by Hope Anika
But the words were lost, gone, and it was too late to retrieve them. She stood far too close to him, her fingers tangled in his coat, the warm, tensile heat of him solid and real beneath her palms. His scent curled around her like an embrace, and part of her was insanely tempted to step closer, which was stupid and scared the hell out of her, a fear that had nothing to do with Ivan the Terrible or Donavon Cruz. Nothing to do with her thoughtless, foolish words. This man…he was dangerous. For many different reasons.
“It is not safe for you to be here,” she told him, and pain, sharp and unexpected, pierced her. “Please, Sam, you must leave.”
“Worried about me?” His gaze was far too astute.
“Sí,” Lucia said bluntly. “You do not understand. You must go. For your own well-being.”
He said nothing, simply stared down at her with that luminescent, blue-green eyes, so close she could see a ring of dark green around his iris. The faint golden beard lining his hard jaw was getting thicker, darker, and the ugly, jagged scar that split his left eyebrow in two appeared to have nearly taken his eye, leading her to wonder what happened. He was so warm, she couldn’t bring herself to step away. At least, that was what she told herself, because her reluctance to move could have nothing to do with the tension slowly invading her veins, or the almost primitive awareness prickling across her flesh. Nothing.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said.
“No!” She shook him again—no matter that he hardly moved—and stamped her foot, infuriated by his unwillingness to listen. “You will not! You will leave now.”
But he only reached up and gently dislodged her hands from his coat. “Get the tent moved, sweetheart. I’ll get a fire started.” He squeezed her cold fingers in his much warmer ones, and her stomach clenched. Fear, she told herself, knowing it was more. More. Something she didn’t want to examine; something she could not afford to feel. “We’ll finish this later.”
Lucia watched him turn and walk away, emotion churning in her belly. Fury, fear, anxiety. But worse—relief.
Because she knew she could not allow this. She could not tell him the truth; she could not trust him.
And she was afraid part of her already did.
Chapter Thirteen
You stupid, stubborn son of a goat!
Sam had been called many things, but being labeled the offspring of a farm animal was new. Not that he could really argue; his pop had been a braying, abusive, worthless drunk. If anything, “goat” was a kindness. At least goats produced milk and cheese; Leland Steele had never produced anything but hate.
Sam supposed the insult shouldn’t have surprised him; Lucia Sanchez was a firecracker. But in spite of her simmering fury—a goddamn siren song to his own—he hadn’t expected the ferocity of her response, especially that lambast of profanity in Spanish that she hadn’t realized he would understand. Hell, he’d hadn’t even recognized some of those words, and he’d been fluent in Spanish since he was sixteen. The experience had been…enlightening.
You fucking enjoyed it.
He had. He’d smiled, something he hadn’t done in…too long to remember. Not that she’d appreciated it, but damned if it didn’t feel good—even if his head was still throbbing, he was starving, and his leg hurt like an SOB. The look on her face when Ben had chosen Team Sam was priceless.
And more than a little dangerous. Because Lucia’s fire appealed to Sam; the desire to test that flame was growing, and part of him didn’t care if he got burned. He was starting to fucking like her. And that attraction had no place in this mess. It was a distraction, one he couldn’t afford. One none of them could afford.
Even if she felt it, too. And she did; Sam had no doubt. Awareness hummed between them whenever they got within fifty feet of each other, and it was only growing stronger. Fucking sparks. Visceral and alluring and impossible.
Something he had no choice but to ignore, because they had much bigger fish to fry.
Donavon Cruz, for one.
And remembering the look on Lucia’s face as she’d tried to convince Sam to leave—for his own good, no less—told Sam that, as far as she was concerned, she was on her own. Because who would help her against a man like Donavon Cruz? Everyone she’d gone to for help had turned her away, including Tony. The fact that she felt alone was not a surprise. No, the surprise was her determination to stay that way. Her concern that Sam would pay a price he was unaware of had been something he didn’t expect, and it’d gone a long way in soothing his anger at having been ditched like a bad date. He was used to people laying their responsibilities at his feet with full expectation he would carry them—and he did. Carrying them was his job. But Lucia refused to draw him into the mess in which she’d gotten herself.
Part of it was fear. But mostly, it was just decency.
Lucia is not a criminal, Sam.
A conclusion Sam had come to all on his own—in spite of her threat to shoot him. That she’d made the threat made him wonder what she was armed with, a question he would have to answer sooner rather than later.
Because he was done pretending. They were going to have it out: all cards on the table. She wasn’t fucking alone anymore.
“You can’t stay with us,” Alexander said, suddenly materializing next to Sam, his face cast in hard lines, his pale eyes cold. “You need to leave.”
Sam only shook his head and continued to rake dirt from the small fire pit he was digging. He was using his knife, scraping down past the grass and roots, to where it was dry. Ben sat beside him with Daisy in his lap; both watched avidly.
“Did you hear me?”
The challenge in the boy was open and hostile, and Sam wasn’t sure how to deal with him. He didn’t know jack about kids, especially a kid like this one. Damaged and filled with enough rage to kill. Ironic, because Sam knew the feeling, but for far different reasons.
And therein lay the crux.
“I’m staying,” Sam told him shortly. “Hand me that pile of moss.”
Alexander only blinked, unmoving. “No.”
“Ben?”
Ben hopped up, retrieved the small pile of dry moss and pine needles Sam had gathered from deep beneath a dogwood bush, and brought it to him. “Here you go, pardner.”
“Thanks, little man.” Sam accepted the bundle.
“Stop it,” Alexander said sharply.
Sam arched a brow, stuffing the moss into the small teepee of narrow kindling he was building. “Stop what?”
“Stop pretending.”
Fair enough, Sam thought. “I will if you will.”
Across the campsite, Lucia wrestled with the tent—which Alexander was supposed to be helping her with—and eyed them in concern. Sam shook his head at her, and she scowled, but didn’t move to interfere.
“We don’t need you,” Alexander grated. The kid was tense as a board, his small hands clenched into fists—something Sam noticed he did often—his thin form humming with suppressed energy.
Suppressed violence. Like a powder keg, already lit. Just a matter of time before he blew.
“Do you want to get where you’re going?” Sam asked conversationally and continued to build the fire. Thicker sticks, just a few, before he lit the moss.
Alexander only stared at him, silent.
“Well?” Sam prodded.
“Of course,” Alexander bit out.
“Then I’ll make you a deal,” Sam said. “I’ll promise to get you where you’re going if you promise to stop squawking at me like a hungry hen every five minutes. I’m not going anywhere, and it’s getting old.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Ben crowed.
Lucia glanced up, and again, Sam just shook his head. She muttered something—probably another barnyard comparison—and went back to pounding a tent stake into the ground.
“That’s a rooster,” Alexander told his brother with a scowl.
“Close enough,” Sam said easily. He lit the moss with his zippo lighter and leaned down to blow on it gently.
&
nbsp; The boys watched him. Daisy wagged her tail, apparently familiar with fire and the warmth it would bring. The moss caught and burned reluctantly. Several of the small twigs caught too, and soon the slender kindling was being licked by bright orange flame. Sam added more, careful not to smother the tiny fire.
“Fire on the mountain!” Ben cried and clapped.
“You don’t even know where we’re going,” Alexander said, but with less hostility.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sam said.
For a long moment, Alexander just stared at him. “Why? What do you want?”
“I want you to get where you’re going, safe and sound,” Sam replied grimly. “Do you think that’s going to happen without me?”
They both looked at Lucia, who was pounding in tent stakes with a large round rock.
“No,” Alexander admitted in a low voice, surprising Sam.
“She needs help,” Sam said. “I can help.”
Alexander watched him, suspicion and uncertainty warring across his features. “What do you want—really?”
Because nothing came free. Sam didn’t like it, that the boy already knew that, but he couldn’t argue. At Alexander’s age, he’d known it, too.
“A long time ago, I made a promise,” Sam said, which was true enough. “And I aim to keep it.”
“A promise to who?”
“That’s another story for another time.” He continued to add wood to the fire, and soon it was blazing toward the sky, crackling and throwing chunks of pine sap around them. Steam from the few wet pieces he’d added curled into the air. “We got a deal?”
Alexander said nothing, but his stare wavered, and Sam saw him understand. That trusting Sam might be a mistake, but that not trusting him might be a disaster. Sam felt for him; damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
Sam could relate.
“You want something,” Alexander said. “You have to want something. Everyone wants something.”
“You think?” Sam nodded toward Lucia. “What do you suppose she wants?”
Alexander watched her straighten and move to the next tent stake. She was filthy and damp, her hair escaping her braid to curl down her back. She looked exhausted.
“She’s different,” Alexander muttered.
“Why’s that?” Sam asked softly. “Because she’s trying to save you?”
The boy shot him a panicked look. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Sam told him. “Question is, what’s she trying to save you from?”
Alexander said nothing, his pale eyes glinting. His pulse pounded hard in his throat.
“It’s okay, Zander,” Ben said suddenly, and Sam started, because he’d forgotten the boy sat beside them, listening. “Sam’s our friend. He’s on our side.” Ben looked at Sam, utter trust in his sunny smile. “Right?”
Alexander went stiff. His hands, which had finally relaxed, fisted again. But Sam only smiled back at Ben, because hell, it was impossible not to.
“You bet,” he told Ben, and it was true. Sam had made his peace with that; he didn’t have to like it. He looked at Alexander and offered his hand. “That’s the deal. You in?”
Alexander stared at him, pulse pounding, fear and doubt and animosity simmering in him like a pot set to stew. Sam waited patiently, unwavering. Finally, the boy nodded, and he shook Sam’s hand once, quickly, before dropping it and stepping away.
“Good,” Sam said.
“You’d better mean it,” Alexander warned, his voice hard. His eyes shimmered in the firelight, and for a moment Sam felt an echo of what he saw: terror and chaos and rage, pain so deep it could pull a body down and never let him surface. “Because if you don’t—if you’re lying—I’ll kill you.”
The boy turned and stalked back toward Lucia. Sam watched him go, rage flickering to life deep inside, in that place he rarely visited, where his own bleak and violent childhood lived in dark, silent stillness. A place of chaos and pain and fury, not unlike what he saw in Alexander.
It was the same path, he thought. He’d just been lucky enough to find his way. He’d had Magnus to show him. To protect him, to shelter him. Love him. And now it was time to pay that gift forward.
Personal.
For Lucia, for Tony.
For them all.
Chapter Fourteen
“You are not going in there, Detective.”
“Settle. I’m just looking.”
Isabel shook her shoe, which was filled with sand, and scowled at the broad shadow in front of her. The moon painted Detective Tony Malone in wash of soft silver, but it did nothing to diminish the blunt power of his presence. He had too many edges, too much untapped energy. Even in stillness, he vibrated, which was beginning to annoy the hell out of her.
“Reconnaissance only,” she reiterated to his back, for all the good it would do. The blasted man was a force unto himself.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered, staring through a pair of night vision binoculars.
Considering his military background, she shouldn’t have been surprised by either his attitude or the equipment he kept on hand. Never mind the fact that—as far as he was concerned—“reconnaissance” meant standing on the edge of the property line with a spyglass and a scowl.
“No bodies,” he said. “But there’s something kicking off serious heat in there.”
Isabel peered past him, through the tall lodge pole pine trees to the small, rustic cabin they were scouting. It was an unremarkable building, small and stout and square, built of logs and narrow strips of pale chinking. A small woodstove pipe stuck from the metal roof; across from the pipe, a large patch of solar panels covered the south-face. A narrow wooden porch bordered the north side. The drive leading to the cabin was rutted and unpaved, a seven mile long stretch of hard-packed dirt and sand; there was no mailbox, no satellite dish, and no welcome mat.
It looked like nothing more than an old hunting cabin, and one rarely used. But the trees stood out, an anomaly among the barren rock and scrub brush. Someone had planted them, and since a steady supply of water would be required to keep them alive in the harsh desert environment, someone was continuing to care for them.
“Security,” Isabel supposed. “I wonder how far it extends.”
Tony leaned down, swept up a handful of sand and dirt, and blew it onto the property. A faint red grid shimmered for an instant and then was gone. The cabin sat in a cluster of trees on a five-acre lot; the grid covered every square inch.
“Lasers in the middle of the fucking desert,” Tony growled. “You tell me he doesn’t have something to hide.”
Isabel couldn’t tell him that, so she said nothing. Her internal alarms had been going off ever since she’d discovered the deed for the property amongst the huge cache of information Aequitas had supplied. Considering the hundreds of properties Cruz and his endless list of entities owned, it was like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack, but Donavon Cruz preferred the desert, and Las Vegas in particular. He spent more time in his desert dwelling than he did anywhere else, so when Isabel had stumbled across the deed for a small piece of property in the Dead Mountains Wilderness Area only a few hours southeast of the city, it had nearly slapped her in the face. Close but remote.
A cabin surrounded by wilderness; nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Private, isolated, and insulated from society. It was the perfect place for a monster at play.
What they would discover inside, however, was anyone’s guess. Because in spite of Tony’s certainty—or the sketchbook she’d located—Isabel was not willing to put all of her eggs into Donavon Cruz’s basket. She’d been fooled before; it would not happen again.
No assumptions and no conjecture.
Only facts. Hard evidence she could see and touch and despise.
“We need to get in there,” Tony murmured, scanning the property left to right, then, slowly, back again.
“Good luck getting that search warrant,” Isabel told him.
/> She should never have accompanied him on this ludicrous excursion; Alexander and Benjamin Cruz were still missing, and that was her job. Not chasing maybes. Still, she’d started it, poking Tony as she had, prodding him to investigate Cruz, so she supposed she was only where she’d put herself.
Smack in the middle of nowhere.
“Fuck a search warrant,” Tony replied.
The man was succinct, Isabel thought. And far more dangerous than she’d realized. When he’d touched her in his office—just a hand on hers, something that shouldn’t have mattered, something that shouldn’t have affected her in the least—her heart had threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Sudden, inexplicable, and underlined by heat, shimmering, painful warmth that streamed through her veins like the most illicit drug.
How long had it been since she’d responded to a man? Years, she thought. If—truly—ever. Her past negated the typical male-female dynamic; it was a dance she didn’t understand and had never desired to learn.
Tony, on the other hand, was probably a master. No doubt he’d been doing the two-step since puberty.
“We need to assess the security system,” he said. “And then we need to find a way through it.”
Yes. Isabel had thought about that. Considered it, weighed it, chewed on it until it was tasteless and gritty. To move forward in that vein went against her eggs in one basket determination, against the laws drafted to protect against illegal search and seizure. Against the task assigned her only this morning by Special Agent in Charge, Lawrence Gill, head of the Bureau’s Violent Crimes Against Children unit and her boss.
It was foolish and rash; it threatened any ability to build a credible case. To not only find the truth, but to expose it.
Still, she was considering it. Partially because logic and reason were overrated—sometimes crazy needed crazy—but mostly because no matter her decision to be levelheaded, her instincts were screaming that Donavon Cruz was a predator. And she trusted her instincts.