He leads me straight into the master bedroom — apparently he took detailed notes during his brief tour, earlier, because he seems freakishly familiar with the layout of my house — and practically drags me into my walk-in closet.
“Two minutes,” he growls, tossing my brown leather duffle bag at my feet. “Pack.”
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that with you holding onto me like a caveman?” I yank on my arm again. My already-sore wrist is smarting so fiercely, I’m stunned to find tears suddenly glossing over my eyes.
Dammit. Don’t cry, Shelby. Your street cred is hanging by a thread already.
I try to turn away to hide the tears, but it’s too late. Conor notices my wet eyes — I get the distinct impression there’s not much he doesn’t notice — and drops my damaged wrist so fast, you’d think I had leprosy. Cursing lowly under his breath, he takes a hasty step away and props his large frame against a nearby rack of shoes.
From the corner of my eye I watch him running a hand through his messy hair and, for the briefest instant, think I spot a flare of remorse in those unreadable indigo eyes. It’s gone so fast, I convince myself it was never there at all.
Conor Gallagher isn’t the remorseful type.
I bet he’s never apologized for a damn thing in his whole damn life. The air of alpha male arrogance surrounding him is so thick, I doubt he can even see his own faults, let alone own up to them.
His voice jerks me back to earth. “I feel obligated to remind you you’ve got exactly one minute left before we’re out the door. You gonna keep staring at me like you’re wondering about my star sign or are you gonna pack your damn suitcase?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was merely trying to see up close and personal whether there is, in fact, a 666 engraved on your skull.” I lean in, squinting intently. “I think I see it… then again, it could just be a frown line… seeing as you have an Olympic Gold Medal in Scowling.”
“Cute,” he says in a flat tone that suggests I’m the farthest thing from cute on the whole planet. “Pack.”
“You’re relentless, you know that?”
“And you’re a pain in the damn ass.”
“Only when I’m teaching a barre class. What can I say? I really like to work the glutes.”
I think he actually might throttle me, if the steam leaking from his ears is any indication And the feeling is definitely mutual. For a long moment, we’re both silent — glaring at each other in mutual dislike, neither prepared to cave to the other’s demands.
“Thirty seconds,” he warns softly. Funny — I never knew soft could be scary until right this second.
“If you’re describing your average stamina time between the sheets, I can’t say I’m surprised,” I inform him sweetly.
He doesn’t take the bait, but his eyes flicker to the duffle at my feet, then drag slowly up my body — taking in every detail from the bare feet with pastel-painted toes to the fitted yoga pants to the slice of tan skin at my hipbones to the pink sports bra peeking through my open-weave white sweater to the long brown hair cascading around my shoulders. By the time they finally return to lock on mine, I’m having a hard time breathing and there’s an intent gleam in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
“Hunt.” His voice is full of gravel. “Time’s up.”
My mouth opens, but all my witty retorts fly out of my head as I watch Conor push off the wall. The closet feels remarkably small as he begins to advance on me.
“What are you doing?” I squeak, backpedaling a step.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Holding out my hands like a shield, I back away from him. He keeps coming, pursuing me across the enclosed space like a freaking jaguar — all lithe muscle and dark predatory grace. I scurry around the center island where I store my jewelry, as though having a buffer between us might somehow keep him at bay.
“Stop!” I cry, recalling his threat about putting me over his shoulder and carrying me out of the house, whether or not I’m finished packing or even wearing shoes. “Stop right there, you psycho!”
He keeps coming.
“Don’t you lay a hand on me, Gallagher!”
Still coming.
“You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”
His lips twist into a dark grin — actually it’s more of a grimace — and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
He totally would dare.
We do a full circle around the jewelry island, like we’re playing some absurd game of tag. When he comes back to the empty duffle bag, he pauses momentarily and bends to pick it up off the floor.
“I’m in a generous mood,” he informs me.
I snort in disbelief.
He ignores the sound, extending the duffle out to me across the island. “One last chance.”
My heart is thudding. “You… I… Oh, for fuck’s sake. Fine!”
Snarling, I snatch the duffle from his grip and start shoving clothing inside. Not that I honestly believe this crazed gun-toting stranger is about to toss me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and haul me out of my house…
Right?
He’s obviously exaggerating, the reckless part of my brain says smugly. Let’s see what’ll happen if you disobey. It’s good to be bad!
Hey! Don’t test him! the sensible part of my brain warns. We’ve already been manhandled enough in the past twenty-four hours. Let’s quit while we’re behind.
I shove both voices out of my head and focus on the task at hand. Namely, grabbing an equal distribution of tops and pants and underwear for my unexpected vacation with Conor Asshole Gallagher. It would help if I knew where I was going or what occasion I was packing for…
Light layers?
Sweater weather?
Summer sunshine?
Arctic tundra?
A location would be great. Hell, I’d settle for a continent to narrow things down somewhat. But seeing as my new companion has already been oh so receptive to my previous questions, I highly doubt he’ll be forthcoming on the subject of attire.
In the end, I wind up with a messy hodgepodge — a handful of sundresses and sweaters, two pairs of sandals, my favorite jeans, a floppy sunhat, and all the underwear I can manage to fit without bursting the zipper of my bag. By the time I’m done, the duffle is so full I have to sit on it to get it closed. And believe you me, is not easy to maintain your dignity in front of a cocky, condescending man you despise with every fiber of your being while you’re sitting on the floor of your walk-in closet, straddling a leather duffle bag like it’s a mechanical bull, jerking the treads closed inch by inch and praying like hell you don’t have to start removing lacey undergarments by the handful.
Please, someone hire a sniper to assassinate me.
Right here, right now. Put me out of my misery.
The zipper closes with a final zzzzzp! and I slowly dismount. Scrambling to my feet, I know my cheeks are burning. I can’t bring myself to glance Conor’s way. It’s far too mortifying.
“Finally ready?” he asks in a choked voice.
“Finally going to tell me where the hell we’re headed?” I retort in a pissy tone.
I bend to grab the strap of my bag, but he beats me to it in a surprising show of chivalry. His face is solemn as ever as he slings it over one shoulder, but I notice there’s a slight twitching at the left corner of his mouth — as though he’s fighting off a smile — when he turns for the door.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I mutter darkly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hunt.”
I glower at his back all the way downstairs.
From the passenger side mirror of Conor’s jacked-up black Jeep Wrangler, I watch the navy blue Victorian I’ve called home for nearly a decade disappear as we turn off my dead end street, headed god only knows where. My savior (and by savior I mean monosyllabic jackass who rescued me) hasn’t yet deigned to tell me our destination, and I’m feeling too stubborn to ask. Mostly because I highly doubt he’ll share that information.
The s
mall message on the reflective mirror surface reads, “WARNING: OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.” After the past twenty-four hours, I’m beginning to think I should walk around wearing a similar disclaimer. “CAUTION: LIFE IS CRAZIER THAN IT INITIALLY APPEARS.” Because somehow, in the span of a single day, my seemingly perfect existence has fallen to pieces.
Seriously. If things get any wackier, I’m going to buy a one-way ticket to Bali and leave Boston behind for good.
I’ll teach yoga on the beach by day, sell puka-shell necklaces by night.
I’ll become someone else. Someone better than Shelby Hunt: stilted housewife.
I sigh heavily and settle back against the leather seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, for such a souped-up, masculine monstrosity. When I first spotted the Jeep Wrangler in my driveway — four forty-inch tires and no roof — I flat-out laughed at the sight of it parked beside my low-slung coup convertible. No two cars could be more different.
A metaphor that extends easily to their owners, it would seem, judging by the way Conor and I butt heads…
He hasn’t said a word to me since we left my house. I try to pay attention to the road, taking note of landmarks as we head southeast toward the city limits, but waves of exhaustion are crashing through me relentlessly. It’s nearly dawn now, and with each passing minute it’s increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. With the exception of a few scant hours of rest in a stiff-backed dining room chair, I haven’t slept at all… and something tells me I won’t be getting much rest when we arrive wherever it is he’s taking me.
Was it only yesterday I was opening my eyes to a new day, throwing on workout clothes and preparing for sunrise yoga at the studio?
It feels like a decade has passed since then. An eternity since I’ve done anything normal — like eat, for instance — and my body has definitely taken notice, given the hunger pangs I’m currently experiencing. My stomach gives an embarrassing gurgle, audible even over the rushing of the wind.
Conor glances at me but I stare pointedly out the window, wishing I could evaporate into thin air. Or possibly teleport to Life Alive, my favorite local vegetarian restaurant, for a smoothie and an açaí bowl. My stomach groans again at just the thought.
The crisp air whipping against my face helps keep me conscious as we zoom through neighborhood after neighborhood — for once not gridlocked with commuter traffic or bus-loads of visiting tourists. It’s odd to see everything so abandoned. No street performers doing dance routines, no musicians playing acoustic sets for tips in the public parks, no yellow duck boats chugging toward the harbor. In a few hours, all of Boston will be abuzz with life… but right now, Conor and I feel like the only two people alive in the whole world.
What a strangely terrifying thought.
My brows lift when, instead of heading downtown, we merge onto the Tobin Bridge — taking us over the water, away from the city. I turn my head to look at the receding downtown skyline and see the horizon is going pale with the first hints of a pink sunrise between the towering skyscrapers in the distance.
Hauling a deep breath in through my nose, I steady my shoulders and rally my remaining dregs of inner strength. I’m going to need it — I have a distinct feeling it’s going to be a long freaking day.
And it hasn’t even started yet.
Chapter Five
RUSSIAN ROULETTE
My predictions are not wrong.
The day from hell has only gotten more hellish — which is really saying something, since it started with me duct taped to a chair in my own damn house.
Now, I’m in a different chair, sans duct tape, but no more comfortable. My ass has officially gone numb after forty-five minutes of waiting for Conor to come back to this ugly, fluorescent-lit holding cell where he left me without any explanation whatsoever.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at the wall on the other side of the room. “Are you trying to bore me to death?” I ask the two-way mirror, certain someone is standing on the other side. Someone with messy black hair and dark blue eyes, if I had to put money on it. “What, is your water-boarding kit occupied? Or is this some new FBI interrogation tactic I’m being subjected to?”
Oh.
That’s right.
I said FBI.
Turns out, Conor Gallagher the Boston Cop is actually Special Agent Conor Gallagher of the FBI — a fact I learned after he drove us into Chelsea, pulled up to an armored security gate complete with gun-toting guards, flashed his freaking badge, and proceeded to park in front of an impressive, blocky building with a black stone sign declaring FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS: BOSTON DIVISION in neat, chiseled lettering.
Yeah.
That happened.
You said you were a cop! I squawked as he yanked me from the car, marched me inside, and dragged me none-too-gently toward this lovely cross-examination chamber I now call home.
No, he retorted flatly. You said I was a cop. I simply failed to correct you.
Before I could do anything — like, say, beam him over the head with my flip flop and make a break for it — he closed the door and disappeared, leaving me locked in here like a common criminal.
Yes, locked.
I tried the knob.
Multiple times.
With colorful language — including, but not limited to, all the dirty Russian phrases Paul’s parents taught me, back in the days we used to spend the holidays with them — I expressed to both the overhead cameras and the mirror wall just how unhappy I was to be detained as a special guest of the FBI without cause.
Yebat-kopat!
Pizda rulyu!
Yoptel-mopsel!
Yobannoe dno!
By this point, they’re lucky I haven’t picked up the chair and attempted to shatter the glass. (Though, I’m pretty sure that would land me behind bars for real.) I’m about ready to risk it — a life of crime has got to be better than dying of boredom in here — when the door finally swings open and Conor walks in.
“You motherfu— Oh.”
My mouth snaps shut when I see he’s not alone. A female agent slips inside behind him before the door clicks closed. She’s annoyingly pretty despite the rather androgynous outfit she’s got on — not a hair out of place in her low blonde chignon, not a wrinkle on her pressed black pants.
I suddenly feel extremely underdressed in my hot pink sports bra ensemble. Sitting up straighter in my seat, I resist the urge to smooth my messy hair.
“So. This is the infamous Shelby Hunt.”
Infamous?
The woman’s voice is a perfect match for her personality — cool, haughty, a bit condescending. I meet her dispassionate ice-blue eyes as she takes a seat across from me at the stainless steel table.
Conor doesn’t sit. He leans against the wall instead, his posture totally casual. Still, I can’t help noticing there’s an edge of alertness in his eyes as they watch his colleague taking my measure.
“Finally, I put a face to the name,” the woman says, smiling without teeth. Her fingers drum an absentminded pattern on the thick file in her hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’d say the same, but you’ve yet to introduce yourself.”
Her smile vanishes. She pulls a badge from inside her blazer and slides it across the table toward me. “Agent Lucy Sykes, I’m with the Organized Crime Division here at the Boston Bureau. I believe you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my colleague, Agent Gallagher.”
I glance fleetingly at her credentials, then push the badge back to her with a rough shove. “Trust me, there was nothing pleasurable about it.”
Conor scoffs lowly.
Sykes’ jaw clenches tighter. “Mrs. Hunt, do you know why you’re here?”
“I’ll take a wild guess and say it has something to do with the two men who attacked me, yesterday.”
“Right you are.” Her head tilts in contemplation. She reminds me of a cat, sizing up a particularly delectable mouse. “We’d love it if you’d talk us throug
h everything that happened. Starting at the beginning, all the way up to the moment Agent Gallagher arrived at your home. Can you do that?”
My eyes move to Conor. He’s watching me carefully, that dark stare burning into mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. I can’t even begin to decipher that look, so I direct my focus back on his partner, steel my shoulders, and launch into the story with as much detail as I can remember.
The studio encounter after my yoga class.
The feeling I was being watched at the Farmers Market.
The altercation in my driveway with Righty and Lefty.
The threats about Paul returning their stolen property.
Agent Sykes listens intently, interjecting with the occasional question, making small notes on her legal pad. When I finish speaking, the room is totally silent.
“That’s it,” I say dumbly, when no one else speaks. “That’s everything I remember.”
Sykes is peering at me with a peculiar expression, her slender brows arched. “This boss they mentioned — Alexei?”
I nod.
“Have you ever heard that name before?”
“No.”
“And they didn’t say what your husband stole from him?”
“Ex-husband.”
“Oh?” Sykes looks down at her file. “I see here that you filed for divorce last December. According to our records, it was never finalized.”
“Only because Paul refuses to sign the papers.”
“Then you are, in fact, still married.”
“On paper,” I fire back, taking offense at her tone. “But our marriage has been effectively over for months. Years, really.”
“So you say. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hunt, the things on paper are all that count, when it comes to an investigation.” Her fingertips drum the folder. “Files don’t lie.”
I tense at the implication.
Files don’t lie… but you might.
My eyes narrow on hers. “I don’t suppose your precious file reflects the restraining order I took out against Paul? And the reasons for it?”
Sykes has the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I do see there was an… altercation of sorts on Christmas Day at your residence. Police responded to the scene and filed a report.”
So Wrong It's Right Page 5