GARRISON'S CREED
CHAPTER ONE
Sighting the target in his crosshairs, Cash Garrison accounted for all of the variables. Wind speed and direction. Distance and range. Now the world would be free of one more bloodthirsty warlord in less time than it would take for the walking dead man to finish his highfalutin champagne toast.
Hours had passed since Cash nestled into place, high-powered rifle held like a baby to his chest. A thousand yards out from the extravagant mansion, he’d burrowed into position, melting into the landscape, and waited for this moment. Antilla Smooth, dressed like the million dollars he made as an arms dealer and unaware of the grim reaper sighting his forehead, made his way past the French doors.
Cash caressed the trigger, knowing exactly how many pounds of pressure it would take to fire the round. He monitored his breaths and heart rate. When his entire body was still, in between beats and respirations, he’d take the bastard out. One less piece of shit strutting on God’s green Earth. The world would be a better place, and Cash’s job for the day would be done. He and the team could find a local bar, find some ladies, celebrate and make a night of it. Good plan.
He adjusted for a breeze, blinked his eyes, counted down his breaths, and—stopped. Stunned. Frozen in place. Heart pounding like a coal-eating locomotive.
A woman in a golden dress and sparkled-out jewelry that’d make royalty jealous wrapped her arm around Antilla. A soldier would sell his last bullet for a kiss from her lips. Cash saw her through his scope as though she stood a mere twenty feet in front of him.
She looked like… but it couldn’t be.
His spotter spoke the direction in his earpiece. “Send it.”
Cash spoke into his mic. “Stand by.”
His spotter whispered again. “Eyes on your target. All conditions accounted for. Go. Send it.”
Nothing. Cash didn’t speak.
Earpiece again. “Go, goddamn it.”
The woman slunk around his bull’s-eye, her beautiful hair piled on top of her head, save for the loose pieces framing her face. Her smile slipped into a laugh. I’ve inhaled gun oil fumes. I’m losing my mind right this second.
“Cash, man. You there?” His spotter grabbed his attention, wrenching him back to reality.
“Here. Yeah, man. Here.”
“Wind from three o’clock. Dropped to five mph. Hold. Target blocked.” The woman draped over the man. This was a nightmare—his nightmare—blasting from the past and slapping him clear off of his prone position and onto his stupefied ass. The spotter spoke again. “Clear. Dial wind right, two mils. Send it… now.”
Heartbeat. Breath. Heartbeat.
Fire.
And breathe.
Now, they had to move. Fast. He knew the spotter team should be slipping through the thick Maine forest. Cash paused and glanced longer than he needed to confirm the kill. Tuxedoed man on the ground. Kill shot. Dead. Panic attacked the room. People ran, most likely screaming. Security scrambled. Dogs loosed. Barks growing closer. But the woman. The golden silk-draped woman stood still, staring at the busted windowpane in the French doors. No expression. No emotion. Not a drop of anything.
Cash shook his head, clearing the ghost of her image, and focused on his job. One shot, one kill. Just the way he liked it. He cleared the shell and casing from his bolt-action rifle, policed his brass, and snapped to a crouch, erasing any evidence that he had spent hours in the spot. A half second later, he beat feet, sliding down the side of the wooded hill, leaving no trail.
His spotter buzzed in his ear, confirming their meet-up point. “Rendezvous at location A, twenty-two ten.” He could do it. He should do it. He powered down a hill, sliding as dirt gave under his feet. Brush slapped him in the face. Vicious barking closed in. The main house illuminated day-glow bright.
Man, he was going to hear about it for this one. He told his spotter, “Location C, twenty-three hundred hours.”
“Cash—”
It took a lot for Roman to break protocol and use his name over the radio frequency, but Cash knew his spotter, his closest friend, was pissed. And an upset Roman was as much fun to deal with as the dogs Cash was about to run back toward.
Not much to do except kill an hour. Cash pulled his earpiece out as Roman cursed again. Nothing good would come at the end of that sentence. Cash laughed. Radio silence wasn’t the best road to take, but it was better than coughing up an explanation of the impossible.
***
Nicola glided around Antilla Smooth. His lifeless face stared at the ceiling, and his perfect hair hid the sniper round’s entry wound. Given the crimson puddle painting the white carpet round the backside of his brain, the bullet was a through and through, and her night was ruined. Her operation ruined, completely FUBAR.
Chaos filled the room, and she was the calm eye of the storm. Everyone and everything swirled around her. Loud noises. Screaming people. Security moved fast, but what was the point? They’d failed.
She hadn’t failed, but the last few months were now crap, and it was time to call the powers that be. They’d be interested in this turn of events. Nicola put down her champagne flute and pulled out her cell. She walked away, feeling her smooth silk gown train trailing behind her.
The phone rang once, and a surprised voice answered. “It’s a little early for our chat.”
“We should get together for ice cream.” Nicola gave the phrase that told Beth, her handler, that this mission was dunzo.
Beth didn’t miss a beat. “I have to run errands first. I’ll meet you after you head to the dry cleaners.”
Dry cleaners. Yup, time to turn into a shadow and slink away. It was the right move, pulling her home. Too bad she had nothing to show for the months spent playing to the dead megalomaniac’s ego. She’d been so close, only one or two days away from locking down the international players in Antilla’s arms network.
“You’ve got it. I’ll be in and out first thing in the morning.” She walked down the hallway, and a guard looked. Apparently, her saunter was too calm, given the way other women shrieked their horror. “Ciao,” she said goodbye, keeping up her Italian persona and putting a hand against her throat.
She looked at her designer gown. No blood. At least there was an upside to this evening’s party. That and she wouldn’t have to feign interest in Antilla, the sick prick, then backpedal when he wanted to take her to bed.
Personal preference. Some ladies in the Agency did what they had to do without a second thought. She’d had second thoughts. And thirds and fourths. She’d wanted to screw Antilla Smooth like she wanted a root canal done by Kermit the freakin’ Frog: choppy marionette hands flopping up and down.
“Gabriella?” Someone used her alias. “Gabriella, are you okay?”
Nicola saw a butler who had been friendly to her since they’d arrived at Antilla’s Maine estate. Her name poured off his lips, imitating the Italian flare she used when introducing herself.
“Yes, fine. Bene, grazie.” He looked unassuming. Who knew why the man worked for Smooth Enterprises, but looks were deceiving. Trust no one. “I need to step outside. Fresh air.”
Really, she needed to get out of Maine, but why elaborate? She slipped outside. The night was daybreak bright with the estate’s security system fully engaged. Her hand caught her eye. The fluorescents made her olive skin look green, not complementing the dress she’d fallen in love with. Nicola weighed her lack of options, knowing she’d need transportation and, for the moment, not knowing how she’d secure it.
A chill spiked over her skin as a gust blew through the forest. Someone was still out there. The same someone who took out her mark.
Pop. Flash. Pop. The exterior lights died, and she was left to her thoughts in the moonless night. Another chill rolled over her shoulders. No wind this time. She pivoted, reluctantly ready and willing to ruin her dress and take it out of the ass of whoever was to blame. Her muscles tensed. Her eyes adjusted in a flash. A man. Large. Broad. Armed. Twenty feet away at the side of the patio.
He spoke, the baritone timbre coating her in a hurt she’d hidden years ago. “Nicola.”
She didn’t need to see his face. His voice shattered any semblance of strength she’d mustered. Nicola braced one leg back, prepared to attack. Ready to defend herself. But who was she kidding? If he laid one finger on her, it might be her undoing. All her suffering, pointless.
“Nicola,” he said again. Still as firm, but this time knowing. “What the fuck?”
This was bad news of the worst variety. She pivoted back toward the doors, ready to go back inside and hash out an emergency extraction strategy with Beth. No time to wait for tomorrow’s withdrawal plan.
Reaching for the doorknob, she willed herself not to run.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he said.
Sweet Lord, why was Cash here? Why was the one memory she could never forget standing in the middle of her job? And why was he talking to her, armed and looking far more dangerous than the last time she saw him?
“Stop your sweet ass one second, and turn around, Nicola.”
She spun on her stiletto heel, knowing she’d never be able to get to the subcompact gun tucked on the inside of her thigh. Even if she could, she’d never hurt Cash.
“No, sir. You’re mistaken.” She put on her best Italian accent, knowing it wouldn’t fix this problem.
“Bull—”
The butler opened the door. “Gabriella, please come in. Everyone’s gathering in the main hall. It’s dangerous to be out here.”
Cash stood in the shadows. She knew the butler couldn’t see him. Yet, her pulse stuttered, and her throat tightened. She wanted to protect one man from the other. Nicola looked over her shoulder, and Cash was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Cash ran through this mind-scrambling scenario as he pushed toward the semi-agreed upon location. He had two more minutes to scoot his caboose there before his spotter had one more thing to bitch at him about. Cash and Roman were tight. One hell of a sniper-spotter team, and best of bros. From boot camp to Titan Group, they’d been by each other’s sides, watching backs, chasing chicks, and fighting in the trenches.
With fifteen seconds to spare, Cash rounded a moss-covered boulder and ran smack into Roman.
“How goes it, dickhead?” Roman scowled. “Your mic not working? Your earpiece burn out?”
A rumble of tires put the pause on their conversation. The armored Range Rover barreled around a tight curve, and they jumped in before it came to a stop. Two doors shut. The driver tore down the road as Cash and Roman righted themselves in the backseat. Cash ignored Roman and waited for the shitstorm he knew was coming.
As if on cue, Roman turned his camo-painted face and stared hard. Cash started to peel off his ghillie suit, unzipping the outfit of fake leaves.
“Hold your roll, Cash.”
“Back off.”
Roman lowered his voice. “The hell I will.”
All the questions, all the confusions morphed into fury. Distrust. “Did you know?”
“Know? Know what?”
Cash lunged forward, wrapping his hand around Roman’s throat. “So help me God. Did you know about her?”
Pressed against the window, Roman jabbed his knee into Cash’s gut. Like two battling rams, they pounded and cursed.
The man at the wheel, Rocco, shifted in his seat. “What the fuck? Sit down.”
Cash felt the Range Rover skid to a stop, knew he and his best friend were trading blows, but none of it clicked in his frontal lobe. He was all emotion and instinct. The back door opened, and Roman ducked out, pulling Cash with him.
Roman caught him in the jaw with a fist full of knuckles. Wet asphalt scratched his face. He righted himself, pulling an arm back. He’d kill Roman if it was the last thing he did. All that bullshit about loyalty and honor. What a crock.
Losing his balance, he fell back. Rocco clasped his punch-ready fist and pulled him off Roman, who pounced up into a fighter’s stance, fists raised, knees bent. Rocco had killed the car’s lights. No moonlight. Just the three men, two with sweat steaming off them in the cool night air and one level-headed, probably wondering what the fuck. Hell, maybe Roman wondered that too.
***
Shaking, Nicola walked into the main hall. Her fingers vibrated and her heart banged like she was one of Antilla’s eight-ball snorting girls. It was a good look for her now that she’d been lassoed into the main hall with distraught women who were genuinely upset that the bastard was dead.
Sweet, funny Cash Garrison. She had no doubt it was him, though he must have a hundred pounds of pure muscle hanging off those long limbs. Could men in their twenties have growth spurts? She didn’t remember him as tall. Certainly not as broad. And his voice was deeper than the bottom of the cliff she supposedly drove off of a decade ago.
Nicola looked from one woman to the next. She could identify all of them. Then she eyed the men. They too were catalogued in her memory, but she didn’t know what each did for Smooth or how the money funneled in and out of his Swiss banks.
The CIA was right to be disappointed in her. Beth should put her on desk duty at the Farm until she was an old biddy talking about her days in the spy game. Shit. She really needed to talk to Beth.
In the corner, Antilla’s head of security barked orders. There was no telling what that crackpot might do. Nicola needed to get the hell out of here. Patio escape plan, round two. The butler touched her shoulder.
“Gabriella, would you like a glass of water?”
Him again? He was always around, always watching. “No, grazie.”
“May I get you a lemonade? The taste reminds me of sunset walks on the beach at night.”
She went from ignoring him to pinning him against the wall with a stare. “Scuzi?”
He spoke slower. More deliberate. “I said. Sunset walks on the beach. At night.”
Nicola processed his words. His look. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Non capisco. I do not understand.”
“Yes, you do.”
Yes, she did. The CIA had someone else in here. The butler. She should have known.
“Yes, I do.” She nodded, mapping out her next move. Did Beth know? The games. She hated all the games, and if this guy was here to make sure she did her job, she was going to lose her trademark cool. She hated being checked up on. Hated the doubt that she couldn’t pull the gig off. Then again, she hadn’t.
“I’ll get you a lemonade, or would you like to come with me?”
Hell, why not? “Yes. Of course.”
They made their way down an elaborate hall. Oil paintings of New England landscapes and native animals were framed in gilded boxes and lit by brass fixtures.
“They’re bringing you in,” he said as casually as if they talked about the change in the seasons.
“You?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
“Not my call.”
“Who else is here?” Or in other words, why was Cash here?
“Just the two of us.”
“I didn’t know about you. Maybe you don’t know about someone else.”
“Maybe.”
Not the answer she wanted, though she wouldn’t believe any answer he gave if it were a definite yes or no.
He handed her a drink and napkin from a side table. “Extraction directions are in your cocktail napkin. You leave tonight. Take this to the bathroom, and move as directed.”
“This is because of the patio?”
“What?”
“I was supposed to go to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”
“Change of plan.”
“Why?”
“Not sure, other than Antilla was eliminated.”
“What do we have on that?”
“Wasn’t us.”
“What—”
“You need to move. Go. Follow the directions. The extraction team is ready to pull you out in five minutes.”
The butler turned and walked away, leaving her, drink in hand. Nicola sipped her lemonade and headed for the specified bathroom. She took in the empty lounging area and vanity counters and entered a quiet bathroom stall, closing the door behind her. She unfolded the edges of the napkin. It was blank. What the hell?
She held it to the light. Nothing. No ink. No code. No marks.
She’d been made. Confirmed it herself. Fucking safe phrase wasn’t worth shit if someone unsafe knew it existed. Her pulse thumped in her neck. Her ears strained to hear the incoming attack. She was trapped, save the narrow window that opened two stories above a terrace. The window was tall but skinny. She might not fit. No time to overthink it, and thank God, she’d skipped dinner. Nicola chucked off her heels, lifted her skirt, and palmed her Beretta.
Despite grabbing a fancy, overstuffed pillow for use as a makeshift silencer, the shot was loud when she blew out the window. Hoisting herself up to the sill, she looked over her shoulder to see her extraction team, courtesy of the butler, blow through the outer door. No time to second-guess her next move, and oh, the landing would hurt. Barefoot, she sucked in a breath and pushed through the shattered frame.
Glass shards scraped her chest and back as she sidestepped through. Teetering for a hot second on the outside, she realized that the window frame was too narrow. She couldn’t turn her head to look back at her attackers, but she felt hands grabbing at her dress. Before a hand could clamp around her calf, she leaped.
It felt like slow motion. Weightless, reaching for the sky, she floated in a sea of gold silk as her dressed billowed around her until she hit the manicured terrace lawn. Everything hurt. Her exit strategy wasn’t strategic, and it gave her zero chance to position for a tuck and roll, but it did do one very good thing. It kept dangerous men inside the house.
Bang. Bang. Pop.
The men were inside, but their guns shooting out the window had a wide open range. She pulled up as fast as she could manage. Dirt spat around her. Their shots missed but not by much. Nicola hobbled as fast as she could. They were, no doubt, regrouping and busting ass to get her on the terrace.
As she half-limped, half-ran, she tried to assess her injuries. Nothing broken. Definitely going to have to make a chiropractor appointment. Blood had ruined her gorgeous dress, thanks to the window exit. Definitely a sprained elbow and wrist.
The thicket of the woods loomed ahead, and she closed in on it, praying she’d reach the dense cover. Only then did she realize that she still gripped the subcompact gun but had lost her purse, and with it her untraceable cell phone. How the shit was she going to call Beth?
First plan of action: get far away from this mansion. Maybe stumble all the way to another mansion, break in, and use their phone. She jammed her bare foot against the sharp side of a downed branch.
“Son of a bitch!” It hurt like an ice pick stab, shooting straight from her heel to her hip bone. She lost her balance, tumbling down the hill, head first, sprained arm next. Her throbbing foot screamed in pain.
Nicola came to rest at the bottom of the hill. Dress thoroughly ruined. Bleeding top to bottom.
“Get up, girl,” she told herself.
Nothing moved except for her lips. No, she’d worked too hard, had too much to prove. A little thing like this wasn’t going to take her down. She was too freakin’ smart to stumble like a newbie recruit fresh off the Farm.
“Nothing that can’t heal. Get up. Now.”
Her skin prickled. She wasn’t alone. In a heartbeat, she was on her busted feet, gun drawn, pivoting intuitively. She spun twice, focused her hearing, and took one step forward, her foot touching the gravel side of a rural road. A dozen yards up, an SUV idled in the dark. Three men the size of NFL linebackers stood frozen like oversized yard gnomes.
And they weren’t the men who chased her.
She readied her Beretta. The slide echoed in the moonless night.
One man put his hands up. The two others straightened as if they’d been hunched, ready to throw down on a Maine backwoods road.
She took a step forward. Damn this pitch-black night. She couldn’t see anything more than male outlines. After her run-in with Cash Garrison and then the men who’d shot at her… Lord only knew who else was in on this game.
“Turn around. Move away from the car. Now!” She needed their set of wheels. Maybe she’d strike spy gold and find a charged cell phone.
The man with his hands up took two strides back. Without communicating, the two other men took two steps forward. She did not have time for this. The men from the mansion might be driving this same road or trailing her through the woods. She limped forward, trying not to groan when her injured foot hit gravel again.
“I said move it.” She shuffled toward the driver’s door.
“Nicola?”
Not Cash.
Not Cash by a million years. Far worse. Far more confusing. She couldn’t handle this. Nicola leaped toward the idling car.
***
David leaned against the wall as he heard the pop of gunfire in the bathroom. He loosened the god-awful uniform tie he wore in his role as a butler. Hopefully, Nicola was taken out in one shot, no need for it to get messy.
Tonight had been unexpected. The assassination caused several problems, but most importantly, it affected his retire-from-the-CIA plan. Smooth had paid David handsomely to keep him in the know about investigations into the gun lord’s illegal activities and terrorist connections.
Evidently, David missed a memo. With Smooth and Nicola dead, his backup plan formed. He’d check in with his handler at the CIA, get his marching orders, and, until he could find another buyer of CIA secrets, he’d lift enough ammo and arms to pad his retirement account, and go back to his pain in the ass day job as a CIA operative.
And in the unlikely event that Nicola escaped, he would finish her off later. She hadn’t figured out the central piece of information that could topple Smooth Enterprises, but why chance the risk? That one secret he’d kept from the CIA secured his future.
CHAPTER THREE
The woman ran to the open driver’s door, actively ignoring the men, hiding her face. Too damn late. Cash and Roman sprang for the open rear door, pancaking one on top of the other on the backseat as the woman slammed the driver’s door.
Pulling off of Roman, Cash slapped his hand around the car ceiling, searching for the dome light switch.
Click. Dull light illuminated the truth.
The gun pointed toward the backseat, but the woman still didn’t look at them, avoiding their stares. He could easily disarm her. Roman could too. Neither did.
“Nicola?” Roman rasped again.
Her arm trembled, vibrating the gun as she flipped the safety into place, but her finger stayed at the ready. “Please get out. Just go,” she whispered.
That was her voice. It had been her face. Cash looked at Roman. No, he didn’t know. The man was as dumbstruck and hurting as he was. All they could see was the back of a bloody shoulder and arm and leaves sticking in messy hair.
Rocco approached the open door by Roman, perhaps not seeing the showdown. “What’s doing?”
They ignored him.
“Nicola.” Roman’s voice cracked. “Am I going nuts?”
Cash looked at Roman and saw the confusion tearing his world apart, just like it had his. He wore the evidence on his hardened face.
Her unsteady arm lowered, placing the gun on the front console. Her ratty-haired head dropped, and then the face Cash used to adore eyed them both. Her bottom lip quaked, and her eyes spilled tears.
She closed them, and more tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Roman busted out his door, knocking Rocco over in the process. He could have torn it off its hinges. The man wouldn’t have cared. The driver’s door flew open, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling his baby sister tightly to his chest. Cash had no idea what words came out of Roman’s mouth. It wasn’t his place to listen.
Their tender moment was shut down when she pushed him off. “Are you here to take me out?”
No one breathed a word. Cash couldn’t understand her involvement with Antilla Smooth and couldn’t bear breaking it to Roman that he’d seen her all over the warmonger. It tore his heart apart all over again, just like the day they’d lost her.
But they hadn’t lost her. She was alive and sitting in front of him.
Nicola spoke up again. “Who do you work for?”
What is she talking about?
Roman seemed to read his mind. “Nic, what are you talking about?”
“Why are you here?”
“You’re alive. Let’s start there.”
“Go away, Roman. It’s better this way. If you’re not here to—”
“What are you talking about? You’re alive. You’re coming home. Mom and Dad… they, we buried you. We—”
“You have to leave. Now. If I can’t have the car—” She tried to get past him, but he locked her against his chest. “Let go. Damn you, Roman. You don’t understand. We can’t be here.”
“You’re in trouble. We can help. We can fix this.”
She moved before either Roman or Cash could react. Gun in hand, pressed against her brother’s chest. “I love you,” she sobbed. “Don’t make me.”
Roman backed up, hands in the air. “Who are you? What’s happened to you?” The tenor of his voice was clear. He’d moved on from shock to fury. At least Roman was catching up with Cash in the what-the-fuck department.
“Go away,” she hissed, wiping at tears with the back of her hand.
“I can’t. You’re my—”
Nicola nudged the Beretta back toward him, groaning when she used her arm. “I need your car. Tell me how to contact you. I’ll explain this. I promise. But I have to go. Now. I—”
“I don’t think so.”
“Goddamn it, Roman. If you’re here to kill me, do it. Otherwise, get the fuck out of this car. You too, Cash. Move it.”
Kill her?
Gone were her tears. In the span of a second, the emotion was gone. The steely eyed woman was in business mode.
Ten years had passed. Ten long-assed years. Who knew what she’d been doing? Clearly, bad things with bad people.
Cash spoke. “You’re hurt.”
She rocketed a glare at him. “I’ll be dead if you don’t leave.”
Cash continued, hoping to make inroads even after Roman tried-and-burned. “We can help you. Whatever kind of trouble you’re in—”
“I’m not in trouble. Get out!”
“No,” Cash and Roman said in unison.
Click-click. The slide of the Glock turned them both to stone. Their third man, Rocco, had Nicola dead center in his close-range sights.
“Get that fucking gun out of my sister’s face,” Roman said, cold as ice.
Rocco’s face fell. He lowered the gun. “We need to get the fuck out of here. Work your family shit out in therapy. Buy some self-help books. I don’t care. But go now.”
Nicola dropped her gun again, pressing her head to the steering wheel.
Roman patted her snarled hair. “Nic, it’ll be okay. Whatever’s happened to you, we’ll work through it. We’ll protect you.” He snaked his arms around his little sister and hugged. With an efficient lift, he had her up and in his arms.
A game of musical chairs ensued. Cash moved to the front passenger. Roman settled beside Nicola in the backseat. She groaned again when he placed her down. Cash eyeballed the driver’s seat before Roc got in. There was a lot of blood in the front seat.
“We have to go,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Roger that, hon.” Rocco glanced at Roman. “Shit. Sorry on the hon. Roger that, um...”
“Nicola.” Roman glared at Rocco.
“Right. Roger that, Nicola.” Rocco gunned the engine, and they sped off.
Roman turned to his sister. “Nic, please start talking. Whoever had you, you’re safe. Whatever the reason for the—”
“Stop. This isn’t what you think. I left on purpose.”
And that was all. She stared straight ahead. No amount of brotherly badgering or angry demanding changed her response.
Cash’s head spun in circles. She was alive. Alive and armed, even though they’d buried her a decade ago.
His senior year of college, when they got the news, seemed like yesterday. But it was a lie. She was a liar. The only woman to steal his heart was a liar.
Liar, liar, girl on fire.
***
They eased into the driveway at the suburban safe house. Rocco hadn’t breathed a word since they’d peeled out miles ago. Roman gave up his interrogation, looking distraught and angry and yet… hopeful. If there were seven phases of grief, how many for shock?
And Cash stayed mum. Hadn’t done anything other than strip off his ghillie suit, wipe the face paint off, and pull his cowboy hat on. But hell, it hadn’t kept him from watching her in the side view mirror.
Rocco jumped out and popped the trunk. He grabbed a bag and beat feet to the door. “Good night, good luck.” He went inside.
The three of them sat in the car. Silent. Cash closed his eyes, remembering the last day, their last conversation, the horrible ache that ate him alive when he lost her.
“Cash?” she whispered into the dark.
Her voice made his spine tingle.
“Oh, screw that, Nicola. Talk to me first.” Roman had every right to be pissed. And if he knew the half of it, he’d be pissed at both of them.
She opened her car door, and they did the same. Three doors slapped shut, one right after the other.
Suburbia was scary quiet. She took a step and tripped. As swift as he could, Cash stepped in, catching her. Nicola’s body fit just the same in his arms as it always had. His muscles remembered how she felt against him. A shudder shivered up the nape of his neck and down the arms wrapped around her torso.
She locked eyes with him. Older. Wiser. And somehow more beautiful than ever. He should hate this woman. He did hate her, but until she looked away, he was stuck in a trance.
Relief and emptiness swirled in his chest. He rubbed his sternum with his free hand, wishing the feeling away.
Instead of focusing on the old Nicola, he needed to look at this one. “How bad’s your ankle, Nic?”
She didn’t answer, instead trying to right herself, smoothing the sexy dress that softly clung to her curves. Christ, he didn’t remember a tenacious streak. But then again, he didn’t really know the Nicola who pulled from his grip.
She hobbled toward the front door, the dress dragging behind her in a grand, out-of-place fashion, and turned to the stupefied men in the driveway. “I need a secure phone. Can either of you help me with that?”
A secure phone? On top of asking if they were going to kill her? Make that stupefied squared. Cash looked at Roman, who looked just as confused with a little “what-the-fuck?’ painted across his forehead.
“Yeah, we’ll help you.” He looked at Roman, mouthing, “what’s happening?”
The door shut. Cash and Roman stood unmoving in the driveway.
“That’s my baby sister, and hell if I know.” His voice trailed off. “We buried her body. There was a body. My mother cried for months.” Roman’s voice bottomed out.
They leaned against the Range Rover. Two men and too many emotions. Roman dropped his head into his palms, and Cash stared into the night sky.
No big brother should go through what Roman did, holding his mother’s hand, consoling her alongside his upset father through a closed-casket funeral. There had been little choice when her body had burnt to smithereens. Check that. When they’d thought her body went up in smoke. Turns out her tall, lean body had just left them in the dark driveway.
Cash wanted no part in remembering that awful day. How he’d said he loved her, how they were going to tell Roman that his best friend was nailing his little sister. That’s not what it was, not at all. Not even close. But that’s how a dude would see it. Roman was gonna flip, and Cash was going to explain that she conjured up images of dum-dum-da-da and a poufy white dress.
Pushing away from the Rover, he wanted to knock off the mirror or kick the hell out of the side panel. Anything to burn off the acid churning in his gut. Shit, too much time had passed. Young love. What bullshit.
Cash eyed Roman. “You okay, man?”
Roman cleared his throat. “No. I’m not okay. My dead sister’s alive and… working for Antilla Smooth?” He paused, as if looking into Cash’s soul. “That’s what happened earlier? You saw her? You thought I knew?”
That logic seemed so flawed now, but at the time… at the time, it was the only thing he could comprehend. And working for Antilla Smooth? That’s not all she was to Smooth, but Cash would keep that tidbit to himself. It’d destroy his boy. Nicola in the arms of a decrepit arms dealer. It went against everything he and Roman lived for.
The Nicola he knew wouldn’t touch a bastard like Smooth. But then again, he didn’t know Nicola. He knew a liar.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nicola bunked down in the bedroom the farthest away from the guys. Who was she kidding. They were just the guys, like this was just another day. Roman and Cash. The two most important men in her life, even if it’d been an eternity since she’d felt their touch or heard their words.
The day she’d walked away from her loved ones had been the worst day of her life—until today. She pinched her eyes closed, remembering their stunned faces. The pain and anguish. And the anger. Who could blame them? She certainly couldn’t. She blamed herself, though. She had no choice.
Yes. Today was officially the worst day, and the former was a helluva bad day to knock out of contention.
Her bedroom had a bathroom—well stocked with first aid supplies—like any good safe house. What the hell were Roman and Cash doing running around with guns and slipping into safe houses? Her mind raced. A million maybes skittered through her thoughts. Did they wonder the same about her?
Both men had Popeyed out since she’d last seen them. They were massive. Different builds, but no question, given her run-in with Cash’s arms, they’d taken their passion for working out to a whole new level. Roman was stocky and square, broad top to bottom. Cash had some lank to him. Long legs, powerful chest. His chest had been sinful before, but now it was downright deadly.
She shook away the thought of Cash. No need to hopscotch down memory lane. Her cuts needed tending, and daydreaming wouldn’t stave off infection. She cleaned them, dousing each raw mark in hydrogen peroxide. A smear of antibacterial ointment and she’d be okay.
Her elbow was another story. She’d have to wrap and sling it. Immobilization was key to recovery, but showing a blatant sign of weakness to three men who saw her as theirs to protect wouldn’t work.
Another beautiful dress ruined. The wardrobe was a serious perk of her job, but the dresses never made it home. She’d known this one was headed for the dumpster when she’d wedged herself out the window. But damned if she hadn’t hoped she was wrong, somehow. Nope. It was just a stupid dress anyway. But it felt like the only thing she could focus on without curling up into a crying ball.
A soft knock on her door stole her breath. Having no idea what to say or how to explain, she didn’t move to answer it. The handle turned, and it slipped open. Cash stuck his beautiful head of blond hair—shower damp and face free of camouflage face paint—into the room. He looked older and harder. Tanner. Maybe a few lines around his eyes. The baby face was gone, replaced by something chiseled.
He held out a phone like it was a pass code and he was requesting entry. She nodded. As he stepped in, he held up his other hand. Clothes as another offering.
“Phone. T-shirt. Pants. Figured you needed to change.” He sounded as unsure as she felt.
The air was heavy and the room much smaller than she’d realized. His eyes pierced straight to her soul, squeezing the soft part she’d tried so hard to hide. Nicola nodded again. “Can I have the phone?”
“You can have the phone and the clothes.” He placed the items down on the dresser but didn’t move.
“All right. Thanks.” He took up half the room as he waited, expectedly, for something from her. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Nope. Not how it’s going to work. Our phone—I’ll stay for your call.”
“But—”
“You don’t have much in the way of options here, Nic. Your big brother is raging or grieving upstairs, going through mood swings like a mental patient, trying to get his head on straight. And I’m…” Pain shone in the deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen. He closed them and took a deep breath. When he finally opened them again, he cleared his throat. “I’m here to monitor your phone call.”
His voice carried bitterness and torment. She was an evil bitch. Her eyes tingled with tears wanting to burst free. Again. Instead, she scooted across the bed, self-conscious that her trashed silk gown clung to her body. “Fine. You can stay.”
“Like I said, you don’t have much option.”
She grabbed the items off the dresser and settled back on the bed. “Okay.”
She was the devil incarnate, evil’s bitchy step-sister. How could she have done this to the two of them? To her family? She wanted to call Mom and Dad more now than she had any other night. Mom would hate her. She should. But Nicola needed her mom, needed her hug. Un-spilled tears tried to escape again, and she breathed them away, focusing on Cash.
He leaned his hulking frame back, put one boot against the wall, and continued to watch. She turned around on the bed but kept an eye on his reflection in the mirror. Nicola punched the number into the phone, waited, and entered another series of numbers.
Beth answered on the first ring, as was her custom. “Hey, girl. Didn’t expect you again.”
“Gabriella was compromised. She avoided a hit. But not by much.”
“You’re hurt?”
“Minimal.” Nicola never offered signs of weakness when she didn’t know who listened. Her best friend would understand by the tone of her voice that minimal was bullshit, but nothing a bath in Bactine wouldn’t fix.
“Gotcha. And who are you with?”
“Friendlies.” I think. “The situation is… complicated.”
“Why can’t you give me more?”
“Because my friend—” She glared at Cash in the mirror. “—is too nosey for his own good. For now, I don’t need an extraction plan. I’ll make contact tomorrow.”
“Do I need to be worried?”
That was the best friend asking, not her handler. The two components were often at odds, and Beth knew Nic would never answer in the affirmative, even if it were the case.
“I’ll see you soon enough and explain in person. Night.”
Nicola clicked off the phone and slid it behind her, not wanting to make eye contact with Cash. He ambled from the wall, one heavy footstep slowly following the next. The noise wrapped around her. She dropped her eyes. Her hands went clammy. The thump, thump, thump of her heart could’ve vibrated the safe house.
Cash’s boots stopped, and she fought the need to look up.
A finger wiped away her resolve. It touched the bottom of her chin and lifted until he held her gaze. Have mercy. Sapphire eyes and a sad smile made her bleed on the inside.
“It’s nice to see you again.” His voice was hurt and husky.
“You hate me?”
“I might.” He smiled again, taking the bite out of their reality.
“I had reasons.” But with him standing in front of her and Roman upstairs ready for a riot, they didn’t seem worth a shit.
“Seems like a lot has changed.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Nice dress.” His eyes wandered slowly down her neck, down the dress.
For the length of the look, she held her breath, unsure why or how his gaze made her skin blaze. She stammered to fill the silence. “I thought the only upside of this day was I could keep the dress.”
He chuckled, breaking the heated glance. “How are we gonna do this, Nic? You want to just explain, or should I start an interrogation?”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“But I won’t.” She stared at the comforter, smoothing a wrinkle. “You and Roman. You look different. You… I guess we all grew up.”
“A lot of time has passed.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“So you did.”
“I know it doesn’t—”
“Enough with the apologies.” The harsh change of tone surprised her. He pushed on. “You want to talk now? To me? Roman? Hell, to Rocco?”
“I already said—”
“And I don’t care. The way I see it, you’re having a bad day because boyfriend-dearest finally got what he deserved.”
“What?” She recoiled. The words felt like a slap across the face. He couldn’t possibly think she and Antilla were a thing. Then again, seducing the blood-hungry prick was part of her cover.
“Don’t play me for stupid, Nic. You and Antilla Smooth.”
“Cash, you—”
“I have no idea what you’ve been up to for ten years, so start talking, or you may need to classify me as something other than a friendly.”
“He wasn’t my lover.”
“I don’t care.”
His face said otherwise, and the panging in her head shouted that he needed to know.
She tried to move away from the Antilla line of fire. She might’ve had a compromised operation, but she wasn’t going to pass out details of a covert operation because of past feelings. Too many unknowns. “Why were you out there? And Roman? Both of you decked out like—” Like snipers. Oh, holy hell. He raised an eyebrow, watching her connect a few scattered dots. She’d been on an adrenaline cocktail, then shocked by their meet-and-greet, and now, the jagged pieces started to align themselves. “One of you took Antilla out?”
One of them ruined her operation? Everything she’d put in for months? The good guys finally had a chance, and they destroyed it?
His jaw gnashed before it set, and he spoke through his teeth. “What’s it to you?”
That was confirmation enough. Cash and Roman blew up her mission, shattering any chance to further infiltrate Smooth’s world, to take out illegal arms dealers. No!
She lunged at him. It was the wrong move, an amateur move, but she wasn’t thinking like a trained agent. Screw her busted foot and arm. Nicola landed square in front of him. What was she going to do unarmed? Shake him to death? They’d already confiscated her only gun.
With her one good arm, she beat his chest, pounding out every frustration and emotion that ached within her. The bedroom door flew open revealing Roman and Rocco poised, ready to do… something. She looked up at Cash towering over her, his face cold. Emotionless. She realized she’d been screaming. Her cheeks were wet. Shit, fucking tears. Years of training with the best disintegrated in one night.
Roman looked at Cash. “What the fuck?”
“She’s upset that I blew her boyfriend’s brains on the carpet.”
Roman’s face fell until disappointment snarled onto his face. “Boyfriend?” He turned from her, muttering something to Rocco while walking back down the hall.
Cash whispered, “I can’t believe I ever loved you.”
God, no. This was all wrong. She didn’t know enough about who they were or why they were there. Explaining her part could have exponential effects on the CIA’s other operations.
Why had she run into them tonight? Aching to tell the truth, aching to remember his love, Nicola looked in the mirror as she collapsed onto the bed. Maybe she was too weak for the job. Self-doubt ate at her like she was back on the Farm, in her first week as a recruit when every man, and the handful of women, had eyed her like lunch. She hadn’t been much, just potential, and she still felt the need to prove herself.
She could do this: act like the agent she was trained to be and stop reacting. Emotions shouldn’t dictate action.
I can’t believe I ever loved you. Don’t react. Don’t move. His voice clanged through her memory. Her internal orders didn’t work.
“Wait!” Nicola jumped off the bed as best she could, and bounced on one foot to the door.
But Cash was gone, taking the phone and leaving her the clothes. She tore off the mess of a dress, moving as fast as she could, threw the t-shirt over her head and—
And, oh God, did the shirt smell like Cash Garrison. Clean soap and a masculine, peppery scent. On one foot, with one good arm, she balanced with the shirt covering her head and just inhaled, immediately transported back to college. She was in her second year, and he was finishing up his fourth. They lay in bed, naked. His balled up t-shirt served as her pillow.
This shirt smelled like her past. A distant memory. A deep hurt blossomed in her chest.
Oh, no. She was going to break her cover.
Nicola finished pulling his shirt on but grabbed the collar and held it to her nose. Just one more time. Just enough to relive the memory.
Cash told jokes. Always made her laugh, but at that moment, in that memory, he was dead serious and unsure how he would tell Roman they were together. At the time, they’d said together forever, and it’d been time to tell her brother. After she’d walked away, she’d cried for weeks. It still hurt.
She shook her head. Time to get this over with.
Nicola hopped down the hall, limped up the stairs, and found the men at the kitchen table, passing a bottle of Gentleman Jack. Roman stood up, staring at her limp. Cash threw back a shot.
Rocco waved. “Not much in the fridge. Power bars on the counter. But if you feel like joining us, shot glasses are next to the sink. We’re drinking to shitty days. Cheers.” He downed a shot.
“Nicola.” Roman eyed her. “Are you okay?” He smashed glare at Cash. “What’s with the yelling? Dickhead said—”
“She’s not welcome here.” Cash scowled and poured another shot.
This wasn’t going well, and she’d been in the kitchen, oh, two point five seconds.
“Shut your face, Cash.” Roman glared at the table. “Are you ready to, I don’t know, talk about this?”
“No.”
Roman sat down. Nicola grabbed a shot glass and sat down at the square table across from Roman with Rocco and Cash on either side of her. The lights were dim, and the table’s wood grain was suddenly very interesting. Instead of studying it, she grabbed the bottle of Jack, poured herself a shot, and threw it down.
It burned. It was perfect.
The kick gave her a shiver. God, she needed that. So she did it again.
When she looked up, Roman and Cash eyed her, maybe a little shocked to see her drinking like that since last time they’d seen her, she was all hi, I’d like a pink drink with my pink paper umbrella. Well, she still liked pink drinks. That hadn’t changed.
Damn, could she handle three shots in a row with nothing in her stomach? Nope, probably not. She slid the shot glass back a few inches.
“Antilla Smooth wasn’t my lover.” She met her brother’s eyes.
He coughed and squirmed. “Didn’t know that was the discussion we were having.”
Cash’s face didn’t register anything other than fury. If he didn’t believe her, that was his problem. It didn’t matter anyway.
Rocco picked up their slack. “Why were you running through the woods? Barefoot.”
“Better yet, why were you all over him?”
So Cash did want to join in the conversation. He seemed to ping pong between hurt and jealousy. She couldn’t blame him.
She studied Roman instead of answering because she didn’t know what to say. His eyebrows bunched. Then she glanced at his bicep. No, no. A memorial tattoo. RIP. Her year of birth. Her year of death.
Sucking a breath, she breathed out, “I’m sorry.”
Roman nodded. Nicola watched her big brother, who clearly hurt right now, but didn’t know why.
“Sorry? You’ve made that clear,” Cash said.
“Cash, stop.” Her palms felt clammy. “I didn’t freak out on you because I was pissed you killed him. It’s… complicated.”
“Yeah, today’s the definition of complicated.”
Rocco interrupted. “Dude, calm it down. She’s not going to talk to us with you up in her grill. Nicola, go on.”
“Who do you guys work for?” she asked, curious, but really buying time until her brain registered a what-to-say-now plan.
“Nope, not your turn yet.” Rocco stated it like he was wrangling an out-of-line preschooler.
She closed her eyes, then blinked. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Try the day you died.” Cash used air quotes around died.
Rocco knocked him in the shoulder, and Roman grumbled.
“Cash and I…” She stole a glance at Cash. An indecipherable flash in his eyes said that he’d never told Roman.
“You and Cash what?” Roman asked.
“Never mind. Simple version. Remember my job in college? I worked part-time for an accounting firm, translating international accounts. Unknowingly, I stumbled onto a money laundering scheme. I didn’t know it, but one of our clients was a mobster who did a lot of business overseas. I’d been tracking cash-for-hire assassinations and hadn’t a clue. Once I connected the dots, I couldn’t believe the truth. Then I naively showed up and accidently saw a goon-squad massacre. Wrong place, wrong time. I’d figured out they were killers, but then I actually saw them murder a man. Too bad that they also saw me. I ran out as the FBI swooped in. A sting operation. Their timing was good for me, bad for the other guy.” She shook her head, remembering the first time she’d watched someone die. “I was in federal protection by the end of the day.”
“Bullshit. It doesn’t work like that.” Cash slapped the table.
“Sometimes it does.”
“But you still go by Nicola?” Roman asked.
She nodded.
“Because?”
“I eventually left federal protection and took a job where I was… safe. I never got used to a different name. I’m Nic. It just worked.”
Roman kneaded his temples. “You didn’t call. Send a damn letter. Nothing.”
“I thought it would be better. Safer. I had a hard enough time adjusting to life without you all. Mom’s face if she got a letter from me? Dad would go insane trying to find me. You and Cash…” Remembering the decisions still hurt. “I had to.”
“You walked away from your life to help prosecute some low life piece of trash?” Pain was evident in the scratch of Roman’s voice.
“You walked away from us?” Cash followed up, and she knew he meant him and her, not their three musketeers.
“I walked away to stay alive. The mobsters knew me, knew what I was privy to. The FBI sting took out a few members, but not the whole organization. I had to disappear. My death had to be untimely and coincidental. If not, those same contract killers would’ve found me—our family—and made me watch as they hurt everyone I loved. The mob had to believe I’d died running away from them. What would you do, Roman? You’d endanger our parents? Me? No, you wouldn’t. You’d do what it took to protect them. Just like I did.”
Cash and Roman seemed lock-jawed. Rocco asked, “Wait? You were trying to protect them?”
“I did protect them.”
“You didn’t give us a chance. I’m your brother, for fuck’s sake. You should’ve talked to me.”
“I didn’t have time. The FBI gave me thirty seconds to decide. They showed me crime photos and asked if I’d help them with the financial paper trail. All I could think was I’d been tracking accounts payable and receivable for murders. A lot of them. I wanted to keep you safe.”
“Protecting these guys? Shit.” Rocco tipped back on the back legs of his chair. “How ironic.”
Nicola flashed him a glare. “Ironic? You want to tell me how?”
“Ah, nah. These fuckers can fill you in later. Why don’t you tell us about tonight?”
“Can’t.”
“We’ve already done this song and dance, so let’s cut to it so we can all finish getting drunk and go pass out.” Rocco apparently wasn’t taking any shit.
“My turn.” She eyed each of them. “Who do you work for? Who sent you?”
Rocco bounced back down onto all four chair legs. “All right. Fair is fair. A company called The Titan Group.”
“You work for Titan? All three of you?” The military, hell, the CIA, turned to Titan for jobs they didn’t want on their books. How had Cash and Roman ended up on that payroll?
She shook her head out of the question cloud, and saw all three bright-eyed and interested as to how she knew Titan Group existed. Damn it. She was off her game. Little mistakes could be her undoing. She needed to tread with serious care.
Cash answered. “Yeah, all three of us. Roman and I joined the Army after college. We’re a good team. We’re still a team. We’ve been a team since day one. Grade school. High school. Sniper school. But you wouldn’t know anything about that kind of loyalty, would you, Nic?”
“Lay off, Cash.” Roman’s defense wasn’t that strong, but she appreciated it.
“What the fuck ever.” Cash punctuated his words with another shot of whiskey.
“Christ, almighty. What is it with you two?” Roman glared from her to Cash. “You two used to be friends. Do you remember that? Shit.”
Nicola traced the rim of her shot glass with a manicured nail. “You don’t have to lay off. I can take it. I’m just one of the guys.”
Roman rolled his eyes, but Cash pinned her with his stare. “Now it’s your turn again. Why were you hanging off Antilla Smooth’s nuts?”
She deserved that. They were with Titan, and they were her family, once upon a time before she walked away. She could trust them to a point. “I was on the job. Undercover.”
Roman and Cash might have stopped breathing. They were frozen in shock, ready for a slight breeze to knock them away from the table. Rocco, perked up, more interested in that than the family drama. “No joke? Nice. Whose payroll you on?”
“Not going there.” She shrugged.
“How long you been under?”
“Months. Since the start of spring—”
“So you were sleeping with him?” Cash interrupted.
He was going to out himself to Roman if he wasn’t careful. Then the three of them would have that discussion to deal with.
Then again, Roman looked shell-shocked. He wasn’t registering Cash’s attitude.
“No. I wasn’t.” She smirked at him. “I was seducing him. Ignoring his advances made his interest in me grow. A manipulative game of cat and mouse. So no, Cash, I didn’t fuck him.”
Rocco laughed. “Cash doesn’t know anything about women not fucking him. You might have to explain seduction to the man because they just throw themselves at him. He doesn’t have to lay groundwork.”
Roman laughed too. It was her turn for a flash-bang of jealousy. Cash glared at Rocco, who apparently took to heart the just-one-of-the-guys line she’d thrown down.
Cash was handsome, more so than when they were younger. His blond hair could use a haircut, but he was missing his trademark life-is-good attitude. She missed his smile, focusing instead on the width of his chest. All three men had muscles, but Cash was something to appreciate. Even his face looked strong with a hard jaw line that flexed when he tried to contain any number of emotions he had to be feeling.
Nicola continued. “My op was blown when you took out your target. I called in for an extraction plan. There was another team there. Not sure what happened or why, but they went after me. I did what I needed to.”
Roman looked up. “And that was?”
“I shot out a window, jumped two stories, and ran into you assholes.” She tried for a smile, a little humor, but got nothing. A-plus for effort though.
Eyes wide and jaw hanging, Cash asked, “You shot a window?”
Mirroring Cash’s expression, Roman added, “And jumped out?”
“Hey, I’m not an asshole. Just so you know.” Rocco laughed. Weird. Cash was always the one laughing in her memories, and now he was without jokes and zingers.
“Guess I’m not what you remember,” Nicola whispered, stealing a glance at Cash.
Roman stood, rubbing his tattoo. It was beautiful, and it was a lie. How did she ever think it was right to hurt them?
“Nicola.” He kissed her head. “That’s enough for me. For now. I’m headed to bed, knowing you’re alive. Best damn thing ever. And tomorrow, we’ll talk about calling Mom and Dad.”
She nodded.
Roman continued, “Cash, Rocco, good night, assholes.”
Rocco stood, nodded, and bowed out without a word, leaving just her and Cash. Her and Cash and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She nudged the bottle toward him. “Want another?”
Silence hung in the air.
She nudged it again. “How about this: do you need another?”
A smile cracked the thick tension on his chiseled face. “That would be a hell yes.”
It wasn’t a joke, but it was more his style. She wished he would smile the way he used to. Big and brawny, but so damn beautiful. Just once. “Me, too.”
He poured them both a shot and watched her down the liquor.
“Down the hatch, like a pro. Like shooting Jack?”
“I’m pretty good at a lot of things now, but I’m more of a Jim kinda gal.”
“You were before too. Good at things and a fan of sweet bourbon. But you dressed your drinks up frou-frou style.”
“But I’m… a different person now.”
“I think we both are.”
“You saw me with Antilla.” Nicola didn’t ask. Just repeated what he’d already told her.
“Yeah, I did.” He fidgeted with the shot glass, sliding it back and forth between his large hands.
“Why’d you come up to the house? That couldn’t have been protocol.”
“I couldn’t not come to see. To really see you. I was having some scope-sighted nightmare. It didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.”
She reached for the bottle. Ugh, bad arm. An ache hit her throat and bubbled out. Cash looked at her, forcing her to ’fess up without uttering a question. “I landed on my arm. It’s sprained. I need to wrap and sling it.”
The thick tension couldn’t have been sliced away with a machete. Seconds ticked by, and the shot glass pinballed between his fingers. Cash studied her arm, and she flushed. “You need help?”
“No. I think I got it. I’m just going to sit outside for a few minutes.” Because I need to cool down this absurd hot flash. She hobbled over to the back door and peered at the deck. It had a picnic table, nothing else.
“It’s good to see you again,” Cash said.
“You said that already.” She didn’t know what else to say and didn’t want him to go away. But that was exactly the reason he should.
“So I did.” He breathed the words out slowly and stood. His broad chest loomed, and his beautiful blue eyes twinkled when he nodded good night.
Good night, Cash.
They were words she’d thought a thousand times since she left and couldn’t bring herself to say aloud now. What was her deal? One second, she was feeling a little hot under the t-shirt when he looked her way, the next she wanted to sob.
It didn’t matter what she did or how she felt, he was gone in a blink. Silent and all shadow. Just like a sniper.