Listening to her shower was its own special kind of hell. Cannon was not a monk—far from it. Any other time, he’d totally have offered to go in and warm the room up for her, or at least warm her up. But Pilar wasn’t just anyone, and they weren’t having any other time. Duress had sent her running for her life and crashing into his. The last thing she needed was a horny guy trying to get into her pants.

Even if she was going to look hella sexy wearing his sweats. Instead, he stayed busy while she showered. His phone still had shit for signal, so he used the room phone to call Jacko. When he got the voicemail, he had to laugh. He was calling from an unknown number, so why would their tech guru answer? “It’s Cannon. I’m on the move with a client.” It stretched the truth, since she hadn’t actually hired him or the company. “The weather’s been damn hot, so if you could check the forecast and get us some reservations at a relaxing spot, I’d appreciate it. Tickets for me and Pilar Napolitano.”

Jacko would understand the code.

“I’ll be at this number for about the next day, then we’re on the road. Maybe call back around six.” A day would tell him 24 hours and to call around six, would tell him to divide the first by it. Anyone else listening wouldn’t know the key to translate it. It didn’t matter if they didn’t know who he was or where they were at the moment. She genuinely had people shooting at her, and he’d play it paranoid.

Paranoia kept people alive.

He hung up and waited a beat. The shower was still running. Checking his watch, he sighed. It was later than he’d thought. His shower could wait until they hit the road. He stripped the rest of his clothes and changed into something clean. A quick pit check said deodorant, and he added that. There was a sink on the outside of the bathroom, so he brushed his teeth then repacked his duffel—everything folded and tucked.

He’d already done one more check of the windows before he settled on the bed, duffel and gun next to him. It gave him the perfect vantage for the door to the room and the bathroom.

Steam accompanied Pilar as she exited.

It was a good thing he was lying down, because his blood all headed south. She looked even better in his clothes than he’d pictured. A towel was wrapped around the beautiful curtain of black hair. Her cheeks were rosy from the shower, and the bruising around her nose had darkened. He hated the sight of the injury but appreciated the wound for the life it symbolized. She’d survived the car accident. She’d survived the pursuit of her unknown assailants.

The dead weren’t injured. They were just dead.

Pilar made it all the way to him. The thought hesitated, as if sensing the IED waiting to go off if he followed it to the natural conclusion.

Fuck it. He’d always been the guy who delivered the boom. She made it all the way to me, and I’m really fucking good with that. Just need to get her through this, then ask her out, and spend some time convincing her how good for her I am.

“Everything all right?” She stood next to her bed, toweling her long dark hair. The action had her bent slightly and pulled his t-shirt against her chest. Every move of her arms as she worked the towel over her hair highlighted the chill in the room.

Shaking his head, Cannon had to laugh. Possessing a dirty mind had always been a source of joy for him and a great way to tease his friends. Huh. Maybe I should have called Flint. Jacko could pull research, but Flint’s girl would be good at digging dirt, too. She was a journalist, so why hadn’t he called? Maybe because I don’t want to share yet. Flint would see right through him, too. With Jacko, he stood a minute chance of avoiding scrutiny. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.” It took a moment’s mental reset to remember what she’d asked, but he had it now. He wouldn’t forget again. “Feel better after the shower?”

“I almost feel like a new woman. After all the sleep in the truck, I’m not sure I’m going to get much sleep here.” She made a liar out of herself with a yawn.

“Rest your eyes then, take a beat, and a breath.” As soon as she settled, he would doze. He had a good internal clock.

“Are you going to shower?” It was a fair question, and he’d thought about it. But he wouldn’t be comfortable in the shower unless she was there where he could protect her. And that thought brought up way too many other things he’d like to explore with her.

Rather than broach any of those topics, he kept it light. “Trying to tell me I stink?”

“No.” She sounded almost horrified by the suggestion. “I kind of like the way you smell.”

“Oh, really?” He had one arm behind his head for a pillow, and he clenched that fist while he forced the rest of him to relax. His cock ignored his efforts, because the breathy exclamation at the end of her statement appealed to him on the most basic levels.

Her tongue appeared between her teeth as though she were fighting the urge to bite it. Damn tempting urge if he did say so himself. “You know what, yep. You smell good and I enjoy it.” She pivoted and carried the towel over to toss into the bathroom. Internally, he winced. A little.

Although he wasn’t a neat freak by nature, between his mother’s rules and the Navy’s? He didn’t leave anything lying around if he could help it. “Good to know. You smell pretty.”

“Pretty isn’t a description for a scent. It’s for how someone looks or dresses.”

“You qualify, in all categories.” Heh. Pure masculine satisfaction rolled through him when she swung around to face him. The long, damp hair clung to her, and it was a damn pity the shirt he’d given her was dark gray. He should have pulled out a white one or something.

“Thank you.” She disappeared into the bathroom, then returned carrying her clothes. Hell, if she just tossed them…whew. She didn’t. Instead, she folded them as neatly as possible. “I don’t know why I’m bothering with this. I’m never getting some of these stains out.”

“We’ll figure it out.” He’d buy her new ones. Might as well use his trust fund on something his mother would approve of rather than only funneling it into the investments, land, and real estate purchases he’d been making. When he was done, they would have a safe house in every state and in several other countries. They already had one plane, but he wanted three. Every purchase had to be handled discreetly and through a series of shell companies to avoid undo scrutiny, because they were off the books and needed to stay that way.

“No, I’ll figure it out. I think you saving my life and driving me to this…provincial little paradise spot in the middle of nowhere constitutes going above and beyond. The last thing I need is to take the shirt off your back when I am more than capable of going to a dry cleaner at some point.” Her argument went a little off the rails, but damn, she was fun. She managed to say all of that without sounding even an ounce snooty, just determined.

“Not to be the jackass who points it out or anything, but you are wearing my shirt.”

Her nose wrinkled, then she grimaced as if the act pained her. Finally, she settled for glaring at him, one hand on her hip. “You didn’t take this shirt off your back. You took it out of your bag.”

Laughter shook him. “Point and match. Do you need to dry your hair?”

“Yes,” she admitted, even as her grin faded. “But I don’t want to. The dryer makes a lot of noise.”

“Sweetheart, I can sleep through mortars firing. Go dry your hair. You need to be comfortable if you’re going to relax.”

The narrowed eyed gaze she’d gave him earlier grew thoughtful. “You really were a sailor?”

“Um-hmm.” He nodded and let his eyes drift close. “No distractions. Dry your hair.” Because if she kept standing there looking warm, beautiful, and a little lost, he’d get up to comfort her. Not that she’d asked him to or seemed to need it from him, but because he wanted to be the one to offer it. We’re not there yet. Slow the boat, take stock, devise the plan, and implement the plan—after I take care of whomever is chasing her.

They would have that conversation in the morning. He respected her privacy, but if she had information he could use to keep her safe, then she needed to share. Pilar lingered for a moment longer, then finally went back to the bathroom. The in wall blow dryer turned on. It sounded a bit pathetic, and he let himself drift.

He’d already oriented on everything in the room—the way it sounded when she walked, and the becoming rapidly familiar way she smelled. Palm flat over his gun, he let his tired eyes rest.

Four hours.

Not one minute more.

A noise that didn’t belong snapped Cannon’s eyes open. He rose, gun in hand and listened. Silent, he was very well aware of the moment Pilar’s breathing changed. She was awake. He held a finger up, hoping she understood the need to remain quiet. Outside, the soft sound of a door closing galvanized him. He pointed her to the bathroom.

Without argument, she slid out of the bed and snagged her borrowed boots, her gun, and the keys. Goddamn, she did it without too much additional noise. Proud, he focused his attention on the outside—the soft crunch of snow beneath boots. The whisper of movement underscored by the glide of the window in the bathroom. He hit a mental count of ten when the window closed again.

The sound of a magazine clip being slotted and the load of a bullet to the chamber, obnoxiously loud in a silence barely punctuation by the beat of his heart, warned him. He hit the floor and pulled the mattress from the guest cot and his bed forward and over him. Bullets pummeled the room. The barrage lasted only a few seconds, but the ringing in his ears stretched out like a secondary assault. The metal frame of the metal foldout did its job and bounced the door back at them when they attempted to kick it in. A man swore, and that gave Cannon cue.

The mattresses wouldn’t have protected him from bullets, but they did keep the flying glass and debris from hitting him. Rising from beneath, he locked sights on the man who entered and shot him—three bullets, two center mass and one at the neck in case he was wearing a vest. Another rushed in right behind and he took the second guy with two bullets—one in the neck and the second in the head.

A bullet sliced the air past him so close, he could swear the heat brushed his skin. Training took over—twist, sight, fire. Two more went down. A fifth slammed into him. A big guy, built like a damn tank. Pivot, elbow to the face, leg hooked behind the big guy’s knee, fist to the throat and the man went down—a lumbering tree falling in macabre forest of shattered glass and floating pillow stuffing.

Five bodies.

Adrenaline surging, he stepped over the bodies and checked the lot. His truck engine hummed, but there were only two other vehicles—both off and both empty. A sweep left, clear. A sweep right, clear. A slow pull back to the lot, ignoring the icy sensation of snow on his arms.

Sleeping with his boots on had served its purpose.

The second-floor landing—clear. At the driver’s side door to his truck, he met Pilar’s wild-eyed gaze. Alive, pale, and a little panicky looking—but she’d done exactly as he’d asked her to and without hesitation.

Lowering his gun, and satisfied the assault had concluded, he strode back into the room. Zip ties in his bag secured the downed men—some habits were hard to break. The phone had survived the hail of bullets. Finally, something went their way. Dialing Tex’s number, he waited for the SEAL to answer his phone. “Hey, boss…”

The nickname he gave him was an old joke and code. They’d never served on the same team, but Tex was a solid, stand up person. He understood Cannon’s need to distance himself from his family even when Cannon hadn’t been able to articulate it. Sometimes, a guy just needed someone to listen without criticism or judgment. Flint was Cannon’s best friend, but Tex was kind of like his priest.

“Need a cleanup crew and law enforcement. Five down, two vehicles. No IDs, and this is the third assault in…thirty hours, give or take.” He noted the details on each man as he saw it and gave him a statement on the attack. “I’ve got a client. Removing her from the scene. She was not in the room when it went down.” Pilar wouldn’t be able to give a statement on the battle, because she hadn’t been in it.

“You good?” Two words, but Tex could say a lot with very little.

“Five by five.” A sting somewhere along his shoulder suggested he might have wrenched something, but he did a cursory check for burning sensation or firebrand stings. Not his blood. Movement next to him, and he slanted his gaze to the downed big man. The guy groaned and seemed to be trying to get to his feet. “One available for questioning. Gonna let him sleep it off. Temperature is dropping rapidly, so response needs to be soon.”

“Understood. Get clear. I’ll take care of it. Check in when you’re secure.”

“Thanks.” Hanging up the phone, he picked up the whole old school heavy bottomed phone and clocked the big man. The phone broke and the man went down. “Good night.”

Done, he grabbed his duffel then shook the glass off her clothes. A quick roll and they were secure. Certain they left nothing behind, he grabbed her purse and strode out into the still falling snow. Opening the back door, he secured the duffel then opened the driver’s side and held out her purse.

Covering her trembling hand as she accepted the bag, he said, “Time to trust me, sweetheart.”

Though the day grew lighter as Cannon drove, it still snowed. They’d made it less than fifteen miles from the—no, her mind refused to think about what had happened at the hotel room. She’d seen the men shooting, heard the horribleness of it all. It played in slow motion in her head. For several, awful seconds, she’d thought Cannon died.

She’d never been so happy or so terrified, as when she’d seen him walk out of the room. Now, standing in the snow, she braced the tire Cannon removed.

“New truck, down two tires.” The grumbling carried no heat, but guilt twisted her insides. She hadn’t even realized one of the other tires had been damaged. Fortunately, he had a spare in the back and something to repair the other one. Pilar didn’t ask.

“You said it was time to trust you.” She spoke softly, gathering up every ounce of courage. “You’re right. I didn’t want to tell you, didn’t want to involve you because…no one deserves to have their life imploded by someone else’s drama.”

He tightened the lugnuts on the tire he’d just fixed into place. So calm and at ease, he didn’t seem affected by what they’d gone through or the fact they stood in the freezing cold. She liked the iciness of it, because she needed the bracing to get through the fog of everything.

“Now, I don’t want to tell you because I don’t want to drive you away. It’s not a pretty story.” The very last thing she wanted to do was lose him. He was rapidly becoming the brightest spot in her darkness, a stable place when the very foundation of her world wouldn’t stop crumbling away. Enough was enough. “I told you my last name is Napolitano. That’s partially true, as I was born one. My father wasn’t part of the family and my mother ran away to be with him. He died when I was little in a car crash—drunk driver clipped him. I don’t really remember it. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. What I do remember was how lost my mother seemed, and that my grandfather showed up the next day.”

The memories swamped over her, but still seemed like they happened to someone else. Whether it was because of the shock of losing her dad or the hazy lens of time and memory, she didn’t know.

“He was this larger than life man with a booming laugh and a soft voice. I’d never met him before that day, but he came in and told my mother we were coming home to live with him. That he would take care of everything. I woke up in my bed that morning. By evening, I went to sleep in my new room. His house was huge and always filled with people. He indulged me, told me jokes, and sent me to the best schools. Yet, the place never felt like home. Probably that was because, from the moment we moved in, my mother seemed to just fade away.”

Swallowing, Pilar forced back the tears the next part always drew from her. “When I was sixteen, Mom killed herself. Grandfather said she died from a weak heart and never referred to the pills she took. I don’t think he realized I saw the bottles when I found her. Maybe he didn’t care. For years, in my head, that was how I remembered her death—she died of a weak heart, even if I knew about the pills. Grandfather said it, so it had to be true.”

Cannon finished the tire and rose, cleaning up the tools and storing them. Her teeth chattered together. Whether it was the cold getting to her or ripping open old wounds, she didn’t know.

Plunging onward, she said, “I grew up in this bubble. Grandfather was the foundation of it. He took care of everything when Daddy died. Took care of us, sent me to schools, bought me nice things, and the people who worked for him were always so polite. I even had my own driver. I thought everyone had these things. We had rules, but all families do, and I was good at following the rules. He always told me I was better than my mother, stronger than her. I understood things. I didn’t get the meaning of those comments, not even when Mom died.”

Dammit, she’d been so stupid. When Cannon urged her back to the truck, she climbed inside and waited for him to slide back into the driver’s seat before she continued.

“When Grandfather told me to study accounting, because that was what I was suited for, I believed him. I liked numbers. They made sense and I liked their logic. Since he paid for college that meant he had a say, too. I went to school, I got a degree, and when I was done, Grandfather gave me a job. I did it and I did it very, very well. They were all numbers.”

At some point, Cannon took her hand. The warmth of it penetrated the chill threatening to trap her forever.

“During all of this, I heard things. I heard people talking to my grandfather and about him, but it was always this kind of distant hum. I made excuses for it or pretended I didn’t understand what they meant. They joked about getting his permission or understanding what his orders were about if he said make something happen, because…he could make anything happen, even the impossible.”

The hardest part of all arrived, and she licked her lips.

“I remember being approached once at school by a guy who said he was a federal agent. Yeah, right—but he wanted to ask me about my grandfather. Now, remember, I knew the rules. Talking to anyone outside the family about the family was a huge no-no. Grandfather was a very private man. Something this guy said to me, it stuck. He said, ‘Petrucci isn’t a name that will take you far, at least not in this world. Don’t let it drag you into his world. Just a word to the wise.’”

Everything about his statement resonated now, but why hadn’t she listened then?

Blind loyalty. Stupid blind loyalty.

“Anyway, Grandfather’s name is Paolo Petrucci. He’s the head of several companies and subsidiaries, and he has ties to multiple organizations. We handle all of their money. I handled all of it. I moved it around, found the best tax shelters, and made sure every dime was accounted for. On paper, he’s an old school Italian who had the smarts to invest wisely and diversify.” She’d helped them. Done their dirty work and hadn’t even realized it. “One day, I realized some of the numbers weren’t adding up. We had a flush new fund that came out of nowhere, so I tracked it down. I did this thinking I didn’t want something to trigger an IRS audit. Even when you’re all on the up and up, it’s still a nightmare of procedure and paperwork. Taking care of the books was my job, what my grandfather asked me to do, what he sent me to school for. I had to do it right, so I did my own audit.”

And opened Pandora’s box.

“The problem with numbers is that they don’t lie. Money doesn’t just appear one day and not have a source. The auditing took me back to the books before I was in charge of them, and they didn’t make sense. Money appeared in the weirdest places, attributed to companies that either didn’t exist or no longer existed. The deeper I dug, the more I began to unravel. There was a code to the way things were entered, so simple that had I ever taken my blinders off, I would have noticed it. Should have. Payments to politicians disguised as campaign donations, spread out over multiple shell corps and individuals—individuals I knew worked closely for my grandfather. More to administrators, law enforcement, union reps and more. Beyond that were payments from individual businesses that we didn’t own, but still came in as franchise fees and profit sharing. An elaborate web of lies to disguise an ugly truth I didn’t want to know.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“It took me three weeks to go through it all, but once I understood the code…I had to know.”

“You checked on your father.” Cannon’s insight was so eerily accurate. “And found the fee paid to…?”

“It was listed as a cable repair, specifically a bypass.” Her father’s life reduced to a log entry in the same blood-soaked books she’d been managing. Her hands would never be clean. “My grandfather is the mob—or mobbed up. He’s Godfather to his little community, and I was his good little soldier. My mother killed herself because she knew. I think she always knew that her father killed her husband. Or maybe she just couldn’t handle knowing what her father was? Lord knows, I can’t handle knowing about my grandfather.”

Sniffing, she wiped away the tears which escaped. “Anyway, after I reconciled my mental books, I did more research. This time in old news files and on the Internet. I finally understood what that FBI agent had been trying to get me to see.” Letting go of Cannon’s hand, she pulled her purse onto her lap and pulled out the cassette tape she’d been hoarding inside it—or at least what looked like a cassette. Pulling it out of its plastic case, she flipped out the hidden switch and revealed the USB connector. “I copied all of the books, every gloriously detailed number, and the breakdowns of what it meant. Including the cable bypass ordered for my place.”

Her grandfather ordered her death. He knew what she’d found. Her loyalty meant nothing.

“I’d been Pilar Petrucci since I was four years old, but I was born a Napolitano. I don’t want to be a Petrucci anymore. I want to be my father’s daughter.”

“And you were taking that where?” Cannon asked. He made no move to take the cassette from her, only slid an arm around her. What had she ever done to luck out in meeting him like she had? Even if he…even if he handled taking out those soldiers like he had.

No, she couldn’t think about those deaths. Those weren’t her fault, and they weren’t Cannon’s.

They hadn’t invited those maniacs to come for them.

“The Justice Department. I can’t remember the FBI agent’s name. I know he gave me a card, but I couldn’t find it, and I just knew I had to get out of New York. I thought if I took a road trip, pretended I was going to see someone from college, Grandfather wouldn’t notice.” She’d been wrong.

“Okay…then we’re going to D.C. I’ve got friends who can help. We’ll get you to the Justice Department, and you can do this.”

“Can I?” The trembling came from her very core.

“You can. Do you mind if I go through your purse?”

What? “Why?”

“Because they’re tracking you. There’s no other explanation for how they found us at that hotel, at least not one I’d accept at the moment.”

Her stomach sank. “Of course they are…because who doesn’t track their grandchild so you can send a hit squad against them?” Dammit, she’d loved her grandfather. Passing her purse over, she stared into the snow as Cannon went through it. A part of her didn’t want to know he was right, even if her gut told her he was. “Bit by bit, everything I am seems to be disappearing. Who I thought I was. Who I thought my family was. This wonderful childhood I thought I’d had, even with these awful things that happened. It’s all going away. It was all a lie.”

“Or maybe you’re just shedding your chrysalis and becoming the badass you were always meant to be.”

A watery laugh burst from her. “I’m not a badass. I’m just an accountant.”

“Sweetheart, I know a badass when I see one.” He leaned toward her, and she locked her gaze on his. With his lips a whisper from hers, he said, “And you are not only a damn good accountant, but a badass one to boot.”

Then he claimed her mouth in a slow, searing possession that offered comfort and passion in equal measure. The only connection came from the massage of his lips on hers, the gentle invasion of his tongue, and the way he coaxed her, teased her. The wild tension knotting her relaxed, and her body seemed to turn molten. The kiss lasted forever and not long enough.

When he broke away, she groaned.

“I know,” he whispered. “Me too. But we have to do this. I have to make it safe for you again. I will make it safe for you again.” Cannon’s smile wrapped around her and her heart squeezed. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

She believed him. “I trust you.”