by Tiffany Snow
We sat in companionable silence watching a Monsters of the Deep special on the Discovery Channel, though I wasn’t paying much attention. After a while, I asked, “So what happens tomorrow?”
I didn’t know how much attention Scott was paying either because he was quick to answer. Glancing at me, he said, “Tomorrow I’ll get a report from forensics on the bomb. Maybe there were prints. Also, we’ll go through some photographs, see if you can pick out Clive. If not, we’ll get a sketch artist to work with you, see what we can come up with.”
I breathed a little sigh of relief. He had a plan. That was good. Having a plan was good. Because I felt adrift and lost. And maybe it showed, because he reached out and took my hand again.
“You all right?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s just . . . I have no place to call home at the moment. The man I thought was my boyfriend is nowhere to be found. And there’s some psycho out there who wants to hurt me, maybe kill me, and is probably watching my every move.” I shrugged. “All in all, I’ve had better days.”
Scott’s smile was sympathetic. “I know it sucks right now, but it’ll be okay. You can stay here as long as you like. I’ll keep you safe.”
I decided to go for blunt honesty. Games weren’t my thing.
“You know I can’t offer you anything more,” I said. “Not right now. Maybe not ever.”
He shrugged. “I like you. I like being around you. More isn’t necessary. I’ll take what I can get.”
I guessed he liked blunt honesty, too.
We hung out there like that until the end of the show. Scott kept hold of my hand, and I almost pulled away, but then thought it might get awkward and uncomfortable between us. I didn’t want that, so I let it be.
“I think I’m going to go to bed,” I said when the credits started to roll.
“Sure.” He stood and led me into his bedroom. “Make yourself at home.”
It was a nice room with a big bed. That pang of guilt struck again. “Are you sure about this?” I asked. “I could always go to a motel or something.” Though the idea of being alone against whatever Clive had planned next made a chill run down my spine.
“I’m not a fragile flower,” Scott said, turning down the covers on the bed. “The couch isn’t exactly roughing it. Trust me.”
I laughed a little at this. He did have a really nice couch.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
He smiled at me, his chocolate eyes warm, his jaw roughened with a five-o’clock shadow. Yes, Scott was very easy on the eyes. If not for Devon . . .
“Good night,” I said.
“’Night, Ivy.” He softly closed the door on the way out.
I climbed into bed, the sheets soft from many washings. Scott’s scent permeated the blankets and pillow, but it was comforting to me, and I fell asleep faster than I thought I would.
The buzzing of my cell phone woke me. Disoriented, I looked around the dark room, and it took a second for me to remember where I was. Then my phone buzzed again and I grabbed it off the table. Maybe it was Devon calling me.
“Hello?”
“Ivy, darling. You’re having a sleepover! I take it you didn’t like my extreme home makeover?”
My eyes went wide and I was fully awake. “Clive?”
“Perhaps not a dumb blonde after all,” he said. “I was wondering if they’d still be picking up pieces of you scattered all over the street. I’m somewhat glad they’re not. A bit more entertaining this way.”
“Entertaining how?” I asked, my voice stiff.
“Gives me a bit of a challenge, playing with you whilst I await Devon’s arrival.”
“He’s not coming,” I said. “We’re not in a relationship. I hardly ever see him. He may never come again.”
“Oh, I can guarantee he will,” Clive replied. “You see, Devon has one weakness.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman he allows himself to care for. And you, dear Ivy, have become that woman.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, simultaneously glad to hear that maybe I meant something to Devon, and devastated that those feelings would be used against him.
“So he will come. Trust me on that.”
“I don’t want you to hurt Devon,” I said. “Please. He was your friend—”
“Was,” Clive interrupted. “But no longer.”
I swallowed. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
“I was going to, but then I realized . . . you’re hiding a secret, aren’t you, Ivy?” His voice lowered to a whispering hiss. “And I love secrets.”
The line went dead.
Staring into the darkness, I replayed the conversation in my head. There wasn’t just one secret I was hiding, but two.
I glanced at my purse, where I’d hidden the pages from the journal—an encrypted recipe for the vaccine. No one besides Scott knew I had those pages, and even he didn’t know what the code hid within them. I’d sent them to him for safekeeping and he’d returned them to me, but Devon thought I’d destroyed them. Even now I wondered if I should do that, but something wouldn’t let me.
The next morning I was up early. I wasn’t accustomed to sleeping in someone else’s bed and the late night phone call from Clive had nightmares playing inside my head.
I knew what he was talking about when he said I had a secret, and it terrified me. Only one person other than Devon was still alive after knowing I’d been infected with the deadly virus . . . Clive. He alone knew that I shouldn’t have survived. The fact that I was still alive meant I was immune, and immunity meant the virus could be weaponized and controlled.
Clive had worked for the same people Devon did—a British intelligence service called the Shadow—and Devon had told me if they knew I carried the vaccine to the virus in my blood, not even he could protect me from them. I wasn’t supposed to know about the Shadow, but I’d been drawn into their plans and Devon had told me. There was a lot I didn’t know, but what I did was enough to have me looking over my shoulder constantly.
Scott was in the kitchen by the time I’d showered and changed into black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It was formfitting and in a thin enough material that I wore a camisole underneath. The deep rose color of the fabric went well with my fair skin and I left my hair long and straight.
“No sleeping in on a Saturday?” I asked. The smell of fresh coffee greeted me as I stepped into the sunny kitchen.
“No rest for the wicked,” he replied with a grin. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He poured me a cup and I added cream and sugar from what was sitting on the counter—of course no man would have artificial sweetener—and I sat at the small, wooden table.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied. “Thank you.” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him about Clive, then I decided that I should. Scott was trying to protect me, after all, so it only seemed right that he should know Clive was watching and knew I was there.
“I got a phone call from Clive last night,” I said.
Scott looked up sharply from where he’d been pouring his own cup of coffee. “He called you?”
I nodded. “The number was blocked, but he said he knew I was staying here.”
“What else did he say?”
“Just scary threats,” I hedged, not wanting to divulge any more about the virus and vaccine than I had to. The less Scott knew, the better it would be for his safety, I thought. “He hung up after just a minute or so.”
“We’ll head down to the station soon,” Scott said. “Then we’ll swing by the store and get you a new phone and number.”
My instinctive dismay must’ve shown on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Logic and sense kicked in and I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Dumb.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “It’s just . . . I hate to get a new number, that’s all.” Sort of the truth, but not really.
Understanding dawned on Scott’s face. “Devon won’t have your new number,” he said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
I nodded, chagrined. It was so pathetic. I had no way to reach Devon, but didn’t want to take away the one method he had of communicating with me. I needed to quit thinking about him, but he was there constantly in the back of my mind. I’d told Devon I loved him, but now I wondered if I wasn’t really in love so much as obsessed. And obsession was never a healthy thing.
“It’s your decision,” Scott continued. “I won’t make you do something you don’t want to do.” But I could read his face and saw exactly what he thought of that.
“No, you’re right,” I said. “A new number would be best.” Devon was a spy. If he wanted to call me, he’d find a way no matter how many new phone numbers I got.
“Are you hungry?” Scott asked.
“No, thanks. Just coffee.” Breakfast wasn’t my thing.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who never eat,” he teased.
“You’ve seen me eat,” I protested.
“Oysters don’t count.”
The reminder of our Christmas dinner in Paris made me smile. It had been a bad situation, but Scott had turned it around and made it into one of the best holidays I’d ever had. We’d had a fancy multi-course meal at a swanky restaurant, then walked to Notre Dame. I didn’t know what I would have done without Scott coming to my rescue when I’d had no one else to turn to.
Scott drove us to the FBI building, where he had to get a special pass for me. Then we went into a darkened conference room where a computer and projector were set up. A second man came in. Scott introduced him as Agent Brooks, and he sat at the computer while Scott and I took chairs in front of a long table.
“Brooks is going to show some photos,” Scott said. “Just let me know if you recognize any of them as Clive.” He nodded to Brooks.
They showed me several photos, none of which contained anyone I recognized. It wasn’t until the tenth or twelfth photo that I said, “That’s him.”
Scott and Brooks glanced at each other. “That’s him?” Scott asked.
“Yeah.” I looked at the screen, easily recognizing Clive. He was about six feet tall, with dark hair and light eyes. Not as striking as Devon, but definitely an attractive guy. He also didn’t exude the same kind of danger and menace that Devon did, yet I wouldn’t want to cross him. The photo had been taken at a distance with a very good lens, and his features were sharp and distinct.
Neither of the men said anything.
“Is that wrong?” I asked. “That’s him. I’m sure of it.”
“No, you’re not wrong,” Scott hastened to reassure me. “We didn’t know his name was Clive, we just know what he does.”
“Well, what does he do?”
The question was directed at Scott, but it was Brooks who answered.
“He used to work for MI6,” he said. “Then he dropped off their radar about a year ago. We hadn’t heard anything about him, thought maybe he’d been killed in action. Then intelligence came through a few weeks ago that he was stateside, had gone rogue, and had been hired as a hit man for one of the local mafia groups. We’ve been following him since then, but lost him a few days ago.”
Well, that certainly didn’t sound good.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Scott replied. “I just need to keep you safe. If we’re lucky, Clive will show his face and we’ll be able to take him out.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
Neither man replied to that, which didn’t surprise me. The answer was fairly obvious.
Scott and I didn’t talk much as we walked back to his desk. We sat down and I glanced at him, but he appeared deep in thought. I wondered if he was having second thoughts about helping me. Harboring someone who was being tracked by a former spy turned mafia hit man didn’t sound like a real smart thing to do. But he surprised me.
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “My grandpa taught me how to fire one, but it’s been a while.” I opened my mouth to tell him about the gun Devon had given me, but decided against it at the last second. I had no idea where that gun had come from and in my haste to leave the apartment the other night, I hadn’t brought it with me.
“Good, so you wouldn’t be opposed to having one on you for protection?”
I shook my head.
“Then let’s go.”
He drove us to a gun shop called Liquor, Guns & Ammo. When he parked, I just looked at Scott and raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
Scott grinned. “Not a combination I’d endorse,” he said, making me laugh.
It took a few minutes to fill out the paperwork and wait for the background check so I could buy a gun, but then I was cleared and we were looking at several different handguns.
“You know the basic premise,” he said. “Point and squeeze the trigger.” He held one of the handguns out to me, butt first. “This is a Glock G19. It’s a nine millimeter, which should stop anything coming at you. How does it feel in your hand?”
It was heavy, but in a good, reassuring way. We tried a few more, but I liked that one the best. Before I could get out my credit card, he’d already given the man his.
“Scott, that’s six hundred dollars,” I said, horrified that he was paying for it.
He shrugged. “You can pay me back later.”
That comment made me remember. I had ten thousand dollars in Scott’s apartment. Yes, I could certainly pay him back.
“Let’s go practice.”
He took me to a firing range since the store itself didn’t have one. Only a couple of other men were there and Scott requested earmuffs for both of us.
In one of the booths farthest away from the other two men, he set both guns on the shelf and adjusted the muffs so one ear was uncovered. I did the same.
He showed me how to load the cartridge into the gun and how to rack the slide. It took several times before I could do it. My hands were smaller and weaker than his and the slide was difficult to move. Finally, I got the hang of it.
“Now there’s no safety on this,” he said. “The safety is the trigger. It won’t just fire if you drop it. You have to pull the trigger.”
I nodded, trying to get used to the feel of this new weapon. The one Devon had left had been smaller and lighter.
“Don’t ever point it at something you don’t want to shoot,” he warned.
“Got it.” I prayed I’d never have to point it at anything at all.
“Okay, let me show you,” he said, picking up the Glock and helping me hold it correctly. His hands were steady and capable, whereas mine felt too small and clumsy.
“Are you sure I’m going to be able to do this?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said, moving to stand behind me. “Trust me.”
Scott put his arms over mine as I held the gun up and sighted the target. His body was pressed against my back, which made me a little uncomfortable, but I tried to ignore it. He was just trying to help.
“Now just look along the barrel to your target,” he said. His voice was directly in my uncovered ear. “You want to go for the torso, not the head,” he continued, and I was glad he hadn’t noticed the effect his touch had on me.
“Why?” I asked.
“The torso is a nice big target,” he explained. “The head’s too small. Even if you don’t kill him, a solid hit to the torso will stop him and give you some time.
“When you’re ready, just squeeze the trigger,” he said. “Don’t hold your breath, and don’t close your eyes.”
I took a deep breath, released it, and squeezed the trigger. The gun barked in my hand and a round hole erupted in the second ring of the torso.
“Nice!” Scott said, taking a step back. “Looks like you remember the important part.”
I smiled at his praise. “Thanks.”
> “Let’s do a few more,” he suggested.
I sighted the gun and squeezed off several more shots. More holes appeared in the target.
“Good job,” he said. “But let’s try this.” He stepped up behind me again and cupped my elbows, raising my arms to sight the weapon. “You pull a bit to the right. Have you noticed?” I nodded. “You can correct for that. I can show you how.”
His hands were wrapped around mine, but now they loosened their grip, sliding slowly up my arms, the fabric of my sleeves caught in his fingers so his skin touched mine. My throat was suddenly dry and I swallowed. I didn’t like men touching me, though I knew Scott wouldn’t hurt me. Devon was the only one who could breach my defenses. But Scott was helping me and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, though every part of me itched to step away.
A moment went by as I tried to figure out what to do, but then his lips brushed my neck and I couldn’t stop my involuntary response as I jerked away from him. My face heated in embarrassment at my not-so-subtle rejection.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “You said compensate, right?” I quickly sighted the gun and squeezed the trigger. A hole erupted dead center in the black torso.
Scott didn’t say anything, and I was too much of a coward to turn around. Instead, I ejected the chambered cartridge and fiddled with the gun.
“Ivy,” Scott said. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”
My head jerked up and our gazes collided. Now I felt even worse. “It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s mine. You’re nice, and I really like you. But I can’t . . .” I shrugged helplessly, unable to put into words that I belonged to someone else. “Are you still going to help me?”
He frowned. “Of course I am. We’re friends, right? And friends help friends. Even if there are no ‘benefits.’ ”
He winked, which made me laugh a little, and the tension was broken.
Scott had me put the Glock in my purse along with a spare box of ammunition before we left. As we were driving back to his place, he said, “Hey, I’m hungry. How does Chinese sound?” I readily agreed.
A few minutes later, we pulled up to a restaurant with a sign that simply read “Chinese” and we headed inside.