“Let me go,” she screamed. “Someone’s out there with my family. My mom—”
“No,” James said, cutting her off. “The house was totally empty when I came in. There was only you two.”
Charlie let out a shaky breath. Thank God for small miracles. They must have had an early appointment with the wedding planner.
“That means they’re here for us,” Bowie said, tightening his grip on her. His head snapped up as he looked over her shoulder toward James. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need you to look after her, so I can go out there.”
“Of course,” James said without hesitation. His hands wrapped around her shoulders as Bowie put her back down on the ground.
Charlie struggled against him just as hard as she had with Bowie, but it was useless. The man was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked. She gave up after another second.
“Wait,” she called out just as Bowie reached the door. He turned around. His dark eyes locked on hers. Her lips trembled. “Be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
He kept his gaze on her for a full second before nodding. “I’ve always come back to you before, and I always will.”
In the next breath, he turned away from her and slipped out the door. Charlie bit into her lower lip as her shoulders sagged. All her fight left her in one giant rush. James’ hands slipped from her shoulders.
“Mercy,” he said with a long sigh. “Tell me. How the hell did you two manage to keep your hands off each other for so long? And, more importantly, why did you even bother?”
Charlie swung around and narrowed her eyes. “And what the hell would you know about that?” she asked, her voice dropping dangerously low. It seemed that her sharpest glare could do what Bowie’s couldn’t.
He held his hands up in front of him defensively. “Only the chatter I overheard at Macmillan.”
Charlie’s face fell. She could actually feel the blood draining from her cheeks. “Wait. You’re telling me that everyone at the office knew how Bowie felt?”
“And you’re saying you didn’t?” James’ eyes widened. “Because that’s the truly unbelievable bit.”
Charlie blinked. No, she hadn’t. She actually hadn’t. She, the one who was used to being the cleverest person in the room, had been blind to something that had apparently been obvious to everyone else. And not just any something. The only damned thing that mattered.
And now, the second that she’d finally been looped in, the damned idiot had run off to play hero without backup.
Charlie felt her temper start to rise.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to fly.
She narrowed her eyes even more, sharpening her glare. It must have worked because James shifted back a step.
“There are some old clothes in the closet behind you,” Charlie snapped. “Grab me something.”
She wasn’t kidding. They were old, some of them dating all the way back to her high school days.
James slowly shook his head. “I don’t think—”
“I didn’t ask you to think,” Charlie snarled. “I told you to get me some damned pants.”
A second later, a twelve year-old pair of jeans landed in her hands.
That was more like it.
Chapter Thirteen
Bowie moved silently down the staircase that wound through the center of the Keswick home. He held his weapon at a low angle in front of him, ready to take aim at anything—anyone—that moved.
But so far, he hadn’t seen a soul. A quick sweep of the third and second floors were clear. Now he was only steps away from the ground floor, and he hadn’t heard so much as a squeaky floorboard.
He kept his back to the wall as he moved off the staircase. The house was just as quiet down here as it had been up above, but the realization was far from comforting. Sure, it was possible that whoever had caused the crash was long gone, but Bowie’s gut told him otherwise.
And Bowie made a point of always listening to his gut.
Always.
Bowie hurried to the room closest to the front door and peeked around the corner. Sure enough, glass from a shattered window littered the carpet. The walls were lined with bookcases, but the one next to the splintered window frame was knocked to the floor. There was a gap between the busted wood and the wall just wide enough for intruders to shimmy through.
Too bad that wasn’t what had happened.
Bowie could tell in an instant that the scene was staged. The glass and the books strewn across the floor were flat and even. Not a single shard or page had been ground into the rug by a heavy boot. No one had entered the house through that window. Which meant only one thing.
This was a trap. A staged break in…or at least Bishop’s best attempt at one. The only thing Bowie didn’t know was whether this was another one of Bishop’s warnings or something far more serious.
Not that it mattered. The only thing that concerned him now were the skills of the men laying in wait, and how exactly he was going to keep them from getting to Charlie.
Only she mattered.
Bowie quickly ran through a mental list of possible hiding places for Bishop’s men. Even in a house this large there weren’t a lot of options. They needed a space that was small enough to be defensible, but still large enough to provide cover in case of a fire fight. And most importantly, a room that had a separate exit in case things didn’t go their way.
There was only one room in the whole house that fit that description—the kitchen.
He drew in a breath but the air felt still and heavy. Someone—no doubt more than one—was out there waiting for a fight.
And it was time for him to give them what they’d come for.
Bowie straightened his spine. He didn’t bother concealing his footsteps as he moved through the dining room. The men in the kitchen already knew he was coming. Bishop might have even briefed them on his particular style of fighting, but nobody—not even Carter Macmillan—knew all his tricks.
Bowie stopped three steps from the swinging door and pulled back his shoulders.
“Game’s over,” he said, loud enough for his voice to echo off the walls. “My name is Bowie Tamatoa. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I don’t go down easy. So I’m giving you to the count of five to come to your senses and take off through that back door.”
Dead silence filled the room.
“Five,” he called out.
He waited another tense beat.
“Four.”
A loud crack echoed through the house as a bullet tore through the wooden doorframe, sending splinters flying.
“One.”
Bowie crouched down on his haunches and thrust forward, flying sideways through the swinging door. He kept his arms steady as his shoulder hit the floor, and he slid across the hard kitchen tile.
He saw a pair of black tactical pants as he sailed past the center island. He took the shot without hesitation. The bullet found its mark, hitting the man dead in the center of his shin. Shards of bone and deep red blood splattered the ivory tiles. The man crumpled to the ground with a wail.
Bowie didn’t flinch as a hail of bullets followed only a few inches behind him. He effortlessly rolled onto his other side and found the next shooter nestled in the corner across from him. With one shot Bowie hit him square in the kneecap, bringing the man down a half-second before his back slammed into the far wall, bringing his ride to a stop.
Bowie swung his pistol in a wide arc across the kitchen, looking for another attacker, but the room was clear. He carefully rose to his feet, keeping his finger loosely curled around the trigger.
Two down. It was a good start. But Bowie knew Bishop had sent more than a team of two. Especially after last night. The man might be a murderous bastard, but he was a wily one. He learned from his mistakes.
Apparently, he’d learned to keep his third man further back, and away from the threat of close combat. So where was he hiding?
Bowie went over to th
e two men and kicked their weapons into the center of the room, and out of reach. Not that these men had any fight left in them. It had only taken one shattered leg bone apiece to take them out of the game.
Once that was done, Bowie silently crept toward the walk-in pantry. With a flick of his wrist he threw it open and peered inside. Nothing. Totally empty.
Damn it.
The room really was clear. But if the third man wasn’t in the kitchen, that meant he was somewhere else in the house.
Bowie’s stomach plummeted even as burning bile rose in his throat.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled as he flew from the room.
He was right. Bishop had learned from his mistakes—learned enough to play Bowie like a goddamned master. All Bishop had to do was distract him with a fake break in and a couple of gunshots, and the bastard knew he’d leave Charlie somewhere far from both the obvious attackers downstairs and Bowie’s protection.
Somewhere safe.
Bowie swore again as his feet hit the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t have made Charlie an easier target if he’d tried. Hell, he’d even left her naked and trembling.
But not alone.
Not that Bowie held much hope that James would be any help to Charlie when guns were drawn. After all, what could the double-dealing fraud do? Steal the man’s rifle? Talk him to death? All Bowie could hope was that Bishop’s man would be so annoyed by James’ chatter that he’d waste all of his ammunition on the bastard and have none left for Charlie.
No, it was going to be up to him to get there in time to save—
Crack.
The splintering sound echoed down the empty stairway. Bowie grabbed the railing with a shaky hand as he turned the corner of the second floor landing, propelling himself even faster. His heart hammered against his breastbone. No way was he too late. He refused to believe it.
Not now. Not after all that had happened between him and Charlie. Not after all that they’d shared.
It couldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t let it.
Bowie took the last flight of stairs in two giant steps. He turned and fought back a wave of panic when his gaze landed on a crumpled body lying halfway inside Charlie’s open doorway. He rushed toward the person, only breathing when he got close enough to realize it wasn’t her.
It wasn’t James either.
Which meant…
Bowie skidded to a stop just before his feet hit the limp body. It was a man—a large one—clad completely in black tactical gear. Just like the men downstairs.
The third man.
Bowie looked up. Charlie was on the other side of the door—fully clothed now. Her arms were held high above her head. A heavy wooden baseball bat dangled from her hands. Her eyes were huge, wide enough for the whites to show in a complete ring around her bright blue irises as she stared at the man on the carpet.
“I-Is he dead?” she asked. Her eyes snapped up to Bowie’s. “Did I kill him?”
Bowie knelt down and pressed two fingers against the man’s neck. They guy’s pulse throbbed a steady beat against his fingertips.
Too bad.
“No.” Bowie grabbed the man’s weapon before standing. “Just knocked out.”
“What a shame,” James said, stepping into view from behind Charlie. “Of course, it’s an easy enough problem to remedy.”
Bowie grimaced as he pushed his way into the room. He walked over to the bed and tossed the rifle down. Only then did he turn to James.
“I thought you said you were going to protect her.”
“I did.”
“By letting her take on the armed assailant at the door?”
“Actually, that was a happy accident,” James said, his smirk growing. “She grabbed that massive stick with the intention of going downstairs to help you. That poor bastard just happened to be in her way when she opened the door.”
Bowie felt the lick of burning anger on his face. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Don’t know if you noticed,” James said. “But your lady seems to have the whole protection thing under control.”
“A-Are you sure he’s not dead?” Charlie asked. Her voice still quivered. Her face was completely white. “Because he looks really dead.”
“Yeah, she seems just fine,” Bowie growled. He curled his hands into fists, but somehow resisted the urge to knock all the teeth out of James’ perfect smile. Instead, he went over to Charlie and wrapped his arms around her. Her body trembled in his embrace.
“Because if I killed him…” Her trembles turned to outright shakes. The bat fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. Bowie held her tighter. He wasn’t sure what else he could do to comfort her.
“Only one way to be sure.” James quickly walked over to the unconscious body and pulled back his foot. He brought the heel of his boot down hard across the man’s cheek. A low groan escaped his lips and his head snapped to the side. A wide smile lifted James’ lips when he turned back around. “Not dead.”
Bowie pressed his lips together as Charlie relaxed. Maybe the thief wasn’t as useless as he’d thought. Not that Bowie trusted him. Not by a long shot.
“Of course, there’s no telling when he’ll wake up,” James said, with a shrug. His eyes turned toward the window. “No time to waste. We need to—”
“Call the police,” Bowie said over him.
“—Make our getaway,” James finished. He raised his eyebrows as he stared at Bowie. After a long moment, he shrugged his shoulders. “Of course. Do what you think is best. Though, I hope you won’t mind if I don’t stick around to see how this little drama plays out with the authorities.”
“I didn’t expect anything less from you,” Bowie said. Not that his words mattered, the man was already inching toward the windowsill.
“Until we meet again,” James said, looking directly at Charlie. “Stay safe, my dear.”
Bowie couldn’t help the jealous instinct that rushed over him when she raised her chin to nod in response. He tightened his grip, pressing her head against his chest.
***
“That’s it, Charlene Marie Keswick. No more lies. No more half-truths. I demand to know what the hell is going on.”
Charlie closed her eyes and raised her fingers to her temples, trying to rub away the stress headache that was mercilessly pounding in her brain. Of course, the move didn’t work. Not even a little. Her mother’s voice was like a damned cannonball bursting through her skull. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be soothed away…or ignored.
Charlie forced herself to open her eyes, and meet her mother’s steely gaze. She’d known this moment was coming for the last few hours. Ever since her mother’s arrival. At least her mother had the consideration to wait until the police finished their official questioning and left the house, before starting her own interrogation.
Of course, it also meant that her mother hadn’t believed any of the practiced answers Charlie had given the cops. Which was too bad, because right now those were the only answers she could give.
They were so close to exposing Trevor. So close that the bastard was becoming desperate. All Charlie had to do was stay alive until she could get the last bits of evidence decrypted.
Alive…and hopefully in her mother’s good graces.
“Charlene,” her mother snapped. “Are you even listening to me?”
Yeah. Maybe she wasn’t going to be successful with both of those things.
Charlie dropped her hands. Well, if lies weren’t going to cut it, maybe honesty was best.
“I am, Mom,” Charlie tried. “But I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“How about you start with why the police had to pull me away from your brother’s last-minute wedding preparations because they’d received a call about three badly injured criminals scattered around my house.”
“I can only tell you what I told the police, Mom,” Charlie said. “Three guys broke in. Bowie caught two of them in the kitchen, and I hit the other on
e with a baseball bat.”
“And I don’t believe you.” Her mother crossed her slender arms over her chest.
Charlie let out a long sigh. “Which is hysterical, because this time I really am telling you the truth.”
“But not the whole truth.” Her mother’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Those might have been the events, but it isn’t what happened. It isn’t what’s been happening since the moment you arrived on our doorstep with Mr. Tamatoa.”
Charlie let out a long breath and sagged against the kitchen island. Why did her mother have to be so damned perceptive? Charlie couldn’t look her in the eye for fear of the truth showing on her face. Instead, she let her gaze slip toward the floor. At least, the crime scene cleaners had done an amazing job cleaning up the mess. She couldn’t even tell where the pools of blood had been just hours before.
“Like I said,” Charlie mumbled under her breath, sounding more like a chastised teenager than a grown woman who had just taken out a paid assassin. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“The truth,” her mother said plainly. “The real truth this time. I want to know what is going on in this house. I want to know what is going on at that ridiculous job of yours. But mostly, I want to know what is going on with you.”
Her mother’s voice echoed off the kitchen walls, her voice vibrating with its usual directness, but Charlie noticed something else underneath this time—concern. Real concern.
Her mother was worried about her. Not concerned about what might show up in the papers tomorrow, or how she was going to explain things to their friends and neighbors…but concerned about Charlie. Concerned for her safety. Maybe even for her life.
Charlie lifted her head. “Mom, everything is going to be fine.”
“You say that, but—” her mother started. It took her a full second before she managed to continue. “But this is the third time someone has come after you with guns, Charlie. The third. At a certain point, a mother starts to worry.”
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