CHAPTER TWELVE

At last, she was herself.

Shea toed the discarded fat suit she’d named Finn aside, thankful that part of her confession was behind her. It took everything not to kiss her ex-husband. To not give in to Eric’s thrill at seeing her and ride the crest of the passion they’d once shared. But after all she’d done to him, she couldn’t pretend nothing had changed these last two years. She couldn’t allow herself to be the welcomed prodigal, not when she was merely the opportunistic sinner who needed Eric’s unique brand of salvation.

Yes, her mind and heart had been headed in his direction for the larger part of the past year, but it was the loss of her friends that had pushed her to make the call for help. Once he understood that, he’d forget his excitement at seeing her. He might even push her away and tell her to go sleep in the bed she’d made. Without him.

Eric stood in the hallway at Rosie’s wall phone, his gaze still sweeping hungrily up her legs and over her stomach to her breasts, or lack thereof. What she’d lost in weight and curves, she’d gained in cynicism. He’d be glad to leave her once she told him the rest of her story. About Bagani. About that little girl on the shore. Eric might even run from her this time.

So many lies.

“The authorities are coming. They’ll be here within minutes,” he said as he hung the receiver back on its hook, his voice void of all that welcome-home feeling.

“I have no clothes.”

A stern gaze dipped over her, feature by feature, from her quivering lips to her neck to her scant cleavage. He’d been hurt in the collision, too. Trickles of blood streamed down the side of his face into his shirt collar. He wiped the back of his hand over the line of blood and glanced at it. His upper lip curled in annoyance at the sight right before he wiped the blood on his sodden pant leg. Of course. He never worried about himself. Only others.

The silence stretched. Shea shivered at the awkwardness of their reunion. There was a time she’d been thrilled to stand naked in front of him. There were times she’d posed in all the erotic, naughty, suggestive ways of Playboy models, just because he enjoyed the show.

Not now. She felt exposed to her soul. Cheap. Incredibly unworthy of this man.

“Find something to wear,” he said before he pivoted on his heel and returned to the front window, his pistol once more in hand. “Hurry. We don’t have a lot of time.”

His change in demeanor took her by surprise. “I have no clothes,” she repeated. How did he not understand?

“So? Find some.” His gaze didn’t stray to hers this time.

This is what rejection feels like.

Shea couldn’t blame him. He’d had time to think and to remember.

Scampering into Rosie’s bedroom, Shea located a faded-blue henley in the closet, its buttons missing, and a pair of navy-blue twill pants with frayed cuffs. The fit wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. She dressed hurriedly, her pulse pounding in her ears. A heavy vehicle engine had just rumbled into the front yard of the ‘Edge of O’Banner’ and right up to Rosie’s front door.

Eric shoved the bedroom door open as she zipped the pants. “We’ve got to go.”

His gaze faltered at the sight of her trembling fingers on the zipper pull, but only for a fraction of a second. He’d turned from a loving ex-husband to an emotionally detached bodyguard. This was business. Nothing more. She was just the client he’d come to bail out of a tight spot. He waved her forward with the tip of his pistol, his mask in place, and his backpack once again on his shoulder.

She followed him into the kitchen. There lay the soggy remnants of Finn on the floor. No longer needed, but more forensic evidence than Shea expected to leave behind. The fat suit held a wealth of skin cells and DNA in the now sodden folds of cotton and foam. She could be traced, only this time by murderers instead of the man she loved, but who might not love me.

Life had an awful sense of humor. Lose a child; lose your mind. Find your mind; lose everything else.

Stepping over what was left of her alter ego, Shea shut Phoenix’s laptop, and hugged it to her chest. At least, the plastic bag she’d sealed it in had kept it safe and dry in that awful swamp. Everything else she’d traveled with was lost. Her pursuers could do what they wanted with Finn, but they couldn’t have what her friends had died to protect.

“Keep moving,” Eric growled, his hand firm on the small of her back, steering her toward a door off the kitchen. “Rosie’s garage is out this way.”

I didn’t know she had a garage.

Always prepared, Eric pulled an LED penlight out of one of his pockets and lifted it to the side of his head, his weapon still in his other hand. Opening the door, he ushered Shea past him and into a dark, musty smell of motor oil and dirt.

The flashlight’s bright, narrow beam caught the interior of an orderly, but small garage with a dirt floor. No car. A lump of something beneath a canvas tarp in the corner. A shovel and a rake leaned against the wall. Gas cans. Rags. Burlap sacks full of something or other. The usual clutter of all good garages.

Aishling mewed at his feet. “You’re not coming,” he growled, easing her off his boot with a gentle nudge. He left Shea standing there while he secured the door with a length of rope he’d found on the floor. Winding two loops around the knob, he tied it off on a nail pounded into the adjoining wall.

Shea headed toward whatever lay beneath the canvas, filled with the need to repent, to at least be helpful. What a surprise. A motorcycle. The orange and black Harley emblem she recognized, clear and crisp on the bike’s dusty, black tank. Sturdy leather saddlebags hung at the rear wheel. She secured the laptop in the right pocket, needing it out of sight.

Eric bumped the back of her bicep with his shoulder. “You know how to ride?”

“No.” She gulped, the sensation of his breath on her cheek too delicious to ignore. His question sounded as if he meant for her to leave while he stayed behind and defended her. Even if she’d known how, she would’ve lied and said she didn’t. Her leaving-him-behind days were done. She knew who she could live without. He wasn’t one of them. “Do you?”

“I will in a minute.” He holstered his weapon and crammed his pack into the other saddlebag. Grunting, he nudged one of the gasoline tanks near the bike carefully with his boot. It nearly tipped over, but he caught it before its noisy clatter could give them away. The other can didn’t budge. Had to be full. She hoped.

A loud crash at the front of Rosie’s B&B urged Shea into action. She unscrewed the bike’s gasoline cap while Eric removed the lid from the can and extended the spout. With another grunt, he hefted the heavy can off the floor and filled the tank. Gasoline glugged, but slowly. Eric seemed calm while anxiety ratcheted up her spine. Hurry.

Heavy footsteps sounded inside Rosie’s home. Men’s harsh voices. Professor Grover’s murderers were back. Shea swallowed hard. Hurry. Hurry.

Eric jerked the tarp away from the rest of the bike, revealing a helmet and two leather jackets setting on a wooden stand beside it. What were the chances that Paddy and Rosie O’Banner were bikers once upon a time?

He handed her the helmet. “Here. Put this on.”

“Where’s yours?” she asked as she accepted it, needing him protected, too.

“Don’t worry about me. Put it on,” he growled, a hard light in his eyes as he shrugged into the larger of the two jackets. “The jacket, too. Do it.”

She didn’t want him at risk, but she had no choice but to obey. After wiping the dust off the helmet, she secured it over her head and adjusted the strap. Her fingers trembled as she hurriedly worked the zipper of the leather jacket. It fit, although a size too large.

Loud banging sounded from inside. She glanced back at the door when someone jerked at the handle. A loud French voice roared on the other side, quickening her pulse.

They’re here. Whoever stood on the other side of that door meant business. It shuddered. The rope stretched tight. The man yelled again.

Eric swung one leg over the bike’s leather seat and offered her a hand. “Get on.”

Shea grabbed onto his wrist and forearm, but climbing up onto a motorcycle presented more obstacles than she’d expected. Once her butt hit the leather seat, she asked, “Where do I put my feet?”

“There.” He pointed at the metal bar protruding from the side of the bike near the wheels. “On the pegs. Whatever you do, don’t bump the exhaust pipe.” He meant the wider tube-like pipe extending from the engine. “Once this baby starts up, it will burn your skin off. Be careful.”

She positioned her bare feet as he’d directed.

“Where are your shoes, damn it?” he snapped.

“My boots were full of water. I didn’t have time to look for shoes in Rosie’s closet before they—”

“You can’t ride a bike with no boots. What were you thinking?”

“Of living,” she answered honestly, “I guess I didn’t know I’d be riding on the back of a motorcycle today or I’d have come prepared.”

“Shit,” he snarled, but what else could she do? Resting the balls of her feet on the pegs, she wasn’t sure how close she should sit to him or what she should hang onto. He radiated nothing but hostility at the moment. How did a woman grab onto that?

Instead of him, she grasped the edge of her seat, hoping that would suffice. No way. She teetered the instant he toed the kickstand free. With another growl, he planted his boots on each side of the bike. Reaching both hands behind him, Eric grabbed beneath her knees and jerked her forward. Into him. Intimately into him. Her heaving breasts to his very solid leather covered back. Her twill covered pubic bone to his denim-clad butt.

The male body she’d craved for too many lonely months was now perfectly aligned with hers. Heat flooded her to her core even as she cringed. Tentatively, she circled his waist and placed her palms flat against his stomach, afraid to breathe.

He had come for her. He didn’t know it when he did, but here he was. Angry, yes, but saving her just as he’d once saved men on far off battlefields and villages of Afghanistan.

Eric turned his head, his voice deep and gravelly. “Once I start this bike, they’ll be all over us. Hang on tight. They’ll be shooting. Don’t be afraid. We’ll be hard to hit while we’re moving. You ready?”

“I am,” she declared boldly, clutching him.

Aishling chose that moment to jump onto Eric’s lap.

He brushed her off. “I said no. You stay here.”

The crazy cat jumped back up as quickly as her paws hit the dirt floor.

“Damn it, cat, take off,” Eric growled, taking hold of her with both hands this time and settling her back to her feet. “I don’t have room. You have to stay.”

Aishling lasted a half second at his feet, this time using her claws as she climbed his thigh like a tree truck. Huffing, he glanced over his shoulder. “I guess the cat’s coming with us.”

Shea relaxed her grip while he unzipped his leather jacket and stuffed Aishling inside. “But if you scratch me one time, kitty, you’re outta there,” he warned her as if she might understand. “I will leave your fluffy butt behind.”

No, you won’t, Shea thought. She couldn’t help the tiny smile stretching her lips. This was Eric, through and through, thinking he could start up a motorcycle with a cat under his arm. She grabbed hold of him, this time with more confidence as she pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. When he covered her interlocked fingers with one big hand and squeezed, the warmth of that simple contact took her by storm. She blinked away the glistening moisture clouding her vision. Eric might be angry, but deep down, he was still the only man she loved.

Releasing her, he grabbed hold of the handlebars. Two kicks from his right boot and the engine sputtered to life with a growling roar, alerting the whole world of their whereabouts. Apparently Aishling didn’t mind the noise. Eric hadn’t sent her flying.

Shea squeezed him tighter, panic skulking up her spine again. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!

He yanked an overhead chain, one she hadn’t seen until the muscles rippled across his back and the single, garage door lifted. She closed her eyes and remembered those handsome muscles stretched over her. Every last one of them.

Sunlight poured into their last stronghold. Shea closed her eyes as the powerful man beneath her arms commanded the motorized beast to fly. With another thunderous rumble, the Harley lifted its front wheel from the ground before it dug in to do what it did best.

And they were off.