by Mary Stone
With a chuckle, Bobby nodded his understanding as they stepped out of the car. Autumn made a beeline back to the ladies’ room, and her federal agent shadow posted up at the opening of the hallway where he pretended to look interested in the selection of coffee.
As far as any outsiders were concerned, she and Bobby were just two friends at a quick pit stop on their way home from class. Though Aiden Parrish was perpetually well-dressed, Bobby opted for inconspicuous attire.
A couple days ago, Aiden had accompanied her to the night class she taught. She’d been quick to point out that his tailored suit, expensive watch, and equally pricey shoes would make him stick out like, well, like a federal agent on a college campus.
“You look like such a Fed,” she had told him. “You’re going to sit in the back of the room like that and freak all my students out, so they talk even less than they usually do. They’re going to think you’re from the IRS or that you’re a hitman or something.”
“Can’t you just tell them that I’m from the university to sit in on the class for some administrative reason?” he had suggested.
Autumn had offered a snort of laughter in response. “No one who works for a public University dresses as well as you. Believe me. I’ve been in school for a long time.”
He looked down at himself. “Well, I left all my band t-shirts at home, so you’ll have to figure something out.” There was still a clear picture in her memory of the little self-assured smirk he’d worn. It was a look that made her knees weak, and she had started to wonder if he knew it.
If there was one thing she did not want him to know, it was how attracted to him she had become.
Rather than have him sit at the back of the classroom, she’d introduced him as a guest speaker at the last possible moment. He’d been startled for a split-second, but like always, his recovery was quick.
Flicking water from her hands into the bowl of the sink, she glanced up to her reflection and heaved a sigh.
At two years away from thirty, she was too damn old for a crush, but here she was. Infatuated with a man whose affections quite clearly lay with another woman.
With her friend.
Emotionally unavailable had always been her type.
As she pulled a couple paper towels free to dry her hands, she froze in place. Though the sound was muffled, she heard a shout from beyond the closed door. Balling the damp paper towels up in one hand, she held her breath and strained her hearing as the first shot of adrenaline worked its way up her back.
Something was wrong. The air was wrong.
She needed to grab Bobby and get the hell out of this building. She would make him coffee and taquitos, and she would smoke a menthol cigarette. The pit stop had been a mistake.
Opening the door, she stepped into the hall, fully prepared to set off in a run. Before she could take one step, an arm came around her throat just as the cold metal of a gun pressed against her temple. She tried to kick…scream…anything, but the arm tightened on her carotid arteries even harder as the man yanked her backward toward what she was certain was an exit.
Autumn felt like she was suspended in a stasis bubble, like each movement she made was forced through a vat of molasses. Worse, her vision was growing darker by degrees.
Where was Bobby? Anyone? Surely a place as large as this would have numerous people milling about, buying potato chips and sugary drinks. But no. She was being taken…alone…and…
Stop it!
Even as her body panicked, a deeper more rational voice entered her mind.
Fight!
Much of her desire to learn the hand-to-hand combat technique of Krav Maga had been based in her knowledge of the dangers of the forensic psychology profession—after all, much of her time as a forensic psychologist would be spent alone in rooms with men who’d committed heinous crimes.
But even as she was dragged backwards, she realized she had not truly expected to use her extensive knowledge of close-quarters combat training.
She needed to use it now.
When she snapped out a hand to take hold of the assailant’s wrist, the moment of trepidation vanished. She’d fought against more sparring partners than she could count. Granted, none of them had pointed a live weapon at her head, but Autumn had always been adept at handling herself under pressure.
She shoved his arm to the side until the barrel of the handgun pointed harmlessly away. As she used her grip to turn, she took a swift step forward and slammed her knee into his stomach.
A sharp exhale told her the wind had been knocked from his lungs, but she didn’t stop. She tightened her grasp on his wrist until she thought her fingers would break the skin, and then she twisted until she felt the crunch of cartilage. The clatter of the weapon against the tiled floor followed, and before she could give the move a second thought, she crouched down to retrieve the handgun.
As she turned back to face him, the glint of malevolence in his gray eyes took her aback. She’d never met this man in her life, so what the hell had brought on such an obvious display of anger?
The overhead fluorescence glinted off the polished silver of a wicked hunting knife in his functional hand. Apparently, he thought that the slender, twenty-something-year-old in front of him would balk at the prospect of using his own handgun on him. He either expected to take the firearm from her grasp, or he expected to stab her.
In either case, as she glared down the sights and took aim, all she could think was that he had brought a knife to a gun fight.
She squeezed the trigger and watched his body jerk backward from the force of the first shot that hit his chest. The entire scene was surreal. She could hardly believe she was about to kill someone, and that all the physical effort required from her was a slight motion of her index finger.
The second shot spattered the wall at his back with dark splotches of blood and brain matter as crimson blossomed from the center of his forehead. As his body crumpled into a graceless heap, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
As she inhaled sharply, a flicker of movement snapped her attention back to the hallway’s entrance. She leveled the handgun at the space, but as soon as she saw the newcomer’s face, she dropped her hand with a sigh of relief.
“Bobby,” she breathed.
33
Aiden had only just dropped down to sit on the sectional couch at Autumn’s side when his phone buzzed from the pocket of his slacks. With a quick glance to his hostess, he retrieved the device and swiped a key to answer the call.
“Yeah.” His greeting bordered on irritable, but he didn’t particularly care.
“Aiden,” the caller replied. “It’s Dan Nguyen at the ME’s office. We got an ID on your guy, and I figured you’d want to know before anyone else.”
“You figured right. Who is he?”
“Nicolas Culetti. Goes by Nico. He’s a contract killer for the Russo family. Or, at least, that’s what the general understanding is. The Russos are mostly based out of D.C., but they’ve been poking around Richmond for the last few years.”
“All right. Send me what you’ve got on him and let me know if anything else comes up.” Aiden suppressed a sigh as he lifted a hand to rub his eyes. It was barely nine at night, and already he felt like he’d been awake for a full twenty-four hours.
“Will do. Talk to you soon, I’d imagine.”
“Yeah. Later.” Swiping the screen, he dropped the phone to the stone surface of the coffee table with a clatter.
“What?” Autumn asked. He could feel her curious stare on the side of his face.
“The ME identified the guy who tried to kill you.” Though he tried to keep his tone neutral, he heard the tinge of foreboding.
To her credit, Autumn’s expression changed little. “And?” she pressed. “Who was he? One of my crazy exes?”
Did her brand of sarcasm ever completely disappear? Even as he looked over to gauge her reaction, the corner of his mouth twitched in a slight smile. “Not unless you dated a contract kill
er for the Russo family.”
She paused to wrinkle her nose. “I’ve made some bad choices when it comes to men, but that was never one of them, no.”
I wonder if you’d be willing to make another one tonight.
The thought came to him unbidden, and he was glad she hadn’t turned on the floor lamp. When he finally dared to look back at her, the light from the flickering television glinted off the whites of her eyes.
Stifling a yawn, she scooted away from him to rest her head on an assortment of throw pillows. Both animals perked up at the movement, but they settled back onto their cushions as Autumn tucked her knees to her chest.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
She shifted in her spot until her green eyes met his. “I’m fine. Do I look like I’m not fine or something?”
“No, but you just killed someone a few hours ago. Someone who was trying to kill you, and now you know that someone was a mafia hitman.”
“You just answered part of that yourself.” She ran both hands through her hair. “He was trying to kill me. Should I feel bad about taking him down first? And now you’re telling me he was a hitman, so, really? Should I feel bad about it?”
“No.” He felt like a parrot. “But there are a lot of people who still would. Plus, guilt or not, you just went through something traumatic.”
“I’m not ‘a lot of people.’” She raised her hands to add the quotes as she pushed herself to sit. “And believe me, I know what just happened. But I also know how the human brain works, and I know that there are plenty of people who don’t have stress reactions when shit like this happens. I get that there was a gun in my face, but there wasn’t a single point where I genuinely thought I was going to die. I’ve been going to Krav Maga lessons for years, and everything I did was just second nature.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t know that.”
Fire flashed in her eyes. “I’ve been making my own luck for years.”
He inclined his head. “You did good, Autumn, but the stress—”
She snorted. “The fear, the actual stress, that’s what’s at the root of adverse stress reactions. And since I didn’t experience it, I’d say I’m more than likely in the clear. And if I’m not, I happen to know the names of plenty of counselors and psychiatrists around town. I’m not trying to sound like a know-it-all or a jerk, I just want to make sure you know that I know what happened and how it usually affects people. I also want you to know that I’m genuinely fine. I’m just tired.” As if to emphasize her point, she stifled a yawn.
With a slight smile, he nodded. “All right. I believe you. You’re resilient. That’s the technical term, right?”
“It is.” She returned the expression as she leaned back into the pile of pillows.
His attraction to Autumn felt disingenuous, he realized. Sure, she was smart, witty, and stunning, but he thought he was drawn to her for all the wrong reasons. He was drawn to her because she reminded him of someone, someone he doubted he could ever have.
That someone might have been out of reach, but Autumn was right here, and Autumn wasn’t associated with the emotional baggage and memories of failure that came with thoughts of Winter.
“Do you think it’s a good idea for you to stay here tonight?” he asked after another spell of quiet. He didn’t know what in the hell he thought to accomplish with the line of dialogue, but he knew his intent was anything but professional.
“As long as Bobby’s outside.” Her response was flat, and for a split-second, he wondered if she had read his damn mind.
“Wasn’t Bobby with you when Nico Culetti tried to shoot you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Nico paid some heroin addict to get in a fistfight with someone else to distract Bobby so he could try to shoot me. Nico was a good hitman, I’ll give him that. Just wasn’t all that great in the hand-to-hand combat department.”
“But you know there’s a hitman after you, right? As in, someone paid to have you killed? Probably the same person who had that tracking device implanted in your stomach. Obviously, they know who you are and, more importantly, where you are if they were following you and Agent Weyrick back from your class. Nico or his people had probably been tailing you for days.”
“And?” She sat up and narrowed her eyes at him. “What exactly am I supposed to do here? Every spare penny I’ve got is going to fixing my damn car, and now, what? Did you think I was serious when I suggested I roll a sleeping bag out in the FBI waiting area? Or am I supposed to go stay at a fucking hotel? Please, tell me how I should pay for that.”
Now he knew where his suggestion had been headed. “I have a spare bedroom. And a couch. Or, we can stop at a sporting goods store to get you a sleeping bag. If that’s what we’re doing, we’d better hurry because I think most of those places close at ten.”
Despite his attempt at levity, her eyes were slits. “Is that protocol? To invite a witness to spend the night with you?”
“It’s protocol to keep you alive.”
With a derisive snort, she crossed her arms. “Right. That’s what you’re trying to do right now.”
Was she a fucking mind reader? He was sure he’d kept his expression neutral, his tone unassuming. But based on the dangerous glint in her eyes, he might as well have announced every little thing he wanted to do to her.
“Tell you what.” Extending a hand, she scooted closer to him and tucked one leg beneath herself. “I’ll make you a deal.” Brows raised, she made a show of glancing to her hand, to him, and then back.
As he accepted the handshake, he made no effort to conceal his confusion. “Okay?”
“I’m going to tell you what I think is going on right now, and if I’m wrong, then we can swing by Dick’s on the way to your place.”
Nervousness wasn’t a sensation in which Aiden was familiar, but as his pulse rushed through his ears, all he could manage was a nod.
The steeliness behind her eyes softened, and she rested her other hand on the back of his hand.
He didn’t know how much time elapsed before she spoke again, but for all he knew, they’d spent an entire hour staring one another down. He could tell she was warring with herself, but he didn’t feel authorized to give his opinion.
“You know what,” she started, holding up both hands. “Never mind. Deal’s off. Honestly, what the hell is it with you people?”
Furrowing his brows, he opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off before he could form the question.
“No, Aiden. I’ll tell you exactly what I told Noah about four or five months ago. No. I’m not interested in going home with you. You’ve clearly got some unresolved shit clattering around in your head, and I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ve got plenty of my own unresolved shit to deal with, okay? I don’t need to take on yours too!”
“Wait.” He held up a hand to stave off a rebuttal. “Wait, what? What you told Noah? What the hell does that mean?”
“Take it at face value,” she scoffed. “This shit you’re doing, the same shit that he was doing, it’s unbelievably unhealthy. You could even call it toxic. Whatever’s rattling around in your head, whatever spurned lover you’re avoiding thinking of, you need to deal…with…it. Talk to a counselor, talk to your friend, talk to a stranger on the bus, I don’t care!”
He tried again. “I—”
She held up a hand. “But stop trying to do this, whatever the hell this is. Stop trying to take your emotional baggage out on someone else because you think it might help you in the short-term, and deal with your shit! I’m dealing with mine, all right? I’m not trying to get you to sleep with me so I can get over someone, so I’d like to kindly request that you politely knock that shit off.”
He opened and closed his mouth, but he couldn’t summon a coherent sentence to his lips. What in the fuck had just happened?
Forensic psychologist, he reminded himself. That’s what just happened. You tried to pull a move on a forensic psychologist, and it backfired.
&nb
sp; As he started to chuckle, he shook his head. “Wow. I guess that’s what being on the other end of an interrogation must feel like. Are you sure you don’t want to work for the FBI?”
To his relief, the irascibility melted away from her face as her lips curled into a smile. “I’m sure.” She sighed and pushed both hands through her hair. “Like I said, I don’t think you’d pay me enough. I’ve got a hundred grand in student loans to pay back starting in a few months.”
“Speaking of.” He paused to gesture to her laptop. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if I could look at your dissertation. Maybe I can help you with it.”
She offered him a thoughtful glance as she reached for the computer. “Maybe, yeah. I defend it next week.”
“Then if you don’t want to sleep on my couch, I’ll sleep on yours.”
34
Winter wasn’t sure when the sounds from the television had turned into dreams, but she could distinctly recall the warmth of Noah’s arm around her as she rested her head on his shoulder.
By the time she drifted back toward the waking world, the television was quiet. Noah had reclined in his seat, and now her cheek rested on his chest. She could feel the rhythmic cadence of his breathing along with the faint beat of his heart.
Nestling her face into his shirt, she let the calm sounds lull her back to sleep.
She thought maybe she should have been surprised or even disconcerted by the physical contact, but to her surprise, she felt the opposite. The warmth of his body was a comfort, not a source of unease.
As sleep crept back to the edge of her consciousness, she wondered what it would be like to wake up beside him every day.
When a jagged pulse of pain blossomed from her temples, she thought at first that the sensation was part of a dream. She’d dreamt about headaches before, and more often than not, she awoke from them with a headache.
But when the image in her mind came into focus, she realized she wasn’t in a dream. She was in a vision.