by Incy Black
She opened her eyes, turned her head, and looked up at him. Jack Ballentyne had been a huge force in her life, destructive in so many ways, and yet also oddly healing. He’d lent her a fearlessness she’d never again hoped to possess.
“Replacements are already on their way, Lowry. This lot will be stood down as soon as they arrive.”
She smiled. “So you are back with the Service?”
He shrugged. “Either that, or those contacts you referred to came in handy.”
“You’re being deliberately evasive,” she pushed.
Something almost uncivilized tightened his face. “Which, coming from you, I’ll take as a compliment.”
Exercising every ounce of restraint was costing him dearly, she suspected. If his lips narrowed any further, they’d disappear.
They were blocking the way. People navigated round them, some showing their displeasure by jostling as they brushed past. Lowry fired an apologetic smile at the exasperated doorman and continued down the short flight of steps. She took up a position that avoided the worst of the foot traffic.
“You may not have yelled earlier, but I can feel you building up to a rant now.”
He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were skimming the rooftops and frontages of the buildings opposite. Somehow, without her noticing, he’d nudged her deeper into the recess provided by the rise of the stairs and had angled his body so that he now stood between her and the rest of the world.
Apparently satisfied with his visual scan of the area, he turned to her, reached out, and smoothed away a stray lock of hair that had fallen across one of her eyes. “I’m glad you got rid of the black. I think I prefer you blond. And I’m not going to rant, I’m too fucking relieved to see you in one piece.”
“Don’t be nice to me, Jack. Because—”
“Because you’re afraid. Well, so am I. I didn’t ask for this,” he waved his forefinger to and fro between them. “If I’d known how badly it could hurt, and what a jerk I’d be when trying to push the risk of any pain away, I’d have had Richard strangle me in the womb. But, I’m not going to run from it anymore, Lowry. And nor are you. I won’t let you.”
“Excuse me?” Jack could be obtuse at times, but he’d lost her at the finger waggle.
“Spoke to Richard. He’s somewhat of an expert at calling a prick, a prick. That would be me. Should have told you when we were in the garden. Might even have done so, had that twin of mine not interrupted.”
His eyes had flickered back to scanning the skyline; suddenly, he fixed them on her, staring intently. “I’ve a horrible feeling…” He paused, an almost desperate look on his face.
Fascinated, she watched his Adam’s apple vibrate, then dip as he hauled in a deep breath.
“Actually, I’ve got a great feeling I’m…well…ah…shit… Okay, I’m in love with you. And yes, you best take that as a warning. I have it on good authority that I can be insufferable…at times. And never more so than when I allow my heart rather than my brain to dictate. And you, Lowry-bloody-Fisk, have been playing with my heart as if it was a yo-yo, for years.”
Her heartbeat stuttered. Her breathing tightened. The noisy environment around her faded to mute. Jack might not easily speak the word “love” out loud, but he had made up his mind. Nothing would sway him now. Arguing with him would be like counting every grain of sand in the Sahara—not just pointless, but impossible.
He loved her.
He wasn’t going to let her go. Unnaturally calm. Deceptively even. Precisely measured. She was all too familiar with that particular tone of him. The hesitation and awkward stumbling over words was new, though.
Not that it brought her any comfort. What was she supposed to do now? Yes she wanted him. With all her heart. But not his future. That she couldn’t embrace. Not if it involved the Service. How to tell him that, without forcing him to choose?
Chapter Seventeen
Jack had barely crossed the threshold of the Commander’s house when the horrific cat started on him. Hissing, spitting, arching its back. Had there been a gallon of water at hand, he might have been tempted to use it, but Lowry wouldn’t have approved.
And he needed her on his side. Just long enough to find out what the bloody hell she had in mind. He’d promised himself he’d keep his temper in check, avoid confrontation and coax it out of her instead. So far he thought he’d done a pretty good job. Though, admittedly, he’d nearly lost it when she’d all but confirmed she’d scaled the facade of the Hall.
He’d made that descent himself, experienced the agonizing muscle spasms of clinging tight. That’s why he’d laid into Seb. His mind had refused to compute what she’d done. She was right; he’d have to apologize to his brother—once he finished imagining the many punishments he wanted to bring down on this crazy woman he had no desire to live without.
He considered giving Claude the Cat, who was now nestling in his mistress’s arms and purring up a storm, a stroke and swiftly rejected the idea. That would definitely be pushing it. He and the damned cat had a history, and it wasn’t pretty.
Besides, it would mean getting close to Lowry, and he was finding it hard enough to keep his hands off her. Whether to strangle or to hold and kiss the living day lights out of her, he wasn’t certain. But either way, it was as frustrating as hell. A feeling he suspected he’d have to get used to if things worked out for them as he intended.
But until then, he’d made himself another promise: No touching. No cajoling her with his body. He didn’t doubt she’d respond. He’d been there each time she went up in flames. She hadn’t been able to save herself. She was like a rampaging wild fire when he kissed her and, despite his asbestos shield against relinquishing control, he’d invariably joined her.
An abrupt double knock on the front door cut across his thoughts. Snapping his attention to Lowry, he lifted his eyebrows in silent query. Was she was expecting anyone?
When she shook her head, he gestured for her to retreat from the wide hall into the drawing room and, pointing a finger at her, whispered an order for her to stay out of sight.
He reached for his Sig. He didn’t have to test its balance in his hand; it fell naturally into place. Home sweet home.
His body angled to the side, he flicked on the small screen beside the door, recognized the face, and cursed.
He couldn’t stand John Smith, the Commander’s personal attaché, but then the feeling was entirely mutual. He was tempted to leave the man standing on the front doorstep, but if John Smith was sniffing around Lowry, he wanted to know why.
He released the heavy-duty door latch and stood aside to allow the man entry. He didn’t re-holster his gun. He wanted the slimy bastard intimidated. The bruise he’d dealt to this man’s jaw appeared to have healed. Pity. But sight of his gun would remind Smith not to fuck with him, because he wouldn’t hesitate to put him on his ass again.
“What do you want, Smith?”
“Some papers the Commander left. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”
He wanted to shove his fist into the man’s mouth so he wouldn’t have to listen to that obsequious voice. “So why knock?”
“Because it’s good manners to do so. Polite.”
Was that a pointed dig at his own lack of finesse? He grinned and let the insult slide. It was accurate enough.
“But I have keys, should I have needed them.”
Smith jangled a set in his face as if he held the keys to the universe.
Jack’s resolve to remain civil slipped. He hauled it back. Lowry was just next door. She wouldn’t appreciate the violence.
Annnnnd, speak of the she-devil. As insubordinate as ever, Lowry stepped back into the hall. “What papers, John? My father never brings work home.”
“How would you know, Ms. Fisk? It’s been at least four years. Things change.”
Jack wanted to rip the man’s head off for talking to her like that, faultlessly polite, but with the edge of a sneer. He settled for rele
asing the safety on his weapon.
The click was warning enough. Smith stepped back, a bead of sweat swelling on his brow.
The man was a complete dick.
Never more grateful for his reputation of shooting first and not asking questions afterwards, Jack laughed.
Lowry fired a hot look of warning at him to behave. He did his best to look contrite. She sighed and shut her eyes for a beat, clearly unimpressed.
“You’d better come into the study. If my father brought papers home, they’ll be in there,” she said.
…
She had never liked John Smith. The way he looked at her made her flesh creep. But he was her father’s trusted aide. She could hardly deny him access to the official papers he’d come to collect. She drew the line at playing hostess though. She’d offer no refreshments. The sooner the man retrieved what he’d come for and left, the better. Jack, she could sense, was itching to have a go at the man, and Smith had sufficient influence to make Jack’s return to the Service problematic.
Her stomach clenched. She tried to thrust that thought aside. Jack’s return to the Service was inevitable, and it would remain an insurmountable barrier between them. One she’d promised herself she wouldn’t even try and scale. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to him.
A desk job might kill him, but at least he’d have a purpose. He’d find a way to make it work. Leaving the Service just because she hated it would destroy him. What would he do as an alternative? She couldn’t see him running the family estate. Exchanging his boots and sneakers for Wellingtons, his gun for a hoe.
So Jack would be the last thing the Service ever got from her for free. Her one unselfish act. Still hurt though; her heart felt as if it had been cleaved in two. God, she loved him. Enough not just to let him go, but to push him out the door, if that’s what it took.
She folded her arms tight to dull the agony wrenching her chest and watched while Smith shuffled and sorted through the papers on her father’s desk.
“You do realize that whilst you’ve been cleared of Wainwright’s murder, Ms. Fisk, a statement from you is still required. It won’t take long, and I could have Marshall ready to record it if you accompanied me back to the Cube. I imagine you want to put the whole unfortunate business behind you. It would certainly ease your father’s mind to know that the investigation had been put to bed, at least, as far as your involvement is concerned.”
She glanced at Jack. What Smith suggested made sense.
“She’s not going anywhere. Not without me.”
She glared at Jack, ready to argue the point on principle alone. Smith intervened before she had a chance.
“I don’t believe that’s your decision to make, Ballentyne. Besides, your clearance has yet to be reinstated. You won’t even get into the Cube. I appreciate you have continuing concerns about Ms. Fisk’s safety, but I went through the same rigorous training as you. I’m just as adept with a firearm. I also have a driver outside who is a fully trained operative. Jameson. You might know him? She’ll be quite safe…Ms. Fisk?”
If he called her Ms. Fisk in that snide tone one more time, she’d use Jack’s gun to shoot Smith herself. Remembering she had a higher purpose, she sucked in a calming breath. “He’s right, Jack. I need to file that statement.”
“Then file it here. Smith can take it. I’ll act as witness.”
“Which would render whatever she has to say completely meaningless,” Smith smirked. “You and her? Tongues always wagged, and the witness has to be impartial.”
She shot her hand out to restrain Jack. The muscles of his chest rock hard and unforgiving beneath her palm.
“He’s right about that too, Jack, and I’m not prepared to make the statement twice. With the questions they’ll ask, once will be hard enough.”
“That’s right,” Jack snarled, never once taking his eyes off Smith. “It’s likely to get brutal, and they won’t spare your feelings. You’ll have to relive every minute of the rape down to the most intimate detail, which is why you need me with you.”
She dropped her hand and took a pace back. She’d hoped to push him away in private, but she’d suffer an audience if it proved more effective. “No, Jack. I don’t need you. Not now, not ever. Remember what you told me that morning? About things being a one-off, a never to be repeated experience? Well, you were right, and the last thing I need in my life is a man like you.”
Smith smirked again.
She stepped forward to block Jack’s path, her eyes never leaving his. “Don’t, Ballentyne. I’ll go hand-to-hand with you if I have to. I’ll lose, but you’re the one who will have to live with the fact you hurt me unnecessarily. And not even you are hard enough to get past that unscathed.”
It took an age for his jaw to unclamp. She stood her ground, but not easily.
“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, Lowry, not where your safety is concerned.” Jack shifted his stare, suddenly all dead and flat, to Smith. “Fine, she can go with you, but I’ll call Marshall myself. I want her covered at all times, or I’ll hold you personally responsible. And, Smith, believe me, I’m every bit as dangerous as people say. I presume the windows on your vehicle are bulletproof?”
“Naturally. It’s the Commander’s car. I’ve requisitioned it for a while,” Smith said, pretending to admire his manicure.
She had to wonder what kind of man required a manicure when he spent his life behind a desk.
“I just bet you have,” Jack growled. “But don’t get too comfortable, Smith. The Commander’s going to want it back.”
“That may not be his call. One or two of his decisions of late have been called into question. Like rejecting your resignation in favor of a leave of absence.”
This time she had to push hard against Jack’s chest to prevent him from going after the man. “If we’re going, Smith, we’re going now,” she insisted quickly. “I want to be back in time to visit with my father again this evening.”
Her breath held so tight, razors slashed at her lungs, she quit her father’s study without sparing Jack a glance. She needed him to take her dismissal as final. Releasing him was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Why the hell did love have to hurt so damned much?
Crossing the hallway, she checked to see that Smith was following. He was, and she couldn’t suppress a shiver. The man made her skin crawl.
She’d reached the flagstones fronting her father’s house when Smith decided he needed the last word. “Watch your back, Major,” he tossed back at a glowering Jack standing in the doorway. “You never know who’s behind you. Friend or foe, ally or enemy.”
The unnecessary taunt froze the blood in her veins and had spiders tap dancing the length of her spine.
Wasn’t premonition a bitch?
…
Slumped deep in the cushions of the Commander’s green silk sofa, his long legs stretched out, his ankles resting on a low, red-lacquered antique travelling chest that served as a coffee table, Jack was engaged in a staring contest with Claude the Cat when his cell vibrated. Without relinquishing eye contact, he dug into his pocket and worked free the device. “Ballentyne.”
“Jack. Tell me she changed her mind. You’ve got Lowry with you, right?”
“Damn it, no, Marshall, she’s supposed to be with you.” He was on his feet and heading for the door before finishing his sentence.
“She hasn’t arrived, Jack. Even allowing for traffic, she should have been here by now. Hang on a minute, a report’s just coming in…”
The crack of his phone’s casing warned him to relax the muscles in his hand. Smith was with Lowry. She’d be fine.
“…Jack, the tracking device in the Commander’s car shows it as stationary about a mile from you. Bridge Street. Gunfire has been reported in the vicinity. Units are on their way. I’ll send a car, a blue and white. The sirens will get you through the traffic.”
“No. It’ll be quicker on foot.” He was already racing west, his feet eating sidewalk. At a full sprint, h
e could cover the distance faster than any damned car trying to negotiate traffic, sirens blaring or not. Shoving his phone into his pocket, he worked his elbows and legs.
What the hell had gone wrong? Gunshots? Lowry? He picked up his pace, screaming at pedestrians in his path to get the hell out the way. He vaulted a pedestrian barrier into the oncoming traffic. Slammed his hands down on the bonnet of a car that almost stood on its nose in an effort to avoid him. The driver hurled insults and gestured foully. Jack didn’t attempt to pacify them. He didn’t have time.
He hurled himself into the adjacent streams of traffic, multiple lanes. He dodged, skirted, leaped one vehicle’s hood and rolled across another. He freed his gun, ready to blast the next obstacle daring to get in his way.
He arrived on scene at the same time as Marshall spilled from a car. The investigator yelled for the rapid-response unit to stand down, with a warning to them not to get in Jack’s face, that one agent was already down—the driver, a bullet to the head—and that he didn’t plan on losing anyone else.
Bent forward, his hands locked on his knees, Jack ignored the agony splitting his chest. If his lungs didn’t fill soon, he’d pass out. “Find me an eye witness. I want a status report,” he rasped.
“Already on it,” Will replied. “But put your gun away, Jack. We’ve got enough petrified civilians as it is, and I’ve barely got the response team in check. With an agent down, they’re on a knife edge.”
Through willpower alone, his spasming lungs filled with air. “Just find me a fucking eye witness right now,” he roared.
A few moments later, Marshall returned, hustling a rotund man in front of him. “Newspaper vendor. He saw the car-jack go down.” He nodded to the man to relay what he’d seen to Jack.
“White van came out of nowhere, forced the Jag straight into the railings. Next thing, there’s a man lying dead on the pavement, and the shooter’s trying to bundle some girl and another bloke into the back of the van. Girl clipped him one though, with her foot. Looked like he hit her with the gun to knock her out. Nothing I could do. The shooter was firing madly into the air, no telling where he’d have aimed if challenged.”