Dare You to Run (13 page)

Except that she felt like a bigger one. The man she loved hated her now. It was what had to happen and still, she couldn't embrace the wisdom of it. Her heart felt like it had a fresh, raw wound. She should have seen the bright side, should have focused on the fact that Vitus could move on now. Honestly, she didn't want to be the sort of woman who left a man longing for her.

But that left her wondering just what sort of woman she was. She'd gone to him with the best intention and even if she could be objective enough to realize he'd only been pissed when he'd insulted her, the fact was, she hadn't had the self-discipline to keep her clothes on.

So maybe he'd move on, but she had a very bad feeling that there was no way she ever would.

Love totally sucked.

*   *   *

Forget her.

His self-discipline was letting him down, which was a shocker all in itself because there had been times when the only thing that kept him alive was his will to persevere. Vitus growled and opened up the cabinet above his pantry. He stared at the liquor bottles stored there as his fingers tightened around the handle until the metal edges were biting into his skin.

Shit.

He slammed the door shut, cursing Damascus for stealing even his enjoyment of a good double pour of whiskey. That was just hitting below the belt.

His cock stirred, reminding him rather bluntly of just how she affected him below the belt.

Ten fucking minutes and he'd had his hands on her again.

He was a moron.

A glutton for self-punishment.

Even now, as he moved through his house, he detected the soft touch of her scent. He stood for a long moment, looking at his bed. He leaned down to pull the sheets off and toss them in the washing machine, but a discoloration caught his eye. Turning around, he flipped the light on.

She'd been tight, but he hadn't realized it was tight enough to bleed. He stared at the stain before pulling the sheet free and walking back toward the laundry room.

There hadn't been anyone since him.

You don't know that.

He did. He'd suspected it before seeing the stain, and now he knew. The knowledge didn't sit well on his shoulders. She'd walked away from him. The last thing he needed was to think about her in some light that cast her as the woman of his dreams. He needed to think about her screwing her way through half of Washington, or holding her little body up as bait for the highest bidder.

Instead, she'd come to warn him. That stuck to his mind, long into the night when he should have been sleeping. He was thinking about why, trying to sort it out and find the pieces of information he was missing.

He rolled over at daybreak and sent a text to his brother.
“Meet me.”

He was tired but there was no point in lying in bed. His mind wasn't going to let it go, so he was going to find out just why Saxon was trailing Damascus.

Maybe then he'd be able to close the chapter of his life that included her.

Somehow, he got the notion it was going to be a whole lot harder than he anticipated. Something was off, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. But whatever it was, it was twisting deeper into him as images of their encounter replayed across his mind. She was hiding something. It had been too dark to get a good look into her eyes, but she'd been hedging. He'd made the mistake of thinking it was guilt.

You're just seeing what you want to …

Possibly, and then again she'd risked her neck to come to his house, while no one knew.

Which meant he'd missed something. A mighty big something, because whatever it was, Damascus had slipped her escort and crossed town to find him. To warn him. She'd taken a risk for him and he'd lost his head.

And that sent him off to see Saxon, because there was no way in hell he was turning his back on her when she needed help, even if she'd walked away from him.

Moron.

Fine, but there was no way he was going to allow that feeling to become one of regret because he failed Damascus in her darkest hour.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Tyler Martin knew a lot of people. Good ones, bad ones, but what made Tyler more valuable than others was the fact that he knew how to overlook just how seedy a man was in favor of how useful he might be. Under the right circumstances, even the worst scum had merit.

New Orleans had a long-standing tradition of the right kind of scum. They were connected and just organized enough to make them effective when it came to operations that needed someone not affiliated with the law.

The streets of the French Quarter were narrow with houses that rose up on either side. Bar after bar had music spilling out of their open doors, no matter what time of day or night it was. There were strippers in some, musicians in others, and the scent of food mixed freely with the music as street venders offered local cuisine while restaurants tried to lure in customers.

Tyler stopped to consider a menu. A woman walked by him, her skirt flipping back and forth across her thighs. He grinned, enjoying the view as he followed her inside and through the wooden door that led to the kitchen. She kept on walking, taking him into the maze of back alleys. It was steamy hot with the scent of moldy concrete because of the lack of sunlight. The woman kept walking, her heels tapping as she moved. She finally came to rest against the side of a building, leaning back and raising one leg so that her knee was bent and the bottom of her shoe rested against the brick wall. She'd tipped her head back, letting the moonlight shimmer off her throat while she looked up at the sky and kept her eyes off his face.

“You pick your pieces of fluff well,” Tyler said once he was inside.

There was a husky chuckle from the man sitting at a pub-style highboy table. He wasn't by far the biggest man, but the twin scars running through the stubble on his chin added strength to his persona.

“She knows to keep her eyes off business,” he said, tapping the tabletop in invitation.

Tyler slid onto a stool and resisted the urge to investigate the shadows around the room. For sure there were men there, men who wouldn't hesitate to kill him on Pratt's orders. But he'd known what sort of scum he was meeting. He aimed a firm stare at the man known only as Pratt, who was the Raven's right-hand man. Arms dealing, guns for hire, high-profile hostage trade—that was his world. He was among the best in the business.

“So … this business. It will cost you,” Pratt said.

“Didn't think you were into favors,” Tyler responded.

Pratt grinned, reveling chipped teeth. He snapped his fingers and someone appeared with two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Every man owes his share of favors. I am no exception.” He flipped open a knife and cut into the wax seal on the bottle. “But I do not owe you any that I know of.”

There was a faint Russian accent to his tone. He peeled the wax seal off and poured two measures. Tyler reached for one glass without hesitation. There was a momentary flicker of surprise in Pratt's eyes before he scooped up his own.

“Little point in suspecting you of trying to poison me before payment is made,” Tyler explained as he took a sip.

“Unless I have decided it is too risky to do business with the head of security for Congressman Jeb Ryland.”

Tyler set his glass down. “If your balls aren't big enough, I'm wasting my time.”

Pratt lowered his glass a little too fast, and it clunked against the tabletop. “I am man enough.”

“Good.” Tyler tossed back the remains of his drink and set the glass down with a solid thud. “I need the job done right. The girl is to be returned.”

“Yes, yes … unharmed.” Pratt waved his hand in the air between them.

“I don't give a shit what you do to her, so long as she's mostly in one piece and mentally together enough to be of use. Don't do anything permanent that is too extreme. Just make sure you leave her face alone.”

Pratt chuckled, a dangerous little sound that was rather evil if Tyler cared, which he didn't. Damascus needed to get busy making her father happy. Life was going to be mighty hard for her until she learned that lesson. He already knew which way the wind was blowing and he was going to do what he had to in order to make sure he had a place on the ship.

“The Hale brothers—” Tyler began.

“Die,” Pratt said flatly. “In front of her, preferably. So she learns her place.”

Tyler nodded and tossed a thick envelope down on the table. “First installment. Cash, used bills. As requested.”

Pratt had already pulled a bundle of money from the envelope and was flicking through it like a deck of playing cards. He flipped to the end and nodded.

“There are two security passes in there. The girl will be at a bridal shower this weekend. Those will get your men in as caterers. Van will be left at the agreed location.”

Pratt poured himself another drink. Someone shifted behind him, opening a door. There was the glow of a red light just behind him. A woman sat there on the end of a bed, wearing a lacy bra and garter belt. She had her long, trim legs crossed and a black mask over her eyes. Tyler didn't move. Pratt raised an eyebrow before rapping on the tabletop with his knuckles. Another body shifted into view, this one was a male, wearing just as little and with his eyes covered also to protect Tyler's identity.

“Whatever you want … it can be had,” Pratt explained.

“Just the deal,” Tyler said as he turned and left.

Keeping perspective was key. His cock was hard but he walked away, taking cover in a crowd of people making their way down Bourbon Street. They wore tags from some convention around their necks—most had their ties stuffed into their pockets—and cheered when their guide pointed at a bar.

Perspective had kept him on the rise for years. He never mixed his fucking with work. There would be plenty of time for that later. Tyler was going to get what he wanted.

Tyler planned to enjoy the moment.

*   *   *

Vitus stopped short of going into the house Saxon was using as a command center because his phone was buzzing. He caught Kagan's identification code and felt a tingle go down his spine. It might just be another assignment, but his gut told him it wasn't.

“You want me to what?” Vitus demanded a half minute later. His cool was slipping. Okay, it was fried because his temper was in full flare-up mode. He'd missed something the night before, that was for damn certain now.

“What part of your assignment is unclear, Agent Hale?” Kagan asked calmly. “Damascus Ryland is a high-profile target. I want you to sit on her.”

His misgivings doubled, but he decided to see what information Kagan might spill.

“Fuck the bitch,” he bit out. “I'm not laying my ass on the line for her.”

“I noticed that she prefers your company. Fine by me.”

“Zip it!” Vitus growled back. “She's a lady.”

“Not with you she isn't.” Kagan spoke with just enough knowledge in his tone to make Vitus shut his jaw. Vitus knew his section leader. Kagan didn't bullshit around. He knew what he knew and had amazing timing on letting you know when he was wise to you. So far, Kagan hadn't really admitted anything but he was doing exactly what Vitus was doing himself—jabbing at his opponent in the hope of gaining a response. Kagan knew something that had to do with Damascus.

Which meant Vitus was taking the assignment. A pack of wolves couldn't have stopped him. “Details?”

“She's going to a private party. I want to make sure she's got eyes on her. Tyler has been making some interesting contacts. I think he's making ready to pull something. Sending you the facts.”

His gut tightened in response to Kagan's tone. There was another thing he knew about his section leader—Kagan didn't waste his time. His reservations shriveled up in the face of that hard, certain trust he had for Kagan. Nothing was going to get between him and Damascus now.

*   *   *

“We've gotten off on the wrong foot,” Carl Davis said as casually as he might have ordered salad dressing.

Damascus couldn't have agreed more, but she bit back the response she wanted to make. Carl was grinning at her, looking like he knew what she was thinking.

He was walking beside her, his shirt sleeves rolled up to bare his wrists since the weather had warmed up. They were in her father's gardens. A place she couldn't very well escape from. Of course, both he and her sire knew that.

Just two more weeks …

“I really don't want to be rude,” she said. “But I didn't invite you to lunch.”

“And I followed you out here?” Carl finished with a smile. “Damascus, be very sure that I know exactly what I am doing. I've been planning to make a run for the presidency since I was four.”

She got a very unsettled feeling in her belly as she noticed the flicker of enjoyment in his eyes. “I don't get why you're amused, Carl.”

It might have been wiser to keep her mouth shut. Okay, it definitely would have been a better choice, but part of her rebelled at playing games. She stopped and faced him, completely exhausted being someone she wasn't. “I told you the straight-up truth. Are you really into games?” she asked.

“The right games,” he answered as he reached out to tap her on the end of her nose.

It wasn't what she'd expected. Some sort of attempt to kiss her maybe, but Carl took a few steps away and pushed his hands into his pockets. He made a slow survey of the area before bringing his attention back to her.

“Well, I'm not into toying with men,” she told him firmly.

He flashed her a knowing smile. “Yes you are.”

Her insides twisted with something that felt a lot like forewarning. There was a glitter in his eyes that hinted at him making ready to drop something on her.

“I want what I want, Damascus, but that doesn't mean you can't get something you enjoy out of the bargain.”