by Kat Martin
Clenching his jaw, he cracked open the door and slid down from the seat. These days, he rarely noticed the hitch in his stride as he walked, but he noticed it now, felt gangly and awkward as he crossed the street, walked up the path, and knocked on the front door.
He could hear footsteps on the carpet. She paused to check the peephole, then pulled the door open.
“Cole!” He hadn’t expected the warm smile that broke over her face. It made his chest clamp down.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said, stepping back to welcome him. “Come on in.”
He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold. He almost couldn’t believe he was there, ready to conquer his demons. He was ready. But what if Britt had changed her mind?
“Would you like a drink? I have a bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka, stuff my ex kept in the house.”
Her ex-fiancé, Avery Kaplan. Callous sonofabitch. Cole had been engaged to a girl like that, always out for herself. Heather and Avery would make a perfect pair.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m okay for now.” Though he could certainly use a little false courage. “I just . . . I wanted to talk to you about what happened last time.”
Her cheeks flushed prettily. With her dark hair and big blue eyes, Brittany was a beautiful woman. Sweet, too. A schoolteacher. He had known her since college, had always liked and respected her.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asked.
He couldn’t look away from those pretty blue eyes. He opened his mouth and his brains fell out. “I’d like to take you to bed. That’s what I wanted to do the last time I was here. I haven’t thought of anything else since I walked out the door that night.”
“Oh,” she said, and suddenly he felt like a fool.
“Damn, I’m sorry. Really. I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have come. I apologize for being so forward. I hope you’ll forgive—”
Her kiss cut off his words. Britt looped her arms around his neck, went up on her toes, and just kept kissing him.
A low groan escaped as Cole hauled her against him and deepened the kiss, tasting the sweetness that seemed to pour right out of her. The smell of spring flowers drifted up and his arousal strengthened. He’d been a fool to leave before. No matter what happened, he wasn’t leaving again.
Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom and set her on her feet next to the bed. “I want you, honey. I want you so damned much.”
“Oh, Cole, I want you, too.”
“Are you sure? If . . . if it bothers you, I’ll understand.”
She cupped his face between her hands. “You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what an incredible man you are. Take me to bed, Cole Wyman. Put me out of my misery.”
Cole felt his mouth edging into a smile. It was the last thing he’d expected. “You sure?”
“Are you kidding?” She kissed him again and he kissed her back until both of them were breathing fast and he was so hard he ached.
After that, everything just seemed to fall into place. Two cogs fitting perfectly together, two people made just for each other.
Everything is going to be okay, he thought as he lay beside her, words that hadn’t entered his head since that terrible explosion in the desert. Everything is going to be okay.
And as Brittany snuggled against him as if she belonged there, Cole believed it.
Chapter Thirty-One
Linc was worried. His brother was in considerable danger and there wasn’t a lot more he could do. He’d called Quinn Taggart and pressed him for details on the murders of Josh’s two marine buddies. Quinn had broken protocol and reluctantly filled him in.
Linc had also talked to Deke Logan. He had used the spec ops soldier turned security pro when he and Carly had been threatened by a drug lord. Linc trusted Deke, hired him to set up a security team around the property twenty-four /seven. But two thousand acres was a big chunk of land. There was always a chance the killer could get through.
He couldn’t do much more about protection, but he could do something about Damon Bridger. This morning he’d phoned Ross Townsend, the PI he had working in Phoenix.
According to Ross, Bridger’s alibi held up. There was nothing to connect Damon to the abduction of Lisa Shane or the murder of the redheaded waitress, no reason to believe he had anything to do with either of them.
But as Linc suspected and Townsend was soon able to confirm, Tory Bradford wasn’t the first woman Damon had abused.
Townsend had convinced one of Bridger’s victims to come forward, a cocktail waitress who had met Damon at the nightclub where she worked, a place called the Peacock. Suzy Solomon had agreed to talk to Aaron Guinness, the attorney Nate Temple worked with in Phoenix. Guinness was filing a civil suit for assault and battery on her behalf.
According to Suzy, Damon had seemed like the man of her dreams when they’d started dating, but after the first few weeks, he’d grown more and more possessive—and more and more violent.
Then late one night he’d shown up at her apartment. They’d argued and Bridger had used his fists to prove his point.
Suzy had refused to see him again and Damon had written her a five-hundred-dollar check to keep quiet. Afraid to go against him, Suzy had let the matter drop.
Apparently, she regretted her decision. With assurances that she would be provided with protection, she had agreed to the lawsuit. Townsend had found another woman who could probably be convinced to file charges, as well.
If things went according to plan, she wouldn’t need to bother.
Linc smiled as he leaned back in the chair behind his teakwood desk in the Dallas office.
Damon Bridger wanted trouble?
Lincoln Cain was just the man to give it to him.
* * *
Tory was eager to finish the webpage. She needed those ranch pictures badly. But Josh was determined to put off their photo safari until the FBI had the terrorist in custody.
“What if they don’t catch him?” she asked as she carried his dinner, leg of lamb with mint sauce, mashed potatoes, and brussels sprouts, over to the table and set the plate down in front of him.
Josh had worked late, not unusual for him. Tory had already fed Ivy and herself. The little girl was in the living room now, playing a video game on the Fire tablet Josh had bought for her on the Internet.
Tory didn’t think he was ready for all of them to sit down like a family at the dinner table. She didn’t want him to feel even more trapped than he did already.
Tory wasn’t ready for that, either. Ivy was growing more and more attached to Josh. If things didn’t work out and they had to leave the ranch, it was going to be hard on her daughter. She didn’t want to make things worse.
“We need those pictures,” she continued. “Your brother has armed men running all over the ranch on four-wheelers. I’m not the target. How about letting me go out on one of the ATVs and take some photos?”
Josh cut into the slice of lamb on his plate. “No way are you going out there by yourself. Besides, my camera is an old piece of crap. You said as much yourself.”
“I didn’t say it like that, and I can probably make do with it for a while. How about bringing the horses in one at a time? We could get the individual photos completed, get that part of the webpage done.”
He nodded. “That could work. But we still need a decent camera.” He downed a bite of lamb and groaned in pleasure. “Maybe by the time we get the preliminary photos done, the FBI will have the terrorist in custody.”
“Maybe.” Though it seemed like a long shot to her.
“We’ll head into Dallas tomorrow,” Josh said between bites. “Pick up a camera and whatever gear you need. You know more about this kind of thing than I do.”
“You think it’s safe to leave the ranch?”
“I can’t hide forever, and I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Since she really wanted to go, she didn’t argue. “I wish I still had my old Canon,” she grumbled. �
�I got low on money in Albuquerque and hocked it. I don’t even have a cell phone camera anymore.”
Josh took another bite of lamb. “Go on the Internet, find a good-quality camera shop in Dallas.”
“All right.” She went over to the counter and cut him a slice of carrot cake, walked back and set the plate down on the table. “Star would be fantastic on the front page of the website. I think we should start with him.”
“Good idea.” Josh eyed the cake with anticipation. “We’ll buy everything we need, get set up, then bring the stallion in and do the photos.”
He finished the pile of mashed potatoes he’d drenched in butter. “This is so freaking good.” He looked up at her and grinned. The shadow of beard along his jaw made him look like an outlaw. “Best deal I ever made. Hiring you to cook.”
She just smiled. One thing about Josh Cain, he appreciated a home-cooked meal. Good thing he burned off a jillion calories every day.
The evening slipped away. The following morning, Tory dressed with special care, choosing a flirty little yellow sundress with a swingy skirt and wide self-belt, one of the few summer dresses she owned.
A pair of strappy white open-toed sandals had survived the journey from Phoenix. They looked pretty with the tiny white daisies in the yellow fabric and the big white hoops in her ears.
“Wow,” Josh said when he arrived at the front door to pick her up. “Baby, you look gorgeous.” Those hot blue eyes traveled over her, head to foot. She thought that if Ivy hadn’t been there, they might not have made it to the truck without a trip back to the bedroom.
“Umm . . . thank you.”
She was surprised to see Josh in a pair of tan Wrangler dress jeans and a short-sleeved yellow print shirt. Clean-shaven, he wore polished lizard boots the color of whiskey, and apparently, he was leaving his cowboy hat behind. They were, after all, going into the big city.
He looked delicious.
The only hitch in what was starting as a very special day was the glimpse of a small semiautomatic pistol beneath his shirt in a holster clipped to his belt.
He was licensed to carry. He was a skilled marksman. Tory decided to pretend it wasn’t there.
“You ready?” Josh asked.
Ivy ran up to him. “I’m ready, Josh!” She lifted her arms so he could pick her up and Josh obliged, propping her against his shoulder as he walked her out to his truck and set her in her booster seat.
“Pretty soon you’ll be too heavy for Josh to lift,” Tory said, blushing at the thought of how easily he carried her into the bedroom whenever it suited his fancy.
They dropped Ivy off at Clara Thompson’s and headed the pickup toward Dallas. For the past few days, the weather had been in the nineties. Today was even hotter, the sun burning down so that mirages formed on the asphalt in the road ahead as the truck rolled along.
The camera shop, McFarland’s, was in a strip mall on Northwest Highway in Garland. They took I-30 toward Dallas, turned onto 645 north, exited the freeway, and a few minutes later, the pickup pulled into the lot and parked in a space right in front of the shop.
The stores were all glass-windowed, and a grassy, treed meridian bordered the opposite side of the parking lot.
McFarland’s appeared to sell high-quality equipment and be as professional as Internet reviews suggested. Tory started looking at low-priced cameras, but Josh insisted on purchasing something better.
“We’ll be changing the photos as horses come and go and the ranch continues to grow. We’ll be using the camera a lot more than once.”
She loved it when he said we, as if they were a team, as if she were important to him. It was stupid. She had no idea how long she would be staying on the ranch, how long before he grew tired of her and was ready to move on.
He’d made no promises, never hinted at a long-term relationship. Whatever happened, she’d do a good job for him while she was there.
She ended up choosing a Canon EOS Rebel DSLR camera, which came with an extra lens. They also purchased a sturdy tripod, flash attachment, a light boom arm stand, filters, memory cards, additional batteries, and a canvas gadget bag.
They were walking out of the shop, their arms full of merchandise, when one of her white hoop earrings fell off and bounced on the sidewalk. As Josh bent down to pick it up, a gunshot echoed and a chip flew out of the stucco building exactly where his head had just been.
“Get down!” Camera gear went flying, hitting the sidewalk and scattering all over as Josh shoved her to the ground, shielding her with his body. Moving together, they crab-walked, scrambled, and crawled to reach cover behind the front wheel of the closest vehicle, a silver SUV parked next to the truck.
“Stay here!” Josh pulled his pistol from the holster at his waist. “Call 9-1-1!”
Her purse, which had survived the fall, still hung from the strap over her shoulder. Her hands shook as she dug out her disposable phone and hit the emergency call number she had programmed into her cell.
Staying low, Josh peered around the front of the vehicle. Another shot echoed, slammed into the hood, and he moved, firing off several rounds, running hard to a new location.
The dispatcher answered. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Her heart was hammering, her palms sweating. “Someone is . . . is shooting at us. We’re in front of McFarland’s Camera store in Garland. We need help!”
Shots echoed. Josh returned fire and moved again, rolled behind a sturdy trash can, popped up, fired, and moved.
“Stay on the line, ma’am. I’ve got help on the way.”
She was trembling. “I think the man shooting at us is . . . is wanted by the FBI. Could you call Agent Quinn Taggart? Tell him it’s Victoria Bradford and Joshua Cain.”
“All right. Please, stay on the line, ma’am.”
Tory gripped the phone tighter as Josh fired again and ran toward the assailant, rapidly closing the distance between them. Tory couldn’t breathe. She thought of the soldiers who had been killed and said a silent prayer for Josh. Then she prayed the police would get there quickly.
“Please, God . . . please . . .”
Josh crouched low. He knew exactly who the shooter was—the same man who had murdered Pete and Coy. The terrorist who wanted vengeance for the death of the mullah’s Al-Qaeda son.
Josh fired toward the spot where the last shot had come from. The shooter was on the move, searching for a new position, but he hadn’t given up yet. Josh caught a flash of color between two parked cars on the opposite side of the parking lot near the grassy meridian. He fired off two rounds and started running, managed to skirt some cars and flatten himself behind the trunk of a tree.
A low hedge ran in front of the vehicles on that side of the lot. Staying low, he ducked behind the hedge. Running along beside it, moving quietly now, he circled around, working to get behind the shooter.
He spotted the man up ahead, tall and thin with a heavy beard, his attention still fixed on Josh’s last position. Josh eased closer. The hedge provided visual cover, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet.
As the shooter prepared to move again, he spotted Josh, whirled, and fired, the bullet tearing through the shrubbery, missing him by inches. Josh fired back, hitting his target in the chest, knocking him backward into the parking lot, his head slamming against the pavement.
It took sheer force of will not to pull off another round, but he wanted the man alive, knew the feds needed the information the terrorist could provide.
Sirens wailed as Josh ran up to the unconscious man lying on his back on the asphalt. Blood poured from a wound in his upper right chest. His breathing was ragged, his mouth open and slack, but he was alive.
Josh kicked his pistol away, crouched and ripped open the man’s white shirt, tore off a strip of fabric, and stuffed it into the wound to slow the bleeding. Sirens wailed. People were pouring out of the shops in the strip mall, beginning to form a circle around them.
Tory knelt beside him. “The police are on the
way. The FBI, too. I told them to send an ambulance.”
He nodded as he leaned over and put pressure on the bullet hole to slow the blood flow. Black-and-white patrol cars roared into the parking lot and the doors flew open. Uniformed officers spilled out and ran toward him, guns drawn.
“Dallas police! Put your weapon on the ground and your hands in the air!”
Tory took over, pressing hard on the man’s chest while Josh raised his hands in the air.
“My pistol is holstered at my waist.” A little .380. He wished he’d had his Beretta.
“Keep your hands in the air!” Three officers rushed forward and shoved him to the ground. One of them pulled the pistol out of his holster, then jerked his hands behind his back and locked a pair of cuffs around his wrists.
“My name is Joshua Cain. I’m former marine special ops. I’ve got a carry permit. The injured man is a terrorist wanted by the FBI.”
The cop’s dark eyebrows went up. “The feds are on the way,” he said. He grabbed Josh’s bound arms, helped him roll over and sit up cross-legged on the grass.
“That man tried to kill us,” Tory said to the heavyset balding cop who was eyeing Josh like a criminal. “He murdered two other marines already. Josh was defending himself and me.”
Another siren wailed as it drew near. Josh looked over to see an ambulance pulling into the parking lot. The doors swung open, EMTs jumped out and ran around to the back. In seconds, the paramedics had collected the gear they needed and were on the ground next to the victim, working to save his worthless life.
Tory backed away, her pretty sundress covered in blood. Josh wanted to go to her, comfort her, tell her she was safe and all of this was about to be over, but it wasn’t going to happen right away.
The heavyset cop stayed with her while Josh remained cuffed a few feet away. When half a dozen FBI vehicles roared into the parking lot and slammed on their brakes, Josh breathed a little easier. The big blond man crossing the lot in his direction was a damned fine sight to see.
Taggart stopped to speak to the EMTs, then walked over to Tory. “You all right?” he asked.