Hunter's Desire

by Meg Ripley

  “Then I would go with you, introduce myself as your bodyguard, and give you a little privacy.”

  “Right, because showing up with a huge, good-looking guy isn’t going to put anyone off.”

  Dylan’s eyes glimmered. “When your life’s in danger, I don’t think dating should be at the top of your priorities list. But I thank you for the compliment.”

  Rachel stood, deciding abruptly that she needed to use the bathroom. She turned and pretended to ignore Dylan while her heart beat a little faster in her chest, her cheeks burning. You really only have his word for it that he’s here to help you, she thought. He could be keeping you in one place until whoever’s coming after you manages to get here. Rachel sat on the ledge of the bathtub, staring at the closed door. Somehow, she didn’t think it was likely that she could find a way to get through the front door of her apartment without Dylan noticing.

  She heard movement from the living room; the groan of the couch, footfalls in the hallway leading to the bathroom and her bedroom next to it. Rachel sighed. In less than a week, her life had gone from one form of hell to another, it seemed. She no longer had to worry about waking up early to go to a job that would never get any better. But now, even though she was financially independent, someone decided that they wanted her newly found fortune. She couldn’t call the cops; she didn’t know the extent to which she could trust Dylan, but she reasoned that anyone who was going to go through the kind of trouble of making threatening phone calls from carefully concealed numbers probably wouldn’t balk—if they had the means—at keeping the police from investigating the situation.

  But what do I really know about the situation? She knew that she had two million dollars to her name. She knew that Dylan had showed up after the phone call, and seemed to know more about the situation than she did. She knew that people didn’t typically give away millions of dollars without good reason. She knew that she was probably in danger; whoever had called her had made it clear that they were determined.

  Suddenly, she heard a sound--a crunching, groaning, cracking sound.

  “Stay put,” Dylan said through the door. Rachel’s heart started beating faster. A fleeting temptation to follow him flitted through her mind. She heard his steps retreating down the hall, away from her. Rachel looked around the bathroom. There wasn’t much that could serve as a realistic weapon for her; the towel rack didn’t appear very solid, and none of her toiletries were in particularly heavy packaging. Rachel swallowed.

  Far away, on the other side of the door, she heard a shout; there was a muffled thud, the sound of boots scraping against the floor, scuffing noises and grunts. Rachel sat down uneasily, thinking that if nothing else, Dylan was demonstrating—she hoped—that his assignment to protect her was genuine. It could be a set-up, she thought anxiously. Lull me into a false sense of security and then lead me straight to whoever is after me. She didn’t know what to believe; Dylan’s refusal to give her any information—or very little information at all—was difficult to reconcile with the idea of someone who had her interests at heart. My interest isn’t in his heart, she thought bleakly. It’s in his wallet. What happens if they offer him more money?

  “You can come out now, Love,” Dylan called. Rachel hesitated; she realized abruptly that the struggling, fighting sounds had ceased. She looked around the bathroom again, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth as she considered her options. None of her toiletries were particularly heavy, but she at least had the soap dish. She grabbed it, swallowing against the tight feeling in her throat. It wouldn’t do much at all, but if Dylan tried to attack her—or if he was merely lulling her with sounds of struggle, to ambush her with whoever had broken in—it might buy her just enough of a moment to get away. I’ll have to grab my keys. I’ll need my purse. My phone. Or I could just run, and hope that someone will be kind enough to help me. She sighed, shaking her head.

  Gripping the soap dish tightly in her hand, she opened the bathroom door, cringing at the faint mechanical squeak of the hinges. Rachel walked as quickly and as quietly as she could through the hall, her heart beating as fast as a rabbit’s in her chest. She cocked her hand, preparing to throw or smash the soap dish against or at whoever might jump out, and took the final step into the living room.

  A man lay sprawled on her floor, head turned to the side, either unconscious or—as Rachel’s mind reeled at the sight—possibly dead. She stared in shock, trying to discern some kind of familiarity; some kind of clue as to who he was. The man was utterly nondescript; even if she could go to the police, she wasn’t sure she would be able to come up with any one identifying feature that could lead to his capture—if he wasn’t already dead.

  “You’re going to need to get out of here,” Dylan said. Rachel nearly dropped the soap dish she still held at the sound of his voice. She turned in that direction; Dylan’s hand closed around her wrist, and he extracted the ceramic dish from her hand, smiling faintly. “Was this for me or for him?”

  “What do you mean I’m going to need to get out of here? Is he—did you kill him?”

  Dylan shrugged. “They’ve decided to come after you even though you have a bodyguard. They sent one guy first—next time they’ll send three. Maybe five, if they think one of us is particularly capable.”

  “You didn’t answer my other question,” Rachel pointed out.

  “You didn’t answer mine,” Dylan countered, wagging the soap dish a few feet away from her face. Rachel felt her cheeks heating up.

  “It was a contingency plan,” she said tartly. “Now answer my question.” Dylan glanced at the man sprawled out on the floor.

  “I don’t think he’s dead. Could be, but probably not. All the more reason for you to grab your things and for us to go for a ride.”

  Rachel looked at the man and shuddered. How Dylan could be so unconcerned about whether the man was alive or dead was beyond her. But, without a doubt, the man certainly didn’t have her best interests at heart.

  “How do I know I can even trust you?” she asked, turning her gaze away from the possibly dead man to the very much alive Dylan.

  Dylan’s gaze flicked around the room briefly before settling on her. “I don’t see you’ve got much of a choice, to be honest,” he said, smiling slightly. “Go get yourself some pajamas and your toothbrush like a good lass.”

  Rachel set her jaw, for a moment determined to argue—feeling almost insulted at being called ‘a good lass’ even as the mild affection in the endearment sent a thrill through her. “I hate charming, smart, nonchalant Irishmen,” she muttered to herself as she walked down the hallway towards her bedroom.

  ****

  “Home sweet home,” Dylan said, ushering her over the threshold of a sprawling, slightly messy apartment an hour’s drive from her home. “For now, at least.” He closed and locked the door behind them, and Rachel looked around, taking stock. It wasn’t dirty exactly; the huge living room had the look of a place that had seen more than one brawl, and there was a faint citrusy musk in the slowly circulating air. An old, beat up leather couch pinned down a nearly threadbare rug, looking as if it had sprouted up in that location as opposed to being moved there. Spare parts that Rachel couldn’t identify were scattered along one wall, near an outlet, and there was a laptop plugged in nearby, resting on a repurposed wooden crate.

  “For now?” Rachel asked, turning to look at him.

  “Well, I’ll have to move eventually; so it won’t be home for me permanently. And I should hope that the powers that be can take care of your safety at some point between now and eternity, so it won’t be your home permanently either.”

  “Why would you have to move eventually?” Rachel asked, glancing around to find somewhere she could put her backpack down. She had managed to grab a few outfits, her laptop, a few toiletries and odds and ends in the time that Dylan had given her before he told her they needed to get out. Dylan brushed past her and Rachel felt an almost electric jolt crackle along her nerve endings at the brief contact; he
threw himself down onto the couch, sprawling along its length.

  “Hazard of the profession; protect enough people for long enough, folks tend to hold grudges. Want to get the drop on you when you’re sleeping.” He peered at her, shrugging. “Can’t have that, can we?”

  “So, you’re used to protecting people,” Rachel said, letting her backpack fall lightly to the floor and walking around the behemoth of a couch. She sat down on the rug, looking around warily.

  “Wouldn’t have been hired to protect you if I didn’t have experience,” Dylan pointed out. Rachel had to acknowledge that if whoever had given her the money did have her best interests in mind, they would probably hire someone who at least had some kind of reputation, some kind of history to demonstrate his ability.

  Rachel nearly jumped to her feet when Dylan’s pocket started loudly playing Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole.” Dylan slipped one hand into his pocket indolently, extracting a phone. He tapped the screen and held the device to his ear. “Yeah,” he said; though his voice was still the same cool, nonchalant tone he had maintained ever since he had first intercepted her, Rachel could see the tension come over his body. “Right. Understood. No, she’s safe. Right. Yes. Got it.” He tapped the screen again, and when he looked at her, his eyes were full of something Rachel didn’t expect: pity. “You’re going to be here a few days, Love,” he said, smiling wryly. “And then you’re going to be the beneficiary of quite a bit more money. Right after that, you and I will be leaving the country.”

  “What? Why?” Rachel stood, staring at Dylan in shock.

  “Your apartment building has been the unfortunate victim of a random, tasteless arson attack.” Dylan pressed his lips together. “Thus far, you are one of only about a dozen residents unaccounted for. I’d wager good money that someone’s going to account for you on a list of tragic casualties.” Dylan closed his eyes and frowned, the first moment that Rachel had seen him look actually stricken. “Is there anyone who would mourn you? Miss you? Would anyone in particular have your death investigated?” Rachel sank back down onto the rug, staring at the loops and whorls of its faux-Persian pattern.

  “No,” she said. “I mean—I have friends, but…” she shook her head. “Jesus.” Rachel took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her eyes stung, and one hot tear rolled down along her cheek, followed by another. She cradled her forehead in her hands, shaking. “Jesus.” Rachel dimly heard the couch groaning; she sensed Dylan’s movement in the corner of her eye, blurred by tears that began to well up more rapidly in her eyes, falling onto the rug.

  A few moments later, she glanced up in time to see Dylan sink down onto the floor in front of her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand along with a couple of short, squat glasses, and a pack of cigarettes in the other. “Choose your poison,” he said, smiling slightly. Rachel swallowed, brushing the lingering tears from her eyes. She glanced at her options and laughed.

  “Poison is right,” she said, reaching out for the pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have both, if you’re in such a hospitable mood.” Dylan chuckled and shifted on the floor, cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey. He poured a shot in each glass and set one down in front of Rachel, putting the bottle down and reaching nimbly for an ash tray. He produced a lighter from another pocket and flicked it to life. Rachel’s trembling fingers drew a cigarette out of the mostly-full pack, and she brought it to her lips, leaning into the flame.

  She had smoked briefly in college; it had been part of her study routine, an excuse for a break and the timer for the same. She had quit after her last week of final exams and had never been tempted to pick up the practice again until that moment. Smoke swirled up and away from the tip, and Rachel took a long drag, coughing slightly and trying again.

  “Bottoms up,” Dylan said, raising his glass. Rachel picked up her own glass with a trembling hand, raised it to him, and knocked back the amber liquid, feeling it burn all the way down to her stomach. Dylan poured another shot and they both downed their liquor in silence. Rachel took another drag of her cigarette and held the smoke in her lungs, exhaling in a sigh.

  “Well,” she said, glancing up at Dylan’s face, “I think it’s time for you to tell me what the hell’s going on.” Dylan chuckled and poured her another shot.

  “You’ll want that,” he told her. He pressed his lips together, contemplating the liquid in his own glass. He rifled in the cigarette pack and took one out, lighting it in a fluid movement that Rachel couldn’t help but envy. “Do you happen to recall any of the scholarships you received in college?” Rachel shrugged. She had applied for so many scholarships that she had barely paid attention to the details on them after she had submitted whatever they required. “There was a particular gentleman who funded one of the scholarships; you would have met him—though I don’t blame you for not remembering, and neither would he. Apparently, he was quite taken with your determination.”

  “What does that have to do with giving me a couple million dollars now?” She had been out of school for more than two years.

  “It was a mixture of spite and good feeling, we’ll say. He had a deal he was set to make with a company he knew little about; when he discovered more about what they do and how they conduct business, he decided that he should put the money towards something better.” Dylan shrugged, and Rachel eyed him, suspecting that she knew just how the businessman in question had come to know about the other company’s practices. “He remembered you from the scholarship ceremony and had someone look you up. When he saw that you’d hit a wall, he decided you were a much better investment than the company in question.”

  “So, is that who’s after me?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Some members of his own company who are keen for the deal want the money back. Hostile takeover; his personal funds aren’t affected, but he was ousted. Can’t say I blame them, but nonetheless, here we are.” Rachel pressed her lips together, holding Dylan’s gaze for a long moment. She glanced down at the shot of whiskey in her glass and snorted, following it with a low chuckle.

  “You were right, I do want this,” she said, lifting it to her lips and knocking it back. Her whole life was overturned twice because a man with more wealth than sense thought she could use the money more than some company. Rachel noticed idly that the whiskey didn’t seem to burn as much going down anymore and tried to remember how many shots she had; warmth spread through her veins, tingling along her skin. She brought the cigarette to her lips again and took another long drag, ignoring the protest from her lungs.

  ****

  Rachel woke up abruptly, head throbbing, in a dark and unfamiliar room. After a stubborn moment, memories came back to her in a patchy trickle; Dylan had gotten her superbly drunk, pouring shot after shot and letting her smoke all of the cigarettes she wanted until the world was spinning around her. At one point, he had cracked the living room window to give the rising smoke somewhere to go, and when he had returned to the floor where Rachel had decided to stay. She had sprawled against him, laughing and crying as the full impact of the situation hit her. “For someone as wealthy as I now am,” she had said, the hilarity and tragedy of it filling her up until she shook, “I don’t have a goddamned thing.” Dylan’s strong arm had snaked around her, steadying her as she trembled.

  “Look at the silver lining, Love: not many people get such an easy pass to start over again.”

  Her brain felt as though it had been replaced by tightly-packed cotton, and Rachel tried to remember how she had gone from the floor of Dylan’s bedroom and into a bed. He had let her cry herself out, nodding solemnly at her half-coherent review of How We Got Here. She had eventually stopped talking, too overwhelmed with whiskey and grief to do anything more than lean against him, trembling slightly, while the room spun. “You need to get some sleep,” Dylan had told her. “Up you go.”

  Rachel realized that while Dylan had kept her glass constantly topped off, he only had a few ounces himself; he was nearly sober as he led her to the bedroom. Dylan had left
her alone and somehow Rachel had managed to change into the nightgown she had grabbed out of her dresser, barely remembering how to tie the sash on the robe that went over it. Dylan had knocked before coming back in, and Rachel could remember him guiding her weaving, unsteady steps to the bed, pulling the blankets up around her. He had left without a word, leaving the door open a crack as he went back into the living room. Points to him--he didn’t take advantage of a drunk girl, Rachel thought bleakly. Her legs were tangled up in the sheets, and she spent long moments extricating herself from the bed, standing up on feet that didn’t seem to be quite real underneath her.

  She padded out of the bedroom, moving through the short hall; Rachel could hear the soft sounds of Dylan’s breathing coming from the couch, steady and slow. She checked, wincing as the movement jarred her tight skull, and veered towards the kitchen. Water. Water will make it all better. Somehow. She looked around, opening cupboards until she found one containing glasses, and turned to the sink. It might wake up Dylan; if he was as good at protecting people as he hinted, he was probably a light sleeper. Rachel decided that if he woke, he woke, and she wasn’t going to hold herself responsible for interrupting the sleep of a man who was being paid to make sure she wasn’t killed in her own drunken stupor. She turned on the tap and filled the glass, drinking it down before filling it once more.

  “Something wrong?” Dylan’s voice carried to her from the direction of the living room and Rachel shrugged. She turned off the water and sipped from the glass as she made her way towards him, sinking down onto the small empty space on the couch near his feet.

  “Well, for one thing, I’m not drunk anymore,” she observed.

  Dylan chuckled lowly in the semi-darkness. “There’s more whiskey if you’d like it.”

  “I think if I have any more whiskey I’m probably going to throw up. Not the desired outcome.” Rachel sipped at the water again, willing the throbbing in her temples and hot needles behind her eyes to recede.