True Shot

by Joyce Lamb

  Charlie clung to Sam, sniffling and swallowing, refusing to let her go the first time Sam tried to draw back. “Promise you won’t forget about us?”

  “I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Flinn rolled over and fumbled for his ringing cell phone on the bedside table. After a caller ID check, he flipped it open. “Give me the news, Natalie. I’d like to start the day in a good mood.”

  “We’ve located the Suburban in the parking lot of a strip mall in the Fair Oaks area of Fairfax County. Car battery was removed, which disabled the GPS.”

  “Clever.” He sat up, rubbing one hand over the razor stubble roughening his jaw.

  “Restaurant with valet parking reported a stolen 2009 Toyota Camry yesterday. Silver. No GPS or LoJack.”

  “Damn it.” And like that, any hope of a good mood fled. Flinn rubbed at yesterday’s knot still parked at the nape of his neck.

  “I know. Can’t get a much more generic car than that,” Natalie said. “Plates have most likely been switched, too.”

  “Finding that car will be next to impossible. Samantha would know to stick to back roads.”

  “Even without her memory?”

  “The drug in her system temporarily affects only episodic memory.”

  “I have no idea what that means, sir.”

  Flinn reminded himself that curiosity was one of the things he liked best about this research analyst who eagerly broke the rules to assist him. Hero worship at its best. He planned to reward her well. “Episodic memory is what makes you who you are. Procedural and semantic memory is your knowledge of the world around you and how things work. Samantha no longer knows who she is or what she’s done in the past, but she still knows how to handle herself as an N3 operative. Her episodic memory will eventually begin to return.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Dr. Ames developed that, didn’t he? He’s a genius.”

  Flinn’s flush of well-being went cold. He didn’t like sharing adoration, especially when the man he had to share it with was in the process of losing his cool and possibly jeopardizing everything Flinn had worked for. “Speaking of Dr. Ames, please arrange a flight for him to either Tampa or Fort Myers, whichever’s cheapest. As soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sounded hesitant, probably because his tone had gone cold and professional. Served her right.

  “Use my personal American Express. Send the itinerary to Dr. Ames’ personal e-mail. And don’t mention the trip to anyone or in any work e-mails. Got it? As far as any of us are concerned, Dr. Ames is going on vacation.”

  “Of course, sir. I wouldn’t—”

  He snapped the phone closed. He was so fucking tired of promising young women disappointing him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sam woke, tension suffusing every muscle as she assessed the threat level. Someone was holding her. Someone who snored softly near her ear. Someone with strong arms, a solid chest and a clean, soapy scent. Someone who made her feel safe in a hostile world.

  Mac Hunter.

  As the name came to her, she unclenched her muscles, savoring his heat against her and the even in-out of his breathing.

  She couldn’t imagine what she would do without him. While her memories swirled and eddied like dangerous riptides, Mac had become her life jacket, helping to keep her head above the tide of chaotic information.

  Amazing that he’d stuck by her. Maybe he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t promised Charlie that he’d get her home in one piece, but she had a feeling that he would. He’d given up his dreams to provide his own sister with a stable home. This was a man who’d risk his life for a stranger.

  She hoped to God that she was worth it.

  He adjusted position then, burying his nose against her T-shirt-covered collarbone, pressing himself more closely against her, as though seeking body heat . . . or more intimate contact. A soft humming sound in his throat sent a shiver through her, and she wondered if he was dreaming.

  She thought of the brief flash she’d gotten of his thoughts earlier, when he’d comforted her. Simple contact—she’d clung to his arm—and all his sympathy, concern and horror had flooded through her in a rushing wave. She wondered whether she could control that wave, or direct it. Her flashback with Flinn had suggested she could. And she was in the perfect position to experiment now.

  Holding her breath, she shifted so that Mac’s nose brushed the side of her neck, focusing all her attention and energy in his direction.

  The motel room blurred . . .

  She moans deep in her throat, wrapping her arms around my waist, and arches under me. My breath catches as I realize that in the dark she’s managed to wriggle herself into a position where all I have to do is shift maybe an inch and I’ll be inside her. Doesn’t help that her breath, fast and uneven, is hot near my ear.

  “What are you waiting for?” she whispers. Low and sexy. Jesus. “Come in.”

  I close my eyes and swallow hard. If I sink into her now, I’ll be coming in less than a minute.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she murmurs, scraping my back lightly with her nails. “I’m ready.”

  A guy can’t argue with that. I thrust, and she rises, and we fit together perfectly on a simultaneous gasp. Oh, hell, yeah.

  Her head drops to the pillow, and I lower my lips to her exposed throat, where I move only my mouth as I kiss her neck, her jaw, the underside of her chin. She smells of popcorn balls and nutmeg, her skin as smooth and silky as satin. I want to live in this moment forever.

  But she has other plans. Other plans that thrill the fuck out of me as much as prolonging our time like this. She grasps my hips and pushes at the same time that she presses herself down into the mattress. Oh, God, I’m sliding out of her. The dragging sensation explodes the pleasure, and I can’t stop nature from taking over. I begin to thrust, fast and mindless at first, then forcing myself to go slow. Not yet, not yet.

  She moans again, restless against me as I deliberately take my time kissing her, telling her with my tongue and my lips that I’ll always be there for her. Always.

  Her hips move faster, urging me on, trying to quicken the pace again.

  “Wait,” I gasp. “Wait.”

  “Now,” she whispers, low and throaty. “Please.”

  I have no choice. I bury my face against her neck and take her, plunging into her again and again, biting into my bottom lip to keep from coming too soon even as the urgency builds, builds, builds.

  She gasps and arches, and I raise my head to watch, fascinated by the way the muscles in her long neck stretch taut and her lips part in a silent, gasping “oh” as the orgasm rolls through her.

  I say her name, once: “Sam.”

  Surprise dropped her out of the moment, and she landed back in her own head, breathless and way too warm.

  Sam.

  He was having a sex dream about her.

  Behind her, Mac’s body telegraphed his enjoyment of the dream, and she had to resist the urge to wriggle backward a little closer, to seek assuagement for the throb between her thighs. Having been in his head in those moments, she hadn’t reached climax, though she’d watched herself come, through his eyes. Or rather, her dream self. God, that was weird.

  And frustrating as hell.

  Biting into her lip, she held still and berated herself. This was inappropriate on so many levels. She never should have tried to get into his head. What an absolute invasion of his privacy.

  Yet . . . she couldn’t deny that what she’d seen—felt—warmed her through and through.

  He was dreaming about her. Her.

  She started to smile. Then frowned. What the hell was wrong with her? Had she suddenly regressed to the maturity level of a teenager? Didn’t she have bigger things to worry about? Closing her eyes and with a small shake of her head, she shoved the thoughts away. Forget it, Sam, she thought. Just forget it.

  She drifted for a few more minutes, letting h
erself enjoy the feel of Mac’s breath against her neck, shivering a little at the ticklish sensation. She thought of the earlier times she’d accessed his memories, the resulting headaches. Yet, this time she felt fine. Was that because she’d prepared herself for the flash? Or maybe since it was her first empathic experience of the day, her brain didn’t feel overtaxed. She’d also deliberately sought the flash, so maybe her intentions had an impact, too.

  And what an impact. She shuddered at the remembered passion he’d felt with her in his erotic dream. And then she wondered how long it had been since she’d snuggled with a man. Or something hotter and sweatier.

  Her brain stuttered at that thought. Was she married? Engaged? Otherwise involved?

  She checked her left hand. No tan line where a ring used to be.

  That didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  And if she were attached, then cuddling in bed with Mac Hunter—and eavesdropping on his naughty dreams—was inappropriate.

  After gently extricating herself, smiling in spite of it all as Mac grumbled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, Sam tucked the blanket back around him, careful to steer clear of his still-obvious, um, excitement jutting against the bedclothes. But, God, it was impressive.

  Face—and the rest of her—heating all over again, she headed for the bathroom. She’d get cleaned up and ready to go before waking him. Hopefully by then, he wouldn’t be quite so . . . aroused. She hated the thought of having to wake him up in that state. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him.

  In the bathroom, her brain firmly in the moment, she confronted her reflection with a wince. Pale. Dark circles. Unruly dark hair. She needed a shower, but the bandages covering opposing sides of her shoulder made the idea a no-go. Mac had changed them, and checked her healing wounds, before they’d gone to bed, but that’s about all they’d had energy for.

  Using her good hand, she awkwardly washed her hair in the sink and wrapped a towel around her head. Already, she felt better.

  In front of the mirror, she angled her body to try to get a look at the third bandage that rode the valley between her shoulder blades. Mac had told her that’s where the transponder had resided. When he’d dug it out of her flesh, it had triggered a chemical reaction of some kind that had wiped out her memories. The idea of a drug that powerful floored her as surely as the fact that she had a psychic ability.

  She was about to get dressed when she remembered the moment in her flashback when Flinn Ford had inspected “the patch.” She turned again and studied her right flank, the area where Flinn had focused his attention.

  Right there, high on her hip, was a square inch of thin fabric the same tone and texture as her skin. If she hadn’t known to look, she wouldn’t have noticed. While she’d complained of itching in her flashback, that wasn’t the case now.

  It took her several minutes with the edge of her fingernail to pry up an edge. Then she ripped it off, fast like a Band-Aid, and flinched at the resulting sting.

  Scrutiny of the scrap of fabric told her nothing. It had no logo, no words of any kind. Looked as innocuous as a piece of tape. Yet she knew from her flashback—and Flinn’s attention to it—that it was far from innocuous.

  It’s essential to enhance your psychic abilities. Without it, you would be cast into your target’s memories without the ability to focus on your objective.

  A knock on the door startled her.

  “Sam? You okay?”

  “Be out in a minute,” she called, unable to prevent a small smile at Mac’s hovering ways. He made her feel so protected.

  She was also relieved that now she didn’t have to worry about waking him up while his body did an inspiring imitation of a tent pole.

  “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  Sam glanced over at him in the driver’s seat. “Yes.”

  Mac sensed she’d managed to sound more confident than she felt. He couldn’t blame her. He was nervous as hell, and it wasn’t his past they were going to confront. Assuming the former governor of South Carolina could answer her questions and didn’t meet them in the driveway with a shotgun. And that thought didn’t come from any bigoted feelings toward Southerners. Mac just feared that a guy like Arthur Baldwin, the kind of man who had screwed over dozens of friends and family members for money then let his own kids take the fall . . . well, that sounded like a nasty, dangerous guy to him.

  He cruised to a stop at a traffic light on the way to Kiawah Island. The morning sun glinted off the bumper of the antique car in front of them, and the scents of saltwater and ocean air wafted in through the open windows. While the temperature wasn’t particularly high—around fifty so far this morning—it wasn’t the cold and damp of fall, as it had been in northern Virginia.

  Mac took a moment to think about how different things would be now if he had escaped somewhere other than the Shenandoahs. He’d probably be bored off his ass by now and fighting the urge to head home. Instead, he’d awakened this morning dreaming about Sam and . . . well, painfully aroused. Heat crept up his neck, and he kept his eyes straight ahead, hoping like hell that Sam didn’t choose this moment to look over at him again.

  Thank God she had already been out of bed and in the bathroom. He only prayed he hadn’t sprouted wood while spooning her. What if that’s why she’d gotten out of bed to begin with? How embarrassing would that be?

  Then again, he was a guy. And he’d been holding a very warm, very pliant female in his arms, a female he seemed to find ever more appealing the more time they spent together. A female who kept soldiering on no matter how many times the universe smacked her flat.

  “It’s green.”

  Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he gassed it a bit too vehemently. “Any of this terrain look familiar?” he asked.

  “It looks like . . . Florida.”

  He wondered whether she’d started to say “home,” in which case he would have agreed with her. This area of South Carolina and Lake Avalon had much in common. Both had squat, disorderly palm trees, towering palms and pines as well as meticulously maintained landscaping and the small signs popular in beach communities that had ordinances designed to keep the area looking tidy. Golf appeared to be just as big of a deal here, too, judging by the signs pointing the way to the Kiawah Island Golf Resort.

  “Let’s find a diner that looks relatively busy,” Sam said.

  “Good idea. I’m starved.” The bagel and coffee he’d scarfed at the hotel’s continental breakfast less than an hour ago had already worn off. And Sam had to be even hungrier, because she’d eaten only a few bites from a bowl of Cheerios. He really didn’t like how wan she looked, either.

  “Not for food,” she said. “We need to talk to some locals to see if we can get some specifics about where Baldwin lives.”

  “Oh.” Damn. He was so lusting for some down-home biscuits and gravy. “I already have his address.”

  “You do? How?”

  “Google.”

  “You’re kidding. That easy?”

  He shrugged it off, though the admiring gleam in her blue eyes pleased him. “I used the PC in the hotel’s business center while you were in the bathroom after breakfast.” He cast a searching glance at her, remembering how pale and shaky she’d looked when she’d joined him. “Were you sick again?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just stress.”

  “Maybe we should stop at a diner anyway, or go through a drive-thru, so you can get something in your stomach.”

  “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

  “It’s not healthy to be used to starving, Sam. We should at least try some oatmeal or something.”

  “We?” Instead of looking annoyed, though, she smiled at him.

  “What?” he asked, blushing at the erotic image that popped into his head. Sam, naked and under him, smiling up at him as he thrust slowly and relentlessly into her heat. Jesus, but she was sexy as hell when she smiled. And when had she started smiling at him anyway?


  “You don’t have to take care of me,” she said.

  “Really? Because you’ve been doing a lot of getting shot, zoning out and throwing up. And there’s the whole losing-your-memory thing.”

  “I’m incredibly high-maintenance. How do you put up with me?”

  He grinned, his heart doing a subtle flip when she flushed slightly just before looking away. Okay, this was weird. And promising. Highly promising. Which was silly, really. Straightlaced everyman Mac Hunter getting lucky with a gorgeous government spy? Please. Stuff like that happened only in movies.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, sitting straighter in her seat and pointing at the golden arches sign of McDonald’s. “How about an Egg McMuffin with sausage?”

  “Says the woman who wanted a salad last night.”

  “Yeah, I know. But an Egg McMuffin sounds good. And hash browns.”

  He steered into the parking lot. “So you remember Egg McMuffins,” he said lightly.

  “I know what they are and how they taste. I don’t specifically remember the last time I had one, though. Isn’t that bizarre?”

  “Since your memory loss was drug-induced, it probably has something to do with blocking certain . . . I don’t know what you’d call them—”

  “Neural receptors.” She didn’t appear to have to think about it.

  “Okay. That’s obviously familiar.”

  She nodded as she pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples.

  “Headache?”

  “It just started pounding.”

  “That seems to happen every time you try to tap into specific memories.”

  “Like a deterrent? God.”

  “Drive-thru or go inside?”

  “Let’s do drive-thru so we don’t waste a bunch of time.”

  “It’s like you’re reading my mind,” he said.

  When the phone rang in the other room, Flinn slammed down his razor and went to answer it. He needed to hear something good, damn it, or he was going to go ballistic on the next person who irritated him. “Flinn Ford.”