in case you didn’t get it the first time around. The name of the bastard who raped you? I want it, and you are going to give it to me.”

  Her heart de-winged and plummeted like a rock in free fall. No, she wouldn’t. Not in a million years. He’d probably go straight to Patient Peter Forsythe with her accusations and together, they’d toast and drink to their shared mirth. Then have the men in white coats, and armed with a strait-jacket, collect her.”

  “You do have a name don’t you, Lowry?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  The silence that engulfed the car sizzled with resentment. And frustration. It only took a scrape-down-a-blackboard moment to ramp the tension even higher.

  Jack provided the nail. “I don’t believe you. Having seen the state of Wainwright’s body for myself, you’ve got one hell of a manic fucker on your tail. My worry is how many other poor bastards are going to have to die before you wise-up and give me everything you know.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll sleep so much easier knowing that.” In truth, she never wanted to shut her eyes again, because when she did, all she saw was Adrian’s pulped body, Patient Peter’s soulless eyes, and Jack’s face rigid with contempt.

  “Kiss good-bye to any thought of sleep, Lowry. It’s a luxury you can ill afford until this mess is sorted out. You want to sleep? Give me the name of your attacker. Then I’ll tuck you up, nice and snug. Hell, I might even flip you on your back and give us both a good time.”

  Her lungs flattened. He was joking, but that didn’t stop her inner temperature soaring at the stupefying vision of him lying across her, naked and strong, promising more than just to keep her safe. Love, connection, passion hot enough to put the flames of hell to shame, everything other women got to enjoy without flinching.

  “Sorry. Rotten choice of words. I give you my word, it will never happen.”

  And that was the trouble. No man would ever “flip” her on her back. She’d probably kill them if they tried.

  Even Jack? She rubbed at
her too-hot cheeks and pushed that unwanted challenge aside unanswered.

  She didn’t want Jack, didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. She was better off on her own…and the people she cared about would be safer. Suppressing a shudder, she dared the acid burning her throat to climb higher. Had Adrian’s last thought been to wish he’d stayed the hell away from her?

  The car bounced wildly across rutted terrain. She gripped the edge of her seat with one hand, the dashboard with the other, bracing against the bone-jarring jolts.

  The immediate landscape was open and flat. Bleak. Ripe with decay. A long-dead factory, windows broken and with ravenous weeds populating its cracked walls, loomed ahead. The affluent jut of Canary Wharf broke the distant skyline, mocking the utter desolation of the abandoned industrial site.

  Jack had warned her not to have any expectations about the accommodation. But, seriously?

  He drove straight into the belly of deserted building, pulled to a halt, and left the vehicle without so much as a word.

  Her door opened, and she looked up at him warily, trying to think of something clever to say. Her mind blanked.

  She eased free from the car and curled her arms around her midriff. God, it was cold. Not the razor-chill of winter, but damp and mean with the first kiss of spring. She tugged tight the fleece Jack had lent her to stop the draft shooting the length of her spine.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. And it’s safe.”

  Her face must have shown her dismay. She glanced down at the fractured concrete floor pockmarked with industrial stains, and curled her toes. Plotting an injury-free path through the broken glass gleaming with sinister intent would be a challenge.

  She squealed when arms banded her, one across her back, the other behind her knees, and she was tipped off balance and swung high.

  She went rigid. Concrete replacing the blood in her veins.

  Jack heaved a deep sigh.

  Feeling the sigh, long and deep, vibrate his chest, her lungs stopped mid-action. She tried to ease some space between them.

  He tightened his grip, hugging her close. “It’s this or lacerated feet. Your choice.”

  She glanced down at the carpet of glass shards and splinters. Game over. She’d let him carry her—just one more little humiliation to add to her collection.

  Too aware of his strength, of every muscle sculpting his chest, of the body warmth he couldn’t help but share with her, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. And found what looked suspiciously like silent laughter. “Damn you, Ballentyne, you’re enjoying this.”

  “Yeah, a part of me is. Better hang on tight. The accommodation’s two levels up, and the staircase is less than stable.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The steel construction swayed alarmingly under their combined weight, the rasp of metal against concrete a warning of fatigue.

  When he dipped to avoid trailing electrical wires, she availed herself of his invitation, and clung to him for dear life. In this instance, pride could take a hike; she didn’t want to fall.

  He shouldered his way through a pair of swing doors, sidestepped the scattering of fallen ceiling tiles, and stopped in the center of what must once have been the employees’ recreation area.

  A heavy pool table slumped at an angle, two of its legs missing. Ugly padded benches and tragic armchairs spewed foam filling. The rotting orange and gray carpet tiles emitted a rank stink.

  To avoid gagging, she stopped breathing through her nose.

  He set her down…or tried to. The instant her feet hit the ground, her knees caved. Large hands to her hips, he had little choice but to hold her against the length of his body to prevent her from collapsing into a heap on the floor. Goddamnit.

  “You okay?”

  Her skin on fire, she nodded mutely. No way was she admitting that, held tight to his broad chest, she’d felt safer than she had in eons. Not when she was having a hard enough job admitting it to herself.

  She chanced a look at his face expecting, and ready, for his wry amusement.

  Her heart skidded to a halt.

  Jaw locked so tight it was a wonder it didn’t shatter, he had his eyes closed. Strain stretched his skin from stubborn chin to high cheekbone. Without doubt, the man was in pain.

  Poised high on tiptoes, with her arms still anchored around his neck, she realized she was all but welded to him. Her breasts crushing against his chest, her hips pressed so tight, they cradled one hell of a hard and swollen erection.

  Hot needles stabbing the surface of her skin, she jerked away from him and stumbled backward several steps. Good Christ. Physically, at least, Jack desired her. Her.

  Her face must still have been full flush, because when she did look up, he slow-grinned at her. “Control is sometimes overrated. No need to feel embarrassed. I’m not.”

  He strode past her and dropped to a crouch beside an empty bookcase, only upright because it was screwed to the wall. “I know it’s hardly a palace, but make yourself at home. You’ll find a bathroom with a bank of showers through there, though I warn you, the water is only tepid.”

  Reluctant to even contemplate the state of the bathroom, she stayed put. And watched.

  Using the blade of a vicious-looking knife, he worked free a length of baseboard, then shoulder tight against the wall, he reached deep into the hollow behind. He pulled free a cell phone and what looked like a small cellophane bag stuffed full with SIM cards—the tiny data circuit boards found in all mobile phones identifying the carrier. Available over the counter, interchangeable and disposable, they’d become a must-have for those needing to communicate without risk of their activities or location being traced.

  He thumbed a series of buttons and then spoke into the mobile. “You know where I am. Bring supplies. Include clothing. Size six for her and sneakers, size…” He cast an enquiring look in her direction.

  “Five,” she muttered, still disconcerted that he could have guessed her dress size so accurately.

  He passed that along and cut the call. Then, reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew a pair of old-fashioned metal cuffs and walked toward her.

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

  “As the Ebola virus,” he retorted, snapping one bracelet around her wrist, while using his body to shuffle her toward the injured pool table. “On second thought, you’ll only pull the damn thing down on yourself. Over here.”

  He overrode her stunned resistance and tugged her toward a wall lined with fat metal pipes.

  “This isn’t necessary. I’m hardly going to run.” She stared pointedly at her feet.

  “Yes you will, given half a chance. It’s what you do best, and a little glass won’t stop you. You’re in custody, Lowry. My custody, and I don’t trust you. How’s that feel by the way? This is absolutely necessary while I take a look around.”

  She didn’t want to be left on her own. Not in this rotting space. Vulnerable. Defenseless. “I’ll come with you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I got the impression you didn’t much like being carried, but if you insist—”

  Had he not been watching her so keenly, she’d have pressed a hand to her chest to keep her heart in place. “No…no it’s fine. Hook me up. I’ll wait here.”

  He nodded. “Figured you’d say that.” He fastened the other bracelet around a pipe and rattled it to test it was secure. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

  …

  Jack circumnavigated the perimeter of the vast decaying site, then worked his way inward, back to the abandoned factory in ever-decreasing circles. The terrain had been cleared. The few outcrops of vegetation were too sparse to provide effective cover, but the mounds of abandoned bricks and discarded twists of machinery were a threat. He made a mental note of each potential hazard, his senses alert to any untoward disturbance of the barren wasteland

  Scouting mission finally completed, he leaned his shoulder against the wall of the dead factory and, for the first time in years, felt the n
agging itch for nicotine. He’d quit his pack-a-day habit the day he’d secured Lowry’s discharge from the Service, figuring the torment of withdrawal would offset the gnaw of guilt he refused to carry. Up until now, it had worked.

  Witch. He could still feel her imprint against his body. Hard, callous bastard that he was, he’d hoped to unsettle her using the hot press of physical contact, the one thing he suspected she couldn’t handle. He’d intended to tease, the start of his campaign to get her to talk. Fuck, had that backfired. He’d only let her step back when the pain of his too-hard cock became unbearable. Otherwise, he’d have happily kept her tucked tight. Like the nicotine, it was a craving he’d thought he had long conquered.

  Exhaling deeply, he made a vow. No touching, no more clutching for her scent. No more allowing his eyes to skim and dwell on her curves. No more games. A three-foot buffer zone at all times. Maybe five. And a quick resolution to this mess. Historic in speed.

  He’d make damn sure he was all over Marshall like a rash until her name was cleared. Then he’d be gone. Overseas. If the Middle East wasn’t far enough away, he’d try New Zealand. He’d put in a request. Shouldn’t be too hard to disengage from her. Christ, he’d managed to gain, and hold, the widest possible distance from his own family. Doing the same with Lowry should be a walk in the park.

  But with him gone, who’d look out for her? Clearing her name as a suspect in Adrian Wainwright’s murder offered no guarantee that her rapist would be pursued. Who’d put that right, if not him?

  He buried the nagging concern. Once cleared as prime suspect, her father could fathom out the what-next. Hell, she could do it on her own. God knows, she was a survivor. She didn’t need him.

  He rubbed his sternum with his fist and cursed the dull ache that had become his new best friend.

  A bright yellow Jeep caught his attention. He heard the grind of protesting gears as it struggled over the potholed terrain. The Jeep stopped and flashed its lights twice, then repeated the signal before moving forward.

  Will Berwick. What the hell was the man up to? He knew better than to use such an attention-grabbing monstrosity.