Dark Waters (2013) (19 page)

“It sounds like self-defense.” She sounded angry on his behalf. Some people had been. But not the jury or the judge.

“Prosecution said otherwise. Dad rarely hit me.” He slanted her a look. “Usually he couldn’t catch me. I didn’t lie about any of it on the stand.”

“How could you love a man like that?” she asked quietly.

Brent tried to swallow but couldn’t. If there was any real shame in his life it was this. It felt like a betrayal of his mother’s and brother’s pain. “When he was sober, he treated me like his best buddy.
He taught me how to fish, how to drive a car and a boat.” Maybe he hadn’t loved his father, maybe he’d just loved the memory of the man he’d once been.

Something moved in her eyes. Some shadow of pain that jolted him.

“Anyway, unless you start thrashing kids with rebar, you’re probably safe from my dark side.” A flash of horror swept over her features, followed by pity, which pissed him off. To counter it he let all the sexual heat he’d been feeling since he’d met her show as he slowly dropped his gaze to her mouth. “But I can’t promise anything else.” Because he was done pretending the awareness that had simmered between them didn’t exist.

She didn’t look away like he expected. She held his gaze, searching his eyes for something he didn’t understand. And when she finally did look away, he felt hollow and a little bit lost.

After hours of traveling on two different aircraft, Anna handed over her new fake passport to the hotel receptionist in Chicago. Hannah Sylvester. Not so very different from her real name, but Brent said it should be enough to slow them down on computer searches—whoever the hell
they
were—especially if they weren’t expecting her to come back to the scene of the crime. They were staying at a pretty fancy hotel. Big marble entrance with a dandy waterfall in the center.

The clerk took a quick look at her face and typed rapidly into her computer. It was 3:00 a.m. and Anna was barely conscious. “We have a suite reserved for Mr. Smith.” The woman glanced at Brent, who sat in the foyer wearing a bulky Chicago Bears sweatshirt they’d picked up at the airport, black ball cap pulled low, lips sucked in, eyes hidden behind massive black glasses—the sort blind people wore.

Her heart hammered as she handed over a credit card in B.C. Wilkinson’s name—he was incorporated—and signed as his new
personal assistant who’d been authorized via his agent the previous day. The different identities didn’t faze the receptionist. Apparently the rich and famous often traveled under assumed names and got damn good service.

“I hope you enjoy your stay.” The woman handed back her documents and Anna slipped them into her purse. Her palms were damp, despite the AC being set to “morgue.”

She walked back to Brent, grabbed his steely arm, and helped him to his feet.

“Tell me again this isn’t illegal?” she hissed.

“A misdemeanor at worst,” he whispered back.

Blood drained from her face. “I shouldn’t have got you involved. If we’re not careful, this whole disaster will get you locked up.”

He cleared his throat. “Technically,
I’m
not the one traveling under a false identity.” He grinned suddenly and she caught his eye over the glasses as they strolled toward the elevators.

“Oh, crap.” Her career flashed before her eyes. Although she understood the necessity of deception if she wanted to find out the truth behind her father’s death, she wasn’t good at this. She was good at teaching kids math and penmanship, and how to resolve conflict without violence. She was still holding Brent’s arm when they got inside the elevator, thankfully alone. Awareness prickled her skin and she went to withdraw her hand, but Brent caught her fingers and trapped them on his arm.

“Cameras,” he mouthed.

She hung her head. There were butterflies in her stomach, a swirl of fear and attraction that left her feeling sick and dizzy. The elevator stopped and they got out. Slowly. She bit her lip in frustration as they walked unhurriedly along the corridor toward their suite. She wanted to rush Brent inside, but he was exhibiting a patience beyond her.

It took three attempts to get the keycard in the slot and by then the bellhop was there with the luggage they’d picked up in
the airport. She gritted her teeth at the need to put on this calm, cool charade, but they didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to themselves. They needed to be able to walk around Chicago in relative anonymity with a safe place to hide out if necessary. The whole stupid situation was getting to her, and she just wanted to go home and get on with her life.

Her father had said she’d know where he sent the evidence, so why didn’t she? What if he’d accidentally sent it to the wrong address? What if the post office lost it? She could be doing this evasion dance for years.

No way.

Brent pulled her inside the sitting room of the suite, his arm warm against her side.

“Could be worse,” he whispered in her ear. “We could have been forced to share a twin bed at the Motel Eight.”

An unexpected curl of desire threaded its way through her body but she ignored it. Smiled sweetly. “But then people might say I slept my way into the job and we couldn’t have that sullying your brilliant reputation, now could we?”

He pushed the blind-man’s specs back up that perfect blade of a nose. “I could cope with a little sullying,” he muttered irritably.

She helped him rather forcibly onto the couch. Ignored his grunt of protest as she turned and tipped the bellhop and ushered him out of the room. Then she locked the door and leaned against its cool surface as Brent ripped off the glasses, hat, and sweatshirt.

“Motherfucker was hot.”

She gave him a long look. Wished he wasn’t so rough, ready, and unexpectedly honorable. “You curse too much.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He ran a hand through his hair. His face was pale. He looked tired.

She softened. Damn, she felt like the Arctic, defrosting a little more each day.

On paper his background was vicious. Awful. Even knowing the reasons behind why he’d killed his father didn’t change the
fact he’d only survived prison by being one of the toughest men in an arena that bred violence. None of these facts went together with the man who was going out of his way to protect her. He’d killed, but didn’t seem cruel. Was reclusive and hated to travel, and yet had come all the way to Chicago to help her. He was a complicated man who’d shown her nothing but consideration and deference since this whole thing started. She didn’t know what that made him, but it definitely wasn’t a monster.

She knew monsters.

He had hidden depths—unexpected pockets of kindness, compassion, and humor. And he worried her because he was astute enough to figure out her secrets. Considering she’d pushed and prodded him until he’d told her about the night his father died, she didn’t know if she was entitled to secrets anymore. But she’d spent years pretending the events of the night of her high school prom had never happened. It was almost impossible to just bring them up and blurt them out.

Despite her fatigue, she paced the floor.

Brent’s dim and distant past was irrelevant. She was more worried about his future in this dangerous game they’d started playing. “I should call the morgue.”

“I should check on Jack Panetti’s condition.”

The shooting freaked her out. These people definitely meant business. Why the hell had her father moved—or stolen—their money? Why hadn’t he just gone to the cops? But she knew why. He was an ex-con. They wouldn’t have believed him.

“Do you think we should go to the hospital?” she asked.

“Yeah, but let’s get some rest first.” She watched him unwind that hard-toned body. “Remind someone to shoot me before I get old, huh?”

“That might not be a problem.” God, had she really dragged him into this mess? She stared at him with wide eyes.

“It was a joke.” He squinted at her with concern. “Hey, I was kidding.”

She swallowed and nodded. But suddenly
that
wasn’t the problem. He was the problem. His eyes sizzled. He moved like liquid sin. One hundred percent unadulterated alpha male. Tall, dirty blond, and deadly. Every time that brooding, grim face broke into a smile, her knees gave way.

What was happening to her? She hadn’t felt this gritty sort of lust since she was sixteen. She crossed her arms over her traitorous breasts. Crap. Why was she feeling it now? A woman with her history? Hiding out from killers? With a man who’d spent twenty years in prison?

She sure could pick ’em.

He took a step toward her and she backed up, tripping. He froze.

“Anna.” Even the way he said her name was sexy, and she didn’t think he did it on purpose. He frowned fiercely. “You don’t need to worry. Relax, I’m not going to attack you.”

The words brought a vivid memory to life. She swayed on her feet and he reached out to catch her. The rapid beat of her heart and jagged timbre of her breath reminded her about the power of flashbacks, and though they’d faded over time, they never completely disappeared. His hands were big and comforting on her shoulders.

“What is it?” He sounded confused as he led her to the sofa.

No wonder.

Where was the smart capable woman she’d grown into? Where was the heart of steel that had gotten her through every day? Acting like the idiot girl she’d once been was humiliating, pathetic, and she didn’t want to be pathetic anymore.

“I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

She could tell he knew she was lying. He thought he knew everything about her. She saw the exact moment he figured out he was wrong.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She didn’t like the edge of desperation that tightened her vocal cords.

He clenched his jaw, relenting even though she’d pushed him for his secrets. His bangs fell in his eyes and he dragged his hair back with impatient fingers. “Where are those scissors? This hair is driving me bug-ass crazy.”

Changing the subject and letting her breathe. A warmth filled her that had nothing to do with lust or fear. He was a good man. No wonder her father had loved him.

He went and pulled out his overnight kit—in a plastic bag of supplies she’d bought from the airport. Then he brandished an electric razor. “I
could
go bald.”

“Don’t you dare.” He was joking. She hoped.

He grabbed the scissors instead and walked into the bathroom, picked up a blond lock of hair, and snipped. “Why not?” He snipped again.

Anna shook her head. “Give me the scissors.”

He held them out of her reach. “I don’t know about that. Last time anyone cut my hair…” His voice halted as his brain caught up with the memory.

“Gina?” Anna hated the expression of grief and loss that moved over his features. This man deserved peace, not to be dragged into a situation with people who had no qualms about killing. He had too much to lose—but so did she. Her only other option was to go to the cops and she didn’t trust them.

She took the scissors out of his hands and circled him awkwardly.

He sat on the toilet lid. Caught her wrist. “You ever done this before?”

She shook her head.

“Just don’t hit an artery, we’ll be fine.” His humor was unexpected and her tension eased.

He released her and she edged closer, trying not to touch him with her body as she picked up that first lock of hair. It was soft and slid between her fingers like a ribbon of silk. She snipped. Tentatively to begin with, she took a good three inches off the
length until it was short and spiky on top. He looked silly with the sides still long and she smothered a laugh.

Brent eyed her narrowly. “You won’t be laughing when it’s your turn.” His eyebrow quirked.

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

She touched her hair. The idea of cutting it off made her feel physically ill. “It would feel like a loss of identity.” She sucked in a breath as his eyes slowly met hers. She read the understanding in their depths, and shame welled up inside her. Prison had stripped him of his identity. It had stripped her father of his identity too. She hadn’t had a clue how difficult it must have been until now—she’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself.

“I’ll wear a hat to start with, but I will cut it or dye it if you think I need to.” She held his gaze for another moment before he closed his eyes with a nod.

Such a sign of trust that she felt a little shift in the region of her chest. Her hips brushed his side, intimately familiar in this small space. She held rigid for a moment and then got over herself. She wanted to do a good job, didn’t want him to look stupid or be humiliated. He’d been there many times, and Anna was damned if a simple haircut would take him there again.

When she was done he scrubbed his hands over his head and neck, getting rid of stray hairs. “Not bad for your first time.”

It was seductively ruffled, darker at the roots but still with those sun-bleached tips—he could have walked straight off a modeling job.

“We’re not going to be able to walk around unnoticed,” she realized suddenly.

He grinned and she banged her elbow on the wall. “Because I’m such a handsome fuc—” he cut himself off. “Devil,” he finished with a grimace.