Erik jerked his gaze away, concentrating on the orders Clarke was giving him.
“…call in to the US Marshals Office in Denver,” he was saying. “They’ll transport her to DC and we’ll get it sorted out. She’ll talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for you, get on the first plane back here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clarke’s voice was replaced by Kaminski’s. “We’ll call the marshals and arrange the transport,” Kaminski said, all business now.
“Thanks,” Erik replied. “Will you look up a number for me, too? I need any information you can get on it.” Erik read off the only number that had been dialed from the cell he’d picked off the dead thug. The phone was a disposable one with pre-purchased minutes.
“I’m on it.”
Erik ended the call and slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans, his gaze unwillingly shifting back to O’Connell, who turned away.
He refused to feel guilty for doing his job. Erik would drop her with the marshals, who would get her to Washington, and they could figure it out from there. No doubt their interrogation would show O’Connell that it was foolish to continue the amnesia charade.
Unless she was telling the truth, his conscience prodded. Then she’d just be helpless, trapped in a web of federal laws and behind bars. Alone.
No, she’d have a lawyer, she’d be fine. The damn lawyers made his job harder each passing year. Hell, she’d probably get a sweet deal for testifying against Solomon.
So why did that thought not ease the anxiety churning in his gut?
* * *
Clarissa stared at the road ahead, deep in thought, as Langston drove. It was tempting to give in to despair. The future looked pretty bleak. She hadn’t needed to hear Langston’s conversation to know he was taking her in.
She had to get her mind off it. If she thought about it any more, she’d go crazy.
“Why did you and your partner split because of me?” Clarissa asked.
“What?”
“You said you had a disagreement with your partner over my case. Why?”
Langston’s jaw tightened, but Clarissa didn’t particularly care if he didn’t want to talk about it.
“He and I held differing opinions on your importance to the case, your position within Solomon’s organization,” he answered.
“What did your partner think?”
“Kaminski was convinced you were a low-level tech, hired to do the occasional job for Solomon, nothing more.”
Clarissa digested this for a moment. “And you? You didn’t think that, I take it?”
Langston shook his head. “The pattern was too clear, the methods too precise. It was one person hacking into the accounts, all of which just happen to be Solomon’s competitors’. He wouldn’t give that kind of job to more than one person, and it had to be someone he trusted. If word got out he was behind the operation, they’d band together and go after him. As it is, he’s doing the oldest play in the book.” Langston turned and caught her eye. “Divide and conquer.”
“And you think I’m the one who’s doing this? I’m some sort of techno geek computer hacker?” The very idea was ludicrous. A hacker was some genius misfit with pale skin from too little sunlight and a problem with authority.
Well, maybe that last part…
Langston grimaced before turning back to the road. “You were identified as gifted when you were eight years old. By the age of twelve you were routinely hacking into commercial websites, which put you in and out of juvenile detention. By fourteen, you were writing your own software spiders that crawled the Internet, installing themselves on vulnerable systems. At sixteen, you hacked into MI6 but didn’t cover your tracks well enough and got another slap on the wrist and stay in juvie. And when you turned eighteen,” he paused, “you disappeared.”
His cell phone rang, and he answered while Clarissa mulled over what he’d told her. Maybe that explained all that computer equipment in her bags.
“I can take her to their office—”
Langston’s irritated tone made her focus on him again.
“Sir, I can’t just — ” His lips pressed into a thin line as he was cut off.
Clarissa could hear the voice on the other end but not enough to understand what it was saying.
“Yes, sir. Understood.” Langston hung up and angrily tossed the phone onto the dash.
“Problem?” she asked dryly.
“The marshal’s men don’t have an agent to fly you to DC tonight. The soonest they have is tomorrow morning.” He shot her a glare, as though it were her fault. “He doesn’t want me leaving you with them overnight. I’m to keep you until then.”
Clarissa breathed a quiet sigh, her eyes slipping closed. She’d gotten a reprieve. Now she just had to use it to her advantage.
CHAPTER SIX
Erik pulled in to the Walmart parking lot. It was about the only thing in the tiny town. They weren’t far from Denver, but Erik didn’t want to let O’Connell anywhere near civilization. If she got away from him in the city, he’d never find her again. He’d just make sure they got an early start in the morning.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
“Need some things,” Erik replied curtly. “My luggage is back in a hotel, probably being thrown out even as we speak. Plus, I don’t know about you, but I’d like a fresh pair of underwear.”
O’Connell smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t mind going without.”
Christ. Like he needed that image in his head. Ignoring her comment, he leaned over and unlocked the handcuff from her wrist. She rubbed the reddened skin where the metal had chafed.
“I get to come too?” she asked. “I thought you’d just crack a window.”
“I could tie you to the bumper instead,” he shot back. “Would you prefer that?”
By her pout, he could assume the answer was a no.
“Come on.”
Erik took her elbow as they walked into the department store. The traditional Walmart greeter was nearby taking down a display of New Year’s decorations and offered them a belated “Welcome to Walmart!” as they passed by.
Grabbing a handbasket, Erik headed for the toiletries. He threw in a couple of toothbrushes and a box of toothpaste.
“I don’t like that kind,” O’Connell protested.
Erik snorted. “Toothpaste is toothpaste.”
“It is not,” she insisted. “This kind is better.” She snatched another box off the shelf and tossed it in his basket.
“Don’t just grab stuff,” he reprimanded her, sticking the box back on the shelf and tugging her away. “Like I care what kind of toothpaste you prefer.”
Deodorant went in the basket, including a girly one that she’d snatched despite his orders not to do that. He grabbed a packet of razors and a comb. He noticed her slipping in a brush when his back was turned.
Erik headed for clothing next, trying to ignore O’Connell’s presence as he grabbed a pack of underwear and hoped she’d keep her mouth shut. No such luck.
“Tighty-whiteys, Agent Langston?” O’Connell piped up. “I figured you more as a boxer type of guy. Kind of like these.”
He shouldn’t encourage her; he should just ignore her. That’s what he kept telling himself as he turned to see her holding up a pair of SpongeBob SquarePants boxers.
“He’s square, just like you!” She grinned.
Erik ground his teeth, jerked the boxers out of her hand, and tugged her out of the men’s department, grabbing a couple of shirts on the way with barely more than a glance at the size.
“Should’ve gotten Oscar the Grouch instead,” she muttered as he dragged her to the women’s lingerie.
“Hurry up and pick something,” he grumbled, watching as she began perusing a nearby rack of bras. “That one will do.” He pointed to a plain white garment. It seemed serviceable enough.
“According to you, I’m soon going to be wearing US Department of Corrections–issued underwear.”
She grabbed a flesh-toned bra that seemed to be nothing but lace, and not much of it at that, and held it up to her chest for his approval. “The least you can do is buy me something pretty.”
Erik swallowed and turned away. “Just make it quick.”
“What’s your hurry anyway?” O’Connell asked, looking through more lingerie. There was a ton of it in a rainbow of colors.
Erik gave a brief thanks that he was a guy and his choices were limited in scope and color, SpongeBob notwithstanding.
“I hate shopping,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “It’s a waste of time.”
O’Connell eyed him as she shopped, moving on to another rack. He followed, not bothering to conceal his impatience.
“What do you do for fun, Langston?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Fun. Entertainment. Rest and relaxation. You know, that thing you’re supposed to do when you’re not working.”
She held up a see-through nightie, and Erik lost his train of thought. What had she asked? Oh, yeah. Fun. “I work.”
O’Connell peeked at him over the top of the gossamer fabric, then replaced it on the rack. “I know you work. After work. What do you do?”
Her questions irritated him. It was none of her business what he did or didn’t choose to do. And if he chose to work as much as he did, well, that was his prerogative.
Except her questions made him feel about a hundred years old.
“Chess,” he blurted as she searched through piles of bikinis and thongs.
She looked at him as though he’d grown two heads. “Pardon?”
“For fun. I like to play chess.”
“I see,” she replied, turning her attention back to the scraps of underwear that were hardly worthy of the title. “And who do you play chess with?”
“Um,” he hadn’t been prepared for that question, “friends, I guess.” He didn’t particularly want to tell her he played in the park with Frank, the retired insurance salesman whose kids had all moved away and who loved to tell Erik stories of his twenty years in the marines.
“I bet I know how to play chess,” O’Connell remarked. “We should buy a set.” She grabbed one more item off the rack, adding it to the armful she already had, and started walking.
“Where are you going?” Erik asked, though he had a suspicion.
She looked at him strangely. “The toy department, of course.”
“We’re not getting a chess set.”
“You have any better idea for how to pass the time tonight?”
Erik had lots of ideas, all of which featured O’Connell modeling the lace and satin scraps in her arms.
“Fine,” he growled, shoving the images to the back of his mind. “I have something else to get too.”
O’Connell found a cheap chess set and added it to his basket. Erik swung by the sporting goods section next and grabbed a length of rope.
“What’s that for?” O’Connell asked curiously.
“Handcuffs can’t hold you, remember?”
“You’re going to tie me up?” Her incredulous tone would have been comical if the situation weren’t so serious.
Erik looked at her. “You give me no choice. You can’t be trusted.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Agent Langston. Maybe you’re not so square after all.”
O’Connell’s sarcastic bravado in the face of what awaited her inspired a reluctant admiration in Erik, a feeling that was both dangerous and decidedly unwise.
* * *
The town boasted one motel, which had seen better days. Clarissa dubiously eyed the room Langston had rented for them. The furniture looked old and worn, as did the cheesy print bedspreads on the two double beds, but it seemed clean. There were no questionable odors in the air or stains on the carpet.
With some irritation, Clarissa pulled at the ropes binding her wrists to the bed. Langston had gone into the bathroom to shower, tying her to the bed to ensure her continued presence. He’d ordered pizza and had oh-so-graciously untied her so she could eat.
This wasn’t going as she’d planned.
Instead of getting him to talk to her, get to know her, and hopefully getting him to care what happened to her, Langston was just ignoring her. The few times she’d attempted conversation had been met with monosyllable replies or grunts. He wouldn’t even look at her.
Whereas she couldn’t stop looking at him, especially when he came walking out of the bathroom wearing only jeans. Clarissa watched him covertly as he grabbed a plain gray button-down shirt, tore the tags off, and pushed his arms into the sleeves. She let out a tiny sigh of disappointment when he did up several of the buttons on the front.
“Do I get to shower?” Clarissa asked.
Langston didn’t answer, and his face betrayed nothing as he walked to her and untied the rope. She rubbed at her chafed wrists.
His deliberate apathy and distance irritated her. So he was going to pretend there was nothing between them? Act as if he hadn’t wanted her last night? Jerk. Men were all alike.
When she was free, she bounced off the bed and into the bathroom. Before closing the door, she poked her head out.
“Want to watch, Langston? Make sure I don’t escape again?”
As expected, her teasing made a red flush creep up his neck, but his expression remained stoically unaffected.
“There aren’t any windows in there,” he replied, grabbing the remote and lying down on the other bed. He bent an arm behind his head and seemed to dismiss her.
Clarissa’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “I might slit my wrists, you know,” she snapped.
The TV changed channels as he surfed. “You’re not the type.”
Dammit, he was right. In a fit of temper, she slammed the door.
After her shower, Clarissa held up one of the matching bra-and-panty sets she’d had Langston buy. If he wasn’t going to connect with her emotionally, talk to her, she supposed she could try sex. She’d seen the way he looked at her. It was obvious he was attracted, and she certainly was.
But the idea of using sex to trick him into letting her go was a distasteful one. Even as desperate as she was, she wondered if she could do that. The survivor in her urged to do everything she could, to use every feminine wile in her arsenal. She decided she’d exhaust every other avenue first before resorting to sex.
Though it wouldn’t hurt to stoke the embers a little.
With that thought in mind, she left her jeans off, choosing to wear just her shirt to bed. Her legs weren’t bad. Maybe Langston would appreciate the view.
After brushing the tangles out of her wet hair, she emerged from the bathroom to find Langston watching some basketball game on the TV. Getting up, he went to tie her again, his eyes flicking briefly to her bare legs.
“I picked the lock, Langston,” she blurted, eyeing the rope. She preferred handcuffs to rope. Rope hurt, dammit.
He paused, the rope looped around her wrist. “What?”
“I picked the lock on the handcuffs,” she admitted. “But I don’t have anything to pick it with now, I swear. You can search me. I’d just rather the cuffs than the rope.” And at least with the cuffs, she’d have one hand free.
Langston hesitated, then tossed aside the rope, attaching the cuffs to her before returning to his previous position on the opposite bed. Clarissa didn’t protest. Suddenly, she felt very tired. Langston’s deliberate distance after last night made her feel more alone than before.
Her eyes stung, and she quickly turned away from Langston. If she couldn’t stop herself from crying, she damn well didn’t want him to see.
Maybe she just needed a good night’s sleep, that was all. That was why she was feeling so hopeless. She was just tired. Things would look better in the morning. She’d come up with a different plan, one that would definitely work.
Clarissa thought all these things as tears slid down her face into the pillow underneath her head. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. She was just…having an emotiona
l release. Perfectly normal; healthy, even. It wasn’t good to keep things bottled up.
The bed dipped behind her and Clarissa stiffened.
“Um, are you all right?”
Langston’s voice was gruff, as though he didn’t want to be having to ask.
Clarissa quickly swiped at her face, refusing to turn around. “I’m fine,” she said thickly.
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I’m about to be sent to prison for who knows how long and can’t even defend myself because I have no idea what I have or haven’t done,” she retorted. “You have me handcuffed to a bed, which under other circumstances would be a good thing, but not so much at the moment. How the hell do you think I am?”
“You know,” Langston replied carefully, “if you tell the truth, they’ll probably cut you a deal. Turn witness against Solomon. That’s your best bet.”
“What a fabulous idea,” Clarissa muttered with a sniff. “Too bad I have no idea who Solomon is or what I know that could put him behind bars.”
The phone rang in the room. Langston answered on the second ring.
“Hello…um, yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.” He hung up. “There’s a problem with the credit card I used. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Before Clarissa could protest him leaving her cuffed to the bed, he was gone.
She heaved a sigh and stared at the ceiling. The sound of the basketball game playing on the television scratched at her already shot nerves. Glancing over, Clarissa saw Langston had left the remote beyond her reach, dooming her to having to listen to the damn game, the bastard.
To her surprise, the lock clicked on the door only minutes after Langston had left. Guess he’d realized without his coat, it was pretty darn cold outside.
The door eased open and a man slipped inside, but it wasn’t Langston.
“It’s about time the Fed left,” he said casually.
Dressed all in black, the man wasn’t that tall, maybe just under six feet. He had a wiry build and a pleasant face, which was ruined altogether by the menace oozing from him.
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