One Touch More

ONE TOUCH MORE

 

ONE KISS MORE

 

ONE NIGHT MORE

 

 

ONE TOUCH MORE

Mandy Baxter

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks so much to my amazing agent Natanya Wheeler and everyone at NYLA as well and my editor of awesomeness Esi Sogah and everyone at Kensington who helped to make this book great including the cover designers, copy editors, and proofreaders. Thanks to Angela Carr for your advice on how to properly sew someone up, to Lenny DePaul and Dianne Moates for your expertise, and to Niki Baxter for teaching me the ins and outs of the hotel business. To anyone I might have missed, you know who you are and how I feel about you!

Chapter One

“Parker? Did you hear me? I asked if you've been taking the trazodone like I prescribed. You haven't had a prescription refilled in almost six months.”

Parker Evans looked up at the expectant face of Dr. Nancy Meyers, the therapist the Marshals Service forced him to sit down and talk to whenever he completed an assignment. Was there a special course in college that all psychiatry majors were required to take where they practiced their calm, understanding facial expressions on each other? “It's Damien,” he replied. “And, no, I haven't been taking the trazodone. It makes me groggy.”

“Parker. We've discussed this. You need to learn to separate the fantasy of your undercover work from the reality of your life. Damien is a name that should only be affiliated with your undercover persona. Here, you're Parker.”

“Damien is my middle name. Isn't that still me? I mean, I guess I could go ahead and compartmentalize my last name, too. Maybe just use it on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays?” He eyed the ink on his fingers, the symbols permanently etched into his skin that helped to sell the package of his criminal status. Parker Evans was a ghost, a name affixed to a Social Security number so the USMS could cut him a check once a month. No one outside of the Marshals Service had called him Parker since he'd graduated from SOG training four years ago. The name didn't mean anything to him anymore.

Dr. Meyers pursed her lips and pushed her square-rimmed glasses up higher on her nose. Did those frames come standard issue with her crisp navy-blue suit and practical two-inch heels? “I understand that a deputy was shot and seriously injured during your last assignment. Would you like to talk about that?”

“No.”

He'd left the dude with nothing more than a single Ruger under the seat of a van, and he'd prayed to God he'd be able to get his hands on it before a trio of Mexican arms dealers managed to put a bullet in the guy's dome. He'd gambled with Landon McCabe's life, not to mention the lives of three innocent civilians. The gamble had paid off, and McCabe had proved he had the stones for the job, but the guilt still ate at Damien's gut and kept him awake at night for a week afterward. It could have just as easily gone the other way . . .

“You know I can't sign off on you going back into the field unless you open up and talk to me.”

She made it sound like he was some sort of wild animal, about to be tagged and released. He supposed that wasn't too far from the truth. He spent his days and most of his nights in the company of wild things. Just another mindless beast that should probably be put down before he turned rabid and hurt someone.

“What do you want me to say? That I'm scarred for life because a guy got shot? Sorry to break it to you, but that shit's another day at the office for me. Or I guess I could tell you that the PTSD is getting to me.” Damien cracked his neck from side to side. Jesus, if he didn't get out of here soon, he was going to lose his shit. The walls were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. “You seem to think that if I come in here every once in a while and spill my guts that I'm good to go for the next job, when really I'm just starting the cycle all over again. So why bother talking about it? This circular logic is nothing but a waste of time.”

“Does it bother you that you're not in control here, Parker?” Dr. Meyers settled into the cushions of her chair and regarded him with that infuriating and infinitely patient expression that made his teeth itch. “Perhaps opening up and talking about your experiences is a surrender of power, and that's what makes you the most uncomfortable.”

What made him
uncomfortable
was the fact that nearly every sentence out of her mouth was a goddamned question. “Look, I get that it's your job to peel back all of my painful layers until I'm nothing but a raw, exposed nerve. And I know that you guys think that by making me talk about this shit, it keeps me level and more capable of coping with undercover assignments. But I gotta tell ya, all it does is fuck with my head and my ability to effectively do my job.”

“Parker, could it be that you use your job as a shield? An excuse to keep your emotions buried?”

Their sessions were becoming more hostile by the month. In the beginning, Damien had been all on board with being psychoanalyzed. He'd had a lot of shit to unload, and the prospect of dishing it all out to an impartial stranger made him feel better about sounding like a pussy when he spilled his guts. But the more he talked, the more he opened himself up, the more vulnerable Damien began to feel. And vulnerability wasn't his friend when he was hanging out with heartless bastards who'd just as soon put a bullet in his spine than play nice. He began to realize that burying his emotional baggage was the only way to survive.

He'd had six years under his belt as a marine before he joined the USMS, and two of those years working in the field as a specialist before applying to the Marshals Service's Special Operations Group. His gruff exterior and lone wolf personality were suited for undercover work, and when he was approached, Damien went all in, more than ready to take down the bad guys from the inside, no matter the cost. If he could go back and do it all over again, he would have told his supervisor with the SOG to stick his undercover assignment straight up his—

“Parker, you're wandering again. What were you thinking about?”

Wandering
. It was what Dr. Meyers called it when he zoned the fuck out. “Wondering if I left the coffeepot on this morning,” he responded with a shrug.

Dr. Meyers pursed her lips and fixed him with a stern eye. Definitely not amused. “We can keep doing this dance for as long as you want, Parker.” She scribbled something on a yellow legal pad that he assumed outlined his inability to cooperate. “But the fact of the matter is,
you
are the one determining whether you return to the field or sit at a desk for the next six months.”

“Well, if it's all up to me, then I say I return to the field. If you wouldn't mind signing off, I'll be out of your hair and—”

“I said you were the one making the determination, but I'm the one who has final say.” Dr. Meyers cut him off and pointed her pen at him to drive the point home. “And right now, you are bound and determined to man a desk for the next half of the year. Wouldn't you agree, Parker?”

Damien focused his gaze at the bridge of her nose. An intimidation technique he employed regularly in the field. Eye contact was easy to break, but by staring right between her eyes, his attention was damned near unbreakable. Too bad the doc was a seasoned pro of the stare-down herself.

“I have all the time in the world, Parker.”

She used his name the way that a skilled interrogator might use a torture technique, water-boarding him with his true identity until he couldn't take another second of breathlessness. And he knew that the only way to find relief would be to buckle under her pressure and let her dig around inside his head for the next hour. Let Parker out to play, so to speak. And as a reward for his cooperation, he'd be allowed to walk out of this office as Damien Evans, leaving Parker behind on that goddamned couch where he belonged.

Knowing what he needed to do and actually following through were two different things, though. “You get paid whether I talk or not, so what do you care if I spill my guts? Why not sign me off, collect your fee, and call it a day? I won't tell if you won't.”

The indulgent smile that curved her lips was something a mother would give her errant three-year-old. “I'm not here simply to collect a paycheck, Parker.” Again with the Parker bullshit. His chest constricted as though fighting for oxygen. “And I don't think you are, either. We both do what we do because we want to make a difference in people's lives.”

They could talk for hours about his supposed hero complex, but that would just drag out his session, and it wasn't what Dr. Meyers really wanted to hear. “What if I don't want to be helped?”

He sensed that she was holding in a sigh. He had a tendency to wear on people's nerves. It wasn't his job to be personable or even polite, though. He interacted with criminals almost on a daily basis. Coldhearted bastards who'd just as soon kill him than give him the time of day. Ruthless sons of bitches who only respected him after he proved that he was just as ruthless as they were. And he was expected to turn his emotions on and off like they were a fucking light switch or some shit. Off in the field. On in this office. Damien on the street, Parker on this goddamned couch.

“You're the only one who can decide if you want to be helped or not, Parker,” Dr. Meyers said in a calm and practiced tone. “But I'm telling you right now, if you don't talk to me, you are
not
going back into the field. Period.”

Damien let out a measured breath. No way was he going to sit on the bench for the next six months or longer. Looked like Parker would be making an appearance today whether he liked it or not. “All right, you win. It freaked me the fuck out when I heard that the deputy from Portland had been shot. Is that what you want to hear?”

“This isn't a win or lose situation, Parker. This is about helping you. I think this is a good place to start. Let's talk about the Sousa case and Deputy McCabe.”

Everything
was win or lose. What Dr. Meyers didn't realize was that Damien had been losing for so long, he didn't know how to win.

 

 

“Thank you for calling the IdaHaven Inn and Suites, this is Tabitha, how can I help you today?”

“I need a suite for the weekend.”

Adrenaline dumped into Tabitha Martin's bloodstream at the sound of her ex, Joey's voice on the end of the line. He was
the
mistake. The guy she wished she'd never met and the one she couldn't seem to get out of her life. One of too many regrets. He was also the reason she couldn't leave this job, even though she wanted to. Their relationship had ended a year ago and he still had her right where he wanted her. The urge to hang up the phone overwhelmed her, but Tabitha took a deep breath. No use worrying over what she couldn't change.

“I don't know if I have any suites, Joey.” Her fingers flew over the keys as she brought up a list of available rooms. Maybe if they were booked, she could convince him to go somewhere else. “There's a district basketball tournament this weekend and all of the suites are already reserved.”

His silence made her stomach twist into an anxious knot. “Move someone,” he said after a tense moment. “I need the room.”

“It's not that easy.”

“You're the assistant manager, Tabs. It
is
that easy. Move someone. I need the room for Friday and Saturday nights. Make it happen.”

Liquid nitrogen couldn't have been colder than Joey's tone. He brooked no argument and Tabitha knew the consequences if she failed to deliver. “I'll have a suite ready to go,” she assured him.

“Good girl,” Joey intoned just before he hung up.

Tabitha released a shuddering breath that she felt all the way to her toes. Her relief would be short-lived since, thanks to Joey's last-minute bullshit, she'd have an angry guest to deal with come this weekend. Not to mention the fact that she'd be seeing him in person in less than two days. She'd hoped that his hotel “stays” would become less and less frequent, but if anything, they'd only picked up in the past few months. Proof that his business was booming.

How could she have ever fallen for that piece of trash?

“Hey, Tabitha. Anything I need to know for tonight?”

She looked up from her computer screen to find Dave, the secondary front-desk clerk, strolling through the lobby. Panic surged as she quickly transferred the Sheldon family's reservation to two adjoining rooms and assigned Joey's company information to the suite. It's not like Dave would be suspicious, but whenever she did one of these “favors” for Joey, she couldn't help the guilt that plagued her.

“Hey, Dave.” She exited the property management software and grabbed the logbook from under the counter. “We still have fifteen arrivals and room 321 is going to need a shuttle to the airport at six a.m. Oh, and keep an eye out for the guys in room 245, they got a little rowdy in the hot tub earlier and I had to kick them out.”

“Oh yeah?” Dave's interest was piqued at the mention of hot tub antics. “A little soft-core porn on the security cams tonight?”

Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Not quite. And for the record, unless you want to clean that hot tub yourself, you'd better not let anyone get frisky in there in the name of entertainment. I think they were a little south of tipsy and just being rowdy. I had a couple of complaints so I gave them the boot.”

“You're a hot tub dictator, Tabitha. And it's sad.”

Tabitha Martin, oppressing the propagation of staph infections in public hot tubs since 2010. “Totally proud to wear that badge of honor, Dave.” She grabbed her purse and jacket from underneath the front desk. “Okay, I'm out of here. See you tomorrow?”

“Same bat time, same bat station,” Dave replied. “'Night.”

“Good night,” she shot back as she headed for the door.

She tried not to think of the mess Joey had gotten her into as she walked through the breezeway toward the parking lot. Her shift at the hotel might have been over, but her night was just getting started. Nothing like hours of studying anatomy and physiology to round out the perfect night.

As Tabitha pulled her car out onto Ninth Street, her phone buzzed from the front seat. She reached over to retrieve it, just barely missing a red light in the process. Lucky for her traffic was light at ten o'clock at night, though that didn't excuse her reckless driving. She slid her thumb across the screen and hit the speaker function as she rested the phone on the dash. “What's up, Lila?”