Deadly Valentine

by Davis, Justine; Davis, Justine

  “They’re not robbing you. They’re searching for clues to Peter’s secret and learning everything they can about you so they can find you. If you called the police, these guys would mow through an unsuspecting cop like grass.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Thank God. She was using the term we. He started the car and eased out of the parking space. “First order of business is to get out of here. Then we go to ground, figure out how to retrieve Peter’s secret and discover why professional killers are so hot and bothered to get their hands on it.”

  “Easy-peasy, cheddar cheesy,” she muttered.

  “Okey-dokey, artichokey,” he replied automatically.

  She looked over at him, wide-eyed. “Peter always used to say that.”

  “Like you said,” Colt replied grimly, “Vulcan mind-meld.”

  Chapter 2

  T hey made it all the way to the parking lot of a hotel north of San Francisco before it dawned on Layla that she had nothing but the clothes on her back with her. “Ohmigosh!” she exclaimed. “What am I going to do for clothes or a toothbrush or…” she stopped, embarrassed.

  “Clean underwear?” her companion supplied dryly.

  “Well, yes,” she mumbled.

  “That’s why I brought us to a decent hotel. There’ll be toiletries in the room. As for clothes, I’ve got cash. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow.”

  Under normal circumstances, she might relish spending this man’s money out of general principles, but they’d already established that nothing about this night was normal. He murmured to her to keep quiet while he checked them in. She was stunned when he claimed they were married, gave a fake name to the desk clerk, and then proceeded to produce a driver’s license bearing that same name. Who was this guy? Was he really Colt McQuade at all? Was he actually the bad guy?

  It didn’t help matters when he leaned close to the clerk, whispered mysteriously, and then slid a folded hundred-dollar bill across the counter to the guy. Deep misgivings about being alone with this stranger in a hotel room rolled over her. As he led her across the lobby toward an elevator, she gave in to her fears and balked. “I think this may not be a good idea, Mr. McQuade. I don’t know you at all.”

  “I can’t be any worse than Tony Mastraconi.”

  Layla scowled. She’d gone to high school with Tony, and the jerk had been convinced he was entitled to any girl he wanted. Peter had valiantly stood up once to Tony under the bleachers at a pep rally on her behalf. It was why her best friend had a bridge and two false front teeth. “Okay, fine. So you know stuff about my past that only Peter would know. That doesn’t necessarily make you a good guy. You could be one of Peter’s interrogators for all I know.”

  “Yeah, except those men who jumped you, jumped me, too.”

  “Could’ve been staged.”

  She glared at him and he stared back frustrated. They were at an impasse. Finally, he sighed. Reached behind his waist and underneath his jacket. “If I wear these, would that make you feel better?” He raised his hand and a pair of metal handcuffs dangled from his index finger.

  He had handcuffs under his coat? “There are so many comments I could make in response to your having those I don’t know where to start,” she groused.

  She snatched the cuffs, and he turned around, grinning without comment, holding his hands behind his back. She snapped them on his wrists. As they stepped into the elevator, he commented wryly, “Only in this town could a woman cuff a man in a hotel lobby and nobody say a blessed thing about it.”

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” she muttered as she followed him onto the elevator.

  They got to the room and she took the key card out of his hand. The lock clicked and she pushed the door open. Colt followed her inside. Without prompting, he moved over to the king-size bed and sat down on the edge of it. She moved to the window, facing him cautiously.

  “Okay, Mr. McQuade. Start talking.”

  “Please, call me Colt.” She shrugged, and he continued, “I’ve told you most of what I can. I need your help extracting whatever memories Peter planted in my head before those jokers who attacked you catch up with us.”

  “And I already told you, I have no idea how to help you.”

  He gazed directly into her eyes. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  A strange little shiver rippled down her spine. Together, huh? Good thing he was entirely not her type. She went for artsy, eccentric men. Of course, those guys had an unfortunate tendency to drift into the bed of the next interesting female who happened across their path. Hence, her perpetual single state.

  “Where did Peter hide his secrets when he was a kid?” Colt asked, interrupting her reverie.

  She frowned. “On his computer, mostly. He had an electronic journal. But he used to brag that the encryption to get into it was better than the stuff the Pentagon uses.”

  Colt snorted. “Knowing him, I can believe that. However, I’m told the government has already read his journals. There’s no sign of what we’re looking for in there. What about objects or things he wanted to keep secret? Where did he hide those?”

  “What kind of objects?”

  “Drugs. Condoms. Porn magazines. Whatever teenaged boys want to keep their parents from confiscating.”

  She laughed. “That may be what you were hiding. Peter didn’t do drugs or girls. To my knowledge, he never hid anything at home. He didn’t have an exactly warm and trusting relationship with his parents.”

  “My impression was he didn’t have a warm and trusting relationship with anyone except you,” Colt replied gently.

  A flare of loss seared her soul. God, she missed Peter. She whispered, “Was he in pain when he died?”

  Agony glinted dagger sharp in Colt’s eyes. He shook his head in mute denial, but his eyes said it all. Oh, Lord. It had been worse than she’d imagined. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Colt half rose as if to comfort her, but she shrank away from him. He subsided with a sigh, as if interpreting her movement to be one of fear.

  It wasn’t, though. She didn’t dare let anyone put their arms around her or give her permission to be weak. Once the dam opened, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get it shut again against the flood of grief tenuously held at bay. Peter had been the other half of her. Her soul mate in every way but one.

  She curled up on the far side of the big bed, lost in sad memories. To his credit, McQuade was silent, respecting her misery. The hour grew late, and sand replaced the tears in her eyes. She didn’t mean to do it, but her eyelids drifted closed and she fell asleep, the stress of the bizarre evening finally catching up with her.

  Colt watched Layla, studying her features, memorizing the sweet line of her cheek, the soft fall of gold-tipped lashes against her porcelain skin. She was even more lovely in sleep when suspicion and doubt weren’t crowding her gaze. Hard to believe that Peter and she hadn’t been lovers. If she’d been his best friend forever, he damn well would have—

  He broke off the thought. Not what he was here for. Exhaustion dragged at him. He’d been on the run continuously for days. He’d been catching naps in snatches here and there, but it was about time for him to go down for a solid eight hours if he was going to maintain any kind of combat effectiveness.

  Thing was, he was still handcuffed. He could wake up Layla and ask her to unlock him, but there was no guarantee she’d do it even if he asked. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on his side of the big bed. She hugged the far side of it, her back turned to him. She smelled good. He inhaled the soft vanilla-cookie scent of her and rolled to his stomach to ease the strain on his shoulders. God, it felt good to be horizontal on a real bed and smelling a beautiful woman. That was his last thought before he passed out.

  How long he slept before the nightmares claimed him, he had no idea. He just knew that he was in a stone-walled room with his captors once more.

  They’d learned early to tie his hands and feet lest he break the unwary nose or wreck the nearest knee.
Waves of fury rolled through him as they ran through the usual warm-up routine—beating, burning and electrocution. Kid stuff as torture went. The door opened just out of range of his swollen, split eyes.

  Khan stepped into view. He was the sickest bastard Colt had ever had the misfortune to run across. Now, this man understood torture. Fear rippled through Colt, making his entire body shake reflexively in anticipation. Khan was a true master at inflicting pain, and furthermore, enjoyed the hell out of it. As Khan reached for his filleting knives, Colt couldn’t help the tearing panic that screamed at his body to fight or flee. He fought his bonds, struggling futilely against the suffering to come. Dante’s inferno had nothing on hell according to Khan.

  The knife laid into his skin, peeling a strip from the flesh beneath, and he screamed. A heavy weight landed on him, holding him down and he struggled more wildly against the ropes.

  Weight on his chest. He fought harder. Rolled to his back.

  Something smacked Colt sharply across the cheek, although it barely registered compared to the other torture his body was suffering. Not a chance he would wake up voluntarily. His only refuge from Khan was this stolen moment of unconsciousness. The horror of the insults to his body threatened to overwhelm him and darkness crept forward. He strained toward it. Blessed oblivion.

  Another sharp slap snapped his head the other direction.

  “Dammit, Colt. Wake up!”

  Crap. He knew the drill. They would douse him in cold water and electrocute him next to wake him. His temporary respite from hell was over. If only his hands were free. He yanked desperately on his bonds.

  Hands held his shoulders down, cupped his face, shaking urgently. “Look at me!”

  Reluctantly, he blinked his eyes open. What the heck? Not Khan. Not even a man. The biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen stared down at him, and the distinct swell of a perfectly shaped breast was about a foot away from his face. As dirty thoughts ripped through his head, he jerked his gaze up to those stunning, blue-on-blue eyes. Man, he could get lost in that sapphire ocean and gladly drown in it. Had he died? Gone to heaven?

  Layla watched warily as Colt roused slowly from his tactical nuclear nightmare. How in the heck he’d come to be in bed beside her she had no idea, but at least he was still safely handcuffed. It was probably the only thing keeping him from killing her at the moment. The guy was clearly having some sort of hallucination or flashback.

  She all but sobbed in relief when his eyes finally opened. “Layla?” he whispered tentatively, almost like he didn’t believe she was real.

  “Thank God. You were having a bad dream.”

  “What are you doing on top of me?”

  “Trying to keep you from hurting yourself. What were you dreaming about?”

  His gaze went hard but remained haunted. It tore at her heart to see the pain his dark, opaque gaze.

  “Please, Layla. You have to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

  What did he mean? That he couldn’t open up the secrets in his mind without her? Or something more sinister? Like he was losing his grip on reality? Or that he wasn’t strong enough to fight off their attackers alone? Scary thought. She couldn’t imagine anyone stronger than this warrior of a man.

  “What do those men want from you?” she asked.

  “They want the information Peter put in my mind. Whatever it is, it’s obviously important or Pete wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to hide it in my mind.”

  “Did he tell you anything at all about what he put there?” she prompted when he didn’t continue.

  “He said he put it in a jar.” Colt added bitterly, “Whatever the hell that means.”

  “What jar?”

  “A jar with no lid.” An edge crept into his voice. “I’ve been over all of this with the experts and they all say either there’s nothing there at all or else Peter set up some kind of trigger for releasing the memory he locked away—this jar with no lid he referred to.”

  “You’re telling me there could be nothing inside your head at all? You could be dragging me all over the West Coast on a wild-goose chase?”

  “There’s something in my head. I’m sure of it.” McQuade’s eyes closed, almost like he was praying for it to be so.

  What trouble had Peter laid on her doorstep now? Exactly how dangerous were those men tracking her and Colt? If McQuade was afraid of them, she probably ought to be fainting dead away with terror.

  Colt started to reach up to lay a comforting hand on Layla’s cheek, but something jerked sharply at his wrists. Something unpleasant stabbed at his gut. Fear, dammit. He yanked against the restraints, hearing the telltale rattle of metal. Handcuffs. Abruptly, memory engaged. Layla. Afraid of him. He’d offered to wear cuffs to calm her down. Must’ve fallen asleep in the damned things. Dreamed of Khan…

  Lingering panic at being tied and helpless rippled through him. The shrinks said he might have a phobia of being tied up for the rest of his life. He hated this weakness in himself. He wanted to be back the way he was before he’d been captured and tortured within an inch of his sanity and his life.

  “For the love of God, get these cuffs off me,” he gritted out.

  Terror was building in his gut like construction foam, expanding into every crack in his soul. Puffing up, pushing out, suffocating him, insidious and unstoppable. Harsh breathing rasped in his ear and he realized with dismay that it was him making that awful gasping noise.

  Layla reached for his face, cradling his cheeks with impossibly soft palms. “Easy, Colt. It’ll be okay. Where’s the key?”

  “Dunno,” he choked out. “Pocket.”

  She reached for his chest. Her hands slid inside his crumpled suit coat, warm and tentative through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. She fished around in the breast pocket before sliding her hands lower. As her fingers trailed across his stomach, every muscle there knotted in a tight washboard of pleasure. She leaned over him to check the lower pockets of his jacket, and the tempting swell of a breast loomed in front of him again. An urge to raise his head, to suckle the nipple pushing impudently at her silk blouse, nearly overcame him. Geez. He was totally losing it. But hey. She’d momentarily distracted him from his panic attack.

  Of course, as soon as he thought of it, the damned thing came roaring back full force. And with it came a large dose of humiliation that she was seeing him in this state. He was supposed to be strong. In control. Able to handle anything. But he couldn’t even stop himself from hyperventilating at the moment.

  “I can’t find the key,” she said worriedly.

  “Pants,” he mumbled.

  “Great,” she griped under her breath. She sounded nearly as uncomfortable as he felt.

  He must distract himself or he was going to do something really stupid like faint. He focused on her chest looming inches from his face as she contorted herself searching for the missing key.

  She either wasn’t wearing a bra, or the one she had on was damned flimsy, given how clearly he saw the outline of her chest under her blouse. He did his best not to imagine the creamy fullness or tight, pink nipples pushing against white lace, but with them all but brushing against his face, it was damned hard not to.

  Her hand slid into the front pocket of his slacks. Parts of him perilously close to her fingers leaped to eager attention. Oh, for crying out loud. He gritted his teeth and silently begged her to find the damned key before he completely embarrassed himself on top of everything else. At least he was breathing deeply now.

  She tugged on his sleeve, and he rolled obediently to his side. His shoulder protested, but he ignored the ice picks stabbing the joint. His abrupt discomfort elsewhere was much more distracting. He stifled a groan as her hand slid into his other front pocket and fished around. She didn’t find the key, but she found something else that made her cheeks flame as hot as his and made his discomfort even worse.

  She mumbled, “Key’s not there.”

  He rolled onto his stomach, grateful for the modicum of priv
acy it afforded him. “Back pocket,” he grunted.

  Of course, it was in the last pocket she checked. She had thoroughly fondled his rear end before the damned key showed up. In fact, he was getting panicky again by the time she fumbled at his wrists. “Stay still,” she ordered.

  The instant the lock popped free he rolled over and sat up. Layla lurched, but not fast enough. He banged into her hard enough he nearly knocked her backward off the bed. He grabbed her shoulders quickly and dragged her upright. Which also had the effect of plastering her body against his.

  A world of sensation flooded him, as sweetly intoxicating as the memories of Khan had been agonizing. She was soft. And warm. And pliable. Vulnerable. And dammit, all of a sudden she was breathing as hard as he was.

  Their gazes met. Hers was confused, darkening with passion. His had to be just as confused. Lord knew what else she saw in his eyes.

  Sure, he’d had women since he got back from his captivity. But that had been sex for the sake of sex. Mostly, they’d been women who’d gotten off on the idea of healing the wounded hero. One step up from the usual groupies who hung around military bases looking for Special Forces soldiers to hook up with. None of them had fired his blood like this woman had…this woman he was supposed to work with to figure out what the hell Peter Morrison had done to him. A woman he had no business thinking of in that way.

  As if his worry about it conjured the thought in her head, she had to go and touch him just then. He became aware of her hands soft on his chest, drifting up his arms and across his shoulders, flitting feather-light along his jaw, tracing his brow.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered in what sounded like genuine concern. “You’re not going to freak out on me again now that you’re awake, are you?”

  “No. I won’t mistake you for Khan now that I’m awake.”

  “Do I want to know who Khan is?”

  “He’s the bastard who killed Peter and nearly killed me.”