Lie with Me (12 page)

For the next moments, he was pure reaction. He slammed the arm holding the gun, as the guy’s head jerked to the side from the force of the original blow, noting a second man standing in the background. A shot went off, into the ceiling, muffled by the silencer, and yeah, these guys were pros. Hired killers. That type typically fought methodically—and dirty.

They would be no match for him. Cam’s fury was white hot and instant—he never liked people fucking with him, surprises even less. He didn’t waste any more time, held the unconscious man in front of him like a shield as the second guy aimed and fired his way.

One shot grazed off Cam’s shoulder, and he turned his body so his back was to the unconscious man’s. The next shot went through the first man, catching Cam square in the shoulder and not exiting, and fuck, that was going to hurt like a mother in a little while. But it was still better than getting hit in the chest.

He grabbed the gun from the first man’s hand and fired back, hitting the second man before he had a chance to take cover.

The guy was down, but not out. The unconscious man’s gun decided to jam at that moment, and before Cam could grab his own, the second guy was up and over the counter.

Cam dropped his human shield and found himself on the receiving end of a kick to the face. Half-stunned, he hit the fridge and used the momentum to slam forward, taking the kicker to the ground, both of them grunting.

As they went down, he jerked the other guy’s knee out from under him, and the two of them went rolling across the hard tiled floor. Cam grabbed the guy’s fist, the one that held the weapon, and twisted his arm, which broke with a satisfying snap. The man howled and a mix of sweat, blood and surprise filled the air. The fight wasn’t equal now—in truth, hadn’t been even when it had been two against one.

Cam put his arm across the guy’s throat. With one last-ditch effort, the man brought a small knife up and managed to slice Cam on his chest, before Cam crushed his windpipe.

The man’s head lolled to the side and Cam eased off him, surveying the scene in the once pristine living room and kitchen.

Now, not so much. Still, two attackers, two down.

Except he heard Sky’s voice and she was talking—not yelling, talking.

There had been three men—and that was one too many.

W
hy would you come to me, Dylan?

Why don’t you tell me?

“Nothing to tell,” she managed. Not true, of course. There was so much Riley wanted to say, let it tumble out between them on this hot Florida morning, but common sense and training kept her mouth shut. “What hotel are you staying at?”

“I’m not staying at a hotel. And you owe me some answers.” His grip got tighter … and her body continued to respond to his.

“Just because I screwed up doesn’t mean we’re going to play twenty questions.” She closed her eyes briefly, until the picture of Dylan lying on the floor of the storage unit forced them back open.

“Sure we are. But first things first.” He leaned in. “My friend’s life is on the line. Because of Gabriel Creighton.”

“Lots of people have grudges against spies—and vice versa.”

“Including you?”

“What happened to your friend?”

“Gabriel’s been screwing him royally for years. And my friend, he’s not a spy. He wants nothing more than to get away from Gabriel.”

Her stomach dropped. She knew what Gabriel was capable of. “That’s your friend’s problem, not mine,” she lied.

Dylan shook her a little, held her closer. “Do you know where Gabriel is?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had direct contact with him?”

“Never. I’ve never met him.” Her stomach clenched as she thought about what she wanted to do if she ever did come face-to-face with him. “If I had, he’d be dead right now.”

“But he’s not.”

“Last I heard, which was yesterday, no.”

Dylan looked surprised at her answer—maybe that she’d admit anything. She wanted to ask him for help, but then he’d be in as much trouble as she was. She couldn’t do that to him. “Please go now. Please. There’s nothing more I can give you.”

He shook his head slowly with mock regret. “I know who you really are, Riley. It took some digging—you’ve really been wiped off the map.”

She was. Her past was buried so deep, only the most skilled could find it, and only with hours of manpower. She’d had so many different names and identities, she’d nearly forgotten herself, forgotten the once happy, normal girl who didn’t know guns and spies and what it was like to run in a world where you couldn’t trust anyone with anything, especially your life.

And Dylan was telling her he knew everything. To admit it, let it pour out of her would be a relief—and a fast way to jail for turning in a CIA agent to a group like DMH.

Beyond that, she’d be a hunted woman. “You’re not going to get what you want from me.”

He traced her jaw with a pinky, his other hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer. “I already have. And I’m going to want it again and again.”

She would too. Her body would admit it first—whether or not her mind would follow remained to be seen.

He was staring at her, all deep-eyed, like he knew what she’d been thinking. “You’re pissed that you have feelings for me,” he told her, then bent his head and gave her an intense kiss, sweeping the air from her lungs when he did. She pushed at him, but he held her in place against him, even as he slowly backed her up against the small cabana at poolside.

“You’re going to learn your lesson,” he said when he pulled away, his voice husky. “I’m going to show you what I’m capable of, and for once, you’re going to sit back and shut up and just fucking learn something. Something real.”

Yes, real, because nothing could be more real than the weight of his body on hers, the pressure of his mouth, insistent and hot against hers again. It didn’t matter that it was broad daylight, that she’d thought her defenses would be stronger if she let the night pass.

She simply thanked God she had a private backyard, because she was sure her neighbors would never get over this.

Her hands threaded in his thick hair, tugging, holding, her body responding with an urgency that frightened and thrilled her at once.

“Put your hands above your head,” he instructed, and she did it, without hesitating. He circled both her wrists easily with one large hand, let the other trail up her bare inner thigh, until he reached the thin slip of fabric that covered her. He caressed between her legs for a brief second and then slid his hand inside her bottoms.

His fingers—oh, his fingers began their slow, lazy exploration. Her hips rocked toward him, and stopping wasn’t an option now—she convinced herself that his grip made her too vulnerable and decided she had no choice but to go along with him.

But vulnerability had never been her strong suit. “I’m not your girl.”

He grinned at that and then tore her top away as if it were paper. Before she could complain or protest, his finger trailed her already wet sex, his eyes wicked. “You’re whatever the hell I want right now, Ri.”

She might hate herself later. But now there was nothing but licks of pleasure as he took her with his hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Feel good?” he asked.

“I thought … you wanted me … to shut up.” The words were punctuated by moans, and he smiled, a lopsided grin, his eyelids heavy.

His voice was thick when he spoke. “I want you to scream my name. Long and loud. And I want you to come harder than you’ve ever come in your life. That’s what I want.”

She’d never been more conflicted, but the decision to let Dylan have his way, that was easy. So easy—too easy—and as the first orgasm hit and her knees went weak, she lost any resolve to keep him out of her life.

S
ky heard a thud and the shattering of glass from the kitchen, had almost peeked out to see if Cam just dropped something when she heard the muffled shot.

She’d been in the bathroom grabbing her toiletries, and she quickly closed the door and locked it. Then she crouched down inside the large tub, gun level to the porcelain ledge, barrel aimed at the door. She heard sounds of struggle through the thin walls of the townhouse and fought to keep her breathing even, to not let panic wash over her.

She wasn’t prepared for this, wasn’t in shape physically or mentally.

Her parents had lived it—and she’d trained at ages fifteen and sixteen and even seventeen, after her mom died and before she’d gotten sick, as if she could follow in their footsteps.

Now she only wrote about it, but still, her body reacted to the imminent threat with an adrenaline rush that had her moving.

Bathroom. Tub. Hide. Gun.

Normally, she’d have gone to a window or a door, would’ve run for help.

Doing so in waist-high snow wouldn’t get her far, though. She had Cam—and a gun in her hand pointed at the door for anyone who got past him.

God, she prayed no one would get past him. Killing on paper was one thing …

You’ll be saving your life. Remember that
. A father’s stern warning, not looking fatherlike at all in a black leather jacket and a scruffy beard that she assumed was part of his cover at the time, and showing her how to lock and load several different guns, from an M16 to a Sig Sauer to the .38 Special—the one that, on that day, her father deemed fit her the best.

“This was your mother’s favorite as well,” he’d said. It had been one of the rare times he’d mentioned her mother since her death and Sky had smiled.

He hadn’t.

From then, it had been self-defense moves, well beyond the normal chop, block and run.

She tried to recall those moves now, but her mind was blank with sudden fear.

You’re too weak
.

It will come back to you when it’s necessary
.

She closed her eyes for a second and channeled her father, teaching her all those self-defense moves when she was younger. Telling her that being mentally ready was more important than anything.

She remained still, like an animal being hunted. For a few minutes, she heard nothing … and then more shots. Then she saw the doorknob rattle, the locked door given a hard jerk, and her adrenaline surged, even as she fought to remain still and steady.

Sky said a quick, silent prayer that Cam was still alive, that he was the one coming through the door by kicking it open, shattering it off its hinges and making short work of the flimsy lock.

Her stomach dropped. The man wasn’t Cam. He was tall and lanky, dressed in black, his face all sharp angles under his dark hair. And his eyes—dark, piercing … mean. His gun was aimed straight at her, but only for a second, and then he lowered it and smiled.

Smiled
. The man had broken into the bathroom with a gun and now he was smiling. She glanced quickly to make sure her own weapon was actually visible and pointing at him.

It was. And she wondered if she could do it, if she could kill him. She wondered why he wasn’t trying to do the same, until he spoke.

“Don’t be scared, Skylar. I’m here because your father’s in trouble.”

Her father. She hadn’t heard this much about the man from total strangers in twenty-something years, and now twice in less than twenty-four hours.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” she demanded, avoiding mentioning Cam in case he’d pulled one of his disappearing acts and the man hadn’t seen him. Although judging by the earlier gunshots, that was a false hope.

The man continued to smile, kept his voice comforting and low. “Sky, your father needs your help. He wants you to come with me. I’m a friend of his. We work together. Please, we don’t have the time for this.” He held out a hand to her but she shook her head.

“Tell me where he is.”

“I can do better, I can take you right to him. Get you out of danger. It’s important that you follow his directions. You know that.”

Was it true? Her instincts screamed
no
, and her mother’s words echoed in her head.

Instincts, baby girl
, her mother’s voice whispered, fierce and clear as day in her ear.
Go with your gut instinct, it’s always right
.

Still, if this man knew where her father was, killing him wouldn’t help anything. “Put your gun down. I want you to call him; I need to speak with my father before I go anywhere with you.”

He nodded, as though that was the most reasonable request, reached into his pocket with one hand but he didn’t put down his weapon. She kept her finger on the trigger of her own gun as he pulled out a cell phone and began to dial it, and then he nodded and took two steps to her, holding the phone out.

She hesitated before reaching out to grab it … and saw two hands come up from behind him.

A palm went on either side of the man’s head and twisted, and she heard a snap. The man’s eyes went wide with surprise and then they simply stared out at her vacantly, before his body pitched forward onto the tiled floor. The cell phone he’d been holding scuttered along the slick marble, hitting a wall before stopping.

Cam stood where the man had been, breathing hard, blood staining his shirt. Very much alive. He stepped over the dead man, was calling to her, but all she heard was a rushing sound in her ears.

When he got close, he put his hand on hers, but he didn’t take the gun from her. Instead, he knelt by the tub and just said her name, quietly. A few times, until she finally focused. And then, “It’s okay, Sky—but we can’t stay here.”

“Why did you do that?” she asked him, aware that she sounded out of breath, even though she hadn’t moved.

He cocked his head to the side and stared at her like she’d gone crazy. “He was going to kill you. Did you want me to make small talk?”

“He said he would take me to my father.”

“He was lying,” Cam said flatly.

She stood then, pointed the gun at him while he remained crouched on the floor in front of her. “What are the chances that my father sent that man—and you—to get me in the space of twenty-four hours?”

Cam remained unimpressed by the gun, and moved toward the dead man and began to rifle through his clothing. He patted down the guy’s chest, found nothing in or under his shirt. Then he fished inside the man’s pants pockets, pulled out handcuffs, and syringes that were pre-drawn.