CHAPTER NINE

Eric laid his pistol on the nightstand. Undressing down to his boxers and climbing into bed, he was glad to be off his feet. The cool sheets soothed as he listened to Finn moving around in the next room. He expected cloddish thumping across the floor, but the fellow was actually light-footed and quiet. Considerate. Therein lay the disconnect. Finn didn’t act like a man.

The man hadn’t seen Eric until he’d plowed into him and nearly knocked him down. Eric had only meant to steady the guy, but in the process, he’d inadvertently grabbed a handful of something that didn’t feel like human muscle or fat.

He replayed the moment while he stared at the dark ceiling. Not cellulite, either. Eric knew his way around guys’ and gals’ bodies. He’d treated enough of them on the battlefronts in Afghanistan. This texture was something softer, but firm at the same time, more like—foam.

And the glimmer in that guy’s shocked eyes? Damned familiar.

The faucet turned off in the next room. Water splashed. Finn must’ve gotten into the tub, and now the guy was humming? Eric lifted to one elbow to listen to the gentleness in that very un-masculine voice.

He’d always been a sucker for the underdog. His mother called it empathy, but sometimes it got him into trouble. Like on his eighth birthday party when he got his first toy doctor’s kit. That was the day he found out the hard way other kids’ parents didn’t appreciate his need to help, especially not their little girls.

But come on, what was a serious minded little guy supposed to do? Little Ginny Weaver had an itch. He’d seen his mother apply ointment to his baby brother’s itch, but applying it on Ginny opened a whole new world of wonder for Eric. The poor girl was missing one very important piece of her anatomy, which required further investigation. Purely medical, mind you. He’d applied more ointment, hoping she hadn’t scratched her peeper off, because the little guy was surely missing.

Funny thing about young, inquisitive doctors. They got their butts whipped for practicing ANY medicine on little girls without peepers.

Eric blew out a deep breath, releasing the worries of the day. It was no wonder that Finn ran from the lab and then from his flat instead of offering any kind of an assist to his friends. He was like most civilians when confronted with pure evil. Untrained. Unarmed. Helpless. That explained a lot.

Setting his alarm clock, Eric punched his pillow one last time, and rolled to his side, part of the puzzle solved. The underdog in his portly client had triggered that streak of empathy, that was all.

Eric’s shoulders relaxed. His eyes grew heavy. With Jordan standing guard, a couple hours of shuteye were all but guaranteed. If only Eric knew why Finn had asked for him in the first place.

Rumbling purring woke him, though how that black cat he’d found had gotten inside his room, Eric didn’t know. It stretched until its front paws settled against his chin, its warm belly to his chest. Crystal blue eyes peered into his. “I came for you,” it said in the softest whisper of a dream.

Why he answered made no sense, but he did. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll stay here when I go.”

It curled one paw to its furry lips and licked its toes with a pink tongue. The damned thing winked like a cat could do such a thing. “But it does matter. Where you go, I’ll go.”

Whatever. He huffed in his sleep and offered the noncommittal answer of all parents with precocious children, “We’ll see.”

Two seconds later…

Eric jolted straight out of bed and jumped to his feet. Two hours had somehow morphed into—ten? What the hell? He blinked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It couldn’t be noon. No way!

Scrambling into his clothes, he ran a quick hand over his bed head, angry he’d let Jordan down. Guys do not sleep through their turn at guard duty. It wasn’t done.

He secured his holster and pistols, and in two seconds flat, his booted feet dropped like rolling rocks down the staircase at the ‘Edge of O’Banner’. Not hearing any voices, he turned to the kitchen, if only because that tended to be the gathering place at his mother’s house.

Rosie stood at her stove, stirring something in a big stockpot. His nostrils flared at the delightful cacophony of scents. Onions. Celery. Fresh ground pepper.

“It’s about time you woke, sleepy head,” she said without turning around. “There’s coffee on the warmer behind you. Cream’s in the icebox. Lunch is near ready. I’ve fixed your favorite, clam chowder with toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.”

How did she know that? “Where is everyone?”

Rosie turned to him, her lips curved with a smile. “Jordan knew you were exhausted, so he let you sleep. He and Finn are out back chatting. Your friend is one spoiled princess.”

“Excuse me?” Jordan? A princess?

The light in Rosie’s eyes darkened. “I’m glad ye brought Aishling home with you last night instead of leaving her to fend for herself now that Morell’s home burned to cinders. Poor wee lass would’ve turned to begging for scraps and fighting for her life if a kind heart like you hadn’t come along.”

Oh. The cat. The spoiled princess was busy wrapping her svelte, black body around Eric’s ankles and rubbing her chin on his bootlaces. So it was Grover’s house that burned. “Thanks for understanding. You’re right. I couldn’t leave her.”

The creature tipped her happy face up at him, and he had to look twice. It was too dark last night to notice, but damn. Aishling had blue eyes, just like in his dream. Interesting.

“’Tis a good man, ye are, Eric Reynolds. A fine, good man. Now fix a cup and go talk with your friends. I’ll call for lunch in a few, and ’twill have to serve as your breakfast, since ye could not be bothered to rise with the sun.”

He did as he was told, and the cat followed, purring as if she meant what she’d said in that crazy dream.

Opening Rosie’s door revealed lush flowering bushes covered in yellows and pinks, and a fence that ran the length of the property. A white painted arbor stood nearly hidden in the far corner beneath trailing vines with orange trumpet flowers. Jordan and Finn were sitting on the arbor bench. They were so deep in conversation that neither noticed the squeak of the screen door behind Eric.

For some reason, a flash of envy rolled over his shoulders. He felt obliged to announce his arrival, so he coughed. Then he coughed a little louder.

Jordan jerked his head up, startled. That was just plain weird. What were he and Finn discussing that put a definite red glow to his ugly face? To make it worse, Jordan put a clenched fist to his mouth and choked as if he’d swallowed his tongue.

Eric took a long hit off his coffee before he said, “Nice day.”

“I. Gotta. Go.” Jordan pointed to the back door and made a hasty retreat. The dog.

Finn lifted up from the arbor seat. Thick glasses obscured the guy’s eyes this morning. He pursed his lips as if he had something to say.

“You leaving too?” Eric teased, just to get a rise out of him.

“Thank you for saving Mittens,” Finn squeaked out, his boots shifting as if he was nervous.

“Who?”

Finn’s gaze fell to the feline in love with Eric’s bootlaces. “The cat.”

“Oh, you mean Aishling,” Eric nodded. Yes, he’d saved a cat. Not Finn’s professor, though. Damn. That was why they were seated together, whispering. Jordan must’ve been breaking the bad news. “I’m sorry, Finn. The house was in flames when I got there. I couldn’t get inside to save Grover.”

Finn sniffed, the side of his dainty index finger to his nose like a woman might do if she’d been crying. “S’ okay. I understand.”

Eric took a step closer, compassion swelling for this gentle giant. “I know you and Grover were close.”

The distraught man turned away to face the flowering pink shrub at his left, his jaw clenched.

“Listen, we need to get moving. How long before you’ll be ready?” Eric asked.

A soft, gravelly voice came back at him with, “For what?”

Eric dropped his gaze to the ground at that less than intelligent question, remembering this was a civilian. Sometimes they needed more time to get with the program. “To leave for the airport. You brought luggage, didn’t you?” Maybe not. Finn was still wearing the clothes he’d been in the night before.

The guy glanced at the cat, still snug between Eric’s boots. “I’m ready now,” he said, his voice deeper. More baritone. Kind of fake.

The change in tone caught Eric by surprise. Canting his head, he looked closer at his reluctant friend. Maybe there was a way to bridge this uncomfortable gap between them. “Did you catch a cold last night? I’ve got some decongestant in my gear if you need something.”

“Ah, yeah. A cold. Right.”

“Hey, Finn. Umm…” Remembering the odd texture he’d grabbed last night, Eric took firm hold of the man’s broad shoulder. “Are you feeling okay? I’m a medic. Maybe I can help.”

Padded shoulders? On an already overweight man?

Finn shrugged the suggestion—and Eric—off.

What was up with this guy? Not that it mattered. In the end, Finn would go home where he belonged, and the FBI or State Department would assume care for him. They’d stash him in a safe house, maybe bury him in the WPP, the Witness Protection Program, and bottom line, Eric would never see Finn again.

Somehow, that gave him the oddest sense of—disloyalty? What was it about this poor, oafish man that got to Eric? As big a pain in the ass as he’d been to locate, Finn still needed a twenty-four-hour bodyguard, and Eric wanted to be that guy. Yeah. It made no sense.

Shea walked upstairs to her room. If she could hold it together for twenty or so more hours, she’d be back in America and out of Eric’s life. Wasn’t that what she wanted? She honestly didn’t know anymore. All roads pointed to more heartache.

Her head pounded at the predicament she’d gotten herself into. Poor Jordan. He’d all but swallowed his tongue when he’d seen Eric watching them out in the yard. As odd as it seemed, her heart had rallied at the dark shadow that shifted over Eric’s face. For a second there, it was almost as if he’d recognized her. Almost as if he’d wanted to knock Jordan’s head off, too. If he’d only known he was the subject of their whispered conversation, not Professor Grover’s death.

“He already suspects who I am,” she whispered. “I can’t let him figure it out by himself. That will be worse. I have to be brave and tell him. At least I’ll know where I stand.”

To say she was torn was the biggest understatement of her life. Mashed was more like it. God, she loved him so hard her chest ached.

Just standing beside him in the dark had ignited every nerve in her body. She’d wanted him then as much as she’d wanted him their first time together, only—everything had changed. Their ‘happily-ever-after’ lay in a graveyard in western Maryland.

She’d told Jordan that she couldn’t turn back time, a flimsy excuse at best.

To which Jordan had growled like an angry dog. “Bullshit. If my woman loved me enough to bare her soul and admit she’d made mistakes, I’d give her another chance.”

“You would?”

“Hell, yeah. You were out of your head with grief two years ago. I don’t have any kids. Heck, I don’t even have a woman, so I don’t rightly know what you were going through, but trust me. Eric’s not a hard ass. At least give him the chance. He deserves that much.”

Jordan had an easy way about him, and Shea wanted to believe, so she’d decided. As soon as they were safely on United States soil, she’d tell Eric the truth. He might hate her, but at least then he’d know why she’d done what she had.

Drawing a deep breath, she took one last look at her alter ego in the mirror. It was easy to see. Finn had to die so Shea could live. The minute they landed. And then...

I’ll get exactly what I deserve...