Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body)

by Naima Simone

  “I’ve been out of my mother’s house and on my own for years now. It was either learn to cook or live off of Hot Pockets and ramen noodles. Do you want an omelet?”

  He shifted out of the doorway and into the kitchen. “Sure, thank you.” He scanned her body once more. Gritted his teeth against the further tightening of his body “Where did you get the clothes?”

  “I found some of Addy’s things in the other spare bedroom. I hope you don’t mind. We’re about the same size, and I know she wouldn’t care.”

  About the same size. He silently snorted. Yes, she and his sister were both petite but where Addy was slender, Fallon possessed curves that women paid good money to a surgeon to obtain.

  “We’re leaving here in about an hour. Once we are out of town, I’ll stop so you can pick up some clothes and other items.” So stilted, so stiff. And it didn’t help he couldn’t keep his attention from dropping to her mouth. See if it was swollen from the not so gentle way he’d used it.

  “I’ll be ready, let me just finish up here.” She flipped the egg in the pan with a neat, efficient twist of her wrist he couldn’t help but admire. He’d learned to cook for Addisyn, his mother, and himself at an early age—he’d had to. But he’d never mastered the omelet flip. “So,” she said, her dense tangle of curls obscuring the side of her face, “are we not going to talk about last night?”

  Desire and trepidation knotted his gut. “Fallon—”

  Glass exploded.

  Shane dove for Fallon, grabbing her around the waist and twisting midair so he received the brunt of the impact to the floor. Immediately, he rolled, covering her with his body, shielding her head with his arms. Shards crashed and splintered against the marble island, the only barrier between them and the lethal glass slivers.

  For a moment, the air thickened, shifted, then wavered, transforming into a giant heat wave. The kitchen floor mutated into hard-packed dirt that smeared his face and coated his tongue. The acrid stench of cordite stung his nostrils as chunks of concrete and grit pelted him. Fire and agony ripped through his lower back…

  “Shane?” The tremor in Fallon’s whisper boomeranged him to the present and out of the hellish past.

  “Are you okay?” he barked, lifting his arms and head, already scanning her face and upper body for himself.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, eyes wide with terror. “I’m—”

  Dull, loud thumps resounded against the walls and cabinets, accompanied by the shattering of more glass and the staccato blasts of gunfire.

  “Fuck!” he barked. Bullets ripped apart the curtains over the sink, destroying the decorative window and more glass rained down. He had to get her out of there.

  Crouching over her, he tugged her up, but was careful to remain below the relative safety of the island. Relative because whoever was shooting up the front of his house wouldn’t be satisfied with waiting them out.

  He darted a glance at her bare feet and the splinters covering the floor. Bending low, he hiked her into his arms and shot across the kitchen and into the bordering hall. A bullet buried into the wall next to his hip as he cleared the doorway. A few more steps and he stopped in front of a hall closet, opened the door, and shoved her inside. For once she didn’t object, didn’t give him a hard time. And as he shut the door, he carried the image of her pale skin, dark eyes, and trembling mouth with him.

  Icy rage filled him. They’d shot up his home. Endangered innocent people. Tried to kill the woman under his protection—the woman he cared for. Of all their crimes, the last one was the most heinous. The one he wanted blood for.

  Edging along the wall, he reached the mouth of the corridor and dropped to a crab walk. Gunfire continued to erupt and burst into the living room from the obliterated bay windows, cleaving chunks of wood off the coffee table and ripping apart the couch.

  His boots crunched on glass as he scurried to an end table, jerked the drawer open, and removed one of the SIG Sauers he’d stashed around the house. Ducking behind the couch, he checked the clip, paused, waited. Listened.

  From the volume of bullets and the rate at which they were shot, he guessed two, possibly three, shooters. Front of the house. With most of the damage inflicted on the living room and some in the kitchen, the sons of bitches were either on the sidewalk right outside his house, or maybe in his yard. But that could change at any moment.

  Their job was to kill. Sooner or later they would infiltrate the house to make sure the mission was accomplished.

  No way in hell would he allow that to happen.

  Snatching an afghan off the arm of the couch, he gave the blanket a violent shake, scattering most of the shards. Satisfied, he balled it up, pressed it against his chest and belly, and laid on the floor. Scooting around the sofa, he swiftly made his way to the window. He shoved the larger pieces of glass aside with his forearms, ignoring the minute pricks to his skin. Hoping his hands would remain dry, free of blood, and steady.

  Moments later, he neared the decimated bay window—bitches—and jumped to his feet, shoulder pressed to the wall bordering the pane. A quick, furtive glance outside confirmed his suspicions. Two shooters, both in his yard and slowly creeping closer. A dark blue sedan idled in the street, most likely with a driver behind the wheel.

  Pulling back the slide, he loaded a round, then raised the SIG, wrapped both hands around the grip, index finger resting along the barrel. Inhaling, he shifted forward, peered down the rear sight…and fired.

  The asshole closest to the house dropped his gun, clutched his shoulder with a sharp cry. For a second, the firing ceased, his partner probably stunned by his boy going down. Absorbing the echo of the recoil vibrating up his arm, Shane grasped immediate advantage and shot again.

  “Shit!” The roar boomed in the sudden silence as the other thug grabbed his firing arm, the automatic weapon in his hand tumbling to the ground. The door to the sedan flew open and another man leaped out, running to his friends.

  Flattening his mouth into a grim line, Shane balked at shooting an unarmed man even though he’d driven his “brothers” to Shane’s house to kill Fallon. Still… Taking aim again, he shot out a rear tire and a front tire. Try driving away on rims, motherfuckers.

  In the distance, sirens wailed, the shooting probably called in by his neighbors.

  Damn it. He glared out the window, gun raised as the three men hobbled down the street and away from the cops closing in. Lowering his SIG, he charged across the living room and into the hall.

  Priority number one: get Fallon out and away from the house before the police arrived. The cops would insist on obtaining a statement, which translated into a trip to the station and detainment for God knew how long. It was time they couldn’t afford. Time he could use to put distance between her, Jonah Michaels, and the Lords of War. Time that meant life or death. Hers.

  He jerked the closet door open. Fallon flew out as if discharged from a cannon.

  “Oomph.” The impact of her barreling into him drove the air from his lungs. Automatically, his arms rose to lock around her. Relief blasted through him. She was safe. For the moment. “They’re gone, baby,” he assured her, pressing a brief, hard kiss to her wild curls. “But we have to go before the police arrive. Hurry.” Thank God he’d had the foresight to pack a duffel bag the night before and store it in his SUV. “Hold on.” Hiking her into his arms, he dashed to the foyer, grabbed his keys, punched in the security code, and rushed out of the house.

  In seconds, he pealed out of the driveway and hit the street, speeding in the same direction of the sirens and incoming police. As several patrol cars flew past his truck, he eased off the accelerator. But as soon as they disappeared in his rearview mirror, he floored it.

  Urgency pumped through his veins like a drug. Until he hit the city limits, got rid of the SUV, and arrived at the safe house, he would remain on edge.

  Unnerved.

  As of now, he couldn’t trust the cops or law enforcement.

  Because outside of Kh
alil, Maddox, and Ciaran, only one other person had been aware of Fallon’s location. Had known Shane intended to move her this morning.

  One of Boston’s finest.

  Tristan.

  Chapter Ten

  “God, Shane. Your CD collection is from last century.”

  Shane gritted his teeth against the crinkle of flipping plastic sleeves and Fallon’s irritated grumble. They’d been on the road for forty-five minutes. A long forty-five minutes. If it didn’t mean a possible fiery death by car crash, he would have closed his eyes and counted to ten—or a hundred. Anything to clamp a stranglehold on his patience.

  Damn. Bad analogy. Especially when his gut still clenched in terror and rage at the thought of her being incinerated by a car bomb and most recently by an assassination squad. He would never forget the terror on her face. Damn it! His home was supposed to have been a haven for her. Instead it’d been turned into a firing range with her as the paper target.

  Six years in the service and three years with GDG had exposed him to several precarious situations. But facing down the enemy on foreign soil or protecting a client from an obsessed stalker hadn’t prepared him for the stark horror that darkened her lovely eyes from silver to almost black.

  Never. Never again would he allow danger that close to her.

  He glanced toward the passenger side, needing to look at her, reassure himself she was unscathed. With a muttered curse, he jerked his attention back to the road.

  At some point during this ride he was going to need to figure out how not to stare at her slim thighs in those ridiculous—sexy—jeans. Christ on the cross. He shifted in his seat, prayed she didn’t notice the growing erection along his thigh. Explaining why he sported a hard-on in her presence notched right under shaving his balls and above watching a Sex in the City marathon.

  He slid another glance across the bucket seat in the large SUV. Those frivolous—gorgeous—curls that had always fascinated him brushed her high cheekbone and jaw as she continued to peruse his binder of music. Except now he knew the silken, sensual feel of them tangled around his fingers. And no amount of rubbing could erase the sensation.

  His grip on the steering wheel tightened until the ridges dug into his fingers. A dull ache flared in his joints, protesting the punishing hold. Maybe if he squeezed hard enough, his mind would focus on the danger pursuing them instead of her thighs, her wicked mouth, and her absolutely delicious scent permeating the confines of the car.

  “Queen? Greatest hits?” She plucked the disc from its pocket and waved it. “For real?”

  By the time they reached their destination, he would be breathing enamel from all the teeth grinding. “They’re classic.”

  She snorted, replaced the CD, and once more blessed silence filled the vehicle.

  Then she started singing.

  He growled, and she broke off mid-“Bohemian Rhapsody,” hands shooting up in the age-old sign of surrender. “Fine, fine.” She smirked. “But being the big bad security specialist, you miiiight want to bump some Jay Z or slip a couple of 50 Cent CDs in here. I’m just saying.”

  He shot her a glare, and she shrugged. Moments later, the sultry notes of Alicia Keys’s “If I Ain’t Got You” streamed from the speakers. He jabbed the forward button at the same time she reached for it. Their fingers bumped in their haste to skip the song that had been playing from the living room when Fallon had cornered him the kitchen those years ago.

  Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t scrubbed every detail of that kiss from their mind. Christ, just don’t let her ask why I have the CD in the first place. He didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make him look like a schmuck.

  She lowered her arm and cleared her throat as the next track played.

  “So where are we headed?” she murmured, and he detected the traces of the fear she’d covered with the derision of his musical tastes.

  Rage edged in helplessness flowed through him, obliterating all traces of embarrassment. Rage at the killer who would snuff out such a vibrant, beautiful life as easily as he would a cigarette butt. Helplessness because no matter how much Shane assured Fallon nothing would happen to her while under his watch, the subtle, bitter tinge of fear stained her steady, calm voice. He ached to strangle Jonah Michaels for that alone.

  “Cape Cod. Eastham.”

  The location was ideal; in May, tourists would be flocking to the coastal town. Two more would go unnoticed. Especially since he didn’t plan on venturing out of the safe house more than necessary—Fallon, not at all. A good part of the houses dotting the shore were rentals and vacant during the week, providing privacy and cover.

  Ten minutes later, he exited off I-93 steered the SUV into a supermarket lot, and parked next to a gunmetal Range Rover. The driver’s door of the Rover opened, and Ciaran stepped out of the vehicle.

  “Wait here for a minute,” he said to Fallon. But her hand was already on the handle, tugging on it, and pushing the door open. He sighed and followed.

  “Ciaran,” she crowed, delight in her voice as she ran to his best friend and threw her arms around his neck. Shane gritted his teeth and fought against the inexplicable primal urge to yank her out of his friend’s embrace and back to his side. “It’s been forever.”

  Ciaran grinned, squeezing her hard. “Hey, sweetheart.” He twirled a thick curl around his finger and gave the strands a playful tug. “Still right smack in the middle of trouble, I see.” He chuckled when she smacked him on the arm, but an instant later his smile faded, his expression sobering. “I don’t want you to worry, okay? We have your back and aren’t going to let anything happen to you.”

  “I know.” She glanced over her shoulder at Shane before shifting her attention back to Ciaran. “I’m in capable, if musically challenged, hands.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered as Ciaran snorted.

  “You must’ve seen his CD collection,” Ciaran said. “Chicago, right?”

  “Queen, you rat bastard,” Shane growled. “Now, give me the keys so we can get out of here.”

  With a snicker, Ciaran tossed a pair of keys to him. “Fallon, I have a pair of sneakers in the passenger’s seat for you.” He aimed a pointed look at her bare feet and arched an eyebrow.

  “Thanks.” She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, then climbed into the Rover.

  Shane waited until the door closed before turning to his friend and business partner. “Thanks for picking up everything for her.”

  Ciaran shrugged a shoulder. “Thank your sister. If she hadn’t told me what to buy, I would’ve shown up with a toothbrush,” he said, dumping a load of sarcasm on “told.” Shane grunted, he could just imagine how his bossy younger sister had instructed the other man.

  “What have you found out?” Shane crossed his arms, glancing down at his watch. 7:20. Only an hour and five minutes had passed since he walked into the kitchen to find Fallon cooking breakfast. Jesus, it felt like days. “Anything on the shooters?”

  Ciaran shook his head, his features tightening. “Nothing. I’ve been listening to the police scanners and, even with descriptions from your neighbors, somehow the cops missed them. They do have the car, though. Good thinking popping those tires.”

  “They can pull fingerprints from it at least.” Shane rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “What about the security cameras from the businesses where Fallon’s car was parked?” Khalil had been working to retrieve the footage from the stores on that street to see if the cameras had caught images of the ones who’d placed the bomb on the convertible.

  “Most of the angles were wrong and didn’t catch anything. But the bakery and pawnshop did capture something. About eleven o’clock, a hooded figure paused beside her car. It isn’t very clear what he was doing, but he did spend about three minutes there. Just from the limited amount of time he took, the device couldn’t have been very sophisticated. Maybe a pressure-cooker bomb or pipe bomb. Either can be detonated with a cell phone or digital watch. I can ask Tristan if
they received the bomb squad’s report yet—”

  “No,” Shane said, voice flat. “From now on we keep everything in-house.”

  “Shane, I know what you said, but—” Ciaran began, frowning. But once more, Shane cut his friend off.

  “I get it, Ciaran,” he snapped, frustration and the churning in his stomach lending a jagged edge to his tone. “I do. I don’t want to believe Tristan could betray us like that.” He shook his head. A part of him refused to believe it. “But he was the only other person besides us who knew my identity, where I lived, and that Fallon was with me. I can’t let friendship blind me to that fact. Not when her life is on the line.”

  “Yeah, I understand, but…” He scrubbed a palm over his clean-shaven jaw. “He’s already calling, wanting to know where you and Fallon are.”

  “Just tell him I moved her to the safe house and that we’ll be in touch.”

  “Got it.” He sighed, resolution tightening his mouth, though his blue gaze remained troubled. “Listen, we have everything covered in Boston. One of us will contact you whether we find something or not. Maddox and some of our guys have been staking out the Lords of War territory and haunts, see if they can spot Michaels. So far he’s in the wind, but we’re staying on it.”

  “Add Tristan to that surveillance.”

  Mouth in a grim line, Ciaran nodded, the gesture terse. “On it. You just take care of our girl.”

  Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Shane clasped his friend’s hand, then tugged him in for a quick, hard hug.

  “Be careful,” Shane warned gruffly. As an ex-soldier, he longed to be in the middle of the investigation, the battle, hunting his enemy, and neutralizing the threat. But something deeper, more primal overrode that need. The need to protect. To defend his…his… His what?

  Friend? Not only had that ship sailed, but it had been blasted to Davy Jones’s Locker.