Playing With Fire (5 page)

Tell me it's because you needed me. That you couldn't stand the thought of something happening to me, that—

“Hell if I know.”

She glared at him.

But he didn't even notice. He'd pulled away. Hurried around the front of the Jeep and jumped into the driver's seat.

They drove away with a squeal of tires.

 

Cassie wasn't bleeding anymore. The woman really could heal at an amazing speed. But Dante didn't know if he believed that her healing talent came from him.

Or from his tears.

He might not remember his life, but he didn't exactly think that he was the crying sort.

They'd stopped at a pharmacy earlier. She'd run inside, bought a cheap new T-shirt, changed, and ditched her bloody old one. She came back out with only a faint red mark on her neck.

At the moment, they were driving on the interstate. The wind whipped through the Jeep, the sun beat down on them, and—

She was sleeping.

He slanted a glance toward her. She'd yanked her long hair back into a ponytail, but tendrils had escaped with the wind and they blew lightly around her face.

In sleep, she looked innocent. Delicate.

But then, she'd looked delicate in his dreams, too. Right before she'd killed him.

Did she have dreams? Nightmares? He'd like to know.

“Stay on the interstate,” she said, her voice barely rising over the whipping wind. “We need to head down south.”

Huh. So she wasn't sleeping. “What's in the South?”

“People who are counting on me.” She shifted in her seat, stretching a bit. When she stretched, that T-shirt pulled across the round curves of her breasts in the
best
way.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and he forced himself to focus on the road. He had been driving for four hours already. He eased toward the nearest exit, thinking that they'd gas up, and head out again.

“You
are
coming with me, right? You aren't planning to ditch me at this exit?”

There was no missing the worried edge in her voice.

He hadn't thought about, uh, ditching her, but then, he didn't know why he was still with her. Why he felt the
need
to stay close to her.

Dante slowed down the Jeep as they turned toward the lone service station that sat at the top of the hill. He wasn't even sure what state they were in, but the Jeep's engine had started to sputter, and he was worried that sound meant the vehicle wouldn't make it much farther.

“How the hell do I know,” he asked, not answering her question, “how to drive? How to tell that it sounds like the radiator
might
make it a few more hours? I didn't know my own damn name before you told me, but—”

“It's a type of source amnesia.” Her words were soft. “That's what I figured, anyway. You can remember how to do things, like drive a car or—or kiss.” She cleared her throat. “But you don't remember when or where you learned them. It's all the specific, explicit memories that you lose when you burn.”

“They come back.” Hadn't she said that?

“Usually. You never told me what it was like when you burned. You never told anyone for certain, so I don't know what happens to you. Where you go.”

Hell.

“There have been times when you came back, and all of your memories were with you. It was rare, but it happened.”

“And when it didn't?”

“They were usually back in a week.”

Usually?
He got the feeling the woman was being deliberately vague, and he sure wasn't in the mood for any games.

Dante waited until he'd braked the vehicle then turned his full attention to Cassie. No one else was around, so he figured he could be honest with her. “I don't know if I should help you or kill you.”

Her eyes widened. “I . . . didn't realize that killing me was an option on the table.”

It wasn't. He'd said the words to get some kind of response from her. Any response. Her words before had been too careful and quiet. Like the woman was hiding what she really felt.

She was
still
hiding. The slight flaring of her eyes wasn't good enough for him. “Who are the men hunting you?”

“Hunting
us
?” she corrected carefully. “That's what you meant, right? Because they're hunting both of us. Not just me.”

He locked his back teeth.

“Those men work for the government. A very secret group that humans don't know about. The paranormals who know about them? Well, let's say they probably all wish they'd never heard of them, too.” Her gaze darted behind him. There wasn't anything to see back there. Just a field of wheat.

“What do they want with you—us?” Dante asked.

Her gaze came back to him. “They want us to make them an army. An unstoppable army with your fire and immortality.”

That said why they wanted him. “Why
you
?”

Her smile was broken. “Because I'm the mad scientist that they believe can create this army for them.” She climbed from the Jeep.

He followed her. “Why the hell would they think that?”

“Because my father already made them one army of
enhanced
”—she stressed the word as she tried to shove back her loose tendrils of hair—“vampires. Of course, that turned into a freaking nightmare, but the guys in suits just don't learn, do they?”

Her
father
? Dante caught her arm and turned her toward him.

Her gaze lingered on his. “Every time you rose, I always wondered . . . will this be the time he remembers nothing? When the memories just don't return?” The mask was falling away.

He didn't speak.

“Maybe—maybe there are some things you'd rather not remember. There sure are things I'd prefer to forget.” She smiled.

He knew it was a fake smile because her eyes didn't light up. So much for her mask sliding away.

“I'll go pay for the gas. Good thing you had some cash on you, huh?”

He'd stolen the money. Not such a “good” thing. But Dante was realizing he wasn't well acquainted with good.

He handed her the money. As soon as his fingers brushed hers, he felt the connection again. A surge of lust and need that seemed to pulse all the way through his veins.

She tried to pull away from him.

He didn't let her go.

“Do you think I don't remember that we were lovers?” He asked the question deliberately. Again, wanting to see her response.

But she shook her head. Her fake smile fell away. “We were never lovers, Dante.”

Yet he knew her taste.

When she pulled away again, he let her go. He watched her walk away from him and toward the station. Enjoyed the sway of her ass, and then he called out, “Cassandra!”

She stopped. Looked back at him.

“We will be,” he promised her.

He saw her swallow.

“You left me hours ago—just walked out. Now you think you'll sleep with me?” She shook her head. “You aren't that irresistible, no matter what you think.”

She headed into the small station. His eyes narrowed.
We will be.

 

The bell over the door jingled when Cassie entered the station. She glanced toward the counter and saw the clerk staring her way.

Older, balding, with a faded shirt and a grizzled jaw, he seemed to be studying her a bit too closely.

She gave him a smile, trying to put on her friendliest face. “Twenty dollars' worth of gas, please.” She headed toward the counter. A glance to the upper right corner revealed the surveillance video that was currently showing Dante as he put gas in the Jeep.

She slid her cash across the counter and glanced up at the TV that had been mounted behind the counter. A sports show was on—a basketball game.

“Where you headed?” the clerk asked, taking the money and ringing up the sale real fast.

She kept her smile in place. “My boyfriend and I are going to visit some relatives in Georgia.” She didn't actually have any relatives anymore. They were all dead.

“Maps are in the back,” he told her, inclining his head. “You might want to pick up a few.”

That wasn't such a bad idea. The old Jeep wasn't equipped with any GPS, and if they could find a short cut that would take them to Belle, Mississippi, in time . . . “Thanks. I'll do that.” She turned away from him and headed toward the maps.

The basketball game kept playing behind her. She heard the rustle of footsteps.

“Authorities are still looking for the two suspects wanted in connection with an arson that killed four people in Chicago . . .”

That wasn't the basketball game. That was a newsflash that she'd rather be doing without. Cassie kept walking. It wasn't the time to panic. She glanced over at the maps and tried to act casual.

“Federal officials have identified one of the suspects as twenty-nine-year-old Cassandra Armstrong, an ex-doctoral student from Tulane who—”

Ex-doctoral?
She'd gotten that doctorate—and an MD.

Cassie turned for the door and found her path blocked by the store clerk. He had a shotgun in his hands. “That same news story has been on every fifteen minutes for the last four hours. They've been running a picture of you every time it airs.”

The gun was pointing right at her heart.

“Did you kill those four people in Chicago?”

They
were
dead, though they hadn't exactly been people. Or, well, humans, anyway. “Does it matter that they were trying to kill me?”

The clerk was between her and the door.
Dammit.
She should have realized that her story would be fed to the media. It was a strategy that had been used before.

Give your prey no place to hide. Let everyone hunt them.

She was being hunted, all right.

“Cassandra Armstrong is considered armed and dangerous. She should not be confronted. If you see her, you should call . . .”
The news reporter quickly rattled off a number that Cassie was sure was also flashing on the screen at that moment.

“You don't look dangerous to me,” the clerk said, frowning.

Appearances can be deceiving. “This isn't your fight. Just step out of my way, and let me go.”

His hold tightened on the gun.

She had a handy new healing technique, but would she heal from a gunshot wound to the chest? Cassie didn't think she wanted to find out.

Sweat beaded the man's brow. “You . . . killed those people.”

The bell jingled behind him.

Oh, crap
. If he swung at Dante with that gun—
Dante would burn him.

“No!” Cassie cried out, then she slammed her body into the store clerk's. They tumbled onto the floor, but she got up faster than he did.

And she came up with the shotgun in her hands.

The man's eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. “I-I got a wife . . . kids . . .”

“Cassie?” Dante was behind her.

“You're gonna keep that wife and kids, sir. I'm not hurting you.” She backed up and bumped into Dante. “You just stay on the floor. Count to one hundred, and forget you ever saw us.” She would
not
have this man's death on her conscience.

Her conscience was already messed up enough.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .” The man closed his eyes as he started to count. He didn't get up off the floor.

Cassie shoved her elbow into Dante's rock-hard abs. “Let's go.”

He was staring at her with a furrow between his brows. Another shove had him moving. When they were at the Jeep, she tossed the shotgun into the nearest trash can and jumped into the vehicle.

Cassie thought Dante would gun the engine and get them out of there. He didn't move. He was in the driver's seat, and the guy was just . . . staring at her.

“What?”
Cassie snapped.

“You jumped on that man . . .”

That was obvious.

“You were . . . saving me?” He seemed stunned.

“Yes, well, when you die, it's not exactly pretty.” And if he'd risen, he would have blown up that whole gas station. “Now can we
please
get out of here? I don't buy for a minute that the guy is counting all the way to one hundred before he springs to his feet.” More likely, he was already calling the cops on them.

“You should have killed him.”

“No.” She grabbed for the key and cranked the ignition.

“He was a human, one who was just trying to do the right thing.”
Been there, done that.
“He didn't deserve to die.” Her gaze sought Dante's. “Now come on. Get this thing moving.”

He held her gaze a second longer. Then the Jeep jerked forward. Finally. They left that gas station with a squeal of their nearly bald tires. Left the shotgun.

She was very afraid that trouble would be following close behind—trouble in the form of Lieutenant Colonel Jon Abrams. Jon was the leader of the group Uncle Sam had gunning for her—and Jon was also the man who'd once said he loved her.

She hadn't believed him. Despite the fact that he was a damn good liar.

Once upon a time, he'd been a would-be fiancé. Now, he was the man who wanted her to make him an unstoppable army.

Sorry, Jon, that's not going to happen.

Unfortunately, she knew from bitter experience that he didn't give up easily. Especially when he wanted something badly enough.

 

“And you're sure the woman you saw was Cassandra Armstrong?” Jon asked as he stared across the counter at the shaken store clerk.

The guy—Tommy Wells—gave a quick nod. “That was her. She—she jumped me. Took my gun before I could call the cops.” His head hung a bit in shame as he gave the confession.