CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Run like hell. That was all Eric had on his mind. What was it Aishling had said in his dream? And then you’ll need to fly. He brushed the insane notion that she’d known beforehand he and Shea would need to fly down the back roads of Ireland—on a Harley.

Gunning the motorcycle, he lowered his face, hoping the mud smeared Aviators he’d found in the jacket pocket would keep the wind out of his eyes. There’d only been one helmet in the garage, so of course, it went to Shea. Things might get dicey, but she needed to live. So did the damned cat purring inside what had to be Paddy O’Banner’s leather bomber jacket.

The bike was small and had no fairing around the handlebars to protect its rider from bugs and road debris, not like that was Eric’s first concern. All he needed was speed.

Swerving around the big, bad Hummer rumbling in Rosie’s front yard, he squeezed the handgrip into second gear. A heavy-duty push bar hung off the front of the chassis. No wonder the cab rolled so many times. It never stood a chance.

The Harley rapped into third. Finally, fourth. Eric didn’t look back, just hunkered into the wind, held onto Shea’s arms with one hand, and let the bike’s pistons do their thing. The gentle purr of a contented feline against his ribs soothed one worry away. Crazy cat.

Finding Shea in place of Finn in Rosie’s kitchen was the surprise of a lifetime, and God, he’d wanted nothing more than to haul her off to the nearest flat surface and claim her once more. But he was pretty sure he’d scared her with that initial, passionate hug. She’d stiffened enough that he’d reevaluated what he thought he’d seen in her eyes. She’d seemed skittish, as if she’d run, and bottom line—he couldn’t lose her.

If she even meant to stay. He didn’t know, so he’d backed off with the I’m-so-glad-to-see-you, and restrained his runaway heart. He’d closed down, not willing to be hurt like the last time. They needed to talk, but not now.

He raced the motorcycle along the road that ran to Grover’s burned out cottage and into the dirt path beyond. For miles the Hummer followed, until Eric took a sharp right into a narrow country driveway and ended up in someone’s backyard. The problem with most Irish yards was the country’s love of stone fences.

Eric and Shea were quickly boxed in, but no matter. Leaning backward, he urged the front wheel of the Harley onto a carefully stacked pile of peat bricks, and from there, onto the stone fence. The irregular shapes made for a rough ride, but it also ensured the Hummer couldn’t follow, not unless the French Legionnaires intended to use that vehicle as a battering ram for all the other fences that would surely stand in their way.

Eric thought himself safely out of their reach until another black motorcycle raced around the Hummer, kicking up grass as it slowed in a wide arc. By then, two of the Frenchmen were boots on the ground, their weapons drawn. They bellowed and waved the intruder off.

The cocky rider didn’t comply, but instead dug a rutted circle in the soft turf with his rear wheel, spattering both men. This new intruder was a slender man dressed completely in black leathers. His face was hidden behind the darkened shield of a topnotch helmet. His bike was top of the line, too, complete with protective windshield. Larger gas tank. A scabbard at his right for the automatic rifle strapped in it.

This operation kept going from bad to worse.

“Anyone you know?” Eric asked over his shoulder, keeping his eye on that AR while they made their exit. All he had was a pistol tucked under his left arm and barely enough ammo, a popgun in the face of that bullet-spitting machine.

“I don’t know any of them,” Shea answered. “Do you?”

“Hell, no.” Time to go.

Accelerating along the top of the narrow wall, Eric balanced the bike as long as he dared. Out of that yard, into the next. Once out of the Hummer’s reach, he dropped both wheels off the edge and gunned the Harley. It responded with a roaring burst of power, but now Eric had more than a weaponized four-wheeler and stationary tough guys to worry about. The intruder to this nightmare had no problem clearing stone fences. His bike soared overhead and landed in front of Eric and Shea.

Shea stiffened, her arms tight around Eric’s waist, while he gave the intruder an outright challenge and charged the guy, forcing him to serve to avoid being run over. Twisting the handle grip, Eric commanded the Harley to fly, and—just like Aishling said they would—they did. Over stone walls. Through shrubbery and thorny brambles. Under low-lying branches and around nervous sheep that went in ten different directions when spooked.

But Eric couldn’t shake the guy. Still in the lead, he raced through the field behind the row of homes, the biker following. More stone fences, all about three feet high and all covered with greenery, created a surreal obstacle course. There were no straight lines to this Irish madness, just meandering piles of stone, some slipshod, some perfectly stacked. Intermittent breaks with a single board for a gate kept the sheep from straying into fields of crops and others of weeds. A taller fence, maybe five feet high, bordered the others as far as Eric could see. There was no way out!

Divots of dirt flew up from the stony ground at his right, and he ducked. Damn it! The intruder had upped the ante. Those were bullets!

“Hang on tight,” Eric growled to Shea, the feel of her slender body tucked against him a blessing he was prepared to die for. He gunned the bike and flew, the wind in his hair, but there was nowhere to run. Not unless he could find a break in that outer fence. Still he pressed forward. Never give up. Must go faster.

Rounding yet another corner, he banked hard to the right, missing the only trail he’d seen in this maze. The Harley ended up in a field of corn. Tall stalks covered his bike. But the field wasn’t American-sized. The end of the line lay straight ahead in the form of what was, no doubt, yet another wall of stone beneath miles of green ivy.

He powered the bike down, hidden from sight for the moment. The intruder had taken the trail, roaring off at Eric’s right, while Eric and Shea went nowhere. Patting the warm bulge under his jacket, Eric thought, what now, Aishling?

Shea’s slender fingers intertwined with his and Eric let them work their magic. For a minute. Too soon, that guy would be back. He’d see the crushed stalks of corn, and he’d know where Eric had gone. With Shea riding in back, she’d take the first bullet. Not going to happen.

Eric turned the bike and headed back the way they had come. With their intruder racing in the opposite direction, it’d take him a couple minutes before he caught his mistake. Puttering along in low gear, Eric thought he’d seen metal posts along this stretch of what he hoped was the general boundary fence that bordered the others. Metal posts might mean a gate. He kept his ear tuned for their latest assassin.

Shea’s thighs trembled against him, but wasn’t she in the perfect womanly position? Her legs spread wide, holding onto him like a lover. He cupped her kneecap, then ran his hand over her sun-warmed thigh, offering what little comfort he could. If only they were facing each other.

Ah, there they are. Two round metal posts. Up ahead.

“I think I know a way out of here,” Eric said as he hunkered low, peering beyond the tangled ivy between the posts. At last. Some fine Irishman had added a metal gate, not like it worked as thickly wrapped with green vines as it was.

Eric didn’t dare leave the bike behind. No, somehow they had to get through this gate to whatever lay on the other side. Sidling the Harley to the gate, he reached through the ivy until his fingers met rusted horizontal rails. It had been here a long time, but there was give to it. Rusted hinges maybe. Oxidized rails. Good enough. Still on the Harley, Eric leaned his weight into it. He shoved the gate, then shoved harder. At last, it creaked, rustled, and groaned. If I can just hit it hard enough to...

“Hold on,” he told Shea as he revved the Harley into a wide circle until it faced what he hoped was a weak spot in the wall. Hunkering low, he spurred the bike forward. Lifting the front wheel at the last second, he hit the center of that ivy-covered passage.

Oomph. It was Harley time, along with plenty of dust and moths. But gradually, the gate gave enough that the bike won. Both wheels cleared the fence. The good thing about Irish ivy? It didn’t break, and this plant—or plants—had been growing forever. Its many creeping branches and arms, fingers and toes, were dense and woody, downright fibrous, and all had intertwined like a massive net. Once Eric cleared the opening, the pernicious ivy sprang back into place, nearly pulling the gate upright.

He killed the engine, his heart hammering loud enough to wake the dead. “Get off,” he ordered Shea. Her bare feet had no sooner hit the dirt than he pulled Aishling out of his jacket and handed her to Shea. She cradled the cat like a baby, and the crazy thing snuggled.

Laying the bike on its side, Eric scrambled back to the wall. He dropped to his knees and hefted the sagging doorway firmly back into place, bracing it with his shoulder so that it appeared solid, at least on his side. God, this has to work.

A few minutes later, the intruder approached the wall slowly, still revving his engine as if taunting them. Eric held as still as he could, given the adrenaline pumping through his veins. This madman had to believe they’d gotten away.

Yeah. Not likely. The Harley had left a clear set of tire tracks straight up to the breach in the wall. No guy was dumb enough to believe his adversary could just disappear. The intruder was probably deciding whether or not to search on foot. Eric would have. Just to be sure.

With only hope on his side and a helluva lot of nerve, Eric strained to listen. There on his knees. In some farmer’s pasture. If this insane idea works, it’ll be the biggest miracle ever.

The bike rumbled along the fence line and away. Eric lowered his head, thankful for the reprieve, but still tracking yet another man who seemed to be gunning for Shea. How many were after her? Abdul-Mutaal for sure. The Frenchmen. Now some guy with a gun on a motorcycle? The scary thing was they all now knew it wasn’t Finn riding with Eric.

Poor Shea crouched beside him, her eyes wide and her teeth clamped over her bottom lip. She’d let Aishling down and where the cat had gone, Eric didn’t know. He had Shea on his mind. The poor thing wasn’t cut out to be an undercover operative, not shaking like she was. He’d always known she was high-strung, but she seemed close to coming undone.

She’d dropped the helmet to the ground, letting loose her sweaty hair. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Where had all her chocolate brown tangles gone? He used to love getting lost in the delicious scent of the coconut and vanilla shampoo she’d used. The feel of all that cool silk, like ribbons, spiraling off her head. Reduced to a boyish cut, not even a good handful remained. His heart hurt seeing her like this.

The throbbing pulse at the hollow of her neck revealed her fear, and like it or not, the instinct to protect her spiked Eric’s gut with a vengeance.

His gaze strayed to that slender neck and all its ticklish spots. He knew where to breathe hard to make her shiver. Where to nibble to get a moan out of her. Before.

Without warning, she ducked into him, trembling like a deer caught in a trap. Her head sank below his chin like it used to do. Her hands slid beneath his open jacket. Over his ribs.

“Shh,” he whispered, instead of ‘Shit!’ He didn’t need the gentle distraction of her fingers smoothing over his pecs and seeking assurance he wasn’t so sure she deserved.

She nodded, bumping his chin with the top of her head, or maybe she just shook so hard that it seemed she’d agreed. God, he wanted to hold her, to pull her beneath his arm. To keep her safe, but she’d given up that option when she’d walked away. Was he stupid enough to believe she truly wanted him in all the ways he still wanted her?

Not likely. She needed help. That was all. She might have asked for him by name, but he’d read her body language back at Rosie’s. She’d seemed sorrowful, but maybe she just seemed caught. Once again, she’d deceived him, pretending to be Finn to get him to come save her. Why should he forgive and forget?

I haven’t.

Yes, you have, his heart declared as quickly as he’d denied it.

No. I haven’t. I’m not that stupid.

Even he knew better.

A slow burn commenced in both biceps from the strain of holding the fence, matching the slow burn in his pants. God was real funny, creating men like he had, their bodies ever eager for sex even at the worst of times, springing to attention at the slightest possibility of action, or the slightest scent of their woman. Even now with some killer on the other side of a silly green wall. Even now with the woman who’d destroyed his heart. Hell, his whole life. Even now…

Tension tightened his back muscles into planks. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Still, he held his position. Someone had to protect Shea. I might as well be the dumb jock who...

Still.

Loves.

Her.

Damn it. I do.

Eric swallowed hard, convinced he had to be the stupidest man on the planet. He tipped his chin to the top of her head and offered what little comfort he could.

The sound of the intruder’s motorcycle reduced to a putter and headed back toward their hiding place. No doubt the guy couldn’t decide if his prey had truly gotten away or if he’d been duped. Maybe he was still sizing up the wall, intending to jump it. That made more sense. Yeah. He was doing exactly what any predator would be doing. Probing for a weak spot.

Eric held his breath, his mind in a reluctant argument over the woman hugged up against him. Why should I forgive her? She’s the one who left, damn it. Not me. Hell, I searched for her for months after I got served with divorce papers. I never contested it. Never even retained a lawyer. Just left the POS on the kitchen counter and there it stayed. Just sucked up the hurt. Went back to work. Kept hoping she’d get in touch. Prayed. And now she needs me?

His mind flittered across time and space to Jordan and Rosie, and instantly, blocked the worst-case scenario of what might have happened. The seconds turned into minutes. Eric lifted his head to keep an eye on the edge of ivy above him and his tenuous hiding place. His arms shook in their extended position. His biceps burned. Yet he didn’t shrug Shea off. Didn’t even ask her to help. Just kept his chin on top of her head and hoped they got out of this alive.

To make matters worse, she’d pressed her nose into his neck, almost as if she’d read his thoughts about protecting her. Her fingers climbed up his back beneath the leather jacket, clinging to his shoulder blades. Her breath came hard and warm against his skin. Her lashes fluttered against his Adam’s apple.

He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the overwhelming feelings of his heart, a sucker for all things Shea. Poor damned thing. God, I prayed for you to come back. I do love you, baby.

And there in the middle of nowhere, with certain danger and death only feet away, the sweetest memory surfaced. That night in Rio. Their honeymoon. Their first time making love. No clothes. Didn’t need them. They had a crazy pagan lust for each other and... love. Hours and hours of passionate, sweaty love.

After an exhaustive exploration of each other’s bodies, and possibly one too many orgasms, (if there were such a thing), she’d fallen asleep with her face mashed against his chest. With each flutter of her lashes, she’d tickled the daylights out of his nipple.

Instead of disturbing her, he’d held still for hours, content to watch the tired beauty in his arms. The angel he’d worn out with nothing but love. He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head. I still love you, Shea. I always have. I always will.

That night he’d brushed the silken tresses of her fudge-colored hair away from her swollen, well-kissed lips and out of her eyes. That was the most perfect moment of his life. He’d slowed his breathing so he didn’t disturb her. He’d wondered how a guy like him had gotten lucky enough to marry a hot babe who’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. He wondered still. Why did you call for me, Shea? What do you want, just a ticket home?

The sound of the intruder shutting down his bike motor on the other side of the wall sucked Eric out of Rio and back to Ireland. His senses heightened as the meadow calmed.

Insects buzzed. A dog barked off in the distance. But the biker didn’t make a sound, not one footfall.

Eric strained to hear any indication the man had gotten off his mount and might be headed their way. He planned for worst-case scenarios and wished for his knife, but it lay sharpened and ready in his gear bag a good five feet away. His pistol was still holstered, his arms and hands raised supporting the gate, not much of a defensive position at all. More like submissive.

Silence stretched while he waited for the scrape of a fresh magazine being slammed into that deadly AR, anything that would tell him the intruder’s next course of action. A suspicious killer might spray the bank of ivy with rapid fire just to make sure.

Instead, a black and gray jackdaw fluttered off a branch overhead and flew to the nearby patch of trees lining this side of the wall. Eric accepted what the universe had just provided. The bird’s presence might actually convince the intruder there was no one here. He sucked in a steadying breath and hoped.

The sun climbed higher. The leather jacket grew warmer while he breathed into Shea’s hair and wished the men hunting her would all go far, far away.

Come on, you bastard. Start your bike up and get the hell out of here. Don’t make me have to kill you.

At last, a low grumble from the other side of the fence in—Arabic? Okay, that made sense. This guy had to be in league with Abdul-Mutaal, though how he’d known where Shea was made no sense. But if he was with Mutaal, who were the Frenchmen with? Eric hadn’t discounted what Shea said the night she’d run from Grover’s cottage. She’d been so sure she’d seen a scimitar. What the hell was going on?

A couple seconds passed, but finally, the Arab restarted his bike. He gunned the engine and rumbled off in the direction he’d come from.

Eric blew out a sigh of relief. They just might live after all. He let the gate sag into its web of ivy and he leaned back enough to peer down into Shea’s face. Still nestled under his chin, she looked up, her bluish-green eyes wide with answers to questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Not yet.

Where have you been?

Why did you leave?

Mostly—do you still love me?

Ivy dripped from the tallest trees, swarmed the trunks, and blanketed the lowest branches. Green on green. Lovely. Questions could wait. They needed a safe place to lay low until he was absolutely certain the coast was clear. Then they’d start the bike up and venture back onto a paved road. Then they’d find a way to contact Alex. Jordan, too.

Twisting his neck, he looked beyond Shea to the lush, green forest of this fenced communal pasture. His stupid heart was still tender from the deepest hurt a woman could inflict on a man, but it was also hopeful for the first time in years.

Damn it. Love shouldn’t hurt so damned hard.

He held an index finger to his lips, needing Shea to maintain a code of silence until they’d gotten farther into the woods. Their adversary might still be nearby. No bounty hunter would’ve given up so easily. He’d be back. If not him, Abdul Mutaal or the Legionnaires.