Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

  What worried him was what the hell else she would do to retaliate.

  What worried him more was how he’d react when she did.

  …

  Patient Peter steepled his fingers as if in prayer, and surveyed the scene spread before him like a lavish architectural picnic. He’d chosen this penthouse for its bird’s eye view across Whitehall toward the Houses of Parliament. His kingdom. A kingdom where information and dark secrets were the undisputed currency, and he reigned supreme.

  Now his sovereignty was under threat. Because of her, Lowry Fisk.

  Framing her had been a perfect solution. As predicted, the Service had moved super fast to track her down. He’d preordained her death in their custody. A supposed tragic suicide, understandable when dealing with a fractured mind. Of course, the Service would have hushed it up out of respect for the Commander. The investigation would have been quick. A few token slaps on the wrist would have been merited to convince any skeptics questioning the veracity of the enquiry, of course, and then his position would once again have been secure.

  And his plan would have worked but for Jack Ballentyne who, in direct contravention of orders, now had the girl secreted God knows where. Something for which he would pay. Time that man learned he was a mere puppet. A small player on a much bigger stage.

  Patient Peter smiled and reached into his pocket. Withdrawing his phone, he placed a call, caressing his lower lip with his forefinger while he waited.

  “Peter?”

  “Jack Ballentyne. Find him, and you’ll find the girl. The Service has got the best technical equipment in the world. I know because I authorized the expenditure. Start using it. Track each member of his team. Trace their calls. Put a shadow on every damned last one of them. He’ll be getting help from someone. Double the financial incentive for information on their whereabouts. Triple it if necessary, but find me that girl.”

  He cut the connection, cast his mind back. Leaving Lowry Fisk alive at the warehouse had been a colossal mistake, one of his few. Not that he’d known her identity when he “took” her, or even subsequently. He’d thought she was part of the shipment, delicious fresh flesh ripe for tearing—and he’d had time to kill. Or he’d thought he had. That bastard Ballentyne had brought forward the timing of the raid, and when the bullets had started flying, he’d panicked, and gotten the hell out of there. Forgetting all about her. Understandable when she’d just been another young thing, one of so very many.

  Recognizing her at the gallery—young, new artists often offered sound investment opportunities—had been a surprise. Realizing that she had recognized him, a shock. No matter, he had things in hand, and God help anyone who got in his way.

  He felt a twitch. Looked down at his crotch. Something was hungry. He smiled. It had been a while. He would make an arrangement. Something slight and blond, like her. A final good riddance to Ms. Fisk, for she wouldn’t escape him again.

  He reached for his phone again. A second call would rattle Walter. He smiled at the speed with which his brother answered, and then Peter placed the order for his special brand of takeout. A girl. No side order, and no need to confirm clean-up services would definitely be required afterwards. Walter would know.

  …

  To and fro, to and fro, Lowry prowled the ruined rec area in the vain hope the perpetual motion would loosen the tautness straining her muscles.

  An itch spread over her skin. The back of her neck prickled. Turning her head sideways, she saw Jack. Watching her. “What?”

  His mouth tipped into a breath-snatching smile.

  She tripped over her own foot.

  Face aflame, she stuck her chin in the air and continued pacing—only a little less confidently.

  Generations of selective breeding over hundreds of years, from warriors and statesmen, athletes and scholars, had gifted Jack something special when it came to looks. Something compelling, a mix of danger, rebellion, and character—very inviting. Strong brow, firm chin, nose definite and straight. Fierce blue eyes, deep as a lake, and a mouth… God, that mouth.

  Great looks, powerful personality, apparently charming when he wanted. She had a nasty feeling she was about to find out what would happen when he combined those weapons of female destruction into a single force.

  She stopped pacing to glare at him. “Pack it in, Ballentyne. If you’re bored, go find some insect to rip the wings off. I’m not in the mood.”

  His smile changed to a lazy grin. His eyes flickered a dangerous gleam. Reaching skyward, he flexed his arms high above his head. Muscles bunched, cotton pulled upward to reveal a two-inch-wide strip of taut, naked male skin, the color of light warm honey, stretched across the promise of a remarkably well-defined victory V.

  Tiny flames ignited the surface of her skin. Holy hell!

  She dragged her eyes away and swallowed hard. No need to stare. That was one image of raw sexiness that would be forever imprinted in her mind. Holy frigging hell!

  She heard the hiss and crinkle of creasing foil. He must be adjusting position.

  She bit her lip, and kept her eyes fixed on the damaged wall ahead of her.

  “You and Will,” he said. “You seem…close.”

  Chapter Eight

  She halted mid-stride. Where was he going with this? Jack didn’t make innocent observations, no matter how apparently laid back his manner.

  A bead of sweat traced a furrow down her spine. This was definitely the start of a stalking game. One at which he excelled, and she, in comparison, was a rank amateur. “Will and I are friends, nothing more. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Impressed by the evenness of her own tone, she recommenced pacing.

  “He bought you sexy, almost nonexistent panties. Kind of an intimate thing for a friend to do.” He deliberately and pointedly shifted his gaze to her chest. “No bras, though. So he either doesn’t know your cup size or prefers you…unrestrained.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek hard. She would not react. No way. Then, hating herself, she caved and folded her arms to hide her breasts. Which had no doubt been bouncing energetically beneath the thin cotton of her long sleeve T-shirt as she paced. On that lovely thought, she confessed. “He was paying me back,” she said acidly. “When I first joined the Service, Will made the mistake of sending me out to buy his great aunt a birthday present. I brought very naughty lingerie so he’d think twice, in future, about using me as a go-fer. It became a standing joke between us. He was just reminding me he hadn’t forgotten.”

  Jack shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled. One of his slow, slow smiles.

  Her blood flow didn’t seem able to make up its mind of whether to race or freeze.

  “If you say so. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, sweetheart. And, I assure you, the last thing on his mind is his great aunt.”

  The sweetheart nearly stripped her of all control. But to lose it now would gift him the advantage he so obviously sought. Ignoring the palpitations threatening to crack her chest, the wave of revulsion rolling in her stomach, she shifted her hands to her hips. Then squaring her shoulders, she thrust her chest forward, fully aware that because her blood had opted for lightly chilled, her nipples were standing proud.

  And she couldn’t hold back the smile.

  The satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen, his lips part very slightly to expel a sharp breath, was so worth the acute discomfort that brazen display cost her.

  Jack dragged his stare from her chest to her face. A wild light backlit the blue-blue of his eyes. Not ridicule. Not anger. Raw hunger.

  The blush started in her toes and worked its way slowly upward until her face glowed like a blood sun. She tried braving it out. Holding the come-and-get-it pose for a few precious seconds more. Then, conceding defeat, her arms fell leaden and limp to her sides, and she tucked her chin low.

  She’d always been hopeless when it came to flexing feminine wiles. She’d failed abysmally every one of the “honey-trap” simulations Jack had put her thr
ough during training. It had become a standing joke within the team.

  He laughed, albeit, in that strained way she recognized from years ago.

  “Don’t try that on Will, Lowry. The poor man’s close to losing his dignity as it is.”

  “That man’s your friend, Jack,” she reminded him quietly, her head still down. “Don’t forget he’s putting his career on the line for you. Not for the first time, either. Every time you break the rules, you compromise your men. You issue an order; they follow it. You ask a favor; they grant it. Doing both without question, and regardless of any risk to themselves. Have you ever thought about that, or don’t you care?”

  She lifted her head and made eye contact to drive her point home.

  His stare didn’t waver, just drilled right through her. “You talk to Will.”

  She frowned. Jack made it sound like she’d committed a crime. “Yes, he’s easy to talk to. He listens without making me feel a complete incompetent.”

  “Unlike me?”

  She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and plucked at the sleeve of her top. “You don’t talk, Jack. You issue orders, then dismiss. You listen only to what you want to hear and, even then, you do so under sufferance.”

  “Not true. Gathering intelligence is vital to the job, remember? I listen. I observe. And I’m pretty damn good at it. How else would I have pegged you and Will?”

  “And got it wrong! Newsflash, Ballentyne. A man can connect with and show empathy for a woman without it meaning they must have had mad monkey sex, or even that they intend to.”

  His bark of laughter sounded strained, as if he was being strangled. “I wouldn’t discount Will’s intentions quite so easily if I were you.” His expression hardened. “Have you spoken to him about the rape?”

  The rape. Jack was able to drop those two little words so easily. Casually, as if it had been just some by the way incident, over and done with, ready for filing away.

  Insensitive bastard. If only he knew.

  Knew just how close she’d come to doing just that. Filing it away, burying the nightmare, putting it behind her. Right up until the night he’d accosted her in the gallery. Bringing with him the taint of the Service, and the taint of Patient Peter Forsythe.

  She pressed her palm hard against her stomach. “What is there to tell, Jack? I’m not the first woman to be raped, and I sure as hell won’t be the last, more’s the pity. I’m over it.”

  “If you say so.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that for a person who thinks she’s over what happened, you’re a mess. As much as you accept that no woman is ever complicit when it comes to rape, you can’t stop yourself wondering if you weren’t in some way to blame. That maybe, just by being you, that was enough to provoke the attack. Manifested by the fact you find it incomprehensible for a man to like you, let alone desire you. You recoil as if burned when touched, though you fight to hide it. First you go rigid, then you get these little creases in your brow as you weigh up the motivation behind the touch. Even if you judge it to be innocent, you still have to force your muscles to relax. All, barely noticeable, except to someone watching for it. I pity the poor bastard who last tried to kiss you. Bet you lost your bloody mind.”

  She had.

  Four years ago—Patient Peter was the last man to have gotten anywhere near her lips.

  Jack wasn’t wrong about her thought patterns either. Somehow, he’d slid inside her head and read her mental journal of fears. A violation in itself.

  “When it comes to the blame game, Viscount, I hardly think you’re qualified to offer advice. How many years has it been since you turned your back on who you are? Your title, your obligations, your family. When you get past what happened to your brother and finally accept that you were not responsible, try lecturing me. But until then—fuck off!”

  Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. He didn’t even flinch. Had she expected him to? No, but she’d hoped. Wished that, just once, he’d prove he could be hurt. Show shock, even. At the fact she knew about the past that had shaped him into the soulless man he’d become—it would have made him less the invincible action-hero and more human.

  “Interesting. Care to tell me how you found out?” He might have arched his brow in a pretense of nonchalance, but the little pulse throbbing at his temple called him a liar.

  She’d had it with his obnoxiousness. “Six years ago, I hacked your personnel file. Your fault; you should never have left me twiddling my thumbs back at HQ while you, and the rest of the team, played superheroes. Benching someone labeled as having a worryingly high degree of curiosity really wasn’t the smartest of ideas.”

  The temperature, already chilled, dropped off the scale. “Accessing my file can’t have been easy. I’m flattered you made the effort.”

  No he wasn’t. He was bloody furious, she could tell—the narrow outline and pale hue of his lips a dead giveaway. Not that his file had revealed much. But, playing it calm obviously suited his strategy, for wherever the hell he was taking their little tête-à-tête.

  Well, she didn’t much like being maneuvered down a path she hadn’t chosen for herself. Time to ruffle his calm. “Don’t be. It was only your psych report I was interested in.”

  She inhaled sharply and took a step backward as Jack thrust to his feet, all cool control gone, his body humming with anger.

  “For God’s sake, Lowry, even I don’t get to read those reports. That was an obscene invasion of privacy.”

  “Exactly. Still want to know about the rape, Jack? Or have I finally made my point clear enough for you?”

  She’d bested him. She waited for his head to explode.

  “Tell me what you know about Peter Forsythe, Lowry.”

  Christ, not that name.

  The floor tilted beneath her feet. She reached for the wall and planted her palm flat against its damp cold surface, not trusting her knees to keep her upright. He’d bushwhacked her. Jack had set a trap, and she’d walked right into it. He’d used his nasty insinuations about Will and narrowed in on the rape to distract and fluster her.

  She would not moisten her lips. Didn’t matter that her mouth had dried to sandpaper. “Who?”

  “That stricken look tells me you know exactly who I’m talking about. My guess is you know the man rather…intimately.”

  A vicious choice of words. It implied complicity on her part. Her throat tightened. Jack Ballentyne redefined cruel.

  Fingers trembling, she raked her hair clear of her face. The sharp pain as they snagged in the tangle helped ease the feeling that she was a captured moth into which he’d just stuck a pin. “Keep guessing, Ballentyne; you’re getting nothing from me. I gave all I had to give four years ago.”

  He moved fast.

  So did she. Backing up until her spine hit the wall.

  He was too close. Too intense.

  Her vision blurred.

  “All signs indicate that you believe one of the most respected men in Whitehall capable of rape and murder, so you do not get to casually step back and walk away—or in your case, run away.”

  “I haven’t accused your damned Patient Peter of anything,” she shouted, her palms high on his chest, as she tried to push him away.

  Jack didn’t budge. Not a millimeter. “No. Your actions did it for you. You saw the man on television. I confirmed his name and status. You took off. My guess, confirmed by your reaction when I just said his name again, is you think he’s the bastard who raped you.”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  “How can you be so certain? You said the man who raped you and shot those girls wore a mask, a balaclava.”

  “His eyes, Jack. Staring at me. Eyes, I can’t forget. Eyes I hoped to God I’d never see again. But I did. Peter Forsythe is a rapist, and he is also a stone-cold killer. Though it was only three girls he shot. Someone else murdered the remaining five.”

  Jack shook his head, then pinched
the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Lowry,” he said with a sigh that sounded as if he’d dragged it up from the very depths of hell. “A statement based on evidence that nebulous wouldn’t even get you into court.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Jack? Just as I know that if it ever came down to my word against his, I’d lose hands down.”

  “Yes, you would. Look, I know Patient Peter. He’s just not that kind of man. He’s all brain and no brawn. It was late at night. You’d spent two days trapped in a cage, barely big enough to contain a Labrador, not knowing if help would arrive on time. Extreme stress does funny things to the mind, distorts your perception of what’s real and what isn’t. Mistakes—”

  The panic of being doubted, of not being believed, hit her with the force of a tsunami. She lashed out wildly with her fists. “No…No…No.” Not her voice, not that desperate sound.

  Strong hands pinned her. Strong arms banded around her tight. “Enough. Lowry. Enough.”

  Jack. Jack holding her, her back to his front, his arms a large X across her body from her shoulders to her hips. Her arms pinned. Jack. Firm. Calm. In control. Her breathing steadied. Her vision cleared. She was safe. Very safe.

  Will materialized in the doorway, his face a twist of wary concern. “Boss?”

  “She’s okay, now. Just give us a moment, would you?”

  Will hesitated and threw her a questioning frown.

  From somewhere deep inside, she dredged up a reassuring smile.

  “Will. Out.” She felt Jack’s head jerk. She also felt his impatience. It was hard not to, given how tightly he was still holding her.

  Will growled and then retreated, leaving the swing doors flip thudding violently.

  The absurdity of the situation struck, she started laughing. “Do you have to intimidate everyone, Ballentyne?”

  “If it gets the job done.”

  Her laughter stopped at the word “job.”

  “And to hell with the consequences?” She flexed and wriggled against him. He released her. She stepped away to give them both some distance before turning to face him, appalled by the sob stuck in her throat. She wouldn’t cry. She never cried. She might never stop. “You should have asked your stupid questions and listened to my answers four years ago, Jack, because that was your job,” she said quietly.