Last Call (3 page)

"Wood…" Her eyes rolled back in her head, then
drifted closed.

Nick palmed his cell but stopped short of
dialing. Calling an ambulance probably wasn't on his new boss man's
list of approved activities, but if he was willing to go to such
lengths to keep Rhys alive, Nick doubted she'd have been dropped
off in dire health. Her wound dressing — what he could see —
appeared to be clean and neatly applied. Her heartbeat was steady
and her eyes focused on him, however briefly. Still, the
temperature hovered near freezing and the mixed precipitation left
the air damp. The warehouse provided shelter from the rain — less
what breached the high, broken windows — but the bitter wind
swirled through, stirring dirt and the rancid smell of
soot.

"Nick," she whispered, tugging on his shirt
with her good arm. "Want you."

Want him to what?
Blindly, his mind went to an image of her sitting
alone drinking at their table in Bart's bar. His heart
leapt.
You moron
.
He gave himself a mental shake. For all he knew, she wanted him to
get the hell away from her. And that, he wouldn't do.

Nick shrugged out of his sweatshirt and helped
her to a sitting position. Then he slipped the fleece over her
head, threading her good limb through the sleeve and leaving the
other cradled against her stomach. With one arm steadying her, he
stood and drew her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him, offering
warmth against his long sleeve tee.

He bit back a frown. For all the times he
imagined her in his arms, he'd only twice managed getting her
there. Once when he'd shot her, and again when someone else had. Or
he assumed the latter, though the media obviously had this one
wrong. She was very much alive, and his suspicions were more on
point than ever. The entire situation screamed cover up, but if the
cops wanted to purport her death — something not unprecedented when
it came to protecting a witness or an undercover operation — it
made zero sense a thug with a gun would be the one handing her over
to anyone, let alone Nick.

That last part had been a mistake. A big
one.

Detective
.

Someone was operating on misinformation. And
in a high stakes game, even the smallest miscalculation could be
deadly. He knew that far too well.

Half leading and half carrying Rhys, he exited
the warehouse through the same door he'd entered. The wharf's
desolation hadn't waned, he thought wryly. Granted, the deserted
landscape meant a lack of concerned citizens to report him dragging
around a woman in the middle of the night. That worked very much in
his favor; on the flipside, borrowing a car would be a lot easier
if there was one around. Looking for one without drawing attention
would be almost impossible, and a return bus trip was out. After
Rhys's stint on the evening news as a murder victim, half the town
would recognize her.

Rhys shivered and trembled against
him.

He had to get her out of the weather. He
glanced around — a line of fishing boats caught his eye. "Can you
walk? You hanging in there?"

"I'm okay," she mumbled. She didn't sound it,
but she was a damn good cop before he took her out of the business
— she'd say she was okay whether she was or not. He liked that
about her, but it made having her life in his hands an epic
guessing game.

"Good," he said, leading her in the direction
of the boats. "Pretend you adore me and we'll be fine."

He could have sworn she laughed; his heart,
indifferent to the possible snub, sang as she snuggled
closer.

The third boat from the end offered the
solution he sought on the docks. The deck was in such poor shape
there was no way anyone made regular use of it; rather, the boat
seemed to have become a dumping ground for rusted engine parts.
Further indicating abandonment was a pile of sticks and debris
formed what looked to be a nest on the flybridge above the cabin.
With the engine in pieces Nick felt safe in assuming — storm or no
storm — no one would be taking the boat out in the morning. Now he
just had to get Rhys on board.

"What hurts?" he asked.

She looked up, her eyes — the deep blue of a
troubled ocean — cutting right through him. Then they drifted to
his mouth, and…

"Shoulder," she whispered.

His grip tightened on the shirt he loaned her.
He prayed the move would keep his hands busy — too busy to smooth
errant strands of her hair whipping in the wind. "Anything
else?"

"I can get on the boat, Nick." Her tone
chastised.

Even with her voice weak, he knew better than
to argue. Besides, if he had to fish her out of the water he'd
consider his point readily made.

Almost smiling, he dropped one foot over the
railing and dragged the vessel as close to the dock as the moorings
allowed. He stood straddling the inky water until he'd helped Rhys
step over the side. Once she made it on board, he dropped from his
perch and bumped against her when a gust of wind threw him off
balance.

Rhys grabbed his arm, dragging him into full
body contact. In the split second it took to steady her touch had
him on fire. He froze, drinking in the startling shade of blue
behind her appraising stare. Emotions he'd spent a lot of months
trying to bury rallied, setting him back a few years in the whole
getting-over-Rhys department.

Falling headfirst into the frigid water would
have been less excruciating.

A blast of icy wind brought him back to his
senses. "Let me see if I can get us inside," he said. His hand
shook when he settled her against the cabin, out of the wind and
away from prying eyes.

She watched as he worked the lock. Her
attention flustered him, but in spite of the distraction he made
quick work of the job with his pocket knife. He pushed open the
door, then took a step inside and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The small cabin wasn't in great repair, but it was empty and dry.
Given they had little choice, he'd take it.

Nick turned to help Rhys inside and, unaware
she'd followed him, ran right into her. This time it was he who
steadied her, guiding her to a seat at the small dinette. He closed
the door on the shrill wind, then sat across from her.

Talk about hellfire awkward.

Sorry about that whole shooting
thing.

I shouldn't have left without
saying goodbye.

I haven't stopped thinking about
you since the day we met.

Not surprisingly, none of those options felt
right. But months of wanting to be with her had landed in an
ungainly pile at his feet; even with all his rehearsing, he
remained unprepared for Rhys — as beautiful as she'd ever been,
sporting yet another bullet wound and glaring at him over a crooked
dinette in a storm-tossed fishing boat.

God, he wanted to put his arms around her.
Nothing and everything had changed in the past eight months. He'd
thought he could walk away before. Now… he didn't see how he would
ever walk away from her again. But he'd have no choice.

For all his uncertainty, she didn't seem to
share his stroll down memory lane. Her pinched, pale expression
spoke of wariness and pain, and he'd caused her enough of
that.

Nick cleared his throat. "I won't
mince words. The late news reported your…
death
. A few hours later, I get a
call on an unlisted number to a throwaway phone. The caller said he
knew something about my girlfriend—" To that, she lifted an
eyebrow. "—and asked me to meet him down here. And that's where I
found you. Can we work on filling in a few blanks here? Are you up
to it?"

She gazed at him through sleepy, shrouded
eyes. "I think you know more than I do."

Her words caused him a double-take.
Did she know he was still working as a detective? Having a job was
hardly a betrayal, but after ending her career he'd felt infinitely
guilt over resuming his. The thought of admitting he'd moved on
without her nearly broke his heart, but he swallowed the pain and
forced himself to relax. She
couldn't
know. "Let's start with why
you were in that part of town at night by yourself," he said,
settling against the seat.

"That
part
of town
isn't so bad anymore — it's
undergoing revitalization. And I was jogging."

He frowned. "The jogging trail at the park
closed?"

"You know I don't like the park at night. Too
many shadows."

"Under the circumstances—"

She moved to cross her arms, winced, then
settled them in her lap. "There weren't any circumstances until
tonight."

Fire and ice.

"Let me rephrase." He paused, searching for a
diplomatic way to learn exactly what he was dealing with. Playing a
dangerous game was one thing, but playing it blind? People died
that way. "Are you working undercover again?"

"I couldn't get medical clearance," she
reminded him. "Seems I have a problem — now two — with my
shoulder."

He leaned back, appraising her. She'd
hesitated — a mere blip, but he caught it. "You didn't answer my
question."

"I believe I did," she countered, drawing
further into his sweatshirt.

Oh, hell
.
Intentional or not, he got the message loud and clear — he'd
studied her body far too long not to speak the language.

She might not be lying to him, but she sure as
hell wasn't telling the truth.

****

Puppetmaster
.

A little overstated, but it fit. Nothing like
having the pieces fall in your lap when you needed it most. He'd
gotten in a little too deep with the wrong people and damned if
Nick Massey hadn't chosen the perfect time to ride back into town,
playing hero. Of course, he thought he was playing for the bitch —
that punk has-been detective didn't realize he had his armor all
polished up for someone else entirely.

Now, how easy it would be to make
them
both
pay.
Child's play. All he had to do was pull the strings and…

The phone rang.
About time.
He checked the number
display and let out a breath before picking it up. "This better be
good news."

"Hey, Boss. It's me."

He lit a cigarette and immediately snuffed it
out. Damned bad habits were harder to break when his balls were in
a vice. "Gathered as much. Are you clean?"

"As a whistle."

Good. He needed time. Time…and everything
would fall into place, just like he planned. The man at the top
wouldn't know what hit him.

Puppetmaster,
indeed
.

A smile stretched so far across his face it
hurt. A fake press conference on the fucking steps of the station
house. The show had been convincing enough, but it wouldn't take
long for those idiots at the precinct to put two and two together.
"How can you be so sure?"

Cold laughter crept through the line. "Because
the man they're looking for never existed."

Chapter Three

Rhys huddled into the comfort of Nick's shirt,
its warmth coming as much from the emotional pull of his scent as
the fleece. One bullet and eight months of separation did nothing
to cool her attraction for him; if anything, absence made her want
him more. She'd avoided crossing that line back then because it was
against the rules.

She had other reasons now.

Outside, the wind kicked water against the
hull, sending a never-ending series of loud sloshes through the
cabin. The general disrepair of the vessel worried her enough
without the leaky chorus below her feet drilling her nerves. Nausea
welled with every tilt of the boat.

Across from her, Nick shifted on the bench
seat and folded his hands like a school boy, his arms resting on
the table. Calm. His stare bore into her, threatening to dislodge
any chance she had of settling her thoughts.

He didn't want to trust her. Too
bad. He didn't have a choice.
She
didn't have a choice.

Fragmented memories of the attack flailed at
the edge of conscious thought, mingling with clear flashbacks from
the first time she'd been shot. She'd had months to hone the latter
memories to razor sharp, the pain of losing Nick leaving uneven
impressions on her heart. She wanted to shake her head — dislodge
the cotton balls stuffed inside — but her throbbing eyes warned
against sudden movements.

"Forget how fast they put this out there. Why
would they release your real name and risk months of undercover
work, not to mention the life of every detective who has
infiltrated that investigation. What's going on, Rhys? Are you in
on this?"

She cast him a sharp glance and immediately
regretted it. He'd sense her guilt and size her up in a heartbeat;
to her surprise though, he didn't appear to be calculating
anything. Rather, his warm gaze poured over her. With those long
lashes and soft brown eyes, he'd melt molasses in the dead of
January.