Dare Me, page 8
"Then we'll apologize profusely." He made her pick up the weapon. "Here. Safety's off. Point and shoot." He hopped out of the truck, locked and slammed the door, and jogged over to the booth. Danica watched him through the grimy windshield as he made his call.
The interior of the truck was sweltering, and she prayed there wasn't a temperature-sensitive component to the thing in her head. Absently, she brushed hair away from her face, lifting it off her neck in an attempt to let the pitiful breeze cool her flushed skin. A bite on her neck itched like crazy, and she reached up to rub at it. Her fingers moved across the small bump that had been driving her nuts for days. A small—minute actually—welt just behind her ear. Could it be ... ? Grabbing the rearview mirror, she tilted it in an attempt to examine the spot.
It looked like a pinprick. "We're positive she's wearing the chip," Donovan had said. "My man detected it
behind her left ear when you were picked up." Danica felt sick to her stomach as she moved her fingers gently around the slight bump.
Fear welled inside her, mixing with the annoyance, frustration and other emotions that threatened to erupt at any moment. Jon's call continued. He vacillated between periods of animated hand gestures and attentive listening. What was taking so long? Maybe there wasn't a way to get this thing out of her. Oh, God! Maybe Donovan was telling the truth. Maybe—
A bullet shattered the windshield, sending a rain of safety glass pellets into her lap.
T minus 22hours:33minutes:17seconds
Before Donovan's man took his first shot, Raven was sprinting across the weed-infested parking lot toward Dani. Running interference between their truck and that of Donovan and his men.
Everything happened in slo-mo. The windshield shattering, bullets freaking flying and the sun blazing down on his head as if holding him in place. "Da-aaaa-nil"
Squeezing the trigger of his automatic, he laid down cover fire as he ran like his life depended on it. He got one man, clambering out of the diesel, in the chest, the next in the right shoulder. As he ran by he scooped up the fully loaded AK-47 from the fallen guy and sent a barrage of bullets toward the truck holding Donovan and more of his men.
He kept firing, using both weapons, until the Sig
clicked empty. He tossed it aside and reached for the door handle still letting fly with the assault rifle.
Danica yanked on the lock, pulling up on the button, then flung open the driver's-side door, shouting, "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" He got off a kill shot over the door, then climbed in, slammed the door and peeled out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel, Donovan's bigger truck right behind them.
"Were you hit?" he yelled over the sound of gunfire.
"I'm fine. Turn left." Dani, his quiet, pacifist, glorious Dani, turned around to kneel on the cracked leather seat and started firing out the back window. The glass shattered and splintered, then fell off in a sheet. No safety glass there. Raven grinned as he turned left.
The back tire exploded, tilting the truck ominously. He didn't pause as the large vehicle shimmied and swerved, just flattened his right foot on the accelerator, gripped the wheel and kept going. It wasn't the smoothest ride, but they were still ahead of Donovan. If only by feet.
Danica kept firing, until her weapon, too, ran out of ammo. "Damn it—"
"Here," Raven shouted against the din of racing engines and the thump-clop-scrape sound of driving on a rubberless rim. He handed her the AK-47. "Take mine. It's nice and big, and full of extremely accurate bullets."
With a wide grin, Danica picked it up, braced it on the back of the seat and started firing. "From your lips—" Even with her inexperienced aim, eventually she'd hit someone, or something. Right now the covering fire was preventing Donovan's people from driving right up their tailpipe. "You are heading to the palace, right?"
"Hell, yeah," Raven shouted, rocking and rolling down the streets of San Cristobal, bullets flying all around them. "We're about to become Vera's best friends."
"My thoughts exact—Hey! Did you see that? I hit the front tire! Yahoo! They're running off the roa— no, wait. They're back on again," Dani shouted, clearly disappointed she hadn't run them into the ditch alongside the narrow street. "Oh, my God! Incoming!"
Yeah. He saw them. Two more vehicles barreling down on them from side streets and closing fast.
People jumped clear of the trucks hurtling down Avenida del Sol, with its flowering, brilliant yellow mimosa trees and picturesque sidewalk cafes. Kids, chickens, goats and bicyclists scrambled to clear the way.
"Are we close?" Danica demanded, getting the hang of the rifle, and feeling like G.I. Jane without the bad hair and terrible shoes. They screamed past City Hall, flanked by a pretty little park, and turned with a screech of three tires onto Presidente Avenida.
"Gate's closed."
She vaguely remembered the high black wrought-iron monstrosity, about a mile wide and half a mile high. "Is that a problem?"
"No. Brace yourself. Now!"
She let go of the rifle, allowing it to drop behind the seat, then braced herself as Jon aimed the truck through the heavy iron gates like a guided missile. Danica, teeth almost jarred from her head, turned to face front as the truck hurtled past the openmouthed uniformed guards, and flew—hobbled, up the grand staircase leading from the sweeping gravel driveway directly into the public rooms of the palace. People poured out of various wings like ants at a picnic as the vehicle came to a shuddering, smoking stop, wedged partially inside the giant double doors.
"Very dramatic," she said admiringly as the truck gave an exaggerated death rattle and spewed up a plume of steam from the gaping mouth of the hood.
"Wasn't it, though?" Jon said, turning to run his gaze over her. "Any damaged body parts?"
She held up a finger. "Broken nail. You?"
"My nails are just fine." He jerked his head toward the front of the hissing, smoking, pinging truck and the horde of men striding toward them. "Check out who's coming this way to greet us in all his pompous, sleazy glory." Danica tucked her hair behind her ears with fingers that shook. Just seeing the monster, knowing what he'd done to her, what he planned to do to the president, made her breath hitch and her palms sweat. "He looks a trifle cranky, don't you think?"
"Oh, yeah," Jon said with satisfaction. "That bemused guy next to him must be the president. Why don't you hop out and go give old Ed a big hug?"
"Why don't I?" Unfortunately it was a little hard to "hop out" since the truck was wedged firmly between the heavy wooden doors of the palace. Vera broke away from the president and his entourage and started drifting backward. "Oh, damn. Lookit, he's slithering away!"
"Come on." Jon stood on the seat and held out his hand. "This way." And helped her through the broken windshield, onto the front of the truck, and then, assisted by some very confused gentlemen, onto the ground. Jon jerked his head toward Vera, who had his back to them as he tried to squeeze through the various palace personnel and make a break for it.
"Let's go." He grabbed her hand and ran after the chief of security. People parted for them like the Red Sea.
As he ran, Jon started shouting in rapid-fire Spanish. With much screaming and drama, everyone scattered. "Hey! Ed!" Jon yelled, closing in on the man, Danica trying to keep pace with his long strides.
There was a small flight of shallow marble steps leading off the grand entrance to the bowels of the palace. Vera's shoes tapped out an imperative beat as he ran. Danica eyed the back of his shiny black head, then launched herself off the landing, slamming into him. She clung like a monkey, arms and legs wrapped about him as he crashed to the floor face-first. They sprawled there, Danica on top as if the entire move had been choreographed, her thighs straddling his butt. Her knees stung like fire, and she'd bitten her tongue as they landed hard, but she punched the air with a fist and gave a rebel yell.
Then, leaning close to the terrified man beneath her, Danica said, "Let's see you blow me up now, hotshot."
Jon jumped lightly down the stairs and held a nice big black gun to Vera's temple.. Then he roared with laughter.
T minus 21 hours:00minutes:54se . . .
Raven wasn't laughing an hour later as he paced outside Dani's bedroom door. The musty-smelling corridor, with its funky-colored wallpaper, lined with useless antiques, was crowded with people—from El Presidente's weird-looking kid and several of the surviving members of his cabinet to a dozen dark-suited men from the FAA, the NTSB, Interpol and other assorted agencies.
Raven stormed the length—194 paces—to the end of the long corridor and back again. For the fifth time.
What the hell was taking so long?
The president of San Cristobal had been in there— alone—with Dani, for thirty-four minutes. Thirty-five minutes. He sure as shit didn't want to speak to the alphabet soups in their official-issue suits who kept trying to question him.
He tilted his wrist to see the face of his watch in the gloom. Thirty-seven minutes.
She could've borne the next freaking royal heir by now. Raven raked his fingers through his hair as he paused outside the door. Hell, no. If she was going to bear any heir it would be— The door opened.
The president shot him a smile as he emerged. "Your wife, she is a remarkable woman, señor."
"Yeah, she sure as hell is. All done?" he asked, striving for polite, but pretty damn sure he sounded as surly as he felt. The man stepped back to let him into the room.
Without a backward glance, Raven kicked the door shut behind him, then moved to the high, canopied bed, his heart in his throat, on his sleeve and in his mouth. That about covered its calisthenics. "Hey, look at you, all pink and clean."
And heartbreakingly beautiful as she lay there, sweet-smelling and sleepy-looking, watching him with shadows in her pretty eyes, and a small smile on her luscious mouth. The white Band-Aid on her neck looked completely innocuous. Just seeing the damn thing made bile rise to the back of his throat.
He could've lost her. Again.
How many chances was God going to give him to make this right?
He sat down carefully on the bed beside her. Wanting to gather her close but mortally afraid to touch her. Afraid he'd blow this chance, this last reprieve, of getting it right. "How're you feeling?"
"Like someone stuck me in a bad action movie without a script," Danica said wryly, watching the uncomfortable shift of his gaze, and painfully aware of the awkward silence that stretched between them.
Apparently they could communicate just fine when fists and bullets were flying, but stick them in a room and expect a meaningful conversation—that was apparently beyond their capabilities.
The thought made her throat ache.
"How's your neck?" He started to reach for her, then clearly thought better of it and dropped his hand to the bedspread, curling his fingers into a fist.
"You were in here the whole time they removed it," she said, keeping the wobble out of her voice with an effort. "You know how I am." He'd held her hand tightly as she'd been given a local anesthetic to deaden the site. He didn't leave her side until the device had been successfully removed by the president's personal physician. He'd talked to her, sung a bad rendition of "Margaritaville," and distracted her from thinking her head was going to explode at any minute.
You had a shower, I see. His hair was still damp at the ends and he smelled of an unfamiliar soap. But beneath it he still smelled like Jon. He was warm and brave and strong and he loved her. She knew he did. Just as much as she loved him. All she had to do was wait him out and make him say it.
"Yeah." He pinched a corner of the lace-trimmed sheet between his fingers and started unraveling a thread. Danica had never, in all the years she'd known him, seen Jon Raven nervous. "Nice chat with the president?" he asked, not glancing up from untatting the probably priceless sheet.
Danica wanted him to look at her. Wanted him to see her. Instead, she could tell he was itching to get out of the room, already feeling stifled by the weight of what he would perceive as obligation. He would want to get back to his uncomplicated computers and fail-safe security systems. His "people," and his ordered life. She'd been too unpredictable for his well-structured world. Well, too damn bad.
"He's very grateful to both of us," she said thickly.
The doctor had wanted her to rest for seventy-two hours before she flew home. The president still wanted to award her the keys to the city. Rigo wanted to introduce her to his dog, and barring the one itch that hadn't been an insect bite after all, she still itched like crazy.
How was it possible for a heart to break twice?
Could she really just lie here and let him weasel out? Should she really let him leave? Pretend that they didn't share the connection that was so strong between them?
But the other option was to force him to admit his love. And then what good would it be?
"Jon, would you—" Just go before she started begging him? For what? Another shot at being ignored? Of feeling like the loneliest, neediest woman on the planet?
Not true, she reminded herself. Okay, the loneliness part was accurate. But that was as much her fault as his. She'd sat in that house, expecting him to entertain her. Never seeking out a life of her own—never cultivating other interests. No wonder he'd stayed at work all the time. He walked in the door and she'd clung to him like a barnacle. But she wasn't that woman anymore.
Only he didn't know that, she realized. Unless she told him, he never would.
Dangerous.
Necessary.
There was an awkward moment of tension as Danica mustered her courage. "I need to say something."
"Me first," Jon interrupted. Small beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.
He was sweating? Her heart leapt at the mere possibility. She tapped her finger against his lips. "Not this time."
His eyes rose from the unraveled lace to meet hers. "Danica, I—"
"No." She scrambled upward, meeting his intense gaze. "Me first. I got it wrong before," she began on a rush of breath. "I was immature and stupid. I expected you to be my life instead of sharing my life. I—"
"Had every reason to want that," Jon insisted, gently cupping her face.
"I want us to try again, Jon. I love you. I never stopped."
His thumb brushed her cheek. "I was the one who screwed it all up. I took you for granted. Loving someone is work. Great work/but work. I neglected you, Dani. When I should have been treasuring you." His gaze raked her face. "I loved you. Even then, when I was stump stupid, I loved you. I should have been thanking you every second of every day. Thanking you for being there. For loving me. You make me a better man, Dani. I still love you. I'll always love you."
"I'll always love you too. And just so you know, we make each other better, Jon," Danica said, leaning into him and smiling at the feel of his arms sliding around her. She listened to the staccato beat of his heart and knew they'd found each other again. "We're a great team."
"God, Dani." He held her tight. So tight she
wouldn't have been surprised to feel her body sliding right into his, becoming a part of him. "I love you so much. Be sure about this. Be sure that you want me as much as I want you—" He pulled back, stared down into her eyes and grinned. "Because I swear to God, I'll never let you get away from me again." She kissed him to seal the deal.
USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair recently saw her first hardcover, On Thin Ice, debut to critical acclaim. Her single title, Hide and Seek, was chosen as one of Romance Writers of America's top ten books of the year, and her novel Take Me has been optioned for an Oxygen Network movie of the week. Cherry and her husband live in the Northwest.
To Cherry Adair and Julie Elizabeth Leto, for graciously sharing their readers with me
San Francisco
"Gotcha, you bastard." Ignoring the chill in the room as well as the late hour, Will Malone frowned at his computer as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Yeah, there you are. Dead bastard."
He froze the frame on the museum's security disk. Enlarged and enhanced. Then stared at the picture of the man who'd been born Mario Alvarez but also went by Tomas Manning, Bennie Martin, or any of his other fifteen aliases that Will had unearthed so far. Will memorized every inch of Alvarez, the man who'd killed his sister.
Wendy. Shoving back from his computer, he tunneled his tired fingers through his hair, leaving it standing straight up.
Though Wendy had been dead and buried for
three months, he'd just now managed to track down her chameleon-like killer via these miles and miles of tapes from the San Francisco Historical Preservation Society and Museum. Wendy had worked at the museum as a jewel specialist, yet no one else had ever seen Alvarez, the man who'd quickly swept Wendy off her feet before conning her out of two million dollars worth of sixteenth-century gems that she'd been working on. He'd then murdered her and left damning evidence framing her for the loss of the jewels and smearing her name and reputation postmortem.
On the tape, the dark-haired, dark-eyed Mario pretended to enjoy one of the exhibits of assorted historical jewelry. Just a man enjoying a day off. By now he could be anywhere on the planet, working up a new con, stealing someone else's baby sister's innocence and her life.
Will's eyes, shot from long days and nights of surveying the tapes, cut to the picture frame sitting on the desk next to the computer.
Wendy's trusting smile beamed back at him, and he met it with a grim smile of his own. "I've got him now," he promised. "I'll find him." He wouldn't rest until he did.
He was beyond exhaustion, felt it in every bone of his body. He knew he had to pack up and close out Wendy's apartment, but he wasn't ready to face it. Not until Mario was behind bars.
Or in the ground.
His head began to throb from the long hours of sitting. He pushed himself up from the chair and stepped to the window to take in the sweeping hilly view of San Francisco.
The interior of the truck was sweltering, and she prayed there wasn't a temperature-sensitive component to the thing in her head. Absently, she brushed hair away from her face, lifting it off her neck in an attempt to let the pitiful breeze cool her flushed skin. A bite on her neck itched like crazy, and she reached up to rub at it. Her fingers moved across the small bump that had been driving her nuts for days. A small—minute actually—welt just behind her ear. Could it be ... ? Grabbing the rearview mirror, she tilted it in an attempt to examine the spot.
It looked like a pinprick. "We're positive she's wearing the chip," Donovan had said. "My man detected it
behind her left ear when you were picked up." Danica felt sick to her stomach as she moved her fingers gently around the slight bump.
Fear welled inside her, mixing with the annoyance, frustration and other emotions that threatened to erupt at any moment. Jon's call continued. He vacillated between periods of animated hand gestures and attentive listening. What was taking so long? Maybe there wasn't a way to get this thing out of her. Oh, God! Maybe Donovan was telling the truth. Maybe—
A bullet shattered the windshield, sending a rain of safety glass pellets into her lap.
T minus 22hours:33minutes:17seconds
Before Donovan's man took his first shot, Raven was sprinting across the weed-infested parking lot toward Dani. Running interference between their truck and that of Donovan and his men.
Everything happened in slo-mo. The windshield shattering, bullets freaking flying and the sun blazing down on his head as if holding him in place. "Da-aaaa-nil"
Squeezing the trigger of his automatic, he laid down cover fire as he ran like his life depended on it. He got one man, clambering out of the diesel, in the chest, the next in the right shoulder. As he ran by he scooped up the fully loaded AK-47 from the fallen guy and sent a barrage of bullets toward the truck holding Donovan and more of his men.
He kept firing, using both weapons, until the Sig
clicked empty. He tossed it aside and reached for the door handle still letting fly with the assault rifle.
Danica yanked on the lock, pulling up on the button, then flung open the driver's-side door, shouting, "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" He got off a kill shot over the door, then climbed in, slammed the door and peeled out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel, Donovan's bigger truck right behind them.
"Were you hit?" he yelled over the sound of gunfire.
"I'm fine. Turn left." Dani, his quiet, pacifist, glorious Dani, turned around to kneel on the cracked leather seat and started firing out the back window. The glass shattered and splintered, then fell off in a sheet. No safety glass there. Raven grinned as he turned left.
The back tire exploded, tilting the truck ominously. He didn't pause as the large vehicle shimmied and swerved, just flattened his right foot on the accelerator, gripped the wheel and kept going. It wasn't the smoothest ride, but they were still ahead of Donovan. If only by feet.
Danica kept firing, until her weapon, too, ran out of ammo. "Damn it—"
"Here," Raven shouted against the din of racing engines and the thump-clop-scrape sound of driving on a rubberless rim. He handed her the AK-47. "Take mine. It's nice and big, and full of extremely accurate bullets."
With a wide grin, Danica picked it up, braced it on the back of the seat and started firing. "From your lips—" Even with her inexperienced aim, eventually she'd hit someone, or something. Right now the covering fire was preventing Donovan's people from driving right up their tailpipe. "You are heading to the palace, right?"
"Hell, yeah," Raven shouted, rocking and rolling down the streets of San Cristobal, bullets flying all around them. "We're about to become Vera's best friends."
"My thoughts exact—Hey! Did you see that? I hit the front tire! Yahoo! They're running off the roa— no, wait. They're back on again," Dani shouted, clearly disappointed she hadn't run them into the ditch alongside the narrow street. "Oh, my God! Incoming!"
Yeah. He saw them. Two more vehicles barreling down on them from side streets and closing fast.
People jumped clear of the trucks hurtling down Avenida del Sol, with its flowering, brilliant yellow mimosa trees and picturesque sidewalk cafes. Kids, chickens, goats and bicyclists scrambled to clear the way.
"Are we close?" Danica demanded, getting the hang of the rifle, and feeling like G.I. Jane without the bad hair and terrible shoes. They screamed past City Hall, flanked by a pretty little park, and turned with a screech of three tires onto Presidente Avenida.
"Gate's closed."
She vaguely remembered the high black wrought-iron monstrosity, about a mile wide and half a mile high. "Is that a problem?"
"No. Brace yourself. Now!"
She let go of the rifle, allowing it to drop behind the seat, then braced herself as Jon aimed the truck through the heavy iron gates like a guided missile. Danica, teeth almost jarred from her head, turned to face front as the truck hurtled past the openmouthed uniformed guards, and flew—hobbled, up the grand staircase leading from the sweeping gravel driveway directly into the public rooms of the palace. People poured out of various wings like ants at a picnic as the vehicle came to a shuddering, smoking stop, wedged partially inside the giant double doors.
"Very dramatic," she said admiringly as the truck gave an exaggerated death rattle and spewed up a plume of steam from the gaping mouth of the hood.
"Wasn't it, though?" Jon said, turning to run his gaze over her. "Any damaged body parts?"
She held up a finger. "Broken nail. You?"
"My nails are just fine." He jerked his head toward the front of the hissing, smoking, pinging truck and the horde of men striding toward them. "Check out who's coming this way to greet us in all his pompous, sleazy glory." Danica tucked her hair behind her ears with fingers that shook. Just seeing the monster, knowing what he'd done to her, what he planned to do to the president, made her breath hitch and her palms sweat. "He looks a trifle cranky, don't you think?"
"Oh, yeah," Jon said with satisfaction. "That bemused guy next to him must be the president. Why don't you hop out and go give old Ed a big hug?"
"Why don't I?" Unfortunately it was a little hard to "hop out" since the truck was wedged firmly between the heavy wooden doors of the palace. Vera broke away from the president and his entourage and started drifting backward. "Oh, damn. Lookit, he's slithering away!"
"Come on." Jon stood on the seat and held out his hand. "This way." And helped her through the broken windshield, onto the front of the truck, and then, assisted by some very confused gentlemen, onto the ground. Jon jerked his head toward Vera, who had his back to them as he tried to squeeze through the various palace personnel and make a break for it.
"Let's go." He grabbed her hand and ran after the chief of security. People parted for them like the Red Sea.
As he ran, Jon started shouting in rapid-fire Spanish. With much screaming and drama, everyone scattered. "Hey! Ed!" Jon yelled, closing in on the man, Danica trying to keep pace with his long strides.
There was a small flight of shallow marble steps leading off the grand entrance to the bowels of the palace. Vera's shoes tapped out an imperative beat as he ran. Danica eyed the back of his shiny black head, then launched herself off the landing, slamming into him. She clung like a monkey, arms and legs wrapped about him as he crashed to the floor face-first. They sprawled there, Danica on top as if the entire move had been choreographed, her thighs straddling his butt. Her knees stung like fire, and she'd bitten her tongue as they landed hard, but she punched the air with a fist and gave a rebel yell.
Then, leaning close to the terrified man beneath her, Danica said, "Let's see you blow me up now, hotshot."
Jon jumped lightly down the stairs and held a nice big black gun to Vera's temple.. Then he roared with laughter.
T minus 21 hours:00minutes:54se . . .
Raven wasn't laughing an hour later as he paced outside Dani's bedroom door. The musty-smelling corridor, with its funky-colored wallpaper, lined with useless antiques, was crowded with people—from El Presidente's weird-looking kid and several of the surviving members of his cabinet to a dozen dark-suited men from the FAA, the NTSB, Interpol and other assorted agencies.
Raven stormed the length—194 paces—to the end of the long corridor and back again. For the fifth time.
What the hell was taking so long?
The president of San Cristobal had been in there— alone—with Dani, for thirty-four minutes. Thirty-five minutes. He sure as shit didn't want to speak to the alphabet soups in their official-issue suits who kept trying to question him.
He tilted his wrist to see the face of his watch in the gloom. Thirty-seven minutes.
She could've borne the next freaking royal heir by now. Raven raked his fingers through his hair as he paused outside the door. Hell, no. If she was going to bear any heir it would be— The door opened.
The president shot him a smile as he emerged. "Your wife, she is a remarkable woman, señor."
"Yeah, she sure as hell is. All done?" he asked, striving for polite, but pretty damn sure he sounded as surly as he felt. The man stepped back to let him into the room.
Without a backward glance, Raven kicked the door shut behind him, then moved to the high, canopied bed, his heart in his throat, on his sleeve and in his mouth. That about covered its calisthenics. "Hey, look at you, all pink and clean."
And heartbreakingly beautiful as she lay there, sweet-smelling and sleepy-looking, watching him with shadows in her pretty eyes, and a small smile on her luscious mouth. The white Band-Aid on her neck looked completely innocuous. Just seeing the damn thing made bile rise to the back of his throat.
He could've lost her. Again.
How many chances was God going to give him to make this right?
He sat down carefully on the bed beside her. Wanting to gather her close but mortally afraid to touch her. Afraid he'd blow this chance, this last reprieve, of getting it right. "How're you feeling?"
"Like someone stuck me in a bad action movie without a script," Danica said wryly, watching the uncomfortable shift of his gaze, and painfully aware of the awkward silence that stretched between them.
Apparently they could communicate just fine when fists and bullets were flying, but stick them in a room and expect a meaningful conversation—that was apparently beyond their capabilities.
The thought made her throat ache.
"How's your neck?" He started to reach for her, then clearly thought better of it and dropped his hand to the bedspread, curling his fingers into a fist.
"You were in here the whole time they removed it," she said, keeping the wobble out of her voice with an effort. "You know how I am." He'd held her hand tightly as she'd been given a local anesthetic to deaden the site. He didn't leave her side until the device had been successfully removed by the president's personal physician. He'd talked to her, sung a bad rendition of "Margaritaville," and distracted her from thinking her head was going to explode at any minute.
You had a shower, I see. His hair was still damp at the ends and he smelled of an unfamiliar soap. But beneath it he still smelled like Jon. He was warm and brave and strong and he loved her. She knew he did. Just as much as she loved him. All she had to do was wait him out and make him say it.
"Yeah." He pinched a corner of the lace-trimmed sheet between his fingers and started unraveling a thread. Danica had never, in all the years she'd known him, seen Jon Raven nervous. "Nice chat with the president?" he asked, not glancing up from untatting the probably priceless sheet.
Danica wanted him to look at her. Wanted him to see her. Instead, she could tell he was itching to get out of the room, already feeling stifled by the weight of what he would perceive as obligation. He would want to get back to his uncomplicated computers and fail-safe security systems. His "people," and his ordered life. She'd been too unpredictable for his well-structured world. Well, too damn bad.
"He's very grateful to both of us," she said thickly.
The doctor had wanted her to rest for seventy-two hours before she flew home. The president still wanted to award her the keys to the city. Rigo wanted to introduce her to his dog, and barring the one itch that hadn't been an insect bite after all, she still itched like crazy.
How was it possible for a heart to break twice?
Could she really just lie here and let him weasel out? Should she really let him leave? Pretend that they didn't share the connection that was so strong between them?
But the other option was to force him to admit his love. And then what good would it be?
"Jon, would you—" Just go before she started begging him? For what? Another shot at being ignored? Of feeling like the loneliest, neediest woman on the planet?
Not true, she reminded herself. Okay, the loneliness part was accurate. But that was as much her fault as his. She'd sat in that house, expecting him to entertain her. Never seeking out a life of her own—never cultivating other interests. No wonder he'd stayed at work all the time. He walked in the door and she'd clung to him like a barnacle. But she wasn't that woman anymore.
Only he didn't know that, she realized. Unless she told him, he never would.
Dangerous.
Necessary.
There was an awkward moment of tension as Danica mustered her courage. "I need to say something."
"Me first," Jon interrupted. Small beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.
He was sweating? Her heart leapt at the mere possibility. She tapped her finger against his lips. "Not this time."
His eyes rose from the unraveled lace to meet hers. "Danica, I—"
"No." She scrambled upward, meeting his intense gaze. "Me first. I got it wrong before," she began on a rush of breath. "I was immature and stupid. I expected you to be my life instead of sharing my life. I—"
"Had every reason to want that," Jon insisted, gently cupping her face.
"I want us to try again, Jon. I love you. I never stopped."
His thumb brushed her cheek. "I was the one who screwed it all up. I took you for granted. Loving someone is work. Great work/but work. I neglected you, Dani. When I should have been treasuring you." His gaze raked her face. "I loved you. Even then, when I was stump stupid, I loved you. I should have been thanking you every second of every day. Thanking you for being there. For loving me. You make me a better man, Dani. I still love you. I'll always love you."
"I'll always love you too. And just so you know, we make each other better, Jon," Danica said, leaning into him and smiling at the feel of his arms sliding around her. She listened to the staccato beat of his heart and knew they'd found each other again. "We're a great team."
"God, Dani." He held her tight. So tight she
wouldn't have been surprised to feel her body sliding right into his, becoming a part of him. "I love you so much. Be sure about this. Be sure that you want me as much as I want you—" He pulled back, stared down into her eyes and grinned. "Because I swear to God, I'll never let you get away from me again." She kissed him to seal the deal.
USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair recently saw her first hardcover, On Thin Ice, debut to critical acclaim. Her single title, Hide and Seek, was chosen as one of Romance Writers of America's top ten books of the year, and her novel Take Me has been optioned for an Oxygen Network movie of the week. Cherry and her husband live in the Northwest.
To Cherry Adair and Julie Elizabeth Leto, for graciously sharing their readers with me
San Francisco
"Gotcha, you bastard." Ignoring the chill in the room as well as the late hour, Will Malone frowned at his computer as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Yeah, there you are. Dead bastard."
He froze the frame on the museum's security disk. Enlarged and enhanced. Then stared at the picture of the man who'd been born Mario Alvarez but also went by Tomas Manning, Bennie Martin, or any of his other fifteen aliases that Will had unearthed so far. Will memorized every inch of Alvarez, the man who'd killed his sister.
Wendy. Shoving back from his computer, he tunneled his tired fingers through his hair, leaving it standing straight up.
Though Wendy had been dead and buried for
three months, he'd just now managed to track down her chameleon-like killer via these miles and miles of tapes from the San Francisco Historical Preservation Society and Museum. Wendy had worked at the museum as a jewel specialist, yet no one else had ever seen Alvarez, the man who'd quickly swept Wendy off her feet before conning her out of two million dollars worth of sixteenth-century gems that she'd been working on. He'd then murdered her and left damning evidence framing her for the loss of the jewels and smearing her name and reputation postmortem.
On the tape, the dark-haired, dark-eyed Mario pretended to enjoy one of the exhibits of assorted historical jewelry. Just a man enjoying a day off. By now he could be anywhere on the planet, working up a new con, stealing someone else's baby sister's innocence and her life.
Will's eyes, shot from long days and nights of surveying the tapes, cut to the picture frame sitting on the desk next to the computer.
Wendy's trusting smile beamed back at him, and he met it with a grim smile of his own. "I've got him now," he promised. "I'll find him." He wouldn't rest until he did.
He was beyond exhaustion, felt it in every bone of his body. He knew he had to pack up and close out Wendy's apartment, but he wasn't ready to face it. Not until Mario was behind bars.
Or in the ground.
His head began to throb from the long hours of sitting. He pushed himself up from the chair and stepped to the window to take in the sweeping hilly view of San Francisco.
