by Paula Graves
His mind raced, wondering if she was playing him again. It might be a ploy to make him let her go, but there was no hint of Naughty Marguerite in the trembling body pressed against his.
So she was at his mercy. And he was just desperate enough to use her favorite weapon against her to find out what he needed to know.
Deliberately, he lifted one hand and threaded his fingers through her hair, tilting her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened and grew darker. Her breathing quickened. Her lush body smelled of heat and fear and passion.
Need slammed through him like a physical blow, shaking his resolve, but he struggled to maintain control. He lowered one hand to the small of her back, pinning her hips against his own with a quick, fierce thrust. Her lips trembled open, emitting a small, surprised gasp.
He shifted, catching the open door with his heel and shoving it shut behind him. He slumped against the door, pulling Maggie with him, cradling her body with his own. A shudder rippled through her slim body, but she didn't pull away. Her breath was warm and sweet against his throat.
He slipped his hand under the hem of her t-shirt, splaying his fingers across the hot satin of her back. She released a shivery sigh, her body softening even more, spilling across him like liquid heat. He plunged his fingers in her hair and drew her head back, lifting her face to him. Her eyes fluttered shut and her lips trembled apart.
He dipped his head but stopped short of her lips. He wanted to kiss her, to taste her, to feel every inch of her warm, sweet body, but he forced himself to speak instead. "Were you even going to say goodbye?"
Her eyes snapped open. She went tense against him, her hands pressing against his chest. "I was going to leave a note on the desk."
He let her go. "A note."
She straightened her blouse, lifting a shaky hand to her tousled hair. "I thought it was the least I owed you."
He couldn't keep the bitter sarcasm out of his voice. "Thanks for that."
Her eyes shot up to meet his. In their depths, he saw a maelstrom of fear and doubt.
"What is it?" he asked, his anger seeping away. "What are you so afraid of?"
Her reply caught him by surprise. "Why the hell did you tell Laura Sandoval of all people where Remy and I are?"
They drove west in a two-car convoy connected by terse cell phone calls and an urgent need to run. Jack had said he knew where they could go "to regroup and figure out what to do next," as he put it.
Maggie's thoughts were more primal as she took up the rear in the borrowed Blazer.
Run. Hide.
But running wasn't an option. For the first half of their trip, Jack had Remy ride shotgun with him. He didn't say it aloud, but Maggie knew a hostage situation when she saw one. Jack knew she'd never make a run for it and leave Remy to deal with Jack and whatever his overwrought sense of honor might compel him to do with the boy.
They drove for hours, winding their way through Mississippi back roads, backtracking and detouring until Jack decided there was no one on their trail. They'd stopped around Lucedale for gas and a quick trip to a grocery store for supplies. Jack let Remy move to Maggie's Blazer at that point, giving Maggie a warning look before he went back to his car to take the lead again. After that, there had been another hour of non-stop driving, always toward the setting sun.
Now the dashboard clock read 6:25 p.m. and Maggie's eyelids were starting to droop, any residual adrenaline from their frantic afternoon now long gone. She looked over her shoulder at Remy in the back seat. The boy had fallen asleep about an hour ago, somewhere around the Stone County line.
She gazed through the windshield at the narrowing stretch of highway ahead. The signs along the shoulder indicated they were nearing a junction with I-59. North would take them to Hattiesburg. South would take them to New Orleans.
Maggie was surprised to feel conflicted. When she and Remy had fled New Orleans, she had thought she'd never want to go back. But as they neared the interstate, part of her wanted nothing more than to head south toward the color and vitality of the French Quarter and the life she'd built for herself there.
She missed Velvet, the six-foot-four drag queen living in the garden apartment below hers who made the best seafood gumbo outside of a five star New Orleans restaurant and gave it away free to anyone who'd sit and listen to her stories. She missed Oleander, the palm reader on Dauphine. And Dashiell, whose talented feet tapped at the speed of machine gun bursts while he grinned and thanked everyone who dropped a few coins in the hat.
What she didn't miss was that feeling, during her last few hours in New Orleans, that her next minutes might be her last. So when she saw the sign ahead, reminding her that she was less than a mile from the interstate on-ramp, her stomach started turning queasy little somersaults.
The cell phone rang. Jack, of course. She considered not answering but relented on the third ring. "Yeah?"
"We're getting on the Interstate. Southbound."
Her stomach flipped again. "I'm not going back to New Orleans, Jack."
The cell phone's scratchy reception couldn't hide Jack's tension. "Stay close and watch for my turn signal." He hung up without saying goodbye.
Maggie punched the "end" button and dropped the phone on the seat next to her, growling under her breath as anger overcame apprehension. Secretive, arrogant son of a—
"That Jack?" Remy's sleepy voice floated from the back.
"Yeah. We're almost there."
"Where's there?"
"Can't help you with that." Maggie glanced at Remy in the rear view mirror. The glow from the Blazer's dashboard lights gave his face an eerie blue glow in the darkness, until he rubbed his eyes with his fists like a child, ruining the spooky effect. "I think we have another half-hour or so of driving. Why don't you try to go back to sleep? We've had a long day."
"It's not even seven." But he sat back and fell silent.
Maggie glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that he'd closed his eyes again. A rush of affection stung her eyes, and she blinked back the moisture.
For Remy, she reminded herself. It was all for the boy, who deserved a hell of a lot more out of life than he'd received so far. And if Jack could help her keep the boy safe, she'd follow him to hell and back.
Matthew Archer's lodge was more rustic than Jack had remembered. The house itself wasn't primitive; Archer hadn't spared any luxuries in the lodge. But the area around the house was pure piney woods, the driveway little more than a worn path through heavy underbrush heading deep into the heart of the DeSoto National Forest.
Jack cut the lights and got out of the Beretta as the Blazer pulled into the gravel drive next to him, its headlights sweeping over the wood-slab façade of the lodge. Maggie cut the engine, and night descended around him like a blanket.
She opened the car door and got out, standing in the glow from the car's dome light. "This is the middle of nowhere."
"My client likes his privacy."
"Your mysterious client." Her voice was dry. "What is he, a super spy?"
Jack chuckled. "A diplomat."
"Same thing." Maggie shut her door. The dome light faded, plunging them into blackness. Above, the overcast sky shut out what light the moon might have shed.
Jack felt his way to the Beretta's trunk and popped it open. Light spilled out, spreading a soft glow through the inky darkness. He pulled a flashlight from the trunk and turned to look at Maggie and Remy, who remained standing next to the Blazer. "I could use help with the supplies."
Remy came around the car toward Jack. As the boy walked into the circle of light, Jack stifled a grin. Remy's hair stood in spikes, his left cheek sporting a red imprint from the Blazer's nubby upholstery. He blinked, looking like an overgrown puppy roused too early from a nap. "Where are we?"
"A hunting lodge in Pearl River County, Mississippi." Jack stepped back so the boy could pick up one of the grocery bags. "The closest town is Picayune."
Remy picked up a couple of bags and peered into the gloom. "This is a hu
nting lodge? I thought hunting lodges were, like, log cabins or something."
"There's a lot to be said for creature comforts." Maggie came up behind them, the faint scent of her soap-and-water essence giving Jack a heartbeat's notice of her approach. He turned to look at her, noting the purple smudges beneath her dark eyes and the weary lines creasing her brow.
Overwhelmed by a primal need to pull her into his arms, he clung to the fine rage that had boiled up from inside him when he'd realized she had been planning to run out on him without even saying goodbye, stoking the anger as a shield against her. The last thing he needed to do right now was let Marguerite burrow her way back under his skin. Too much was at stake.
He took the bag she had pulled from the trunk and handed her the flashlight in exchange. "Lead the way," he directed gruffly, picking up the final bag of groceries from the trunk.
He and Remy followed Maggie up the flagstone walkway to the front door. Jack set the groceries on the low porch and put the key in the deadbolt. The lock was balky at first; it had been several months since Archer would have used the lodge, and the area's constant humidity was hell on moving parts. But finally it gave, and Jack pushed the door open.
An electronic voice broke the quiet. "Armed. Stay."
Jack turned the flashlight's beam to a panel a few feet to the right of the door, searching his weary brain for the code.
He punched in five numbers. "You'll need to memorize this. Six-two-five-six-three, then enter." He moved deeper into the house's narrow foyer, shining the flashlight along the wall until he came to another, larger panel set into the wall. He opened the front of the panel and flicked a couple of switches. The whole house hummed to life, and Jack started flicking on lights to drive away the darkness.
"Fifty-four inch flat screen." Remy's voice was hushed with awe as he beheld the big screen television that took up a large span of the wall in the great room. He moved closer, peering at the various consoles stacked next to the television. "An X-Box! And they have Squirrel Smash!"
Maggie caught him by the back of his shirt as he took a step forward. "You need to find a bed and be in it. Now."
"Squirrel Smash," Remy repeated. "Flat screen."
"Bed. Now."
"Actually," Jack interrupted, "hold off on bed for a minute. I have something I need to show you."
Chapter 7
"This is what you wanted to show us?" Maggie peered into the walk-in closet. It was empty except for a pair of metal hangers pushed to the far right wall.
"What do you see?" Jack directed the question to Remy.
"A serious dust bunny problem, dude."
Smiling, Jack tugged on one of the metal clothes hangers. The back of the closet slid open, revealing a dark, narrow space beyond. Jack entered and descended out of sight.
"Whoa," Remy said. He hesitated only a second before he followed Jack into the hidden space.
Curiosity piqued, Maggie entered the dark space and found herself at the edge of a narrow stairway. Remy and Jack gazed up at her from below.
"Comin', Doc?" Remy's face split with an excited grin.
Descending carefully, Maggie joined them at the bottom. Behind Jack appeared to be a black void. A doorway?
Jack touched the wall and lights flickered on in a wave that illuminated the void, revealing a concrete tunnel that stretched as far as she could see.
"Bolt hole," Jack said. "It leads to a culvert a half mile east of here. I'll leave the Blazer there in case we have to make a run for it. Anything you want to go with you in a pinch —money, I.D., personal items you don't need every day—stay in the Blazer. We each put two changes of clothes in the trunk in case we have to bolt from here without notice. Got it?"
Remy gazed up at Jack, his face flushed with awe. "You're freakin' James Bond."
"Told you your client was a spy," Maggie said dryly.
Jack waved at the exit. "Let's go put up the supplies."
Upstairs, they emptied the bags Jack and Remy had deposited on the kitchen table. Remy pulled out a box of hair color. "Who gets the purple hair?"
"Me." Maggie took the box. "It's burgundy, not purple."
"Whatever. Do I get Lemon Twist?" Remy asked with a grin, waggling the box showing a woman with platinum blond hair.
"Yeah, that's yours."
"Can I do it tonight? I’m not tired anymore."
"Okay," Maggie relented.
Changing their looks had been yet another source of disagreement between Maggie and Jack during the long trip west. At the grocery store, Maggie had insisted on buying the boxes of hair color, despite the dent the purchase had made in their dwindling funds. Jack had argued against it but eventually relented when their argument began to draw attention.
Remy reached into the bag and pulled out a third box. He held it up like an ad spokesman and grinned at Jack. "Wheat Toast," he said. "It says it's great for covering gray."
Jack shook his head. "No."
"Come on, man—me and Doc are doin' it."
"I'm not the person everyone is looking for. We're not permanently going on the lam. We're here to regroup. Period."
"But—"
Maggie put her hand on Remy's arm. "It's late. We don't need to start a new argument. Go on, Remy." She handed him the box of blond hair color he'd laid on the table. "You go first."
Remy grabbed the box and disappeared into the bathroom. Maggie turned to Jack and found him watching her, his blue eyes smoldering beneath lowered lashes. A surge of heat coursed through her in response, despite her simmering anger, or maybe even because of it. She looked away, digging deep for every nugget of rage left over from the morning's blow-up with Jack. She didn't like losing control of her own reactions.
She couldn't trust him, she reminded herself. He'd sold her out to Laura Sandoval and lied about it. For all she knew, his relationship with Laura had never ended. Nothing to say that it wasn't still going on . . .
Nothing except the way he'd held her that morning, his body hard and undeniably aroused as he slid his hand beneath her shirt to stroke her back.
Her inability to quell the slow burn of need his touch ignited in her body was humiliating. It had made her feel twenty-one and out of control again, on the brink of throwing herself at his feet and begging him to choose her over Laura.
She had to get a grip before she did something stupid.
Laura Sandoval tied her robe and peered through the fish-eye lens to see who was pounding on her apartment door.
F.B.I. Agent Travis Cooper stared back.
She leaned against the door, contemplating the consequences of not answering. Cooper wasn't the sort to give up. Even if he finally left, he'd be in her office bright and early the next morning, looking for a little payback for his trouble.
She opened the door but didn't step aside. "It's late."
"Couldn't wait." Cooper stepped forward, crowding her.
Laura held her ground. The heat of his body washed over her, not an unpleasant sensation; Cooper was an attractive guy. But it was late, and he was obviously here for reasons that didn't include a tumble in her bed. "What's up?"
"I need information about Jack Bennett."
She shouldn't have been surprised. He was known for putting two and two together. "Why?"
"I think he may be in contact with Marguerite Cole and the kid who took her." Cooper leaned his shoulder against the wall, his face mere inches from hers. "Can I come in now?"
Laura stepped aside. He moved past her, selecting a large armchair, while she took the sofa across from him.
He studied her for a moment. The scrutiny was almost tangible, as if his hands and not his eyes were moving over her, slow and thorough, missing nothing.
She broke the tense silence. "What do you want from me?"
His smile was slow and deliberate. "Have you been in contact with Bennett in the last few days?"
Cooper wouldn't have asked the question if he didn't know the answer. "I called him when Marguerite first disappeared."
"Did you think he'd have any information about it?"
"I was lookin' for an excuse to call. The kidnapping seemed as good as any." The truth was the opposite; the last thing she'd wanted to do was call Jack. She didn't want to believe he was helping Naughty Marguerite.
Even if it might help her further her own agenda.
"Just small talk, then. Between former lovers."
"That's about it."
"Could he be with them?" Cooper asked.
"I don't know." Laura schooled her features, unwilling to let Cooper read her thoughts.
"I hear he's out of pocket for the next couple of weeks." He paused, looking at her expectantly. She didn't say anything, just returned his gaze without flinching.
"Don't you think that's odd?" Cooper pressed.
"I haven't seen Jack in years. I can't begin to predict his behavior." Not true, of course. The moment she'd heard Jack's voice on the phone, she'd known he was involved. No doubt Naughty Marguerite swished her cute ass and put on the poor little rich girl act, and Jack had fallen for it in a heartbeat. He'd always been a sucker for her.
"You don't have anything to add?" Cooper looked skeptical.
Laura stood and moved toward the door. "If I hear from Jack, I'll certainly inform the proper authorities."
Cooper followed her to the door, sticking close. "Just remember that I'm the proper authority."
"I know exactly who the proper authorities are," she replied, pleased at the steely strength of her own voice.
Cooper's gray eyes swept down to consider her lips for a moment. Awareness darted through her, settling in her breasts and her lower belly. When Cooper stepped away, cool air filled the space between them, scattering chill bumps across her skin.
He left without speaking. Laura closed the door and leaned against its solid strength, trying to gather her wits.
She shouldn't have called Jack. She should have known it would mean trouble.
And trouble was the last thing she needed right now.
Coming in from taking a quick tour of the grounds to check the security perimeter, Jack found Maggie in an armchair near the unlit fireplace, staring out the window facing the back, though there was nothing to see but a whole lot of darkness.