True Shot (27 page)

He suddenly let her go and smoothed both of his palms over the thighs of his jeans as though he didn’t know what to do with them now. His chuckle sounded strained. “If you’d been in my head right now, we’d both be blushing furiously. So I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t log in at will.”

“Log in?” she asked, lips quirking.

“Well, that’s kind of how it works, right? When you make contact, it’s like you’re logging in to someone else’s memories.”

“I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“You must know how to search, too, since you used the ability in your spy life.”

“Like on the Web?”

“Sure. I mean, what good is being psychic to earn a living if you can’t direct your gift in a way that gets you the information you want?”

She thought of her biological father and how he’d used her ability to get information so he could try to blackmail Robert Radnor. Flinn Ford had used her the same way. Did she actually do
anything
with her ability that was for the benefit of decent people?

“Sam?”

She met Mac’s eyes in the light from the parking lot lamps. “I’m sorry. What?”

“What’s the matter?”

He could read her so well, in the dark and without one ounce of psychic ability. After only a few days. It made her heart ache to realize that as soon as everything returned to the status quo—
if
it did—she would lose him. No way would a man as kind and decent as Mac Hunter want a life with a woman like her, a spy who helped blackmail people.

He reached out and tucked stray hair behind her ear with exceedingly gentle fingers. “Talk to me, Sam.”

She closed her eyes, savoring his tender touch for as long as she’d have it.

“Could you be pregnant?” he asked gently.

And like that, her reverie crashed and burned. Not that it was an out-there question. Her brain had been doing a fine job of shying away from the thought ever since she’d tapped into his memory of her descent into amnesia.

It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d used her in the same way. Right this minute, she could be serving as the vessel for Flinn Ford’s science experiment.

“I know it’s not my place—”

“I’m not feeling sick anymore,” she cut in, deciding to declare the discussion over without saying so. She just didn’t have the fortitude right now to go there. “Can we find some dinner? Something not seafood.”

Mac paused a moment, obviously not satisfied with her response. But he must have come to the conclusion that feeding her was more important than talking, because he started the car. “How about Italian?”

Her stomach growled. “Mmm. As long as garlic bread is involved.”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a garlic bread kind of woman.”

“Why not?”

“A spy with garlic breath just doesn’t sound effective. What would you do if you had to hide behind a curtain? The bad guys would know you were there in a heartbeat.”

“That’s why I always carry breath mints.” She much preferred this light banter to worrying. And they’d slipped into it so easily.

“Now, see, that wouldn’t work either. Bad guys can smell minty breath, too.”

She shrugged. “Maybe the bad guys I target have no sense of smell.”

“Interesting idea.” Then he pointed off to the left toward a brightly lit strip mall in yellow stucco. “There’s an Italian place right over there. Pizza Planet. Like Burrito Planet. It’s a theme.” He flashed her a grin. “How appropriate, seeing as how you’ve rocked my world.”

She laughed, and her heart did a dance that felt both unfamiliar and exactly right.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

T
he hotel was just as Mac remembered it: comfortable and welcoming. The palm trees, ferns and floral-patterned cushions adorning the wicker furniture dotting the lobby crooned, “Relax, you’re on vacation. Put your feet up. Read a book.”

As he waited at the check-in counter, he watched Sam wander over to the open-air back of the lobby and stop to look out at the beach. Lights from the hotel illuminated only the first few feet of surf about six yards from where she stood. Tables and chairs dotted the sand between the hotel and the waves, some occupied by hotel guests sipping drinks.

He watched the night breeze stir through her dark hair, watched her wrap her arms around her middle, as though hugging herself. She looked too tense in such a relaxing environment. At least, Mac mused, she’d eaten a decent dinner—salad, lasagna and garlic bread, followed by a brownie sundae, which they’d shared. As they’d eaten and had a light conversation, he’d seen healthy color bloom in her cheeks for the first time.

If she had any chance of relaxing, he decided, this hotel should do it.

He recalled being there with Charlie, the gentle gulf breezes stirring the curtains in the hotel room against the soundtrack of waves advancing and retreating. He’d thought at the time it was perfect, because he was there with the woman he loved. But he knew now that what he’d felt for Charlie had not been love. Deep affection, yes. He’d enjoyed being with her, enjoyed talking with her, enjoyed laughing with her.

But when he’d looked at her, he hadn’t had that feeling in his gut that felt like hanging at the very top curve of a roller coaster just before the big plunge, followed by the exhilarating sense of flying, the wind in his hair and the anticipation of the stomach-flipping loop-de-loops. He felt that way with Sam, and he was only just getting to know her. He imagined that weightless, I-can-take-on-the-world-and-win feeling would get even more intense the longer he knew her.

“Your key cards, Mr. Walker.”

Mac turned to the clerk, a thirtysomething young woman with short brown hair and glasses that sported rectangular black frames, and accepted the small envelope. “Thanks.”

“The penthouse suite is on the eighth floor. I’ll have the bellman bring up your bags.”

Penthouse suite? Hallelujah. “No need. We’re good.”

“The concierge took care of the special requests you stipulated when you made the reservation, too. You’ll find everything you asked for in your suite.”

“Excellent.”

“If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call the concierge.”

“Will do.”

With one last thank-you smile at the clerk, he walked over to Sam and stood beside her for a minute. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even seem aware of his presence.

He took the time to breathe in the salty air, hoping the rhythm of the waves would soothe some of his tension. Soon, Sam would be reunited with her sisters. She wouldn’t need him anymore. What if she, or Charlie and Alex, asked him to leave? After all, he’d have no more ties to any of them, no reason to hang around and get in the way.

After a few more moments, he decided he’d deal with what happened next when it happened.

He gently bumped Sam’s arm with his.

She drew in a breath and looked at him. He’d obviously jolted her out of some deep thoughts. Not for the first time, he wished he had a psychic ability to help him figure out what she was thinking and feeling.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded and fell in step beside him.

In the elevator, she said, “The name you used to check in—Simon Walker—is that . . .”

“Yep. Billionaire investor a la Warren Buffett. He rescued the
Lake Avalon Gazette
last year. I suggested Charlie check with him about borrowing his credit card.”

“And he’d be okay with that? Isn’t he your boss at the paper?”

“Yes, but he’s also a seriously good guy. Once Charlie explained that there was an emergency, I’m sure he was willing to do more than was necessary.”

“That probably wasn’t a good idea to get him involved.”

“We needed credit, Sam. We couldn’t very well check in under our own names, or even fake names, or pay cash. Simon isn’t related to any of us, so it’s unlikely Ford can track us through him.”

When she continued to look stressed, he sighed. “I know this isn’t your usual high-tech-spy way of doing things, but it seemed like a good way to fly under the radar.”

“No, that’s not it. You did fine. I didn’t mean to look critical. It’s just that, based on the situation with Arthur Baldwin, Flinn could be extremely well connected with wealthy people like Simon Walker.”

“We can trust Simon. I’d stake my life on it.”

 

The suite of two bedrooms, a sitting room and a small kitchen impressed Mac. The furnishings, in black wood and red fabrics, looked like something out of an interior design magazine. As he wandered into the first bedroom to check it out, he whistled with appreciation at the sixty-inch plasma TV adorning the wall across from the king-sized bed. Another, smaller bedroom was similarly appointed.

Sam met him in the sitting room, which held another large television, a sofa in red microfiber, two club chairs in black leather and a glass coffee table piled high with shopping bags of varying sizes and colors.

“Your boss didn’t spare any expense, did he?” Sam said as she sank onto the overstuffed sofa.

“That’s the way Simon Walker rolls. Without him, the Trudeau family newspaper would have joined the ranks of all the other newspapers shutting down the past few years. He’s taken a special interest in Charlie.” At her arched brow, he quickly added, “In a grandfatherly kind of way. He loves the newspaper business as much as she does, so they have common ground. He wouldn’t dream of doing anything that would jeopardize her or anyone close to her. So you don’t have to worry, okay? Simon’s one of the good guys.”

She smiled slightly. “Okay.”

He sat next to her and nodded at the bags that bore names such as Dillard’s, Gap, CVS and Best Buy. “Looks like he sent us some stuff.”

He tore into the Gap bag first. “If there’s a clean pair of jeans in here, you’re going to want to cover your ears, because I’m going to let out a big ol’ whoop.”

Sam laughed softly as she pushed to her feet and walked through the kitchen into the bigger bedroom, where the balcony doors had been opened to let in fresh air.

Mac let her go without comment, ignoring the sinking in his gut. She was already putting distance between them, preparing for the moment when she’d tell him to get lost.

He focused on the moment and pulled out not one pair of new jeans but six pairs—two in his size and four in varying women’s sizes.

“Oh, hell, yeah,” he said under his breath.

The bag also contained several pairs of men’s and women’s cargo shorts, T-shirts and light jackets. The Dillard’s bags held undergarments, pj’s and socks. The CVS bag yielded various toiletries, and the Best Buy bag contained an inexpensive notebook computer and, wonder of wonders, six prepaid cell phones. Flinn Ford wouldn’t be able to trace a call from one prepaid phone to another.

Mac was grateful that the even number of phones—one for each of Sam’s sisters and their significant others as well as ones for Mac and Sam—hopefully meant no one planned to make him hit the road anytime soon. Except maybe Sam.

When Sam didn’t return to the sitting room, he joined her on the large balcony. She stood with her hands resting lightly on the railing as she stared up at the stars, brilliant points of light against the inky black of the sky.

“Charlie and I were here at Christmas,” he said. “Of course, our room was about a quarter the size of this one, if that. They did luminaria on the beach, so most of the lights were off. The sky was so clear we could see all the stars you don’t normally see because of the city lights. It really does look like the pictures. You know the ones where the stars look like a dust pattern sweeping across the sky? Captiva does luminaria at Christmas, too. I haven’t gone over to check it out, though. I think I’ll do that this year.”

He smiled as he thought about it. He hadn’t felt the urge to do anything like that in ages, perhaps since he and Jenn had moved to Lake Avalon. Funny what having bad guys threaten your life could do for your appreciation of it.

Sam still said nothing, and she’d curled her fingers tight around the railing.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m nervous.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen your sisters.”

“What if they hate me?”

“I’ve known Charlie and Alex a long time. They’re not haters.”

“I made promises I didn’t keep.”

“We all make promises we can’t keep, Sam. It’s part of life. And even if that’s true, I’d bet my life that you meant to keep every promise you made, but circumstances got in the way.”

She cast him a sad smile. “You’re a good man to assume the best. I suspect I don’t deserve it.”

“I suspect you do.”

Sighing, she looked back out at the darkness. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you this week.”

Great, here it comes, he thought. The big brush-off. As much as he wanted to grab her to him and never let her go, he instead gave a vague shrug. He wasn’t a grabber. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of man to impose his presence on someone who didn’t want it. “I did what anyone would have done in my position.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” She turned toward him, eyes glimmering in the light bleeding onto the balcony from the room. “Thank you.” She brushed a kiss over his cheek. “For everything.”

Surprise arced through him at the contact of her lips against his skin. It wasn’t nearly enough. When she started to step by him, he caught her with his hands at her waist and drew her back. He saw her eyes widen just before he tugged her forward and slanted his lips over hers. Her mouth was soft under his, unresponsive. This is so stupid, he thought. How could you be such an idiot?

But before he could pull back and fall all over himself apologizing for being a jerk, her lips moved, then parted on a small, shaky moan. She started kissing him back, one hand sliding up his arm to the back of his neck, where her fingers sifted through the hair curling against his nape. She tasted like garlic and tomato sauce and the future.