Chapter 8

EIGHT

W here is she ?

The moon was barely a slice, innocuous shadows everywhere he looked. Truman whirled, listening to the subtle nighttime noises, nearly drowned out by his heavy breathing. Where the bloody hell is she ?

The apartment was safe—for now.

But his precious cargo was gone.

Had someone snatched her like they had her father?

Or had her doubts about him gotten the best of her, and she’d fled?

He couldn’t blame her.

God, he’d been such a wanker. How could he have betrayed he like that?

He knew now—just like he’d known then—that Emma was no criminal. If anything, she’d been trying to help him in his quest to break up the Red Hearts. Not overtly—not many would purposely deceive their own mother and turn her over to law enforcement—but subtly. Because Emma had a moral compass.

He’d been a fool not to see past the surface facts.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

If she had run, though…

Still determined to help her, he considered his options.

There weren’t many.

He needed proof of her innocence—both then and now. Not an easy task since he was a renegade this time around, but he'd faced bigger challenges in his life.

First, he had to make sure no one had kidnapped her. It seemed unlikely since they had evaded their previous tail, but maybe.

He should have checked her clothes. The FBI had been so closely watching her that it wasn’t out of the question they had also bugged her. While she’d left her clutch behind and lost her shoes, a tracker could be in the seam of her dress or bra.

He smacked his head with his hand. Of all the amateur, idiot things to forget. "I'll find you, Emma," he muttered to himself. "I swear to you, I will clear your name, no matter what."

A shape that seemed to glow in the dark emerged from behind an oak tree, and he immediately crouched into a fighting stance. “You promise?" A familiar voice asked.

"Jesus," he said, straightening. He crossed the expanse between them and gripped her arms. "I thought they'd found you.”

She was rigid under his grip. As she studied his expression, she softened. "Better to be safe than sorry, right? I figured I'd hide, just in case."

Smart. There was more to it than that, though. He could see it in her eyes. She’d doubted him. Did she think he wasn’t coming back or that he was turning her in?

Or maybe he was imagining it. Whatever was playing out behind her eyes was only a trick of the clouds and the night.

A rustle came from the leaves overhead, a bird nestled in for the night disturbed by their presence. “The place is secure,” he told her, releasing his hold. The wound in his side burned like hell. He needed to get a look at it and make sure there were no shards embedded there. From the way a searing pain hit him every time he moved, he guessed he’d find a sliver or two. Either that or the jagged cut was deeper than he’d assumed. “No one's been in that apartment for weeks. There's plenty of food, water, and clean clothes."

She glanced down the block. “I could use all three, plus a shower."

Taking her by the hand, he led her through backyards and past closed gates. To avoid security cameras and guard dogs, they had to climb a fence and squeeze along a narrow hedge—which only made his side blaze in agony—but finally, they made it to the back door of the complex.

While the apartment contained a sophisticated, private security monitor that kept eyes on the entrances and exits, the main building had nothing. Previously, he’d used a credit card to jimmy the lock. The rock he’d stuck in the threshold was still there, and he snuck her inside and up the stairs on quiet feet.

It consisted of two rooms: a main living area with a small kitchenette and a bedroom with an en suite bath.

"Sparse," Emma said. She immediately inspected the icebox and small pantry in the kitchen. “But better than nothing."

“Clothes are in the closet," he told her. "Go shower and change. I’ll need your dress to check it for tracking devices, but you won’t be using it again, anyway."

“My dress?” She glanced at herself, shucking off his tux jacket. “You think they bugged me?”

“Only one way to know.” He wiggled his fingers at her. “Let’s have it.”

She stood there for a moment, debating whether to undress right in front of him. Decision made, she stomped into the bathroom.

Pity, that. “Bra and knickers, too,” he called.

He heard something that sounded a lot like a curse before she returned a minute later with the awful yellow garment in hand, along with mismatched underwear. She wore a tank top that molded to her bare breasts, making him nearly choke. Yoga pants outlined her toned legs. “Here.”

It took a monumental effort to focus on anything but her. The memory of those breasts filling his hands, her nipples growing hard at the touch of his lips, the way she’d wrapped her legs around him…

“Focus, Gunn,” she said.

He choked and coughed, grabbing his side.

“We need to have a look at that.” She tried to take the garments to examine his wound, but he gently pushed her hand away.

“This first.” He ran fingers along every seam, checked between the layers, and took the cups out of the bra. Nothing. He tossed it all in the trash.

“Hey,” she complained. “I love that bra.”

“You’ll find a new one in the bottom two drawers of the dresser where there’s a stash of brand new undergarments still in their packaging.” He pointed toward the bedroom. “Higher quality and more comfortable, I guarantee.”

Her gaze swept the living room with its suede sofa and matching chair. "You're sure it's safe here?"

"Short term, yes." He gestured again at the other room. "Hurry."

The motion caused her to drop her attention to his blood-soaked shirt. “Not before I get a look at that wound."

He tried to smile around his gritted teeth. It came out more of a grimace as he grabbed a dish towel and stuck it against his side. "I'll wash it out while you're getting cleaned up.”

She pulled his arm and the already bloody towel away, frowning. "Our first order of business should be taking care of you."

"I'm fine." He nudged her toward the bedroom, covertly ogling her breasts to take his mind off the burning. "I'll just grab some antiseptic from the bathroom.”

She batted his hand off her elbow and grabbed his in return, tugging him into the tiny space containing a shower, toilet, and vanity. The whole place was generic, like a hotel room, with bland colored walls and landscape prints. “Take it off."

He flashed a grin. “Are you ordering me to strip for you?"

She opened the cabinet and fished around for antiseptic and bandages. "You wish."

He began unbuttoning his shirt. The material was plastered to his skin, and he winced as he pulled the fabric from his pants and peeled it away. “You always were bossy,” he ground out.

She started to snap back at him, but only a gasp came out when she caught sight of the gouge. “Oh, lord. You've been running around this whole time with that?”

He balled up the bloody shirt and threw it in the corner. "This? This is nothing. I've had much worse than—” He sucked in a breath when she pressed a finger against one edge of the gash.

"Is that right?" she asked with a hint of teasing, but her concern was evident.

Grabbing a washcloth, she soaked it under warm water and then began cleaning off the blood. Her eyes roamed over his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. Even though she was scared and worn out, he saw the female in her appraising and admiring what she saw. He stilled her hand, taking the bloody cloth from her. "Get your shower. I'll handle this.”

Her gaze snapped to his, and she reddened as if he’d caught her thinking lascivious thoughts. Hopefully, he had. “You need stitches."

He did. He reached into the cabinet over the sink and drew out the first aid kit. He prayed there was a needle and thread in it. It wouldn't be the first time he done it himself.

But he had to make sure no glass was left behind, and he needed her help with that.

"Time is of the essence. Find some clothes, get your shower, and then we’ll work on me."

"That doesn't make sense. You're the only one who can keep us out of the FBI’s clutches. Your viability should be top priority."

“My viability ?"

"You know what I mean. If you go down, we both do.”

She was right, of course, but saying it that way made him sound like a commodity. He hated to admit it, but he didn’t care for the callousness of her words. They were barbs, more painful than his wound.

“No worries," he told her, trying for a flippant grin again. He was pretty sure it worked by the way she narrowed her eyes. "I promise, I'm viable. Now,”—he snapped the washcloth at her, making sure he missed but getting his idea across—“get cleaned up. Be sure to doctor your foot.”

He tuned out her arguments as he left her standing there while he headed back to the kitchen with the first aid kit. He made sure he heard her rummaging in the closet before he gave himself a moment to lean on the kitchen counter and blow out the breath he’d been holding.

They were in deep shit. He was in deep shit.

It wasn't the first time he'd acted like a rogue spy to pull off a mission; it was the first time, however, that he'd actually been one.

When he heard the shower come on, he finished cleaning his gash and taped gauze over it for a makeshift bandage. Back in the bedroom, he kicked up the security system, checking out the view of the entrances, and blessed his employer for adding another on top of the roof that put the entire block on display.

The closet was the size of a mouse hole, but he found joggers and a sweatshirt that fit. A pair of trail shoes with thick soles as well.

Because of his injury, it took a massive effort to shove the bed over to the patio doors that led to the balcony in order to access the wooden floor underneath without crying out in pain. Using a crowbar stashed in the closet for this very task, he grunted as he pried up several of the boards. Under them was a hidden, portable safe.

The metallic scent of it blended with the smell of his blood as he drew it from its hiding place. Hopefully, no one had changed the combination since the last time he'd been here.

Twelve. Fourteen. Zero.

Fumbling the last digit, he swore. Starting over, he forced himself to concentrate through the throbbing in his side and the weariness in his limbs. It wasn't only the loss of blood; his body was starting to ache from the abuse he’d given it during their escape.

It took him three tries to unlock and find the cache he needed. Breathing a sigh of relief, he searched the contents for a wad of cash, a gun, and an extra clip.

He'd been so focused on retrieving the supplies that he hadn't heard the shower shut off. "What is that?" Emma asked from the doorway.

Her hair was wrapped in a towel, and she wore a T-shirt and jeans. Her feet were bare. The clothes were loose on her, and she had to roll the bottoms of the pants, but the outfit was a dozen times better than her ripped and stained dress.

"Resources," he said. He fumbled through the rest of the stash, double-checking for anything else he might want to take. A somewhat bulky envelope with the name Capote in elegant handwriting caught his eye.

He’d given Brigit the nickname Gidget. She’d called him Capote. He pulled it out and studied it. Why had she left him this?

And when?

Surely not tonight.

Blood had dried in the cuticles of a few of his fingers. He took the packet to the bed and sank onto the mattress, grimacing against the pain. Emma sat next to him, barely making it dip. "Who's Capote?"

Me, in a different lifetime . "It's a nickname. Truman Capote.”

"Oh," she said, her gaze skimming his bare chest and shoulders before rising to meet his gaze. "Sounds like a gangster."

He frowned. “You don't know who Truman Capote is?"

She blanched, embarrassed. "I've heard the name, but I can't place him. I take it he's famous? "

“The author of Breakfast at Tiffany's ? In Cold Blood ? Friends with Harper Lee, who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird ?”

Her eyes lit. "I've read that. One of my aunts had a worn-out copy that she carried with her all the time."

‘Aunt,’ in her world meant a Red Heart who worked with her mother.

"The story had elements from Harper Lee’s life. Her dad was a lawyer, like Atticus Finch in the book. Scout’s friend, Dill, is supposedly based on Harper’s real-life friend, Truman.”

One side of her mouth lifted. “That’s cool.” She tapped the envelope. “So this is meant for you?”

“Yeah,” he said, slipping a finger under the flap.

A key fob fell out and there was a folded piece of ivory paper with more of Brigit’s handwriting. I knew you’d need this someday . Don’t say I never gave you anything . It was followed by the title of a song: Dancing in the Moonlight .

“What does it mean?” Emma asked.

He crammed the paper back inside, smiling for real this time as he pocketed the fob. “Nothing,” he lied, rising from the bed and returning the safe to its place under the floor.

Emma helped him shove the bed back. “I don’t believe you.”

“I know,” he said, checking the security feeds. “How’s your foot?”

She glanced at the bandaged appendage. “Sore, but it’s not deep.”

“There are two backpacks by the door. Grab one and fill it with whatever you want to take.”

She peered at the screens on the desk alongside him. “First, I want to look at your side.” He balked when she pushed him down on the bed again but enjoyed watching her pad barefoot out of the room to snag the first aid kit from the kitchen before returning.

As long as he could keep an eye on the cameras and her, he might as well let her help him. He removed the gauze pad, glad she wasn’t squeamish. “You need a magnifying glass,” he told her. “There should be one in there.”

She hunted through desk drawers and found a handheld one with a light. Normally, it was useful for reading small print. “This should work. Lie down.”

He did, giving her a wink. “There’s that bossiness again.”

She poured alcohol into his wound, seeming to enjoy the hiss he let out at the godawful sting. It was like she was pouring pure fire into his body.

Her focus shifted to a scar on his left pectoral, and she traced a finger over it. “What was this from?”

It was far better to zero in on what her soft touch did to him instead of the burning in his side. “Knife.”

“You never told me that. A few centimeters to the right, and they would have hit your heart.”

“Probably.”

“So cavalier.” She tsked. “I knew you were hiding things from me when you said you were a demolitions expert. I should have known you were an undercover agent.” It was said wistfully rather than with anger.

Progress, he thought. "I am a demolitions expert, and I thought you’d figured it out.”

“About you being a spy? No. You told me about your childhood and time at the military academy, but you didn’t give me many details about your present-day life. I feared you were married or something.” She wiped away the last of the blood. “It's still seeping, but I'll do what I can to see if I can find any."

He'd been under extreme scrutiny more times than he could count, thanks to his job. This was different—watching her stare through the magnifying glass as she used a clean washcloth to dab away the blood and examine the bare wound. For some odd reason, it was intoxicating.

He imagined her looking through her special magnifying glasses, studying a gemstone, with the same intense scrutiny that made her bite her bottom lip and narrow her eyes. Her breathing was deep, and her warm breath on his bare skin made him hard.

Before that could get out of hand, a hint of delight showed on her face. “Aha! I found one.” She grabbed tweezers from the kit. "Hold still."

That was easier said than done as the cold metal probed into his ravaged tissues. Grinding his teeth, he balled the comforter in his hands as he tried not to move. The poking hurt almost as bad as the alcohol, just in a different way. He needed a bullet to bite down on.

A slight pulling, a tugging, and then… she held up a bloody shard for him to see. "I got it!"

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and gave her a weak smile. "Good job." He wished this was over because of the pain, but seeing her face light up like that was priceless. He might get to see it again. He grabbed a roll of the gauze. "Now, look for more. We don't want to sew me up until we're sure they're all out."

She nodded, tossing the sliver in the waste can before wiping off her hands and once more kneeling beside him on the bed. "I'm sorry," she said.

He frowned up at her. Her wet hair fell past her shoulders as she leaned over him. Another time, a similar situation, only without an injury setting the scene, flashed through his memory.

Her kneeling on the bed, ready to straddle him but teasing him. Beg for it , she’d ordered.

He was too far gone, needed her too much to argue. For every time you make me say please, I’m going to make you beg me .

She’d smiled with the slyness of a wild thing. You can try , she’d said.

Please , he’d whispered.

My pleasure . And then she’d slid on top of him and rode him for all he was worth.

As if the memory caught her, too, she licked her lips. Her cheeks flushed.

His voice came out gravelly. “Sorry for what?”

“For this.” She pointed at his side. “For dragging you into my mess.”

He took her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Shocking the hell out of him, she leaned down and kissed him.