Chapter Thirty

I don’t get it. Suede kept blinking, but her eyes brimmed and overflowed anyway. Chance meant to stand between her and a known killer. He meant to protect her even if it meant taking a bullet for her. What kind of man does that? None she’d known until he came along.

He’d tugged her to her feet when he’d stood, and now they were beside York’s rig. The generator was running. Not good. Just like he’d told her he’d do, Chance stood like a solid wall between her and the door, and she was afraid. He thought York would be plenty hungry by now, maybe dead, but Suede had her doubts. York was too big of a snake to go out with a whimper.

She’d already racked her pistol and pointed it skyward, but kept her trigger finger alongside the barrel like Chance had taught. Her nerves were strung tight. When he placed his gloved fingers around the doorknob, it was all she could do not to cry out and tell him to wait, that York wasn’t worth dying for.

Chance never quavered. Once he set his hand to the knob, entry was swift and frightening. She’d stayed frozen outside the door with her eyes squeezed tight, expecting to hear at least one shot. But none came.

“You can come in now,” Chance called to her.

Swallowing hard, Suede forced her boots to move, at least enough to peek around the corner. York was in there, but he didn’t look anything like the monster she remembered. He wasn’t even in one of his scary martial art poses. Dressed in his black down-filled jacket, black jeans, and hiking boots, he sat on the narrow side bench shivering, his fingers at his mouth as if he’d been blowing on them to keep them warm.

His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed red, but fixed on Chance like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wispy thin whiskers dotted his cheeks, chin, and neck. The guy never could grow a decent beard, certainly nothing close to Chance’s thick scruff.

Suede entered York’s frozen mountain hideaway, her pistol ready in case Chance needed her. Not likely. He took up most of the space inside York’s, umm, refrigerator. Even with the generator running, this place was c-c-cold.

At the moment, Chance searched the cupboards and drawers, chuckling. “The idiot’s got water but no food. He’s starving.”

“Where are his guns?” Suede asked.

Chance patted his chest. “In my pockets. Already removed the magazines. His knives too. You’re safe.”

York cocked his head and looked her way through greasy blond hair. His upper lip lifted in that snarky sneer that used to make her blood run cold. It didn’t work this time. “S-S-Suede?” he asked.

Gathering her wits, she lowered her pistol to her side, and took a brave step into his line of sight. “Yes, Lionel. It’s me.”

His eyes followed the weapon she carried, one of the many SIGs Chance owned, and because York couldn’t seem to take his gaze from the gun, she tapped her index finger along the barrel. He needed to know she could end him if it came down to him or Chance.

The thought flittered through her mind that she ought to be grateful to this creep. If he hadn’t tried to kill her, she wouldn’t have met Chance. She’d still be York’s scared little bunny, trapped and slowly dying in his LA penthouse.

“Boo!” she spat, needing him to jump for a change. When he did, she took a breath of freedom. This guy was nothing but a scrawny bully. Certainly not smart. Not even remotely masculine, now that she knew had a real man in her life.

York jerked his head to the left, his greasy blond hair dropping into his eyes. He didn’t seem able to move very fast. The man was suffering. Good.

“All clear,” Chance muttered, but Suede wasn’t done.

Squatting at York’s knees, she told him to, “Get up. You and I have a date.”

He shook his head, quivering like a little girl. Chance came to her aid then, grabbing York by the elbow and hoisting him to his feet. “You heard the lady. You’re on Suede’s dime now. What she says, goes.” He jerked York around to face the woman he thought he’d killed.

She nodded at the open door. “Outside. I want a good look at you.”

“I need him to answer a couple questions before you use him for target practice, ma’am.”

Suede blinked at what sounded more like an endearment coming from Chance than just a term of military respect. Ma’am. It made her lady parts quiver.

“Five minutes,” she clipped as if she were in control of this operation.

“Where’s the video your asshole friends made?” Chance asked York, a deadly edge to his voice.

A video? Of what? She cocked her head. Oh crap, of me?

York’s chin came up. “D-d-don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about.”

“Wrong answer.” Chance didn’t ask again, just pretzeled the high and mighty jerk’s arm behind his back.

Grunting with surprise, York thrashed against the bulk of a man who’d barely moved during the two-second contest. After another tweak, York kicked the floor, sweat beading on his forehead. “Alright, alright. S-stop! It’s on a USB drive in my money belt. Christ, take it. Take everything!”

“I intend to,” Chance growled.

York twisted enough to glare over his shoulder at the massive man who towered over him, pulled his jacket and shirt out of the way and ripped the money belt off his waist. Chance fingered it, searching for the USB drive, then tossed it to Suede. “Here. Hold onto this.”

“Copy that.” She caught the sweaty thing with her free hand, then stuffed it into one of the many zippered pockets on her jacket. There was no telling what was on that video, but if it was of her, it had to be bad. York wasn’t one of those family-home-movie kinds of guys.

Without warning, Chance jerked York nearly off the ground by that same elbow. “Who paid you to kill her, asshole? Who wanted her out of the way?”

“Her father,” he bawled, jumping to get away from Chance, but not going anywhere. “That jerk-off Tennyson wanted her dead so he’d have a clear shot at the White House.”

Suede’s heart ground to a painful halt in her chest. She could barely draw in a gulp of air at that ugly revelation. “D-d-dad paid you to kill me? M-m-my Dad?”

“You’re lying!” Chance grabbed York in a chokehold this time, turning York’s face an ugly shade of blue. “Tennyson wanted her out of the way, but he didn’t want her dead. That’s why the video clip. That was all your idea. You’re blackmailing him, aren’t you? You want to be Port Commissioner, don’t you?”

“N-n-not me. Not me,” York wheezed, his dirty fingernails digging into Chance’s thick forearm. “It’s not l-l-like that. I’m just the little guy in this scheme. I’m nobody. You’ve…” Gasp. Sputter. Hack, hack, hack. “Y-you’ve got to believe me!”

“Tell me another lie, and I promise you’ll fly,” Chance growled, his head ducked low and his mouth at York’s ear. “Now, why the damned video clip, you bastard?”

York blew out a tight raspy breath before he wheezed, “You’re right, it was blackmail, all right?” Chance’s elbow loosened, allowing York to continue. “Tennyson’s hired some big guns from South America. They’re, shit! They’re already in Portland. You gotta let me go. You gotta help! If I don’t show, there’s gonna be a war.”

“So now you’re the hero. Sounds like you need a flying lesson,” Chance growled as he dragged York to the door.

“No! You can’t! You gotta believe me!” York screamed, kicking and fighting all the way. “I’m nobody, but I know people, and, shit! I didn’t know Tennyson would go straight to Patrone! Nobody did. So I bought myself some insurance, that’s all. I thought if he saw what I could do, that he’d back off.”

“You killed his daughter to reason with him?” The veins on Chance’s neck and forehead bulged he was so angry. “Then you cozied up with a bastard like Wilhelm Gonzales to fight Patrone and Tennyson! Are you out of your mind?”

“I had to,” York spat, his face as red as his eyeballs. “He’s got someone more powerful than Patrone on his side, you motherfucker! Don’t you get it?”

Chance grabbed York by his jacket collar and jerked him off his feet until they were nose to nose. “Talk. Who’s more powerful than Patrone?”

York gasped, barely able to breathe. “Don’t know his name,” he wheezed. “Only know some asshat keeps ruining my plans. Why the fuck do you think I’m still up here? He must’ve cancelled the work order to come get me. Next time I see him, I’ll kill him!”

Chance spun York around and slammed his face to the inside wall beside the door. “Give me a name!”

“Chance,” Suede said that one word quietly.

His face came up grim and determined, his jaw tight and his lips thin. She knew he could see her, but the goggles made him look like RoboCop instead of the gentle man she knew.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice monotone, and the veins on his forehead dark and rigid with barely controlled fury.

“My turn,” she said quietly. There’d be time to ask more questions later. This moment was between her and York, but it was also between her and Chance. If he was the man she knew he was, he’d listen to her, not as in obey her, but as in hear her out. He might even defer to her. Wouldn’t that be a once in a lifetime event? A male the size and power of Chance actually caring what she had to say?

“No, please! Christ, no! Not her.” York whined, but Chance gave him no choice. He hopped the arrogant tennis player out of the frigid rig and into the late afternoon sun. Suede followed. She wasn’t in charge, but Chance had deferred to her, even though he was the baddest badass up here. But in that moment, she knew precisely who she was. She was his woman.

A brisk winter breeze had come out of nowhere. It wasn’t anything close to a blizzard, but it was enough. “Strip,” Suede barked at York, her recollection of another night, painfully crystal clear in her mind.

Chance still had hold of York’s back collar, but York thought he had a choice. The idiot kept shaking his head until Chance drew his pistol and shoved it under York’s chin. “Do it, wise guy,” he growled, “and maybe she’ll let you live.”

The man who’d belittled tennis officials, ball boys and girls, reporters, and spectators alike, now stood with his knees knocking in his skinny black jeans. Why she’d ever thought him appealing galled Suede. She snorted. “Should be easy enough, Lionel. That was what you wanted me to do, wasn’t it? Put on one last show? Do it. Take your clothes off. All of them. Now!”

He drew in a deep lungful before he peeled out of his goose-down jacket, one turtleneck sweater, three T-shirts, and his boots. Standing there bare-chested in just jeans and socks, he finally lifted his gaze to Suede. “Don’t do this,” he begged, his head canted for dramatic effect, his hair in his face and blinking those lying eyes for effect.

He always had that blond-haired, charming-little-boy-thing going for him, but that time was gone. Suede used her weapon for a pointer, her index finger still alongside the barrel, not on the trigger. That’d be too much temptation. “All. Off.” She gestured down to the snowdrift York stood in. “Socks too. Do it quick. It’s cold out here. I wouldn’t want you to freeze to death like I nearly did.”

“Nearly, nothing. You were dead when I got to you,” Chance muttered. “Trust me. I know dead.”

Didn’t that warm her heart? He hadn’t given up on her even when she was clinically dead, and he had her back now. There was that warm feeling in her chest again. Had to be her heart.

York’s arrogant chin came up then, daring her, but Chance beat her to it. “Either you do it, smartass, or I will, but I promise, you won’t like how I’ll remove those name brand pants off your hairy ass.” A seven-inch blade snapped to life in Chance’s palm where just seconds before his gun had been. “Your call, Lionel. Me or Suede?”

She shot him the barest smile. There was something incredibly sexy about the power of Chance Sinclair. Bigger than life, he stood for something, and right then, she wanted to strip him naked and lick every inch of his hard male body until he screamed her name.

York whined, forcing her salacious thoughts back to the problem at hand. He’d dropped his jeans and stepped on them, like that little bit of cloth comfort would matter in a few minutes. Suede grunted. Not hardly. Not for what she had planned.

“You want to dance, buster?” she asked the freezing man in his sporty Calvin Kleins, who now jumped from one foot to the other, slapping his biceps to keep warm. She aimed her pistol at his feet, yet kept her trigger finger where it was, not certain she could actually shoot when it came down to it.

That earned her a suppressed smile from Chance. The way his sexy lips curled nearly made her lose focus, but she had a bully to taunt. She refused the answering smile that threatened to blossom over her face.

“What do you want, darling? I mean really, Suede?” York asked, his hair still hanging in his face. “If it’s money, I can—”

“Here we go again.” Suede rolled her eyes. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it? I don’t care about your money, Lionel. News flash. I never did. Where’s my ring?”

“The ring? You want the ring? I don’t know,” York whined as he glanced around. “I lost—”

“This guy doesn’t have it, Suede,” Chance declared. “Sorry, but I do. He gave it to his buddy Pablo after he shoved you over the edge. Philip got your jacket. Pablo got the ring. I meant to give it to you, but we’ve been a little busy.”

Pablo and Philip? I thought they were my friends. Suede felt the blood drain from her face at that awful revelation. York had divided her belongings with his buddies? Who does that?

There went his last chance. “Get your ugly ass over to the edge, Lion,” she ordered, her finger shifted to the trigger and her tears rising. God, I hate you. “Now!”

He stalled, but once again, Chance strong-armed the guy, hotfooting him toward the fast way down.

“You can’t do this!” York shrieked at every frantic step forward. “It’s inhumane! It’s… it’s wrong!”

“You’re right. It is,” Chance replied, his voice as calm as a summer day, and York’s hands twisted behind his back.

Suede kept up with Chance as much as she could, but the snow was deep and the drifts were crusted over. It took her a couple minutes to catch up. By then, Chance had her ex-fiancé leaning over the edge while York tried not to. It was comical how he thought he could resist a man as big and as solid as Chance.

She’d barely stepped to the edge when a sickening wave swept through her. Bile pitched up her throat. “Is this where he… he shoved me over?” she asked Chance, hating the tremor in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am. This is where he kicked your face.” It was so hard to know what Chance was thinking behind those goggles. He looked like a stone-faced robot, not a speck of emotion showing on his handsome face. If this was him holding his rage in check, he was plenty scary.

“I need to do this,” she told him, blinking hard to see through her goggles. They’d gone steamy.

He nodded. Solemn. Stiff. “Understood, ma’am. Totally your call.”

He hadn’t argued. At all. And he called me ma’am. Did that mean he agreed with her? Was he behind her all the way? Should she go through with what she’d intended when she’d started this risky game of cat-and-mouse with a murderer? Could she really kill a man in cold blood? Was she just as evil as York?

Suede gulped, no longer sure that she hated York enough to sacrifice the woman she’d so recently become. York meant to kill me. I’m not dead, but he deserves to die the same way he wanted me to die. Doesn’t he?