Blank Slate

by Snow, Tiffany

  “Stop this bullshit!” he demanded. “You know why your family is all in prison and why you’re here. It’s what Solomon had you doing — breaking into his competition’s homes to embezzle their money and expose their secrets. I’ve been tracking you for months and got a tip on who the next hit would be. Now, I don’t give a shit if you want to keep playing the damsel in distress card, but I’m not buying it. What I do want is for you to shut up so I can get some sleep!”

  His voice ended in a near-shout, which he immediately regretted. Keeping a tight grip on his temper was something Erik took pride in; the fact that this girl was able to undermine that was disconcerting.

  O’Connell’s green eyes were wide as she stared at him. For a moment, Erik didn’t move, his breath coming hard after his tirade. He realized suddenly how close their bodies were, his arms braced on either side of her as she lay half reclined against the pillows. His memory conjured the image of her pulling on the ill-fitting borrowed clothes while he’d watched from the shadows, unable to look away.

  The firelight had danced across her skin, illuminating shadows and valleys and making her skin appear like warm ivory. The red of her hair was an echo of the flames, her fingers carelessly pushed through what Erik knew were silky, soft strands. Her arms had stretched over her head as she put on the shirt, and the black lace of her bra had seemed inadequate to hold the plump flesh that spilled from its confines. Erik had nearly groaned aloud at the sight before her breasts had disappeared from view.

  In a move he was sure she had done just to torture him, she’d turned her back and bent at the waist to pull on the pants he’d given her. A light sweat had broken out on his forehead, and Erik wouldn’t have blinked if a gun had been held to his head.

  Then the show had been over, though the effect on his body had been damn inconvenient, just as it was now as he struggled to dispel the images in his head.

  O’Connell didn’t speak, but neither did she seem frightened. She looked more interested than anything else, studying him curiously. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Erik’s gaze fell to her mouth.

  The electricity between them was suddenly thick, prickling Erik’s awareness and heightening his senses. The silence was a living thing, the only sound the pounding of his blood in his ears.

  “It sounds like you could really use a vacation,” O’Connell said thoughtfully. And the tension was broken.

  Erik collapsed back onto his side of the bed, a huff of laughter escaping him. “You’ve got that right,” he sighed. Especially if he was going to start being sexually attracted to the criminals he hunted. He gave a mental shake of his head. Fatigue and stress were getting to him, that was all. And obviously going too long between one-night stands. Kaminski had been right, which was painful to admit.

  Thankfully, she was quiet then. The bed dipped slightly with her movements as she got comfortable. He heard another sharp intake of breath, but Erik resisted asking if she was all right. After a few minutes, she settled, and he closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, hours later, the weak sunlight of dawn had dispelled the darkness. Erik rubbed his eyes, which felt like sand had been poured in them overnight. Glancing to his left, he froze.

  She was gone.

  EPISODE TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  Erik stared in amazement at the empty handcuffs still fastened around the bed spindle. That was certainly unexpected. Who was she? Houdini?

  The sound of a car engine outside jerked his attention to the window. His hand automatically went to his jeans’ pocket where the keys should be, but no longer were. O’Connell must have taken them from him last night, and he’d slept through it.

  Damn.

  He launched himself out of bed, shoving his feet into his still-wet boots. Not bothering to take time to put on a shirt, he threw on a coat and grabbed his gun. Erik was a bit surprised she’d not taken the weapon too. Ten seconds after hearing the car start, he was outside.

  She hadn’t made it far, the deep snow prevented that, but the chains on the SUV’s tires were doing their job, moving the car farther away from the cabin.

  Erik took off after her, the snow hindering his efforts to move quickly, but before long, he’d caught up to the vehicle.

  “Stop the car!” he yelled through the window.

  O’Connell ignored him, which only served to infuriate him further. Did she think she was just going to drive out of here and leave him behind? His anger fueled his strength, and Erik ran to the front of the car, taking up a stance and aiming his gun squarely at the driver.

  “Shit!” Clarissa muttered. She knew she should’ve taken the gun. Unwilling to test how serious he was about shooting her, and definitely not wanting to run him over, she brought the SUV to a standstill.

  Langston looked furious as he stood with the gun trained on her. She really should have cuffed him to the bed, but that seemed cruel, especially since she’d planned on…borrowing…his car.

  “Get out,” he called to her, his words making puffs of cold in the frozen early-morning air.

  Clarissa turned off the engine with a sigh and opened the door. Sliding out into the knee-deep snow, she was glad she’d found some boots and a coat in the closet inside. Even with the garments, the chill wind made her shiver. Looking at Langston, she noticed he wore only his coat and jeans. The skin of his chest was bare to the cold. He had to be freezing. Guiltily, she chewed her lip as he walked toward her, the gun steady in his grip.

  “Keys,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

  Reluctantly, Clarissa handed them over.

  “Just going to leave me here to rot, were you?” he accused.

  “I was going to send help.” Just as soon as she was well out of his reach.

  “Sure you were,” Erik replied. “Let’s go.” He motioned with the gun, and Clarissa turned, leading the way back inside the cabin.

  It was irritating that she’d been so close to escaping and now she was right back where she’d started. Clarissa threw herself onto the sofa, staring glumly into the glowing embers of the fireplace. Getting the cuffs open hadn’t been that hard — the tie pin she’d found in the bathroom had helped with that — but getting those keys without waking the cop had taken her a long time.

  She watched in silence as Langston added more wood to the fire, stirring it back to life. He disappeared into the bedroom, then reemerged while angrily jerking a T-shirt down over his chest. Clarissa briefly mourned the loss.

  Langston went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards. A few minutes and much angry clanking of pans later, Clarissa smelled food cooking. Her stomach rumbled. When Langston sat down at the table with a bowl and started eating, she warily approached him.

  “Food’s on the stove,” he said curtly between bites. “And I’d rather you not use the pan as a weapon.”

  Clarissa scowled at him. As if she’d take him on. He was twice her size, for crying out loud!

  Langston ate but watched her closely as she filled her own bowl, as though she were going to hit him over the head with a frying pan. It looked like he’d heated up some canned stew. Not something she’d have picked, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  It seemed unnecessarily rude not to sit at the table, though Clarissa was careful to sit across and not next to him. Langston’s gun lay on the polished wood surface, close to where his hand rested.

  They ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Langston finished first and remained at the table, watching her.

  “How’d you get out of the cuffs?” he asked finally.

  Clarissa shrugged, not answering. She didn’t want to tell him. She might need to do it again at some point.

  “Any other hidden talents I should know about?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew,” Clarissa answered truthfully. She hadn’t realized she could pick a lock, it had just kind of happened.

  Langston gave a derisive snort.

  Clarissa didn’t take the bait. She d
idn’t want to argue with him. Actually, he was rather interesting. He’d seemed very tightly strung last night. She was curious about him.

  “How long have you been working for the FBI?” she asked.

  Langston studied her, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.

  “Ten years,” he finally said.

  “After college?” Clarissa prompted, doing some quick math in her head.

  He nodded. “Right after I got my criminal justice degree.”

  Which would make him about thirty-two, Clarissa decided. She abruptly wondered how old she was but decided against asking. He’d just get all pissed off at her again, since he didn’t believe her memory loss.

  “Why’d you pick the FBI?”

  Langston’s smile was devoid of humor. “You could say my father figured greatly into my decision.”

  When he didn’t continue, Clarissa prompted him. “Your dad? Was he FBI too?”

  “Did I miss the part where we decided to exchange life stories?” he retorted.

  “I was just curious—”

  “All you need to know is that I’ve dedicated my life to finding criminals like you and bringing them to justice,” he said, leaning forward in his chair to emphasize his point.

  A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cabin ran down Clarissa’s spine. It was obvious Agent Langston took his job very seriously and would have no qualms about turning her in, whether she had any memory of her crimes or not.

  Her appetite gone, Clarissa set down her fork.

  “Well, if you’ve been chasing me for as long as you said, then I must either be really good, or you’re really bad.” Her jibe made Langton’s eyes narrow in anger and gave Clarissa a momentary satisfaction.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to think about that where you’re going,” he replied evenly.

  With that parting shot, he rose from the table, grabbed his gun, and disappeared back into the bedroom.

  Absently, Clarissa stood and cleared the table, washing the dishes in the sink. This was a hell of a mess she’d gotten herself in. Despite what Langston said, she couldn’t help thinking that he was wrong about her. She didn’t feel like a criminal, though how would she know what that was supposed to feel like? And whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty? It seemed Langston had already tried and convicted her.

  The running water from the faucet was loud, so she didn’t know the front door had opened until she felt the chilled air. Turning, she sucked in a breath.

  Two men stood mere feet away, each holding a formidable weapon, both pointed at her. Neither looked like he had just dropped by for a friendly chat.

  “Looks like you did not get far, Clarissa,” the bigger of the two men said with a smirk. He had a thick accent. Russian? “Though you are more resourceful than Solomon thought, it seemed. He is not pleased with you.”

  Clarissa’s mind scrambled furiously, searching her memory for a clue as to who these men were and coming up empty.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “It’s what Solomon wants that you have to worry about,” the smaller guy said. He smiled. He was missing a tooth.

  “Fine. What does he want?”

  “What you owe him, stole from him.”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Clarissa protested, playing for time. She eyed their guns. Langston had no idea they were here. If he appeared suddenly, unarmed, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. She couldn’t let that happen.

  “I am sure he will be able to explain it fully to you himself. You are coming with us.”

  “Like hell she is.”

  Both men turned at the sound of Langston’s voice. Dammit! If he’d only waited a few more minutes! Her hand grabbed the only weapon available to her and swung.

  Erik saw O’Connell land a wicked hit with the metal pot he’d warned her about, causing one of the intruders to drop his gun. They grappled, O’Connell getting in another hit with the pan before he retaliated, and then they were on the floor, struggling.

  The other man decided Erik posed more of threat, and a spray of bullets came his way. Erik dived to the floor in front of the sofa, tipping it backward and propping his gun on the edge to take quick aim. His gun spit bullets, and the intruder dropped to the ground, lifeless.

  O’Connell and the guy were still fighting. He threw her off and went for the gun that had skittered across the floor. Dammit! The bastard was going to shoot her. Erik leaped to his feet, but before he could get off a shot, O’Connell had grabbed the gun off the man he’d killed and turned, firing just in time.

  It had happened so fast, and now two men lay dead on the kitchen floor.

  O’Connell sat motionless, her chest heaving, staring at the men with wide eyes. Even from this distance, her hands trembled. Erik hurried toward her, only to be stopped in his tracks when the barrel of her gun swung his way.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

  Erik eyed the gun, then her. “So that’s how you’re going to play this?” he asked evenly. Something close to disappointment churned in his gut.

  “I don’t want to go to jail.” Her voice was steady, but her hands were not.

  “Then you’re going to have to shoot me.”

  Her mouth was bleeding. The guy must have gotten a hit or two in before she’d shot him. Erik took another step forward.

  “Stop!” she demanded. “I’ll do it. I swear I will!”

  Erik slowly holstered his gun. “You’d shoot an unarmed cop?”

  She didn’t answer, just watched him warily.

  She might very well do just that, but Erik was betting she wouldn’t. O’Connell could have killed him this morning while he slept, but she hadn’t. He took another step, and another, then held his breath as her hands tightened on the weapon.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “You know you’re not. If you’d wanted me dead, you would have let them kill me.” He took a step.

  A gunshot shattered the quiet. Erik flinched as shards of wood from the bullet tearing a hole in the floor hit his jeans. He froze.

  “I think you underestimate how much I don’t want to go to prison,” O’Connell said evenly, and now her hands were steady. “Get on your knees. Keep your hands up.”

  Clarissa’s palms grew sweaty as Langston slowly complied, his eyes like twin shards of ice. Getting to her feet, she watched him closely, not putting it past him to make a move for his gun. She regretted having to do this, but it might be her only chance of escape. The men had to have gotten here somehow. She could take their car and leave Langston his.

  Please don’t let him try anything, she prayed, knowing she didn’t have it in her to shoot him. He was just a cop doing his job. He didn’t deserve to die.

  The gun felt comfortable in her hands. The act of shooting the thug who would’ve killed her was not that bothersome. Both were facts that scared her if she dwelled on them. So she didn’t.

  “You’re bleeding, you know,” Langston said casually, motioning his head in her direction. “All that fighting probably tore that wound open again.”

  Alarmed, Clarissa glanced down. The T-shirt she wore was stained a garish red over the gunshot wound, the blood having leaked through the bandage. The thin cotton stuck wetly to her skin.

  “Oh God,” she mumbled, the image blurring as her head swam.

  A sound made her tear her eyes away from the sickening sight of blood leaking from her body. She looked up just in time to see Langston launch himself at her.

  Clarissa cried out, the sound abruptly cut off as they crashed together to the floor, his body landing on top and forcing all the air from her lungs. She tried to bring the gun around, but his hands locked around her wrists, pinning them in place above her head. He squeezed, the pressure increasing until she couldn’t hold on to the weapon any longer. With a whimper, she was forced to drop it from her grip.

  “Christ, you’re dangerous,”
Langston huffed.

  “I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Clarissa said, struggling to breathe properly under his weight.

  “You could’ve fooled me,” he growled, regarding her with suspicion in his pale-blue eyes.

  Clarissa was abruptly aware of the fact that his body was pressed fully against hers. Lean and hard, he was touching her everywhere. His thigh lay between her legs, the breaths he took pushed his rib cage into hers, and his grip on her wrists brought his face very near.

  She wondered how much blood she’d lost that she was again contemplating his attractiveness, even when he was pissed off. The day’s growth of whiskers shadowing his jaw gave him an untamed look.

  The atmosphere grew tense as they stared at each other and breathed. Clarissa could feel the calloused roughness of his hands against her skin as the tight hold on her wrists loosened ever so slightly. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, alarm bells started going off in her head.

  “Could you get off me now?” she blurted. “You weigh a ton.”

  Langston sat up as though he’d been electrocuted, and Clarissa took the opportunity to take a much-needed deep breath. The injury in her side gave a sharp pang and she winced.

  “Who were they?” Langston asked, glad to hear the usual detachment had returned in his voice. He took the gun from the floor and tucked it in the back of his jeans.

  “I don’t know,” she replied with a shrug, pushing herself to a sitting position. “They said I’d stolen something from Solomon, wanted to take me to him, but I don’t know what they were talking about.”

  “Don’t know or can’t remember?” he retorted, standing to grab a kitchen towel and run it under cold water.

  “Either. Both,” she shot back. “I know you don’t believe me, but the first thing I remember is waking up in the backseat of your car.”

  Erik used the towel to carefully clean the blood from her abused lip and where it had trailed down her chin. She didn’t speak or protest while he did this, instead just allowing him to help her.

  Her eyes were clear and guileless. A twinge of unease pricked him. What if she was telling the truth? What if she really couldn’t remember her past?