Blank Slate (15 page)

“I know.”

Langston’s expression was hard, preempting any further questions from Clarissa. She didn’t know what else to say anyway. Langston was being pursued by his own people for what he’d done to help her. Why he wasn’t putting her in cuffs and dragging her to the nearest FBI office to clear his name was beyond her.

They were at the car now, and he held his hand out for the keys. Clarissa gave them to him, wincing as she noticed the blood and bruises on his face. She’d gotten there in time to save his life, but not spare him pain. Clarissa glanced away uncomfortably as she climbed into the car. It was her fault they’d taken him, hurt him. Protecting her had nearly gotten him killed, not to mention put him well on the path to destroying his career.

“What the hell were you thinking anyway?” he bit out, once he got in the car. “I told you to leave, not play Sarah Connor and rush in with guns blazing.” He hit the gas, and gravel spewed behind them as they shot down the road.

“You’d rather I left you there?” Clarissa retorted.

“I’d rather you’d have done what I said!”

“Well, screw you! I wasn’t going to run away and let you die.”

Langston stomped on the brakes; the SUV fishtailed as it came to a shuddering halt. He threw it into park before turning to her.

“I can’t trust you if you don’t do what I say,” he said.

“Getting rescued by a girl got your knickers in a twist?” Clarissa sneered. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

“Dammit, Clarissa! Don’t you see—”

Clarissa knew only two ways to shut up an angry man, and she was fresh out of bullets. Which only left one option.

“Shut up, Langston,” she cut in. Fisting a handful of his shirt in her grip, she jerked him toward her, planting her lips on his. He went still, and her lips curved in a smile. Then he was kissing her like before, cradling her face in his hands, and she could taste the blood he’d shed for her.

After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look in her eyes. She grinned at him. “You’re much too pretty to let die,” she said.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to thank you?” Langston said, but it was without rancor. The roughness in his voice as his eyes devoured her made her stomach do flips.

“I thought you just did?”

He snorted before putting the car back in gear and heading down the road, this time at a more reasonable pace.

“So where to now?” she asked.

“Well, we need a safe place to stash you until I can figure out what to do next, someplace no one will look, not even the FBI.”

“And you know a place like that?”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“And that would be…”

Langston glanced at her, grimacing as he said, “My mother’s.”

T
he motel this time was little better than the one before, but on the road in the middle of west Texas, there was little to choose from. Erik paid with cash, knowing his credit cards could and would be tracked.

Erik had called the incident in to the closest field office, avoiding a conversation with SAC Clarke, and told them to take Mendes into custody. He’d briefly contemplated his next move; should he call Clarke or Kaminski? Then decided it would have to wait until morning.

He was tired, and his body ached from the abuse it had taken at the hands of Mendes and his honchos, then having to drive a few more hours in the middle of the night to put some distance between them and the dead men. He should probably go take a shower, but he couldn’t make his body move from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s see what the damage is.”

Erik looked up to see O’Connell holding a washcloth while she squeezed between his spread knees. She frowned as she began gently cleaning the dried blood from his face, the warm cloth sliding over the cuts and bruises. He reached up and grasped her wrist, halting her ministrations.

“That’s not necessary,” he said stiffly. “I can do it.”

She seemed taken aback, looking at him strangely. Her wrist felt too fragile, like he could snap it with a quick twist of his hand, and Erik had to remind himself that just hours ago this woman had killed two men without batting an eye.

Killed them on his behalf, his conscience reminded him.

“You’re exhausted,” she said, tugging herself free. The cloth swiped again at his skin.

O’Connell’s nearness disconcerted him. The memory of the heated kiss they’d shared reminded him of the consequences for not keeping a tighter control on his impulses. He shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have crossed that line. He was an FBI agent. She was his prisoner. Circumstances required them to cooperate, but those circumstances could and would change.

Erik grabbed her wrist again, his hold tighter this time. “I said I can do it,” he repeated.

Their gazes caught. Her eyes searched his, then her delicate jaw locked tight.

“Fine,” she said curtly, dropping the cloth and jerking her wrist out of his grasp. “Just trying to help, Langston. No need to be an ass.” She dropped down on the opposite bed and picked up the remote, flipping on the television.

Erik watched her for a moment, but she studiously ignored him, randomly switching channels. He could tell she was irritated, though it wouldn’t have taken Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.

“O’Connell—”

“Save it,” she cut him off. “Prim and proper FBI man is regretting that kiss now, right? Well, don’t worry. Your virtue is safe with me. Wouldn’t want you to get your hands dirty with a filthy thief now, would we? Even if I did save your life.”

Her sarcasm grated on Erik. “I can’t let my emotions cloud my judgment.”

“Oh, your emotions are what’s clouding your judgment?” she snapped. “I thought the culprit was a bit further south.” She tossed the remote and bounced off the bed, swiping some clothes from the duffel nearby before disappearing into the bathroom. The door shut with a resounding
bang
behind her.

Erik sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead, wincing as his fingers brushed against a scrape. God, what a mess. As if it wasn’t bad enough having mobsters after O’Connell and the FBI hunting him, now he had to deal with a pissed off woman. A woman he absolutely had to keep his hands off of, no matter what.

That resolve was put to the test when she emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Enough buttons were undone to leave the valley between her breasts tantalizingly bare. Her wet hair left random drops sliding down under the cotton, causing the fabric to cling damply to her skin.

“Your own clothes are unavailable?” Erik snapped.

“You didn’t buy me anymore and I’m not sleeping in the ones I have.” She plopped down again on the bed. The shirt slid up her bare thighs.

Erik quickly looked away, grinding his teeth in frustration. The sight of her wearing his shirt stirred something possessive in him, just as the memory of her fighting to free him stirred something primal. Both feelings were best dealt with under the spray of a cold shower.

When he emerged twenty minutes later, the room was empty.

“Shit!” he exploded, dropping the towel he was using to dry his hair and running for the door. He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to trust her alone for even a second. She was going to get herself killed, taking off alone.

The door swung open just as he reached it, and Erik skidded to a halt.

“What’s your problem?” O’Connell asked, eyeing him as she slipped past him to the bed. Thankfully, she’d put on a pair of yoga pants. She popped the top on a can of soda in her hand. When Erik continued to stare at her, she said, “I was thirsty, Okay? What, did you think I’d run off?”

“Where’d you get the soda?” he asked, ignoring her question. No need for her to know he’d panicked at her disappearance.

She rolled her eyes. “Vending machine, obviously.”

“How’d you get the money?” Erik was quite sure his wallet had been with him.

“Well, there was a guy there and I told him I’d give him a blow job for a buck.”

Erik glared at her and waited.

“Oh, relax,” she huffed. “It was an old machine, Okay? I pressed a few buttons and got a free soda.”

“You pressed a few buttons?”

She shrugged. “I just kinda…knew to try a couple things, and one of them worked. Not a big deal.”

“So you hacked into a vending machine and stole a soda.” Why was he not surprised?

“It’s just a soda, Langston.”

“It’s stealing,” he said. “And it’s wrong.”

“You’re just mad because you thought I left,” she shot back. And the thought had crossed her mind. But Langston had put his life and career on the line for her. While her survival instincts may have dictated she scurry out the door and not look back, her conscience wouldn’t let her. So she’d ignored the keys sitting on the table and just gone in search of something to drink instead.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and open your laptop,” he countered. “Maybe you can figure out why you’re so popular.”

Clarissa flushed at this. She’d been so consumed with thoughts of Langston and his rejection of her attempt to help him that she hadn’t remembered the laptop they’d been carting around. But she wasn’t about to admit that to him. Bad enough that he’d practically shoved her away earlier. As if she was throwing herself at him, for God’s sake. Please.

She brushed past Langston and went to dig out her laptop, trying to ignore his half-naked state. Jeans did not qualify as fully dressed. Didn’t the man ever put on a damn shirt after showering?

Clarissa felt his eyes on her as she set the laptop on the tiny table in the corner and booted it up. She felt more than heard him approach to look over her shoulder.

The confines of the tiny motel room seemed even smaller with Langston so close, and she had to nearly bite her tongue to keep from telling him to take a step back. No way was she going to let on how much his nearness affected her.

The laptop put a quick dash to her hopes for information when a log-on screen appeared.

“Well, so much for that,” she snorted in disgust. “I can’t remember my birthday, much less a password.” She turned away, intent on putting some space between her and Langston, when he snagged her around the waist.

“Wait,” he said. “Passwords are automatic. They’re practically muscle memory. I’d have to type my password in order to spell it. I bet if you tried, your fingers would remember without your brain having to.”

It was a good thought, Clarissa grudgingly admitted. She wished she’d thought of it instead of him. Nothing worse than a self-righteous do-gooder know-it-all with abs that looked like they’d been Photoshopped.

Clarissa glanced down pointedly at where his hand still rested on her waist. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin cotton of the shirt she wore as though to brand her skin. At her look, he yanked his hand back as though he hadn’t even realized what he’d been doing.

Their eyes met, but his gave nothing away.

Stepping back in front of him, Clarissa bent over the laptop, resting her fingers lightly on the keys. “Now what?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Langston said. “Close your eyes maybe. See what comes to you.”

Clarissa did as he suggested, heaving a sigh. “I feel ridiculous,” she said after a moment. “Like I’m playing with a Ouija board or something. Oh, spirits,” she mocked, “will the quarterback ask me to the prom?”

There was a snort of muffled laughter behind her. Clarissa’s spirits lifted somewhat. She’d made him laugh.

“Try reaching for each key,” he suggested. “Maybe your fingers just need a little prompting.”

Clarissa really didn’t think this was going to work; her fingers felt nothing, but she was aware of a strong desire not to disappoint Langston. That was odd and made the grin fade from her face. She should not care one way or the other what he thought of her. If she started caring, then she’d be under his control, her actions subject to his approval.

That wouldn’t do.

While she was thinking all this, her fingers were unconsciously moving, until—

“You did it!” Langston crowed.

Clarissa’s eyes popped open. He was right. She’d somehow managed to type in the right password. She immediately hit a few more keys until a window popped up.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m changing the password, of course,” she said. “Just because I got it once doesn’t mean I could do it again.”

Clarissa pulled out the cheap wooden chair and sat down, looking curiously through the laptop’s menu of options and clicking on one for e-mail. But she was disappointed at what it contained.

“Paranoid much?” Langston said dryly, looking over her shoulder at the empty folders.

“Obviously with good reason,” Clarissa replied. “You’ve met my fan club.” She checked her Sent and Deleted folders. All were empty. “Without an Internet connection, the e-mail is useless.”

“We’re lucky this place had indoor plumbing,” Langston said. “Wi-Fi’s a bit much to ask for.”

Clarissa closed the e-mail client and started browsing through the files, looking for ones most recently modified, but the names meant nothing to her, nor did the lines and lines of color-coded gibberish when she opened them.

“None of this rings a bell?” Langston asked. “You can’t read computer code anymore?”

Clarissa slowly shook her head. “No.” Well, that was disappointing. Though there had to be something on here that would tell her more about herself. But no matter what files she opened or where she looked, there was nothing personal. Not a music file or photograph, nothing. After several minutes, she sat back in the chair with a sigh, closing the laptop.

“We can try again when we get somewhere with Internet,” Langston said, backing away as Clarissa got up and went back to lie down on the bed. Though she’d forgotten about the laptop, she was still disappointed at not finding anything that would help.

Langston watched her for a moment before moving to his own bed. Reaching over, he shut off the light, plunging them into darkness. A meager glow filtered in between the heavy drapes, and Clarissa’s eyes quickly adjusted.

“So now what?” she asked.

It was a moment before Langston responded. “Now we get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll drive to San Antonio. Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

Clarissa stared at the spot where Langston lay, his body cloaked in shadows. It was kind of sweet, him trying to reassure her, even after his earlier rejection. It surprised her how much she wanted to go to him, though she knew she wouldn’t be welcome. She’d become way too dependent on his solid presence for her peace of mind.

The shrill sound of the alarm clock woke Erik from a dead sleep. He slammed his hand down on the offending noisemaker, silencing it.

Shit. He flopped onto his back. A few more hours’ sleep would come in handy, but the drive to San Antonio would take all day, so he’d only allotted them a short time to be off the road.

A feminine sigh close by startled him. What the hell? It seemed O’Connell had joined him in his bed at some point during the night.

She was still asleep, curled up next to him under the covers. He could feel the warm press of her body against his. She’d removed the yoga pants, and Erik didn’t resist the urge to slide his hand up the soft skin of her thigh, settling his palm over the curve of her hip.

Why was she here? Did she have a nightmare in the middle of the night or something?

These thoughts were running through his head even as he nudged her closer. The voice in the back of his head that had castigated him so harshly yesterday for kissing O’Connell was nowhere to be found.

She’d come to his bed. Who would blame him for taking her up on the invitation?

It was a matter of a moment to unbutton the shirt she wore.

Erik found himself holding his breath as he slipped his hand between the folds. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning. His hand brushed her warm skin and her eyes fluttered open.

Erik froze. But O’Connell just smiled sleepily at him, her green eyes soft in the early morning light. She curled an arm around his neck, tugging his head down. His lips brushed hers—

Erik jerked awake, his hand groping for the shrieking alarm clock. When it was again blessedly quiet, he collapsed back on the bed, his chest heaving. Remembering, his gaze flew to the other bed, where O’Connell was mumbling in her sleep.

A dream. It was just a dream.

Damn.

Christ, he was losing it.

“Let’s go, O’Connell,” he said roughly, hauling himself out of bed.

She mumbled something in reply and burrowed deeper under the covers.

“C’mon,” he said, giving her shoulder a shake.

“All right, all right, I’m up,” she groused, throwing off the covers.

Her hair was tousled from sleep, and she pushed a hand through it as she headed to the bathroom. Erik’s gaze followed her, his dream still too fresh in his mind for his liking, or comfort.