Hard to Forget

by Incy Black

  Not a problem if she was sensible. Kept her mouth shut. But could he count on that? She kept secrets. She’d already proven it. Her survival instinct was keen.

  But his was keener.

  It was a full five minutes before he turned his attention to the waiting man.

  “This afternoon was an unmitigated disaster. What went wrong?”

  “Yves forgot himself. His instructions were to call in their position should he locate them, that I would take it from there. Instead he chose to play hero. He paid for that stupidity. No one goes up against Ballentyne unprepared.”

  “Which leaves us with a problem. Jack Ballentyne never forgives an attack. He’ll dig now, won’t rest until he has answers. That’s a complication I had hoped to avoid.”

  “Executing him is still an option.”

  “And how exactly will that help? That idiot Yves’s clumsy attempt on the girl’s life has already raised questions, cast doubt on her involvement in Wainwright’s murder. No. You leave Ballentyne to me. I will find a way to neutralize him without arousing further suspicion. He needs isolating.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Let’s see how she responds to real pressure. I believe it’s time I turned up the heat. She won’t get far. Not on her own. And not with what I have planned. In the meantime, stay away from Ballentyne. The last thing I need is for your personal vendetta against him to compromise my efforts further.”

  …

  Eyes down, Lowry studiously resisted the urge to glance at her reflection in the windows of the many penny arcades cheerily fronting the promenade. She’d hacked her hair short, dyed it black, and added streaks of neon pink to distract the curious from focusing too closely on the details of her face. Which forty-eight hours ago had been splashed across the media with a warning that she was dangerous and, if sighted, the police should be alerted. Immediately.

  A quick forage in the local youth market, a temple to all things garish, shocking, and student, had provided her with the uniform of a confused punk-Goth. Black jeans, tears manufactured, long safety pins holding the frayed edges of the fabric together. Black Doc Martins she’d pounded with a rock and scuffed on the damp saltwater beach so they wouldn’t scream “new.” Black faux-leather jacket, two sizes too big. Black T-shirt, too, though the motif, a faded crimson mouth caught full-scream, added a touch of color. Her necklace, the pièce de résistance, comprised three fat twists of silver rubber, shaped to look like vicious razor wire. Now, her appearance warned troubled, warned disturbed, and most importantly warned stay away.

  Not her first choice of persona, but for some reason she had yet to fathom, Bangor’s student population favored the visually anarchic, and her new look helped her blend in unnoticed.

  Jack had promised to call. Ten days passed, and she was still waiting.

  She resisted the compulsion to check the screen of her phone for a missed call. At the rate she’d been delving into her pocket for the device these last few days, she’d be lucky to escape a repetitive strain injury.

  She’d grant him one more day, then she was gone. Forcing herself to trust him, when she’d learned the hard way not to trust a soul, had been equivalent of sticking matches under her purple-enameled nails and igniting them one by one.

  Jack readily broke the laws of the land when they got in his way, but he believed in the Service. Blindly, most of the time. So why the hell had he compromised his own position to help her?

  Her footsteps faltered. What if he had been setting her up? He hadn’t been shy in acknowledging the esteem in which he held Patient Peter.

  Unsure and irritated, she scuffed a hand though her new raggedy crop and curled her shoulders against the chill skirting in off the sea.

  Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated. A text.

  She messed up her stride and cannoned into a group of tourists. Head down, she mumbled an apology and quickened her step, but not to a degree that would draw attention. The last thing she needed was them puzzling over a crazy woman who might have the look of someone vaguely familiar.

  Only when well away from the hustle of the promenade did she dare sneak a peek at her phone. “Where r u?”

  Uncertainty sliced through her gut, nearly bending her in half. She tightened her grip around the device to keep upright and moving forward. She didn’t recognize the number. No reason why she should. But Jack had been quite specific. He’d said he’d call. No mention of a text. Anyone could be on the other end. Was it a trick? Dare she respond? What if it was Jack? What if it wasn’t?

  She flung a glance over her shoulder. The crowds had thinned. She added speed to her step, and gave herself a mental pat on the back that, despite the fear slicing through her stomach, she’d had sufficient wit to turn off the phone. They might be monitoring the signal.

  It took an hour of walking against the bitter chill of driving rain—that lashed, just to make her day—before she found sufficient confidence to throw a lasso around her paranoia and bind it tight.

  Taking a deep breath, she let her thumb hover over the call option, then closing her eyes, she depressed the button and raised the phone to her ear.

  “Damn it, Lowry. Where the hell are you?”

  No question at all about who was snapping at her. “Ballentyne, you stupid man, you scared me half to death.”

  “Which is nothing to what I’ll do to you when I get my hands on you. Why didn’t you respond to my text immediately?”

  “You said you’d call.” She waited for him to compute what she meant. She heard a deep, exasperated sigh.

  “The phone’s safe. It’s got an anti-tracking device built into it. You can talk freely. I’m in Bangor. Give me your position.”

  For some reason, it annoyed her that he should be so supremely confident that she’d follow his orders without resistance. “No, I’ll come to you. There’s an open area, a small garden adjacent to the pier. I’ll meet you there.”

  “When?”

  “When I get there.” She could do snappy, too.

  “That sounds suspiciously like you still don’t trust me.”

  “Why would I, Jack?” she asked coldly. “As I recall, the last time I came to you for help, you handed me over to the very people I believe are complicit in trying to kill me.”

  “Not all of them, Lowry. A lot of good people work at the Cube.”

  Her palm suddenly felt clammy against the casing of the phone. She swapped to using her other hand—not that it helped. “Yes, but who? You’re the one who broke ranks, secreted me away on that Godforsaken industrial site, and then let me escape. Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m beginning to regret it. You need to know your lack of trust verges on the insulting.”

  She narrowed her eyes and not in defense against the weather. She wasn’t up for light banter, though from the change in his voice, he was. “I’m wanted for a murder I didn’t commit, Jack. And someone tried to kill me while I was supposedly under the protection of the Service. Only three people knew where we were. Will, who didn’t shoot himself, me, and you.”

  “I helped you get away, Lowry.”

  No, he had not liked what she’d implied.

  “I know, but I’m no longer sure that was such a great idea. Have you seen the papers? Have you any idea what it feels like to have your face plastered in front of the entire nation? I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, Jack, not even you.”

  Hand trembling, she disconnected the call. Anti-tracking device be damned, he could be lying. He was a Service man through and through. It defined him, allowed him to be who he needed to be with minimal restriction. She had no idea why he had helped her escape. It didn’t make any sense, but until it did, she’d take nothing for granted.

  She tipped her face to the rain, relishing its icy sting. She could pretend to Jack, but she couldn’t con herself.

  Her anxiety about meeting up with him had less to do with trust and more to do with her reluctance to face him. They’d shared a kiss so hot she’d actu
ally climbed his damned body. She’d wanted him, and if he hadn’t pulled back, she was pretty damn certain she’d have had the shirt off his back and her fingers at his zipper.

  The rain practically sizzled as it collided with the sudden heat scorching her cheeks. She’d lost control. Jack hadn’t.

  Oh, God, he had probably already it worked out that if he had allowed that torrid moment to continue a second longer, she would willingly have laid herself before him naked and given her body freely. What the hell did that say about her? About the rape? What the hell kind of woman was she?

  …

  It took thirty minutes of close observation to convince her that Jack was indeed alone—and also, for her to pluck up the courage to face him.

  He cut a lonely figure, seemingly oblivious to the elements. The rain might have stopped, but the wind blowing in across the turbulent white-crested waves was still cruel.

  Anyone other than Jack Ballentyne would have sought cover in one of the cheerful blue-, green-, and orange-glazed shelters dotting the small gardens. Not Jack. He’d opted to lean on the promenade safety rail, his attention fixed on the angry, gray swell of the Menai Straits.

  She sucked in a deep breath, drew back her shoulders, and willed her vertebrae to lock tight. She’d pretend nonchalance if it killed her. So what if she’d made a fool of herself? It wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But, if she could just keep it together, Jack need never know how crucifying this first post-kiss meeting would be for her.

  Measuring her approach, keeping it slow, she braced herself against his first scathing remark. “Hi, Jack.”

  “Lowry.” He kept his attention firmly fixed on the distant horizon.

  She willed him to turn around and to get it over and done with.

  He didn’t, not immediately.

  Which gave her just long enough to remember the radical change she’d made to her appearance.

  She was fully clothed, so why the hell did she suddenly feel so damned newborn naked? She clenched her fists to her side to kill the almost irresistible compulsion to reach up and fiddle with her new, short black crop with hideous slashes of pink.

  He turned his head and immediately jerked upright. “Bloody hell, what have you done?”

  Chapter Ten

  God alone knew what made her do it. Especially after she’d already crashed and burned pulling a similar stunt at the god-awful factory back in London. But, rather than duck his incredulity with a modicum of dignity, she tilted her pelvis forward, planted one hand on the curve of her hip, and threw back her shoulders in classic model pose. “I decided it was time I embraced my inner devil.”

  And her bravado might have worked, except for the crack in her voice and the suspicious sting of moisture threatening her eyes.

  Then he surprised the hell out of her. He leaned in, brought his mouth close to her ear. “It suits you,” he said, his voice lilting with humor. Nice humor. Teasing. Not laced with ridicule. “Any piercings or tats I should know about?”

  “Scared of needles,” she muttered unnecessarily, pushing him away when he started to laugh.

  “Come on, I’ve never been too proud to let a woman buy me a coffee.”

  “Jack, in case you missed it, my face has been plastered all over the media. I’m currently doing my best to avoid all human interaction,” she pointed out.

  Head tilting slightly to the left, he trapped her in a long, hard stare.

  A heat, volcanic in proportion, built under her skin and pushed to the surface. Then, just when she feared her spinal cord would snap and she’d collapse at his feet, he again surprised the hell out of her by reaching forward and ruffling her hair. “Lowry, your own father wouldn’t recognize you.”

  The words tripped from her lips before she could swallow them. “No change there then. Even before this,”—she sketched an air circle to frame her changed appearance—“I very much doubt he could have picked me out in a line-up.”

  Realizing how resentful and pathetic that must sound, she bit her lip and screwed up her face. “Forget I said that. Put it down to brain freeze.” She waited a moment, opened her eyes, and dared him to comment.

  He dared, his eyes narrowing to sharp blades. “You’re very quick to write people off, Lowry. It’s a bad habit of yours that you might want to examine sometime. That sky-high pedestal on which you isolate yourself is likely to get very cold and very lonely if you don’t.”

  Her chest contracted. Had she blurred the line between fierce self-reliance and complete social withdrawal, to the point she could no longer distinguish the difference?

  She frowned and wrapped her arms tight across her waist. Just because she kept her distance from anyone with the power to hurt and betray her, it didn’t mean she ceased to care. That she didn’t long to matter to those she couldn’t help loving.

  She heard Jack heave a sigh. Felt his fingers curl around her elbow.

  “Christ, you’re soaked. No wonder you’re shaking. Skip the coffee. Where are you staying?”

  Arm out straight, she pointed. “Across there.”

  His brow furrowed, he turned his head to stare across the Menai Straits to the rural island hovering in the gray distance. “Anglesey? Christ, Lowry, I thought I told you to stay in Bangor, where you could blend in unnoticed.”

  She dragged in what she supposed might just qualify as a breath; surprised at the effort it took. “I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she mumbled.

  Eyes lowered, she waited for Jack to demand an explanation. He didn’t, but she could have sworn she heard him grinding of his teeth.

  “Okay. My bike’s parked round the corner.”

  Forty minutes later, she wished they were back on the seafront where she’d at least had room to breathe. Changing out of sodden jeans left little dignity at the best of times. In the cramped, two-man tent she’d pitched within the ruins of an isolated farm building, with Jack taking up too much space, not to mention most of the oxygen, what little was left of her pride whimpered and slunk away.

  Flat on her back, wriggling her hips, embarrassment got the better of her. “You could have the decency to look away,” she told him.

  “I’m trying. See, eyes shut. But it’s not helping. I can still hear you, and I’ve got a dirty mind.”

  Unable to work out whether his tight laugh was meant to lessen the tension or unnerve her even more, she muttered a series of clench-toothed threats of what she’d do to him if he peeked and increased the fervor of her efforts. Damn, but did denim grip tight when wet.

  “Just ask if you need any help. Dirty mind, but clean hands.”

  His offer, laced with laughter and more relaxed, sent a slow, hot flush across her skin. Gritting her teeth, she kicked the sodden mass aside and gave thanks when, with a quick flick of her hips, the replacement, a short black kilt, slid into place easily.

  Her head knocked canvas when she sat up to haul on a T-shirt.

  She flopped back down, felt around for the edge of her sleeping bag, and tugged it into place across her body—for self-protection, as much as for warmth. “Done.”

  He opened his eyes, a friendly blue for a change. He shifted and shuffled his big body to accompanying huffs and curses, then reclined and settled on his back beside her.

  The sales woman had assured her that, despite its compact size, the tent had been designed for two. Lowry decided the bitch had lied.

  She flinched at the press of Jack’s shoulder—perfectly carved, and solid with muscle—against her own. Her automatic recoil, a residual reflex left by the rape, was as instinctive to her as the need to breathe.

  With a filthy curse, he jerked sideways.

  Although she considered it his fault that his shoulders should take up so much room, she couldn’t stop an embarrassed apology escaping her lips. “Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  She sensed his whole body lock. The lack of oxygen became more acute.

  Long, agonizing minutes passed before he relaxed sufficien
tly to shuffle his shoulders to fit the limited space without touching her. What the hell was wrong with him? She was the one behaving like a scorched cat. He, hard bastard that he was, was supposed to be immune to excruciating atmospheres.

  “Lowry, you ever apologize like that to me again, and I’ll…I’ll…forget it,” he said, his voice gruff. The canvas sides of her pitiful shelter almost billowed with the depth of his sigh. “Why a tent? I gave you easily enough money for a B&B.”

  She hated to admit it, but she felt oddly disappointed at the return of his clipped tone. “Yes you did,” she said softly. “But, I had to check out. Aside from the sudden need to keep a very low profile, the owner… Well, let’s just say, he had a problem with his hands—he couldn’t keep them to himself.”

  The long silence pressed her flat, the underneath of her thigh finally locating the stone that had jabbed her uncomfortably through the previous night. She tried not to fidget.

  “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through that, not after… If I asked for his name and address, would you give it to me?”

  She smiled, shook her head. “Jack, I’m not that fragile. You can say it, you know. The word rape. I’m not going to freak out if you do.”

  “Thank God, for that. But don’t make light of the assault, Lowry. It sickens me just to think about it.”

  “Oh.”

  “It, not you, Lowry. Note the distinction.”

  Inexplicably, a lump clogged her throat. When it came to what had happened to her, she didn’t doubt his horror. Nor his ill-disguised anger that it continued to haunt her and governed the way she interacted with others.

  For a man who shrugged at violence and the brutality of life, for a man she’d faulted for having the empathy of a rock on more occasions than she cared to remember, his attitude to the rape raised more questions than it answered. Some easy. Some hard. All of them confusing.

  She hastily returned her attention to the sloping canvas ceiling. Funny, but with Jack lying here beside her, its flimsy offer of protection didn’t seem to matter. He exuded heat, the promise that all was secure.