CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On some level Lara knew she was dreaming, and she knew inside the darkness she’d find answers, answers she desperately wanted. She pushed through the black hole of slumber and reached for truth, for answers, until a vision appeared.
“Hello, hello!” Lara called out, pushing open the door to Skywalker’s beach house, the warm, summer night air following her inside. Skywalker. She knew him, she knew his name, and she knew this place. Yes, she knew it well. She’d leased a place up the beach several years before, taking on a full-time job at the shelter. This was still “home.” This was where she’d found safety and love.
Lara set the plate of cookies in her hand on the hall table and kicked the door shut, setting down her purse and key, and then pausing to glance at the pictures on the wall. One of her with Skywalker, and one of his beautiful brunette wife and teen daughter, Susan, who’d both been killed by a “spook,” a rogue CIA agent who Skywalker had been hunting for the agency. That was only a year before Lara had met Skywalker. She knew now that she’d reminded him of Susan that night by the Dumpster, that he’d felt then, and still did, that they were destined to cross paths—her to fill the void left by his lost daughter, him to be the father she’d lost. And he had. A darn good one too.
She could hear the evening news coming from the living room, and Lara started walking. Feeling particularly nostalgic for no real reason, her gaze snagged on another photo—this one of her walking across the college graduation stage several years before, thanks to Skywalker’s support.
A smile touched her lips as she called out, “Ms. Smith wanted to thank you for teaching last night’s self-defense class.” She cut around the corner. “She baked you cookies, though I have a sneaking suspicion this is her way of flirting.”
A big, fluffy, brown sofa framed by overstuffed, comfy chairs came into view, and Lara sighed as she found Skywalker had deserted his regular news program. She was talking to herself. “Upstairs,” Lara murmured. No doubt surrounded by surveillance equipment for the new “top secret” contract job Skywalker was working on. The one he wasn’t talking about, despite her incessant prodding, and her frequent aid with research on past jobs.
Urgency as unexplained as the nostalgia overtook Lara, and she reached for the handrail. So much so that she would have double-timed the steps, if not for the shiver of warning that chased down her spine. Lara stilled, her senses reaching out, exploring potential threats.
After Skywalker had insisted she train, and train hard to protect herself, both physically and mentally, the shiver wasn’t a feeling she was quick to ignore. He’d pushed her, tested her often. And she’d let him, well aware of the fear she saw in him that she would end up in a grave beside his daughter. To date, she hadn’t needed that training, but it spoke to her now.
Cautiously, she inched back down the hallway toward the cookies, or rather, the shelf beneath those cookies. One of many places Skywalker stashed weapons in the house. Not to mention she’d left her phone in her purse by the door. Suddenly, Skywalker’s shout blasted through the air. “Run, Lara!”
Adrenaline shot through her veins, and she reacted instantly, doing exactly as he said. She ran. To the cabinet, to grab a gun. She was trained to fight. She wasn’t leaving Skywalker. She wasn’t losing Skywalker.
She fumbled with the cabinet and yanked it open, securing the Beretta PX4. The sounds of a struggle pounded out against walls and floors somewhere on the upper level, and she took comfort in the cold steel beneath her palm. She whirled around ready to fly up those stairs, when the weapon was ripped from her hand. A woman stood there, dressed all in black, long red hair braided down her back.
“Nice to meet you, sweetheart,” she said. “Name’s Sabrina, and we’re going to be real good friends, you and I.” A smile lifted her lips. “Once Skywalker is out of the way.”
Anger exploded inside Lara, and she attacked, calling on the training Skywalker had drilled into her the last ten years. Kick, block, kick—all sidestepped and dodged as if Lara were an amateur, batting at a fly. The next thing Lara knew, the woman seemed to move at the speed of light, shackling Lara’s arm, jerking a big glob of her hair and holding on. Then Lara was being painfully forced in front of the other woman and up the stairs—pushed with the force of a steamroller.
Fiercely, Lara fought, to no avail. The woman was taller than Lara’s five-foot-five by several inches and outweighed her 118 by a good ten pounds. But she was also stronger than she was big. Abnormally strong. Insanely strong. Inhumanly strong. A crazy thought, but one hard to shake as Lara struggled against the attacker shoving her up those stairs.
No matter how she moved or twisted, nothing worked. She’d gladly lose her hair if it meant freedom, but she wasn’t getting away from this woman without losing her arm—not an option.
Approaching the landing, Lara kicked her foot backward and tripped the woman. Unfortunately, they both tumbled forward, with Lara on the bottom. And since she didn’t have control of one of her arms, she smashed hard onto the wood floor.
Her attacker leaned close, near her ear. “We don’t want to mess up your pretty face just yet, so behave.” Lara’s head was jerked back, as her attacker yanked her up by the hair at her scalp, lifting Lara to her feet and shoving her toward the surveillance room.
It was then that her heart stopped beating, then that she saw Skywalker facedown on the floor, unmoving. And then that she saw another woman, a blonde dressed in black like the redhead, standing above him. The Beretta flew through the air, and everything went into slow motion.
“Kill him,” the redhead ordered.
Lara screamed as the blonde caught the weapon, aimed at Skywalker, and fired. A second later, a sharp pain pierced her skull, and Lara went black.
Lara was jerked out of slumber with a gasp and the image of a gun held to Skywalker’s head. Her gaze ripped around the room without truly seeing it, her fingers curling into a soft blanket. She was in bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of Skywalker’s death was still vividly clear, and she tried to picture his killer—tried and failed. What had been clear moments before slithered back into her mind like a lethal snake waiting for its next attack.
Abruptly, the door to the room burst open, startling Lara’s wide eyes, and Damion rushed toward her. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you in pain?”
Memories flooded her at the sight of him, the welcome thoughts of the two of them touching, kissing, pleasing each other, overriding those of Skywalker’s last few seconds on earth—Skywalker, who had been someone special to her, a father figure. Yes. He’d been a father figure. She knew this deep in her soul, knew it in a way that defied the lack of memory, the lack of knowledge of the past.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, not sure if that was true, not sure if she was ready to even talk about what she’d just seen. “I had a nightmare. That’s all.” Her gaze swept Damion, noting his faded jeans and a Super Bowl T-shirt. Clearly he’d been awake for a while, while she was still wearing just his shirt from the night before.
“That must have been one heck of a nightmare,” he said, sitting down next to her, “because I don’t think I’ve ever heard a scream like that.”
“I screamed?”
“Like a banshee.”
The screaming she now remembered from her nightmare must have been her own. “Sorry about that.”
“Is she okay?” a male voice asked from the door. “I called Kelly.”
Lara’s gaze jerked to the doorway, where a man with blond spiky hair lurked.
“She had a nightmare,” Damion called out over his shoulder. “Tell Kelly she’s fine.”
“Will do,” he said, and gave Lara a quick, two-finger salute. “Scream again if you need anything.” He shut the door.
“Is everyone around here a smart-ass?” Lara asked.
Damion chuckled, low and sexy, sending a tingle down her spine. She was way too attracted to this man for her own good. “Sterling and Chale excel, so the rest of us don’t have to,” he said. “Sterling’s been helping me dig up information on Skywalker for you for the last couple of days.”
“Couple of days?” she asked incredulously. “Please tell me I haven’t been asleep for a couple of days?” No wonder he was clean-shaven and fully dressed.
“Okay, I won’t tell you,” he agreed.
“I was asleep two days?”
“Three.”
“Three days! GTECHs don’t sleep three days in three months!”
“Clearly you needed the rest to heal. How do you feel?”
Her stomach growled as if in reply.
He arched a brow. “Hungry, I assume?”
“Absolutely starving.”
“Food I can handle,” he said. “But what about your headache?”
“You know,” she said, surprised. “I think it’s gone. Yes.” She reached for her memories, for the faces of her parents, and there was nothing.
“You still don’t have your memories back.”
Her stomach clenched, and she shook her head. “No.”
“Maybe once you’re up and moving around, that will change.”
She nodded. “I hope so.”
He ran his hands down his legs. “I grabbed some clean fatigues for you, to get you by until we can get you some real clothes.” He motioned to a door on her left. “They’re in the bathroom, along with a bag of ‘female necessities’ that Sterling’s Lifebond, Becca, put together for you. I didn’t ask what that meant.” He stood up. “I’ll get you some orange juice and throw together some food.”
She tilted her head to study him. There was a subtle tension that had replaced his concern of moments before. She yearned to make it go away, to cling to a little more of their fantasy of being friends and lovers. “Thanks, Damion. You’re pretty okay—for a GTECH.”
He didn’t smile as she’d hoped. In fact, for several eternal seconds, he didn’t move, let alone speak. Then finally, “You’re pretty okay too. For a GTECH.” He started for the door.
Lara stared after him, watching the lethal grace, the powerful lines of his body. She’d wondered what the morning after would be like with Damion. Now she knew. The morning after, he was more alluring and more dangerous than she’d ever imagined possible. Okay, so in this case, it was three mornings after—how had she slept that long?
Lara threw off the covers, a sudden urgency to get dressed and gain some sense of her legs beneath her, to return to the safety of logic. Her attraction to him was a vulnerability she couldn’t seem to fight. She needed to find out if she really could trust Damion, rather than hoping she could, gambling she could. That meant getting out from behind the bedroom door and investigating. She headed for the shower, and already her brain was starting to function more efficiently. The stream of hot water set her mind to racing, soothing her into a contemplative state.
Damion had claimed that the Renegades worked with the government. Powell had claimed to be the government, who he’d declared was an enemy of the Renegades. So either Powell was lying, or the government was feigning an allegiance with the Renegades. Or the other possibility, the one she should assume, but found herself struggling to accept, was that Damion was the one who was lying.
She was just about to turn off the water when a tingling sensation—not painful, but insistent—touched the nape of her neck. Frowning, she rubbed it, praying it wasn’t a sign her headaches were coming back. The sensation intensified about the time a double-knock sounded on the door, a second before it creaked open.
“I brought you orange juice,” Damion said. “Doctor’s orders.”
The sensation on her neck slid away, and with a smile on her lips, she peeked through a hole she opened in the shower curtain. “I never thought I’d see the day that I had a Renegade bringing me orange juice in the shower.”
He handed her the orange juice. “Drink.”
She did as he said, feeling weak from three days without food, and then handed him back the empty glass.
“Finally you took an order from me,” he said approvingly.
She laughed. “Must be that voodoo of yours.” A shiver slid over her skin. “My water is cold.”
“You’ve been in there forever,” he said, as she slipped behind the curtain and turned off the shower spray. “I was beginning to get worried.”
“You should see how long I can stay in a bathtub.” The statement froze in her throat. She liked hot bubble baths, so why couldn’t she remember ever taking one? Another shiver slid down her spine, and she shoved aside the thought for a new concern. The idea of stepping out of the shower in all her chilled, naked glory was unnerving. Not because she was shy. The man had seen her body. This was about desire and willpower. She wanted Damion in a bad way, like she’d never wanted a man in her life. She didn’t need memories to know that. She knew it with blind certainty, felt it to her core, which only made that vulnerable thing he did to her, all the more true, and him, all the more powerful.
“You coming out of there?” he asked.
She inhaled, steeled herself for the impact of his gaze, and pulled the curtain back. Damion held a large towel open and wrapped it, and his arms, around her. Their eyes locked and held. The attraction between them darn near sent the towel into flames.
“You’re way too dangerous when you’re naked,” he said, his arms still around her, along with the towel. “You steal every bit of objectivity I own, and I swore I wouldn’t let that happen again.”
“Back at ya,” she agreed softly, blinking away the water that clung to her lashes. “You naked… way… too… dangerous.”
“So why do I want to drop this towel and get naked with you all over again?”
“The same reason I want you to.” She sounded breathless. She felt breathless.
His lips lowered, lingered close to hers, teasing her with the promise of their touch. “And what reason would that be, Lara?”
“Yo, Damion!” came a male shout from the living room.
Damion’s forehead settled against hers. “Sterling.”
“Yo, Damion.”
“And Chale,” he added. “The two of them are the very definitions of perfect timing.”
She inhaled on a sudden tightening in her chest, as their pretend world came crumbling down around them, or at least, around her. There was not one, not two, but three Renegades in this small apartment with her. Powell would say she was in enemy territory, and maybe she was. It was well past due that she proved him right or wrong, and before her attraction to Damion led her into trouble. “I should get dressed.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You should get dressed.” And then he kissed her. A long, deep slide of his tongue against hers. “Just so you know. No matter how bad it might make my judgment, if Curly and Moe hadn’t shown up, I would have licked off every drop of water on you and then done it all over again.” He released her then, exiting the bathroom while she stood willing him back, thankful she didn’t possess such a power. She so would have enjoyed him licking the water off her. Who was she fooling? There was no avoiding trouble where Damion was concerned. She was already there, in too deep, and ready to swim right back into his arms.
Damion and Sterling were sitting at the kitchen table with laptops in front of them when Lara exited the bedroom. Damion’s gut clenched at the sight she made, her long, dark hair sleek and silky around her face and shoulders, her lips lightly painted pale pink. The contrast to the rugged fatigue pants and T-shirt she wore, downright sexy. Then again, Damion was pretty much of the opinion that Lara could wear a paper bag and he’d think she was sexy.
“There she is,” Chale said, exiting the kitchen with a spatula in hand. “Food’s almost done.”
Lara stood there, staring at Chale with a stunned look on her face, as if she couldn’t believe Chale was cooking—that a Renegade was cooking for her. This was exactly why he had Sterling and Chale here now. To show Lara that the Renegades weren’t the monsters she’d believed them to be.
Chale grimaced at Lara. “Don’t look so petrified. I’m a damn good cook.” He grinned. “I’ve never poisoned anyone.” He cut a look at Damion. “And don’t bring up the egg incident, or we’re going to have trouble.” He disappeared into the kitchen again.
Lara’s eyes widened on Damion. “Egg incident?”
“He forgot to check the expiration date,” Damion explained. “Tasted like, well, rotten eggs.”
“Oh yum,” she said sarcastically.
“Come sit,” Damion said. “We won’t bite.” He smiled. “Even if you do.” Of course, he’d found other, interesting uses for his teeth during their little bedroom extravaganza.
Her eyes narrowed on his, lighting with the smallest hint of mischief. “We both know that’s not true,” she said, closing the distance between them to sit down at the table, across from Sterling and beside Damion.
Sterling snorted. “I know an innuendo when I hear one.”
Damion motioned to Sterling. “I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, this is Sterling. King of smart asses.”
“And expert hacker,” Sterling added.
“Second best to me,” Damion agreed.
“In your dreams,” Sterling assured him, and then nodded to Lara. “Now you know our interrogation and torture methods. We seal you in a room with Damion and force you to endure his fantasies of grandeur.”
“Breakfast for dinner, considering the 6:00 p.m. hour,” Chale said, walking from the kitchen and setting a plate in front of Lara. “Cheese omelet and blueberry muffins.” He cut Damion a hard look. “And yes, I checked the expiration date.”
Lara looked down at the Texas-sized omelet and said, “Coercion by way of food?” She glanced at Chale. “And seriously? You made blueberry muffins?”
“What’s wrong with blueberry muffins?” Chale asked.
“I like blueberry muffins,” she assured him. “I just can’t imagine you making them.”
“He’s a Harley-riding, blueberry-muffin-making contradiction,” Damion concluded. “We don’t try to understand him. We just eat the food.” He glanced at Chale. “Where’s my plate?”
“And mine?” Sterling agreed.
Chale’s brows dipped to a grumpy line. “Get your asses up, and go get them.”
Sterling reached over the table and took one of Lara’s muffins. “Lara wants another muffin.”
Damion stole one himself. “Make that two.”
Chale grumbled and headed to the kitchen. Lara laughed, soft and sexy, the tension he’d sensed when she’d exited the bedroom quickly fading. The next thing he knew, they were all eating, arguing about who was the best quarterback of all time. Lara knew football—knew it well—and seemed to be a fan of the Dallas Cowboys.
“You know a lot about football for a chick,” Sterling commented, after Chale headed for the door, claiming he had a “hot date.”
“Yes, I…” Lara paled suddenly. “I know football, but I can’t remember my last name, which has become a multiple choice equation.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Sterling pushed to his feet. “I’ll get it.”
“Lara,” Damion said softly, ready to talk her into the CT scan, when the two familiar female voices of Cassandra, Michael’s Lifebond, and Becca, Sterling’s Lifebond, touched his ears. “No, Becca.”
The pretty brunette, who wore a pink, slim-fitted dress, threw her hands up in the air. “Full disclosure.” Her attention went to Lara. “Lara. I’m Becca, Sterling’s Lifebond, and if I touch you I will be able to see your past experiences. So I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.” Her gaze slid to Damion’s. “And you should know me better than to think I would do anything sneaky.”
Sterling wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Yeah man. Chill already.”
“Hey, Damion,” Cassandra said, rushing into the room, her long blonde hair floating behind her. She looked casual and friendly in faded jeans and a T-shirt, until she turned, and he saw the “girls rule” logo—that told him he had absolutely no control over anything that was about to happen.
Cassandra offered her hand to Lara. “I’m Michael’s Lifebond, and the only special ability I have is taming the beast otherwise known as Michael.”
Lara stared at her a moment and then broke into a smile. “I’ve met him,” she said, accepting Cassandra’s hand. “That’s definitely a talent.”
Damion sank down into the chair again. “Welcome to Sunrise City,” he said to her, in a sigh of defeat. “Where the women rule and the men just try and survive.”
Cassandra grinned and sat down. “And don’t forget it buddy.” Then to Lara, “And welcome is the point, by the way. Me and Becca want to steal you away for a girls’ night out—a little shopping and pampering. It’s a way for you to get to know us here.” Her eyes lit. “Oh. I didn’t even tell you my name, did I? Cassandra. Cassandra Powell.”
Damion felt the tension ripple through Lara at the name Powell, and his gaze locked with Cassandra’s. She’d noticed Lara’s reaction as well.
Everything became crystal clear. Adam hadn’t converted Lara to GTECH. General Powell had, and if anyone could understand and explain, how easily that man manipulated and hurt other people, it was his own daughter. A little “girl time” was exactly what Lara needed right now.