Hold on Tight (16 page)

He still had a hell of a lot to prove.

When he’d roamed the streets of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, he was a poor kid with a chip on his shoulder. His dad deserted the family when Kevin was born, and his mom worked long hours, so Kevin was always in charge of himself. He ran wild through the streets, making friends … making connections.

Hiding Jamie and PJ’s parents from the Russian crime syndicate was easy for Kevin—he knew the ins and outs, knew what that particular group was like, knew their foibles. He’d grown up with them.

From street thug to cop, he’d worked his way up the ranks to detective quickly. And he’d gone undercover, pretended not to be above taking bribes from his old friends in order to get information on higher-ranking members of the Russian crime syndicate.

Once he’d gotten the information, his life had been in danger. That’s when the U.S. Marshals came after him with an offer, based on his experience.

As a young marshal, he’d so far avoided being the one who counseled the families during their three-week-or-less phase of learning
I’m not who I was anymore
.

But that ended when Patricia Jane and Ana were ushered into his life, huddled in blankets they’d been given from the musty trunk of a patrol car. Fourteen-year-old PJ had blood on her hands. Ana was eight, still a baby in so many ways.

There was no way he could have put them into foster care—there wasn’t a system of checks and balances for them there. It would’ve been too great a compromise to their safety. He knew what the Russian crime syndicate was capable of, knew that keeping Ana and PJ close was of the utmost importance for their well-being.

He’d been married to Grace for three years at that point. They’d dated in high school and all through his time with the NYPD—she’d been hoping that his job as a marshal would be safer.

She’d been cold and unforgiving, even then, and Kevin blamed himself. A detective’s wife dealt with a lot. When he’d gone undercover, their relationship suffered. High-school-sweetheart love was far different than grown-up reality. Her attitude only grew worse after they’d taken the girls in. There was nothing else he could’ve done at that point. He felt responsible, was responsible, because he’d looked into their mom’s eyes when she’d first won the case against the head of the Russian crime syndicate and promised her that nothing would ever happen to her children. And while bringing them into his home had brightened his life in more ways than he could count, in Grace’s eyes, it had done irreparable damage to his marriage.

When all was said and done, the only thing he had left to console himself with was the knowledge that he had done the right thing—the only thing, under the circumstances. If it meant keeping the girls safe, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

With that, he took one last look at the newspaper clipping—the obituary of Alek’s father—before stuffing it back into his pocket. Jamie didn’t need to know about this now, not when it had been confirmed that Gary Handler was the one stalking her.

Even so, that information still sat uneasily in his gut.

“Kevin, this is Chris—” she began, but Kevin held a hand up.

“He’s already introduced himself. And you still haven’t said what you’re doing here,” Kevin said to Chris, his tone leaving no doubt as to his anger. Chris stood his ground, even as Kevin went toe to toe with him.

Chris was much, much taller, but Kevin was stocky and broad—the two would most likely be an even match in a brawl, although Jamie did not want it to come to that.

“I’m here for Jamie,” Chris said.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

Chris’s phone rang then, saving her from actually stepping in between the two of them. “It’s my CO—I’ve got to answer,” he said, and stepped away to take the call.

She turned to Kevin. “You’ve got to calm down.”

“And you need to start using the common sense I know you have.”

“Chris knows. He has a right to be here. And I will not be treated like a child. I won’t hide from this man. Handler’s gone from being stalked to being the stalker, and he’s probably reveling in it. He can’t be allowed to turn the tables like this.”

“You shouldn’t stay here, Jamie.”

“Where else can I go, Kevin? He knows where you live too,” she argued, as Chris returned, snapping his phone shut. “Is everything all right?”

Chris nodded. “I’ve got to take off for a little while. That was Saint—we’re going to see Mark. If it was anything else, I wouldn’t leave you now,” he told her, and then asked Kevin, “Are you staying here with her?”

“Yeah, I’m staying with her.”

“Do you have any leads on Handler?” Chris asked, and Kevin was in his face.

“This isn’t your business.”

“She’s my business. Don’t doubt that for a second, sir,” he told Kevin before turning to Jamie. “If you need me, call. Immediately.”

He didn’t wait for an answer to his command before he left the house, closing the door heavily behind him.

She turned back to Kevin, “Chris has been watching me—”

“I know that—my men let me know this morning.” Kevin shook his head in disapproval. “That’s not his job.”

“Suppose you had to choose between your job and the person you thought you might love?” she asked him.

Kevin smiled, but his eyes didn’t light up at all. “I did, Jamie. I chose the job. I chose you and PJ, and I’ll never regret that.”

“Three hours. A goddamned miracle.” Saint ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it—it already stood out in all directions and he didn’t seem to care. He’d pulled on a pair of shorts, but her face heated as she stared at his chest.

It’s the heat from the stove
.

She turned back to what she was doing. “I was hungry. But I’ll never eat all of this. You have to help me finish it.”

He gave a grunt in reply—he was still groggy, she supposed. And then she heard the scrape of his chair, a small acquiescence, and she smiled.

“I told you before, I’m well aware that you’re handling me,” he said finally, once she put a glass of water in front of him.

“Then you’re also well aware that you’re allowing yourself to be handled.”

“Because you’re not a member of my team or my mother. You, I can handle.”

“Now, that’s not an innocent choice of words.” She turned the gas off under the rice and continued to stir it.

“Nothing that comes out of my mouth is innocent, Patricia—I thought you knew that already.”

Patricia
. She hadn’t been called that in forever, liked the way it sounded with his drawl. He’d asked her earlier what PJ stood for, and now she remembered him whispering her name in her ear while he was inside of her, and felt the shiver go up her spine.

She was in deep.

God, she didn’t like the way she felt around him—a spinning tire, out of control, a ride on a fast-moving Ferris wheel, her belly out of whack in a way it never was, even in the planes she’d flown.

And just like all the other times she’d felt out of control, she was waiting for the inevitable crash to happen—real or emotional.

Yes, short, meaningless affairs were easiest, ones that satisfied her physical needs and let her walk away without looking back. Without caring.

When she looked at Saint, she knew she cared.

Quickly, she put the rice and chicken on a plate for him. It was close to six but it felt much later. The rain had started in again and brought a cloud covering that blanketed the house in darkness.

Saint had flipped on the main lights in the kitchen before he’d sat down—she’d been working with only the ones above the stove.

After he’d eaten his fill, he sat back with his water in hand and checked the messages on his phone. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and shook his head, like
I don’t need this shit right now
. And at one point, he outright groaned.

“Everything all right?” she asked.

He sighed heavily and put the phone down. “My mom’s coming into town tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She’d been pushing the rice around on her plate, not really eating much of anything. “I’ll make sure I clear out of here by then.”

“You don’t have to do that. She’s not staying here. I’ll meet her at her hotel for a quick meal. It’s only one night, on her way to New York to do some shopping.” He shook his head. “You’re welcome to come along.”

“Yeah, sure. ‘Hi, Mom, this is the woman I’m currently fucking.’”

Saint finished his water in a long swig, and she admired the way his neck flexed as he drank. Then he put his glass down and said, “Fuck you, PJ. Or Sophie. Or whoever the hell you want to be. I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not working.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You play a nice head game. Try to push everyone out of your way so you can be the one in control, the one to come running back in and fix things. But guess what, honey, I’m not running. So what the hell are you going to do with someone who doesn’t run away?”

She didn’t know, had never had that happen before. “You’ll run. They all do.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the room. “Yeah, we’re all the same, right?”

“I never said that.”

“Maybe you should listen to what you say a little more closely, then. Besides, I heard that you’re the one who leaves. Maybe you force the men out of your life so you can say they left. Handy excuse, right?” He pushed his chair back abruptly. “I’m out of here.”

She hadn’t meant to do that, to shoot her mouth off about meeting his mom when he was about to identify the body of his best friend. And she couldn’t find her voice to apologize, didn’t stop him as he brushed past, simply sat at the table and stared out at the rain.

She hated that Jamie had told him that she would leave, hated that Saint was right—completely, utterly right. She lived on auto-pilot most of the time, trying not to think too hard or feel too much or give anything away to anyone. She was danger—TNT—to herself and to Jamie … and to any man who got too close.

The memorial had been moved up to tomorrow—
Better that way
, the admiral had said.
These boys need closure
.

“Ready?” Saint asked. He was out of the car and heading toward the building without waiting for an answer, and somehow Chris was right on his six.

Both men were in uniform for this—jungle BDUs, just the way they’d both last seen Mark. The halls were quiet and cold … and fucking creepy as shit.

Saint had already seen a copy of Mark’s last will and testament. Mark wanted to be cremated, his ashes spread across the Florida wetlands, his favorite place to fly over.

Saint would see that it was done.

“It’s not pretty,” the coroner warned them as he led them to the room where the body rested. “He’s been badly burned.”

“Post-mortem?” Saint asked.
And please fucking God let that be true
.

“It appears so. He’s also got several bullet wounds—most likely that’s what he died from. We’re doing an autopsy. The FBI requested it. But based on the reports, it’s pretty clear how he died.” The coroner’s face was set in sympathetic lines.

Saint turned to Chris. “You’re sure you still want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” Chris said, his face tight. The nervous energy had gone, though, replaced by a calm Saint saw him use when sniping. But still, Chris lagged behind Saint when the door opened and they saw a sheet-covered body lying on a metal table in the cold room.

Saint walked in first, right up to the body. When he nodded, the coroner pulled the sheet down, slightly past Mark’s shoulders. Saint forced himself to keep breathing, to remain calm—for himself, for Chris and for Mark.

Especially for Mark.