Rogue

by Laura Marie Altom

  “I-I understand.” But she didn’t. Not really. Of course, she grasped his need to continue loving those he’d lost. But she was right here, standing before him, heart beating strong and true. She wanted to be the one who comforted him and reassured him that he had permission to resume his life. Sadly, she lacked the power. And since she had been the one who’d pushed him away all those years ago, she also lacked the right.

  Her baby released a few fitful cries. She went to him, glad for something to do other than think about how different her life might now be had she married Nash when he’d asked.

  “All right, well . . .” Nash crossed his arms. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Without a sound, she watched him go.

  “Sweetie,” she whispered to her son on her way to a rocking chair to feed him. “How is it that the whole time we were stuck in that smelly swamp, Nash and I connected like we used to, yet now, we feel like strangers?”

  Of course, her wide-eyed son had no more answers than she did.

  “I need to name you.” While he fed from her breast, she traced the tip of her pinkie down his cheek. “And then I need to get back to reality. I used to be lucky enough to work with my best friend, but things between us went sour.” She smoothed the crown of her baby’s head. “Delia and I used to own the sweetest dress shop. We sold pretty purses and evening gowns and shoes, but your mommy went and did something not so smart when she let Vicente talk her into selling her half.” She refused to call that monster her son’s father. A man had to earn that title. “Because I love you, maybe I’ll start a new business. When you’re older, you can help. We’ll be a team. Together, we’ll be a spectacular duo.”

  Her words sounded more reassuring than they felt.

  Still, she was determined to make at least one part of her life right, so when her son finished snacking, she climbed onto the king-sized bed, tucked him alongside her, then used the house’s landline to call the Centre Street boutique, Glad Rags, she used to spend so much time at that she considered it home.

  “It’s a great day to look your best. This is Delia. May I help you?”

  “Dee, it’s Maisey.”

  “Where are you? You’re all over the news. Are you all right? Did Nash really take you against your will? Because back when we were in school, seemed like you were fully consenting.”

  “Ha ha. I am with Nash, but only because he’s trying to help. My mom got him involved, and—”

  “Is she with you, too? When I first saw the news story, I called her but got no answer.” Maisey was touched that her friend had been concerned for her well-being.

  “Yes. She’s here, along with Nash’s mom. He thought they would both be safer that way.”

  “This is incredible—like something out of a movie.”

  “I know, right?” It felt amazing to be chatting with her friend like old times. Normal. And at the moment, that was what she most craved. They hadn’t left off on the best of terms. For a while, Maisey had needed to apologize. Finally, now was her chance.

  “Listen to me, rambling when you probably had a reason for calling. How can I help?”

  Maisey’s eyes once again stung. “I wanted to apologize for leaving you in the lurch, but mostly, I wanted to help you. To warn you that you might be in danger.”

  “You know I can take care of myself.” There was a long pause. “As for that apology, it’s not necessary. You and I will always be friends.”

  “Thanks.” Now it was Maisey taking time to find her composure. Her friend’s kind words meant the world. “But I made a big mistake with this guy. He’s dangerous. I don’t think he’d come after you to find me, but I can’t be sure. Promise you’ll at least be careful?”

  “Promise. Now, get back to your gorgeous baby and handsome man.”

  Maisey wished Nash was her man.

  After saying their goodbyes, Maisey hung up. She felt wistful for old times when she and Delia and Nash had been like three amigos. With those days long gone, all she could do was focus on her hopefully Vicente-free future. She’d get a small business loan and open her own shop. She could take her son with her to work—maybe even rent a storefront with an efficiency apartment above? Everything would work out fine.

  Except for her broken heart . . .

  23

  VICENTE RODRIGUEZ WAS a ghost.

  For all of his previous visibility, intel now showed no satellite photos of movement between his three south Florida homes, and he’d closed all online accounts. Nash hadn’t been surprised to find that the Stanhope police force had made a recent purchase of thirty patrol cars—one for each man on the force, plus ten spare. Detective Howard retired and moved to a swanky gated community in Belize. Had that been the going rate for his soul?

  Nash had become a fugitive. The media machine pegged him as a violent, mentally-unhinged kidnapper, who was a breath away from stealing newborns and eating them for breakfast.

  Meanwhile, the shadows beneath Maisey’s eyes had darkened, and far from her being a content new mom, she was fidgety and gloomy.

  Her fitful baby mirrored her mood.

  Nash pitched the sub sandwich Jasper had brought him back onto its paper wrap, and shoved it across the outdoor kitchen’s counter. It was two in the morning. Almost time for his turn at the nightly watch to end.

  Above the pool chemicals’ chlorine scent rose dank musk from the nearby marsh. Crickets chirped. The occasional frog croaked and dogs barked, but otherwise, all was quiet in their temporary world.

  A liberal dowsing of bug spray even kept mosquitoes at bay.

  Nash should have been confident and calm, but the truth was that his stomach sat on a knife’s edge, constantly at war with any given meal. He no longer gave a damn about himself, but what was happening with Maisey wasn’t right. She deserved to have her life back. She needed the comfort of knowing that if she chose to take her son for a stroll, they’d be safe. She’d grown weary of constantly looking over her shoulder, and he couldn’t blame her.

  He was tired, too.

  At times, he selfishly wished her mother had never gotten him mixed up in Maisey’s case. He’d been better off alone, before he’d remembered how good they’d once been.

  In the swamp, with her covered in dirt, scratches and bites, it had been easier to remind himself Maisey was his latest assignment—nothing more. But here, in the kind of mansion he’d once dreamed of providing for her, it grew increasingly harder to maintain a detached professionalism. Each time she swept her long curls up from her neck, he fought not to brush his lips along her elegant throat. She’d long ago harbored fantasies of becoming a ballerina. Back in junior high, he and his mother had gone to one of Maisey’s shows. She hadn’t been the star, but in his eyes, she might as well have been the only girl onstage. She’d worn glittery pink and looked like the spinning dancer inside of his mother’s favorite jewelry box.

  Back then, anything had seemed possible.

  Now, reality served daily doses of truth. His truth? He’d had his grand shot at love with Hope and lost it. Now, he wasn’t even sure what love meant or entailed—certainly far more than he had available to emotionally give.

  Jasper wandered up. “Ready for some shut-eye?”

  “Nah. I’m all right, if you’ve got something you’d rather do.”

  “Cool,” he chuckled. “I’ll head down to the Bahamas for a while. Catch a few conch, maybe a nice, juicy grouper. I’ll cook myself a damned fine meal.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Oh—wait until I tell you about my companion . . .” He whistled. “She’s a looker. Long, dark hair and eyes as green as lime Jell-O.”

  “Is she an alien?” Nash couldn’t resist teasing. “Don’t know if I’m into the whole green Jell-O thing?”

  “Screw you. You know what I mean. Her name’s Eden, and I’m seriously into her—only one problem.”

  “She’s not into ugly guys like you?”

  “Ha ha. Point of fact, she’s an English lit pr
ofessor, but her dad studies microbes. She leaves in November for a year in the Antarctic. She plans to use the isolation to write a novel.”

  “Huh?” Nash scratched his head. “Why the hell would anyone voluntarily go there? More importantly, why would a smarty like her be into a dunce like you?”

  “You’re quite the jokester tonight.

  “I try.” Nash grinned. It felt unexpectedly good to crack a smile. For days—hell, months—he’d walked around like the Grim Reaper, mourning the passing of his wife and unborn son. He didn’t deserve happiness, and because of that fact, he resumed his usual frown.

  “And he’s back . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dude, your scowl has become epic. Loosen up. You’ve got a gal in the house who’s crazy about you. Do what you do, then get on with your life.”

  “What exactly do I do?” From Nash’s point of view, from the start of his marriage and certainly Maisey’s rescue, he hadn’t tried doing anything hard enough. If he had, he’d still be married today. Maisey would be wholly safe. “From where I’m sitting, it feels like my life has become one, big series of screw-ups.”

  “Knock it off. Losing Hope and the baby was a tough break, but she could outdrink any of us and had a laugh that transported you to the sun.” Eyes shining in the dim light, he placed his hand over his heart. “She was incredible. We all loved her. But she’s been gone a while, yet you haven’t even kind-of moved on.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Phil.” A muscle ticked in Nash’s jaw from pure annoyance.

  “All I’m saying is that with Maisey and her baby boy, fate set a perfect do-over in your lap. Don’t screw it up.”

  I already have.

  24

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing?” Nash asked Maisey a little past ten the next morning. He’d finally gotten a few hours’ shut-eye and felt only half as morose as he had the night before. Huge improvement, right?

  “Finding a place to jump-start my life.” She sat at the mansion’s glass-top kitchen table, circling newspaper ads. Her baby lounged in his carrier in a sunny patch alongside her chair. “As soon as we’re out of here, I’m going to open my own second-hand boutique. I called Delia yesterday to warn—”

  “Hold up. You what?” Gaze narrowed, he shook his head. “Please tell me you didn’t tell her where you are.”

  “Of course, not. I wouldn’t be that dumb.” She set down the green Sharpie she’d been using.

  “Have you ever heard of a wiretap? Geez, Mais. Big mistake. Huge.”

  “How is it wrong to talk to a friend? I was scared for her. If she’d heard from Vicente, don’t you think she’d have told me? What’s wrong with you? Why do you always want to fight?”

  He sighed. “What I want is to keep you safe. I can’t do that if you talk to random people from your supposedly secret location.”

  “Dee isn’t just random or people. She’s a dear friend we’ve known since forever.”

  “Right. How could I forget you’re an expert judge of character?”

  “That was a low blow.”

  “Sorry.” But it was the truth. He’d once loved that Maisey was trusting enough to have never met a soul she didn’t consider an instant friend. Now? The safest route would be assuming the worst in everyone until they proved otherwise. Honestly, he’d been proud of her for second-guessing even Harding. Five million bucks was life-changing money. A lot of people would do a lot of bad things to get it. “Remember how nice Harvey and Mildred seemed? Folks are motivated by all kinds of things. Money is universal.”

  “What motivates you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What about my question don’t you understand?” She leaned in. “Why are you going to all of this trouble for me? If it’s not for money, then what?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Liar. Your mom said you’ve been with her for a while and showed no signs of wanting to rejoin your team.”

  “We’re not an official team anymore. Our SEAL days ended a long while back.” He’d screwed that up, too.

  “From what I can tell, you and your friends are still very much a team. Sure, you might be private contractors now instead of working for the government, but your end goals seem pretty much the same—keeping innocent people safe. Does that sound about right?”

  “Stop. You don’t know anything about me. We haven’t really talked in years.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “No. This is more like an interrog—”

  “Yo, Nash.” Jasper entered the kitchen. “Heads-up. We’ve got a guy out front claiming to be a door-to-door salesman. Everett and Briggs watched him work his way up the street, but we’re not buying it. Want us to detain him?”

  “No. If he is one of Vicente’s guys that would tip them off that we’re not a normal household. Once he’s gone, we need to discreetly be on our way.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh—and run a check on an old friend of ours, Delia Leti. She’s here in Jacksonville. I want eyes and ears on her.”

  “Roger, that.”

  “We’re leaving?” Maisey asked.

  “Yes. ASAP. Pack up yourself and—”

  While he’d been talking to Jasper, Maisey had lifted her son from his carrier and now rocked him in her arms.

  “When are you giving that kid a name?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Nash stopped short of firing off a smart-assed answer. “Can we not do this? Bickering gives me a headache.”

  “You started it with your snide remark about my son’s lack of a name. Don’t you think I know he needs one? But at this point, he doesn’t even have a birth certificate or social security number. Officially, he doesn’t exist anywhere but on hospital records, the news, and my heart. What kind of twisted world did I bring him into? And now, we’re going to be back on the run?”

  “Look . . .” His every instinct told him to take her free hand, or draw her onto his lap so he could properly hold her and her baby. But if he gave himself permission to comfort her, what happened next? How did he show her how much he cared about not only her physical safety, but overall well-being, without allowing her further into his soul? Because the truth about why he felt so on edge had less to do with worries about her ex and his guys storming their temporary castle, than it did about Nash protecting his own aching heart. “You’re going to be a great mom. Give the poor kid a name. Any name. Bob or Peter or Doug. I’ll bet when you two settle into your new routine, you’ll call him by some goofy nickname. Like maybe he’ll eat too many saltine crackers and one day you’ll teasingly call him Salty and it’ll stick.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to call this precious child Bob or Salty?” Her faint smile caused all manner of chaos in his already tight chest.

  “Those sound as good as any others. What are your top picks?”

  “Mom likes the name Zane, but I think it’s too harsh for a baby.”

  “He’s not going to weigh six pounds forever.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Thanks for that parenting tip.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Your mom wants me to call him Richard.”

  “Nice. That was her father’s name. What are you leaning toward?”

  “Joseph—Joe for short. That was my grandfather’s name.”

  “Perfect. So what’s the problem?”

  “That’s just it. I do want it to be perfect. I’ve already failed by giving him an awful father. What if I mess up his name, too? He’ll hate me before he even knows me.”

  “For all the grief you give me about holding on to my past, you’re equally as bad. What happened with your ex is old news. Odds are, one of my guys will flush him out soon, and then we’ll hand him over to police we know can’t be bought.”

  “Didn’t you tell me everyone has a price? How do you know your cops will be any different? Even if they do get Vicente behind bars, what’s going to keep him there?” She rose and paced, cr
adling her son close. “How am I ever going to be truly free?”

  “Have patience. We’re working on it, okay?” Nash’s arms ached from the effort of not pulling her into the sort of embrace that would allow her to not only feel secure in the moment, but in their shared future. Only that would be a lie. Because regardless of the outcome with her ex, because Nash’s heart was already taken, the two of them could never be a couple again. “As long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll never give up.”

  “Thank you.” Her sad, shimmering gaze made him all the more determined to return her smile.

  “No problem.” Only where she was concerned, everything was a problem. The faint scent of lilacs in her hair. Her full lower lip he remembered drawing into his mouth to keep her from crying out when they’d hidden in his bedroom closet to study each other. The longer they were together, the more memories flooded his system—not replacing those of his wife, but coming into clearer focus than they’d ever been before. They weren’t all of hot sex, but Sunday dinners and yard work and riding bikes with her down to the corner store. Holding her when she’d sobbed over not making the debate team. Having her comfort him when he’d lost the state baseball title. Their lives had been tangled to the point that he wasn’t sure where he left off and she began. He’d always assumed that was the way they would always be, then she’d rejected him and he’d walked away. Prior to losing his wife and baby, that was the most crushing pain he’d ever felt. Why had he ever given her that much power? “So is it official? You’re naming the little guy, Joe?”

  “Yes. I love it. Thank you.”

  He was the one owing her thanks. Her smile brought back the sun. More than anything, he wanted to hold her and kiss her and comb his hands through her soft curls, but how could he do any of that while honoring Hope?

  “Should I go pack?”

  “No time.” Not wanting the intimacy that may stem from simply holding her hand, he pressed his palm to the small of her back, propelling her toward the garage.