Dare Me, page 16
Again, they were followed.
"Stay low, Jade, and hold on."
She stayed low and held on, staring up at him in shock. He'd just tossed that I-love-you at her as casually as he'd directed her on how to use the gun. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to do a one-eighty at a high speed. The boat behind us is going to do the same in order to
catch us. They're bigger, top-heavier. They're going to flip."
She swallowed hard. "Are we going to flip, too?" "No. No, we're not. But you have got to hold on. Hold on and remember what I just told you." "You l-love me."
"That's right." And he jammed the gas down and yanked on the wheel.
They spun like a child's toy top, skidding in a circle over the water at a dizzying speed. Jade held on, but she wasn't prepared for the velocity, and went flying into the side of the hull. Pain exploded in her head and ribs, making her see stars, but she had a hold on the passenger seat, and dug her fingers into the cushion. And still they spun.
She managed to hold on, the backpack she'd been hugging squished between her and the floor. Seawater poured over the side in a large wave as the ocean pummeled them, and though they pitched high for one sickening moment, the boat held in the spin and didn't tip.
The driver of the other boat, upon seeing them take such a short turn, tried to do the same, but Will had been right. It couldn't hold. In front of their eyes,
the boat flipped, and upside down it skipped over the water like a pebble, once, twice. Three times.
And then exploded into a ball of flames.
Jade held on to the base of the passenger seat as Will steered them out of their spin. She stared in horror as the flames from the other boat leapt high into the air.
Hands grabbed her shoulders, then her face. She looked into Will's eyes. On his knees in front of her, he looked hollow and beat and terrified. "Jade? Are you all right?"
The other boat vanished beneath the orange and red flames and smoke. The nightmare was over. Over. "Yes, I'm okay."
He picked up her cell phone. "Maybe now we can call for help."
"Yes." Because there might be more bad guys with guns. Maybe that Frank guy who liked to break kneecaps. She shivered.
And when Will finished with his call, suddenly there were two of him, wavering in and out of her vision. Two sets of sharp eyes as green as the sea, two square, strong jaws, two hard, warm bodies that she didn't think she'd ever get tired of.
She wondered if she could keep them both, and the thought made her laugh, because she realized she didn't regret a single thing that had happened. She couldn't, not when the whole experience had given her so much. Confidence. A sense of being. The knowledge that she could do anything she set her mind to. And Will. It'd given her Will.
He touched her head. His fingers came away red with her blood. "Christ. You are hurt."
Yes. Yes, she was. In fact, now she thought she might throw up. The pain in her ribs was making itself known, making it difficult to breathe. But she could breathe, which meant she was still alive, and alive was good. Alive meant she could tell Will what she'd just discovered about herself. About him. About them. "Will—"
"Don't move." He grabbed her backpack from her fingers and ripped it open, pulling out a shirt, ripping a strip off it. Then he was pressing the cloth to her head.
"Ouch. Will—"
"Shh, baby. You're bleeding everywhere." He kept looking around them, which put her on edge because they weren't completely safe yet.
She put her hand on his wrist. Actually, she put both hands on his wrist because she was still dizzy, and it took two hands to find his. "I want to tell you something. It's important."
"What else hurts?" he demanded.
"My ribs— No, stop it," she said when he ran his hands down her body, his face tight and grim and terrified. For her. "Will, listen. Both of you."
He stared at her. "There's a Coast Guard cutter in the area. They'll be here in minutes. We're going straight to the hospital—"
"I love you back."
"They'll stitch you up, and then we'll—" He stopped cold and stared at her, emotion swamping all four of his eyes as turbulent as the sea around them. "What? What did you just say?"
"I said I love you."
His mouth tightened. "That's your concussion talking."
"No." She reached for one of his jaws, missed, and instead gripped his shirt, right over his heart. "I knew I loved you before the concussion. I think I loved you the moment I opened my door to you." She tried to lift her other hand to him as well, but it was caught in the backpack, which tipped and spilled across the deck. Everything tumbled out; her spare pair of pants, her toothbrush and toothpaste, her grandmother's rattle—
"Oh no." Time stopped as she stared at the cracked porcelain. "Oh no," she breathed, her throat closing. "I must have landed on it—" She broke off in shock and grief when the rattle divided into two pieces, spilling gems into her hand. Beneath the harsh Baja sun they glinted red, blue, green, yellow . . . blinding them.
Will ran a finger over the pile in her palm, the stones reflecting the light around them, pulsing as if alive. "So Mario wasn't that stupid after all. Fairly innovative hiding spot." His gaze lifted to hers, and softened as he stroked a strand of hair from her face. "Full circle, Jade. Do you see it?"
"I had them all along ..." She marveled over that as Will pulled her onto his lap, careful with her aching ribs, holding pressure to her head wound. "And now I have you."
"And now you have me," he agreed huskily, pressing his lips to her temple.
She grinned foolishly. God, he was so pretty. And he was hers. But then she sobered a bit as the next thought sneaked in. "For how long?"
He looked into her eyes, making her realize she'd spoken out loud. "You should know, I've never felt like this about another woman. Never."
Her breath caught at the way he looked at her. Held her. "I've never felt like this either. But we started so fast ..."
"We're not going to burn out," he said fiercely. "It started out strong—it'll stay strong." With sweet care, he cupped her face. "Which means I'm all yours." He kissed her as a Coast Guard cutter glided through the choppy water toward them. "For as long as you want me."
For a good long time, she thought with a sigh. A good long time ...
Three months later
Will set the bouquet of flowers down on Wendy's grave, ran his fingers over the letters of her name, and felt the familiar pang stab at him. When he straightened, two arms came around him.
And lessened that pain. Hugging Jade back, he set his cheek on her head and felt his world right itself simply because she was standing next to him.
"She'd be so proud of you," Jade said. "Finding out what happened to her, clearing her name."
"I think she'd be happier knowing something good came out of this. Something good and strong and lasting."
Jade tipped up her head and looked at him with a question in her eyes. Leaning in, he kissed her. "You and me," he said,
and pulled out a small velvet box, about five inches by two.
Jade stared down at the beautiful velvet box. "It's not my birthday." "I know." "It's not anything."
"It's three months to the day since you walked into my world and gave me my life back."
With a soft laugh, she shook her head. "I didn't give you your life back, you—"
"Open the box, Jade."
"Okay." She laughed again, a little nervously, and it tugged hard at his heart. There hadn't been many people in her life to give her things. It made him want to give her the moon.
"I told you I didn't want the monetary reward," she said softly, running her finger over the box. "And I meant it. I hope you didn't do anything foolish—" She lifted the lid as if afraid he had a snake in there waiting to bite her, then stared into the box. "Oh, Will." Her eyes went brilliantly shiny. "My grandma's rattle. You had it repaired."
"I did. But because of the way it cracked, a change had to be made."
She ran a finger over the brass hinge on one side, and then the hook on the other. "It's like a little storage box."
"Yes. Open it, Jade."
Her eyes flew to his, and for one long shimmery
moment everything she felt for him, everything he felt for her, danced between them. Then she flicked the hook and opened the rattle. And gasped.
Inside sat another antique. A diamond ring, made from a vintage gold setting, and . . . "You set one of the gems we rescued."
"They gave it to me. To us. Say you will, Jade." Because she hadn't, he took the ring out of the box and reached for her hand. "Say you'll wear the gem that brought us together, and be mine. For the rest of our lives." He shot her a melt-her-heart smile.
"Oh, I'll say it." Her hand shook but she still held it out for him. The ring slipped right on. "I'm yours. Which means you're mine, too." She smiled, her whole heart and soul in it. "For better or worse, Will. Here we go."
Jill Shalvis is the bestselling, award-winning author of over a dozen romances, and has won numerous awards. She lives near Lake Tahoe with her family and is at work on Seeing Red, a May 2005 release. You can visit her Web site at www.jillshalvis.com
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To Cherry Adair and Jill Shalvis . . . always a pleasure, ladies!
And to Laura Cifelli, for giving me this amazing opportunity to blend a really sexy story with high-stakes romantic suspense. What a rush!
"The house is perfect. I'll take it."
The real estate agent uncrossed his arms at Macy Rush's definitive declaration. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice from the foyer beat him to the punch.
"Well, you see, Ms. Rush, that's going to be a problem, since I already own this pleasure palace."
Macy didn't have to turn around to know who had spoken. Only one man wore that particular custom blend, based with an essential oil whose name she'd forgotten. And yet the woodsy, spiced aroma, tinged with the sweet smokiness of tobacco, retained the power to cause a warm prickle of gooseflesh over her skin. Even if she hadn't heard the dulcet tone of his voice from just across the room, the scent of his cologne gave him away, nearly drowning her in a wave of memory.
"Dante Burke," she announced, steeling herself before she turned around. Seeing him again could knock her off guard—if she let it. But she'd die before she allowed the man to so much as make her breath catch. He'd done his damage. She'd recovered, and now she had no intention of suffering a relapse. "Why am I not surprised?"
The agent beat a quick path to the back door, making his true profession clear. Real estate agent, no. Secret agent, yes. With her eyes, Macy followed the retreat and then locked gazes with Dante Burke, the man who had, not so long ago, ripped her reputation, her career and her heart to shreds.
He was still gorgeous, damn him. Slick, dark hair pulled back into a queue. Rich, tanned skin that glowed from the Saint-Tropez sun. A lithe, muscled body accentuated by a suit that probably cost as much as the asking price of the house. Still breathtaking and still lethal—and still so full of himself, she wondered how there was room for both of them in the entrance hall.
He gestured into the living room, but when she didn't instantly comply, he strolled down the stairs with the same grace and style as James Bond and Fred Astaire combined. She rolled her eyes. Only Dante Burke could manage to be insufferable when he'd done nothing more than walk into a room.
"Not surprised by my initiative? You shouldn't be. Stands to reason that the Arm would beat T-45 to the most important property in New Orleans. Especially with world peace at stake. I bought the place two weeks ago."
"And yet the house is still listed on the market," she said, suspicious, her hands inching into the pockets of her jacket. Beneath the slick leather, she caressed the cool steel of her backup firearm, a sleek 9mm Smith & Wesson LadySmith. With her main weapon tucked in her shoulder holster and several alternative weapons strapped to various parts of her body, she should have felt entirely secure, even in Dante's presence. But she had a good idea of why he'd beaten her here, and consequently, she possessed no confidence that he wasn't about to seriously screw up her case. "Why didn't you remove the listing?"
"Friendly neighbors delivering casseroles of jambalaya can be such a nuisance."
He wandered toward the window and with a quick flick of his penetrating gray eyes, likely spotted the T-45 agents positioned across the street who'd been ordered to watch her back. Lot of help they'd do her now. The enemy was within.
"You're the first showing I've allowed," he said, turning, his self-assured grin confirming her supposition.
Clearly, he knew why she was here. He'd likely come for the exact same reason. And yet, Macy had to continue a verbal dance and make sure her suspicions were correct before she acted. He might be simply on a fishing expedition, with no real evidence of why the house on Prytania Street in the Garden District of New Orleans could end up being worth more than the listing price . . . about one billion times over.
"How gentlemanly of you," she lied, "allowing me to see something you have no intention of letting me have."
"I'm just that kind of guy."
The slight European lilt in his voice fueled her ire and she had to force her breathing to steady. He hadn't been overseas in years. Since birth, practically. And yet he still possessed that distinctly urbane air that had once attracted her all-American girl hormones. Luckily for her, she remembered his past transgressions well enough to keep his allure at bay. "Don't get me started on the kind of guy you are, Dante. You won't like my assessment."
"I'll just enjoy the sound of your voice then."
"Enjoy this then," she snapped, starting toward the door. "You're a son of a bitch who can't be trusted. And now that I know you're here, I'll return to Paris and throw one hell of a party. With you in charge, I'm certain the world will soon be coming to an end."
With the lightning-fast reflexes that had propelled him to the top of his class in the spy business, Dante grabbed her arm. With equally fast instincts, Macy spun, ducked and rolled, ending her. move with Dante's arm pressed tightly against his back. He'd let her have the upper hand, but she wasn't about to refuse such a gift if he was stupid enough to give it.
"Don't touch me," she warned through clenched teeth. Her emotions raged, a lethal combination of anger, spite and fear. He wouldn't control her again. Not ever again. If she allowed him even the slightest element of domination, he'd find ways to rule her entirely. She'd never allow him to command her again.
He answered her with a whisper that was both smooth and hypnotic. "I plan to touch you extensively and intimately over the next few days, love. And you'll let me. In fact, you're going to beg me."
She could break his arm. She knew she could. He had hardly tensed his muscles against her counterattack, so certain he was that she didn't mean business. She should crack a bone, just to prove a point.
But that wasn't her mission. She couldn't allow her emotions to interfere. She needed the house. Short of brute force—and she was certain the three-story cottage was crawling with agents from the Arm who would relish the chance to take her down—she had to go the cerebral route.
She released him, pushed him away roughly, though he barely stumbled. He turned and, with utter coolness, straightened the cuffs of his tailored shirt.
"You're full of yourself, Dante."
"That's part of what you loved about me once."
"I don't make the same mistakes twice."
He arched a dark brow, which only made his light gray eyes more piercing, more mesmerizing. "Don't make such declarations so quickly. I haven't offered you my deal yet."
"I didn't come here to deal," she countered.
"No, you came here to buy this house so you could find the hidden code that might—might—avert a nuclear attack on the United States from unnamed terrorists who, at this moment, are threatening to hijack an abandoned missile silo somewhere in the vast Russian wilderness and use the forgotten warhead to start World War Three."
So he did know her mission. Top to bottom, with every detail dispensed in his signature iced vodka voice.
Damn, damn, damn.
"They don't have the silo yet," she pointed out. "Chances are, the Russian army will stop them before they get that far."
Dante laughed and Macy admitted, silently, that her words sounded utterly ridiculous when spoken aloud. The Russian army was no longer a cold-war powerhouse. The military in the former Soviet Union was in horrible disarray. When T-45, her agency, received intelligence alerting the independent, mercenary spy organization that a terrorist group was working to secure one of the abandoned silos for use against the United States, they hadn't been too worried. The silos had all been disarmed, or so T-45 had been told. Soon after, her organization had been contacted by a consortium of Russian industrialists who sheepishly admitted that while they'd pocketed the money paid to them by the struggling Russian government to disarm the silos, they'd left approximately one hundred live nuclear weapons in the most remote regions of the country. Too expensive and too hard to reach, they'd claimed by way of excuse. And now, too hard to effectively protect from an unnamed threat.
So the Russian consortium had hired T-45 to find the countercode created by a leading Soviet scientist that would render all the previously determined launch codes useless. Without the mathematical failsafe in their possession, the terrorists would be powerless.
Macy had been assigned the case and her investigation had led her here, to the scientist's winter home in New Orleans—and back into the scope and sights of Dante Burke.
Once she took the house from him, she would have had plenty of time to sort through the rooms and find the code. But things must be more dire than she expected if the Arm was involved. The covert branch of the CIA didn't engage unless all other avenues had been explored.
