by Alison Kent
"My kind?" He leaned a shoulder against the kitchen's arched entryway. For a woman who enjoyed men the way she obviously did, her cynicism—though good-natured—intrigued him. "Care to elaborate?"
She went about putting on socks and boots without ever meeting his gaze. "What's to elaborate on? Men will be men. You know what you want and go after it, whether it's a woman, a political position, a career advancement, or a Ferrari."
"You do have a thing for my car."
"No more than you have for my ass." She straightened, shook her pants legs down over the boots and finally reached for her coffee. "We're not going to get out of here without talking about it, you know."
"About what?" he asked, playing dumb and knowing she wouldn't let him get away with it for long.
"About why you don't want me to see you naked, for one thing. But also about me saying the L word"—she paused, one heartbeat, two, her big brown eyes tossing down a gauntlet— "and you trying to kill me."
"I wasn't trying to kill you," he said, just as a knock sounded at her front door.
"Okay. Now this is totally unfair," she grumbled, glaring at him before heading across the room. "You arranged this somehow, didn't you? To get out of talking to me?"
He chuckled to himself because she tickled him and it was all he could do. Well, that and breathe a sigh of relief that he'd escaped having that particular conversation. He wasn't ready to talk about the emotional impact of last night or share the reasons he feared exposure and wrapped himself in the safe cloak of darkness.
He backed another step into the kitchen and out of sight of the door. He'd just as soon keep the fact that he was here between himself and Natasha, but then above the hush-hush chattering of two female voices he heard her call out his name. Shit, he thought, wishing for his bomber jacket, shoulder holster, and Ruger .45-caliber he'd left in the car. The SIG-Sauer 9mm in his waistband beneath his untucked shirt wasn't as accessible as he'd like.
"Peter?" Natasha said, meeting him as he stepped around the corner into the eating area. She took hold of his free forearm while he held his coffee in the opposite hand. "This is Susan Anderson, my roommate from Brown. Susan, Peter Deacon."
"Susan," he acknowledged with a nod.
"It's nice to meet you," she returned, studying him as he supposed women studied their friends' male specimens. "I'm sorry to bother you guys, but I'm off to spend the day with my parents. It's their day to pamper their"—she hooked her fingers into air quotes—"birthday princess, but I wanted to return the necklace Nat let me borrow last night."
"That's right. Happy birthday," he said, hoping he sounded believably apologetic. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to make it for drinks. Work kept me at the office until midnight."
Susan blinked. He watched her process his explanation, strangely edgy as he waited for her response, relaxing only when she laughed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. "Last night. God. I barely even remember it. I'd forgotten Nat said you might be there."
"Judging by that green glow you've got going, I'd say that's not all you've forgotten about last night," Natasha teased, hooking the slender silver chain around her neck and tucking it under her collar. "No more drinking for you, sweetie."
"At least not for another year," Susan said with a laugh that quickly turned sour. "I really wasn't feeling this bad until I got out of the cab and started using my feet. Oh, crap. The cab. He's waiting."
"Then you'd better go." Natasha wrapped an arm around her girlfriend's shoulders and walked her to the door.
Susan turned and offered Christian a weak lift of her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Peter."
"You, too," he said, returning the wave as she left and only then pulling in a full breath.
Natasha closed the door. "Let me straighten up the bathroom and change the sheets and we can go."
Her words returned him vividly to last night, to the beauty of having her naked, to the near violence of their joining. He upended the last of his coffee and swallowed before responding. "If you're done with the coffee, I'll clean up the kitchen."
The beatific smile she gave him then nearly knocked him to his knees. "You've got yourself a deal."
Fifteen
Natasha had just slid down into the Ferrari's comfy bucket and was waiting for Peter to walk around to his side after shutting her door when her cell rang. She glanced at the number display. Susan again. Miss Nosy Nature calling back to get the skinny, no doubt.
"I think you're old enough now to know not to repeatedly interrupt your best girlfriend's hot date," Natasha teased, smiling across at Peter as he climbed in, buckled up, and put the car into gear. The engine roared to life behind her and she covered her free ear with her palm in order to hear Susan's response.
"Listen, Nat. This is going to sound like I'm trying to screw things up for you and really I'm not. But I'm not so sure about Peter."
Natasha couldn't help it. She bristled. She loved her girlfriends dearly, but hated their insistence on butting into her life. "Not so sure in what way?"
"Not so sure that his name is Peter."
Okay. That sure wasn't what she'd expected to hear. She switched the phone to her left ear, angling to face the window on the right as they drove out of the neighborhood. "Say again? I'm having trouble hearing."
On the other end of the phone, Susan sighed resignedly.
"Okay. I could be totally wrong, but I don't think so. Just ask him. I think his name is Christian."
"And why would you think that?" Natasha asked, doing her best to keep her tone light.
"Nancy? This girl in my Pilates class? She works in the same building that he does and talks about him all the time. She has a huge crush. He's an engineer or something."
An engineer? Named Christian? This was making no sense. "I'm sure Nancy's got it wrong, sweetie."
"I'm not so sure, Nat. I've seen the pictures."
Natasha shifted in her seat, cast a quick glance at Peter, forced a smile and nodded when he mouthed, "You okay?"
She studied his face for a moment, recalling the last thirty-six hours she'd spent with him. The conversations they'd never really taken anywhere. The questions he'd evaded, the answers he'd persistently pursued.
She curled her toes, or tried to; her feet had gone totally numb. "You need to give me more than that, Suz, What exactly did you see?"
"There's a fountain in the square across from her building. She eats lunch there a lot and people-watches. She always has her digital camera with her." In the background, a tea kettle whistled, and Susan's mother called her name. "I'm pretty confident it's him. That thing he does when he smiles? The right corner of his mouth?"
"Yes. I know it."
"So ask him."
"This isn't a good time. I'm on my way back to Wick's."
"I'd think it would be a perfect time. Before you're out of the city. Tell me where you are. I'll call nine-one-one."
"Susan, sweetie. That's hardly necessary." And it wasn't. Wick would not do business with anyone he wasn't sure of. She wasn't going to blow this off, no. But calling the authorities based on thirdhand tales told by a woman with a camera and a crush seemed a case of paranoia. "Let me think about it and I'll call you when I get to Wick's."
"I'm having dinner tonight with my parents, then seeing a show. The birthday dinner and all, so I won't have my cell on. There had better be a message on my machine when I get home or I will call the cops. I swear."
Natasha wasn't the least bit worried that tonight she'd be anywhere but safe in her own bed at the estate. "And I swear that I'll call."
"Okay, then. I'll talk to you tonight," Susan said, and clicked off.
Natasha snapped her own phone shut and continued to stare out the Ferrari's passenger window, the silence in the car growing tense. Peter didn't say another word; she supposed he was allowing her time and privacy to stew over her conversation, not wanting to pry into what she and Susan had talked about, being a gentleman and all that.
&
nbsp; She still couldn't believe it. That Peter wasn't Peter? That she'd once again been duped? No. It was too ridiculous. Susan had only seen him briefly. Surely she was confused, and Peter only resembled this other man. The right side of his mouth tilting up when he smiled was not a unique trait. There had to be hundreds of men, thousands, with the same facial feature.
So why the hell did the argument sound so lame?
They headed out of the city over the George Washington Bridge and onto the Palisades Parkway, Natasha wondering all the while what she should do and fighting the urge to turn and confront him.
Waiting until they arrived at Wick's seemed the smartest move. Once there, her godfather would have her back. She wouldn't have to worry about pissing off Peter—Christian?— and being thrown from the car and left for dead on the side of the road.
But her curiosity was killing her. And bailing out on him now meant she was close enough to the city to easily get a cab back. . . .
"Natasha? Did Susan have bad news?" She shifted in her seat so that she could see his face. "That depends. Is your name really Peter? Or is it Christian?"
Christian watched the road rush by beneath the car, the roar in his ears much more than that of the engine or the tires. He should have trusted his instincts earlier. Susan turning green wasn't about the amount of alcohol left in her system at all. He held out his right hand, gripped the steering wheel with his left. "Hand me your phone."
"Why?"
"The phone, Natasha." He didn't have time to argue. Didn't have time to explain. Had time to do nothing but react. An exit loomed to the right. He downshifted to slow the car and swerved across two lanes to take it. Ahead and behind, the road was blessedly free of traffic. "The phone, now, please."
"I don't think so," she said, yelping when he reached across and grabbed it out of her hand.
She slumped defiantly into her seat, arms crossed over her chest. Checking again for oncoming vehicles, he pried open the phone and removed the battery, tossed the case over the top of the car toward the ditch, the power supply to the side of the road a quarter mile away.
"What the hell are you doing?" she screamed, whirling on him, fists flying, nails raking, grabbing for the steering wheel.
He hit the brakes, whipped into the skid. The fast stop and shoulder strap slammed her back into the bucket. He kept her there with the barrel of the Ruger .45-caliber he snatched from beneath his seat. "Sit down. Nothing's going to happen to you if you sit down and be still."
She didn't say a word, but he heard her hyperventilating panic above the roar in his ears.
"Calm down. Natasha. Listen to me. No one's going to get hurt." His pulse pounded. His mind whirred. "I just need you to be still and be quiet."
"You're pointing a gun at me and you want me to be still and be quiet? You fucking piece of shit." She swiped back the hair from her face. "Don't tell me to be still and be quiet. In fact, don't tell me anything at all. When Susan doesn't hear from me later, she's calling the cops. She knows exactly where we are and what we're driving. So whatever the hell you think you're doing here, you're not getting away with it. You lying, fucking bastard."
He caught her gaze, saw the glassy fear, the damp tears she wouldn't shed, the delineated vessels in the whites of her eyes like a roadmap penned in red. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he was one of the good guys, to reassure her that she could trust him, that no harm would come her way—but he couldn't tell her any of that and he refused to compound his sins with yet another lie.
And so he issued a growling order. "Shut the hell up, Natasha. Now."
Grabbing his phone from his belt, he punched in a preset code. The phone rang once. Julian Samms picked up the other end. "Shoot."
"I need to get to the farm. Where's Briggs?"
"Hang," Julian ordered, and Christian waited while his SG-5 partner contacted Hank's chopper pilot, waited and watched Natasha hug herself with shaking hands, tears finally and silently rolling down her cheeks.
"I've got you on GPS. Briggs can be there in thirty, but you need to bank the car. And he needs a place to land. Hang."
More waiting. More looking for approaching cars. More watching Natasha glare, shake, and cry.
Christian switched from handset to earphone and lowered the gun to his thigh, keeping his gaze on Natasha while waiting for Julian's instructions. She seemed so small, so wounded, and he kicked himself all over again for failing to make it clear that their involvement was purely physical.
He should have spelled that out from day one, made it more clear that Peter Deacon took trophies, not lovers. But he'd never given her any such warning. Not that it would've done any good. Hell, he knew the lay of the land and here he was, so tied up in knots over what he was putting her through that he couldn't even think straight.
"My name is Christian Bane," he finally said, owing her that much. "That's all I can tell you right now."
She snorted, flipped him the bird, and turned to stare out her window. "Bane."
"Yeah." Hand to his earpiece, he turned his attention back to Julian.
"Two miles ahead on the right," Julian said as Christian shifted into gear and accelerated, "there's a cutoff. Through a gate. Looks like a dirt road, rutted as hell."
He brought the car up to speed, scanned the landscape. "Got it," he said, and made the turn, nearly bottoming out on the first bump.
"Half a mile, make another right. Other side of a stand of trees."
"Almost there." He reached the cutoff and turned again, caught sight of the tumbled down barn and stables, the flat pasture beyond. Perfect. Plenty of room for the chopper and cover for the car. "Tell Briggs we're waiting."
A short couple of seconds, and Julian said, "He says make it twenty. K.J.'s with him. He'll bring back the car. I'll keep the line open. Hank's expecting you."
"Thanks, J."
Christian maneuvered the Ferrari down the road that wasn't much more than a trail of flattened grass leading to a clearing surrounding the barn. Once he'd circled behind it, he tugged the wire from his ear, cut the engine, and pocketed the keys. When he opened his door, Natasha finally looked over.
"Going someplace?" she asked snidely.
"We both are," he bit back. "Get out."
"You can go to hell, but I'm not going anywhere."
"Actually, you are. And you're going with me." He reminded her that he was the one with the gun.
She got out of the car, slammed the door, and was off like a rocket back down the road. Shit, shit, shit. He checked the safety, shoved the Ruger into his waistband next to the SIG, and took off after her. She was fast, but he was faster. He closed in, but she never slowed, leaving him no choice.
He grabbed her arm. She spun toward him. He took her to the ground, bracing himself for the blow. He landed hard on his shoulder, doing what he could to cushion her fall. She grunted at the impact, and he rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his weight and his strength.
Her adrenaline made for a formidable foe. She shoved at his chest, pummeled him with her fists when he refused to move. He finally had no choice but to grab her wrists, stretch out her arms above her head, hold her there.
Rocks and dirt and twigs bit into his fingers. He knew she felt the bite in the backs of her hands, but still he straddled her, capturing her legs between his.
"You want to wait like this? Twenty minutes? Because we can." His chest heaved in sync with the rapid rise and fall of hers. "Or we can get up and wait at the car. I'm good either way. You tell me."
"Get off me." She spat out the words.
He rolled up and away, kept his hands on her wrists and pulled her to her feet. Then he tugged her close, making sure he had her full attention, ignoring the stabbing pain in his shoulder that didn't hurt half as much as the one in his gut. "I'm not going to put up with any shit here, Natasha. Both of our lives are very likely in danger."
"Oh, right. I can see that. You being the one with the gun and all." She jerked her hands
from his.
He let her go, walking a few feet behind her as she made her way slowly back to the barn and the parked car. She had nowhere to run; hopefully, he'd made his point. He had no intention to harm her, no reason to harm her, but he needed to finish this job, to make sure Spectra didn't get their hands on whatever it was Bow had to sell.
And now that he'd been stupid enough to get his cover blown . . .
"Where are you taking me?" She splayed shaking palms over the Ferrari's engine bay, staring down at her skin, which was ghostly pale against the car's black sheen.
"To get the answers you've been asking for," he said, guilt eating him from the inside out, and looked up with no small bit of relief at the thwup-thwup-thwup of an approaching chopper.
Natasha kept a death grip on the straps belting her against the helicopter's seat for the whole of the flight. She'd never been a big fan of air travel, but this time not only was her stomach in her throat, her heart was there, as well. She couldn't swallow. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't even think.
She wore the headset as Peter—Christian—insisted, but when he asked if she was okay, she didn't speak into the mike. She barely even nodded. She had nothing to say to him. Now or ever again.
They followed what she assumed was the Thruway due north then veered off to the east—or so was her best guess. It was tough to use the sun as a compass, what with it directly overhead in an overcast sky.
Listening to the brief snatches of conversation between Christian and the pilot named Jack, she determined they were heading for Saratoga County, where a man named Hank would be waiting. Waiting for what, she had no idea. She didn't want to know. Knowing would distract her from the only thing that mattered.
Escape.
Unfortunately, she didn't even have her purse. Not a credit card, a phone, or a dime to her name. Her shoes were good for walking, but even if she'd had a clue where she was and where to go, she wasn't dressed for the temperature expected tonight. Which meant finding a safe place to hole up before sunset. She didn't see that happening when she didn't know where she'd be an hour from now.