Safe Passage (6 page)

He peered into the dim light, catching sight of her in the living room. He bit back a chuckle.

Dr. Van Rijn was slouched on a sofa, her long legs propped up on a coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other. Her feet were still shod in heavy black biker boots. In her right hand she held a wrist-braced slingshot. Yellow light quivered from a candle on the mantel over the fireplace.

Fascinated, Scott watched as she took a metal bead the size of a large marble from a leather pouch resting at her side. She fitted it against the powerband of the slingshot, drew it slowly, steadily, back with her left hand.

She aimed, right arm extended fully. And released.

Before he could blink, the silvery-white wedding balloons hanging in the far corner of the living room exploded into tattered rags.

Scott’s hand shot down to muzzle Honey.

Skye reached for another bead. Scott watched, intrigued as she repeated the process. But this time she aligned her weapon directly with the wedding cake on the table in the dining room.

He held his breath.

She pulled.

Released.

The silver bullet whizzed, slamming the tiny groom dead in the heart. It shattered, flew back with a crack against the wall.

Scott swallowed.

The woman was an astounding marksman. And what she held in her hand was a deadly serious weapon. Stupefied, he stood motionless as she positioned another bead, stretched the yellow surgical tubing back taut.

She raised it slowly, aimed at the heart of the little white bride standing lonely on the cake.

But Honey could stay quiet no longer. She whimpered.

Skye spun.

Before Scott could breathe, the lethal bead was trained on him, aimed straight at the center of his forehead.

He froze.

Skye didn’t move. Her face was totally expressionless. That above all spoke volumes. He’d seen that kind of control before. He had little doubt she could kill.

He cleared his throat. “You could hurt someone with that, Doctor.”

Still she didn’t move. “That’s the idea,
Mr. Futurist.
” Her voice was steady, smoky.

“Who do you plan to hurt?”

“I can think of a couple of people off the top of my head.”

“I’m one of them?”

“Should you be?”

“Perhaps.”

She slowly relaxed tension on the slingshot, lowered her weapon, her expression still deathly serious. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean, Mr. McIntyre?”

“Damned if I know. It sounded right. You scared the spit out of me. I don’t think straight when I’m scared,” he lied.

She laughed, mirthlessly. “Sorry. Come in. I thought you were someone else.”

“Oh, really. Who?”

Her eyes flicked to the window and back. “No one. Doesn’t matter. Come in.”

Scott felt as if he’d been invited into a lair. Wary, he stepped over the bags at the door. He nodded toward them. “You planning on going somewhere?”

She stood as he entered the living room, stared him directly in the eye, her back straight as a rod. “What’s it to you?”

He raised both hands. “Hey, I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time. I can come back later.”

She studied him carefully. Her eyes cut briefly back to the window. Then she spoke. “No. My apologies. I’ve had a bad day. I could do with some company. Take a seat. Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the table. “Sorry the champagne’s warm.”

By the way her eyes kept flicking to the window, Scott figured she’d noticed the tail parked across the street.

And he figured she was worried. She didn’t want to socialize with him, she wanted him around for protection from whomever she thought was following her.

And that suited him. Because he wanted information.

He moved over to the table laden with wilted wedding hors d’oeuvres. A sad sight. He looked up from the table, at the jilted bride. Something snagged in his heart.

He quickly glossed it over. Resting his cane against the table, he reached for two glasses, pulled a bottle of champagne from the silver tub of melted ice.

Without speaking, he limped over to the coffee table, set the two glasses down, popped the cork with a muffled burst and poured frothing warm liquid into the glasses.

Skye watched in silence.

He straightened, held a glass out to her. She took it, fingers softly brushing his as she did, her touch leaving a wake of sensitized nerves.

Scott swallowed his reaction, raised his glass. “I propose a toast.”

Skye’s mouth pulled sideways in a grimace. “Yeah.” She raised her glass. “To being dumped at the altar.” She pressed the glass to her lips, took a slow sip, eyes locked steady with his over the rim.

He noticed her lips were full as they rested on the champagne glass rim, moist with the drink. Scott felt sudden thirst, took a deep sip from his own drink.

Still her gaze didn’t shift. Silence hung heavy, thick.

He felt a prickle of unease, tore his eyes from her stare.

Focus, dammit.

He set his glass carefully down on the coffee table.

“Why’d you come over tonight, McIntyre?”

“I…wanted to see if you were doing okay. You were in a bad way last night.” He attempted a smile. “And I want my jacket back.”

Confusion pulled at her brow. She glanced at the leather jacket slung over the backpack by the front door. “I’m sorry. I was going to bring it back. Thank you, once again, for taking care of me last night. It’s not my style to crumble like that.”

“That, I can believe.” But despite her efforts at outward control, Scott could see the woman was jumpy. Maybe even flat-out scared. He decided to put his theory to test. “Well, you seem to be doing fine. I’ll just grab my jacket and be going now—”

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm, eyes wide. “Have some food. Stay. Someone’s got to eat that stuff. Maybe Honey wants some. There’s plenty more champagne.”

Scott could feel the urgency in her fingers. He was right. She was petrified. He pulled a face. “Got any ice?”

“Plenty.” She made for the fridge, returned with a bucket of ice and set it on the coffee table. She moved quickly over to the hors d’oeuvres, started loading the lifeless snacks onto two plates. She brought them over to the coffee table, set them next to the ice bucket.

She hesitated. “Did you see those guys outside, in the brown car?”

So she
had
seen them. “Nope, why?”

“They seem to be waiting for something. I thought maybe you might know them.”

She was fishing. “Never noticed them.” He popped a cracker into his mouth. “More champagne?”

She held out her glass. He poured.

“Thanks.” She sat on the sofa, sipped, shivered slightly as she swallowed. She looked so drained. Cold.

“Can I light your fire?”

Her eyes snapped wide, startled by his gesture. “I…yes, thank you…I’d love some warmth.”

He eased himself down onto his haunches and started to build the fire in her hearth.

She picked at the food on her plate. But he could feel her eyes on his back, watching him as he coaxed tiny flames to life. Tongues of fire grew, licked, crackled around the kindling.

With the fire fully engaged, warmth emanated quickly from the hearth. Honey moved near, flopping down beside him. Skye leaned a little closer. “Come join me on the sofa, McIntyre.” Her words were soft, her voice rich. It had an almost opalescent quality that rolled smooth, rounded and low through his gut.

He looked up into her face. Her lids were low, sultry over the silver of her eyes. She reminded him of an animal who prowled, lean and hungry in the shadows. One not to be trusted.

What game was she playing now?

Scott tried to push himself to his feet, winced as fresh pain sliced through his knee. He dropped back down to the floor, choked a curse.

The dangerous smoke wiped instantly from her eyes. Instead, concern etched into her features. “You okay?”

“Nothing I can’t live with.” He breathed shallow, waited for the tide of pain to ebb.

She reached out, tentatively touched his leg. “What’s the prognosis for your knee?”

He shrugged. “I had a joint replacement. If I’m a good boy and rest enough, I should be fine. If not, I’m in trouble.” He blew air out slowly through pursed lips. “It’ll always be a thorn in my side, though. Just when I thought I was on the mend it’s all swelled up like a bloody balloon again.”

“Let me see.” She dropped down beside him onto the hearth.

“See what?”

“Your knee. Let me see it.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I can help.” She reached down, started to roll up the leg of his jeans. Her braid fell over her shoulder. He could smell her shampoo. He jerked back, shocked at the hot reaction in his gut.

Her hand halted in surprise.

Her eyes slid slowly up to his, held. “Take it easy, McIntyre. I don’t bite.”

Yes, you do.

She turned her attention back to rolling up the cuff of his jeans. Scott sucked air in sharply, braced against the sweet, wicked electrical pulses that shot up the inside of his thigh as he felt her hands, cool and soft, against his ankle.

Her eyes shot back up to his. “That hurt?”

He swallowed, met her gaze. “Not exactly.”

She touched the inside of his calf.

He gasped. Nerves, already hot and sensitized from pain, zinged raw under the coolness of her touch. He gritted his teeth, flinched at the kaleidoscope of sensation.

Her eyes held his. The air between them grew thick. Surged. Her lips parted slightly. She moved her hand slowly up the inside of his calf, splayed her fingers over muscle, began to caress with slow, rhythmic undulating movement.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, Scott.” A carnal smoke swirled through the silver of her eyes. It snaked husky and deep through her voice. His own vision blurred.

“Tell me if this hurts.” She pressed harder.

His stomach swooped in reaction. He swallowed, couldn’t seem to find his voice.

Her hand moved higher up the inside of his leg toward his knee.

“How does this feel, McIntyre? Tell me.” Her voice purled through him. “I want to know what you’re feeling.”

“Scott, call me Scott.” He split the hot tension, grabbed for a sense of normalcy. “Do you know what you’re doing here? You a medical doctor, too?” She knew damn well what she was doing to him. He was sure of it.

“I know some stuff.” Her voice remained low, undeterred.

Her eyes dropped to her hands as she worked the denim carefully up, exposed his knee. She sucked her breath in sharply at the sight of it. Her eyes flashed up to his. “That looks painful.”

“You see, looks like a balloon.”

“God, that’s one angry scar.” She traced the puckered, puce line of flesh softly with her fingers, following it around to the tender underside of his joint.

Scott jerked back. Shocked. Not from pain but from the burning thrill of her cool hand on his hot, sensitive skin. It cracked a jolt clean through to his groin.

“That hurt?”

“You don’t want to know how it felt.” He heard the thick, heavy edge in his own voice.

A faint, sultry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her lids drooped over her eyes, her voice went even lower, like smooth, hot mist over a desert well.

He swallowed, his throat dry.

She stroked the inside of his feverish knee with languid, rhythmic movement. He felt himself grow thick. “Does that feel good?”

His loins answered, pulsed, hot and heavy between his thighs, aching for the languorous touch of her hands. By God, she was seducing him. And he was utterly powerless.

She moved closer. He could feel the sweet warmth of her champagne-kissed breath. “Stretch that leg out in front of you.”

He obeyed, his brain ticking over, too slowly, trying to find a way to take back charge.

Skye took an ice cube from the bucket on the coffee table. She bent her dark head over his chest, touched the cube lightly to his skin.

He gasped.

She let the cube linger as his skin adjusted to the sensation. Melting water dripped around to the inside of his thigh, ran down toward his groin. She slid the cube over his knee, lightly.

He couldn’t take any more, had to snap the sexual tension that simmered between them before he lost every last inch of his control. “Skye—”

Her eyes darted up. “Am I hurting you?”

“No…it’s just—” He knew what she was doing. This was her way of making him stay the night, of buying a form of protection against whoever waited for her outside. And by God, his body was willing to sell even if his brain screamed stop.

The light from the fire danced silver in her low-lidded eyes. Her lips, so lush, so full, were open. And it was obvious, despite her ploy, that she was as turned on as he was.

The knowledge was intoxicating. He felt himself lean in, drawn to that mouth of sin.

She moved even closer, her lips almost touching his. He could feel her breath, warm against his mouth. Fire spurted to his loins, seeped molten through his belly. Her lips touched gently to his.

And he drowned in that instant, engulfed by a blinding, raging wave of scarlet pleasure.

What was left of the tiny ice cube fell with a chink to the floor. She moved one leg over him, straddled him, her braid spilled down over her shoulder onto his, and she took his bottom lip firmly between her teeth, a throaty, almost imperceptible growl emanating from somewhere deep in her throat.

The fear she would bite down on his lip, draw blood only fuelled his desire. She bit a little harder. He moaned. The swollen weight between his legs ached with hot, delicious pain. Screamed for release.

She eased her pelvis against his.

His control snapped.

Chapter 6

S
cott grabbed the back of her head firmly in his hand, yanked her mouth down hard onto his. Her lips splayed open to him under the sudden pressure. Her legs split wider as she was pulled down over his groin.

A groan rose from deep in his belly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deep, roughly exploring. She was hot. Sweet. Slightly fruity with the taste of warm champagne. His tongue slipped over hers. Danced. Mated. And he felt as though his loins would explode without the same hot, slick sweetness.

Her pelvis rocked slowly against his, forcing rhythmic pressure onto the painful swollenness of his need. His vision went black. Red.

And he felt her hand, sliding up the inside of his thigh. Then he felt her fingers, deft, undoing his buttons, working to lower his zipper.

He couldn’t breathe.

He felt himself swell out of the confines of his jeans into her soft hand.

He snapped suddenly to his senses, jerked back, pushed her away. “Skye…no!”

She jolted back. Shocked, lips swollen and hot-pink. Confusion clouded eyes dusky with silver and lust.

He reached for his zipper, fumbled to contain his blatantly obvious male need.

She watched his hand. Said nothing. But the question was raw in the set of her features.

He reached up, touched the side of her face. “I’m sorry, Skye. I can’t—”

She jerked out from under his touch, looked away, hiding naked hurt. And something else. He could see it in the faint blush that crept up her neck into her cheeks.

Embarrassment.

Scott cursed himself. He’d just rejected a woman who’d been ditched at the altar. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she was feeling. But that was precisely why he couldn’t do this. As much as he wanted, needed, to. As much as he needed to strip her naked, expose her deepest, innermost sweet secrets. As much as it might help him get to know her better. He couldn’t take advantage of her like this.

“Skye, talk to me, look at me.”

She did, turning her head slowly back to face him. When she did, she was an absolute study in self-control. Those silver eyes didn’t flinch. Instead they lanced into his. But she said nothing. She waited for him to speak.

“Skye, you’re one of the sexiest, most damn desirable women I’ve ever laid eyes on. But I just can’t do this to you. You’re bouncing like a bungee on the rebound, for heaven’s sake. I don’t think it’s me you want.”

It’s protection from whatever waits outside that you want
.

Anger flashed in her eyes. “You think I need some kind of self-affirmation? You think I need to prove I’m still a desirable woman? Is that it?”

“No.” He reached out to touch her. “I’ll stay the night Skye, if that’s what you want, if you want someone just to be here.”

She lurched to her feet. “Get out.”

“Skye—”

“I said get out, McIntyre. You and that wretched dog. Leave me alone.”

He got to his feet, hobbled over to get his cane. She watched, unmoving.

“I’m next door if you need me, Skye.” And he meant it.

“You think I’m
that
pathetic? I don’t need your
pity.
” She spat the words at him.

“Fine. Honey!” The dog raised herself grudgingly at the command in his tone, left the warmth of the fire.

“We’re outta here.” He limped to the door, shoved it open.

“Here.” She thrust his jacket at his chest. “Take this with you. I don’t need you. I don’t need your damn jacket.”

He took it, stepped out into the dark with his dog.

Skye slammed the door behind him. Only then did she realize she was shaking. The room was suddenly cavernously empty. And dark. Save for the quavering apricot glow of the flames he’d built in her hearth. And her belly.

She slumped against the door.

She’d gambled. And lost. She’d tried to seduce him to get him to stay the night. And she’d lost. Control.

Dignity.

She’d thought she could handle it. But nothing could have prepared her for the explosive energy she’d unearthed in him. It had blown her apart like a wooden shed in a tornado. Consumed her. Blinded her.

And then he’d rejected her. Because he was too much a gentleman. Confusion warred in her brain. She’d sent him away in a surge of fury fuelled by humiliation, but all she really wanted right now was for him to hold her again. Like he had last night. And tell her it would all be all right.

No one had
ever
held her like that.

She touched her fingers to her mouth, still hot and swollen from his aggressive kiss. That would teach her to play Russian roulette with a man like McIntyre, with her own libido. That would teach her to open doors she didn’t know how to shut.

She pushed away from the door, moved quickly to the window and lifted the blind with the backs of her fingers. She watched the large dark shadow of Scott McIntyre and his dog make its way across her lawn.

The moonlight was pale gold on Honey’s fur. The man leaned heavily on his cane as he moved with a wide, angry gait. In spite of his injury, he was sheer male. Rough. Hard. Even the emerald glint in his eyes held the coldness of stone in unguarded moments. She’d glimpsed a calculating man in those eyes. She was profoundly unsure about him.

But by God, he made her feel as no other man had.

He had the dark sexual power of Malik. He had the same hard edge. But Malik’s eyes were black like a demon’s heart. Not deep green like Scott McIntyre’s. She’d glimpsed hints of hidden laughter in Scott McIntyre’s eyes. Maybe even pain that went beyond his knee, beyond the physical.

It made him strangely vulnerable, accessible.

Malik’s raw energy was about power, control. It was destructive. Negative. It had near killed her.

Might yet kill her.

She tore her attention from Scott’s dark form to scan the road for the brown car. It was still there. In the shadow.

Skye dropped the blind, spun on her heels. She had to get out.
Now.
She checked her bags. She was ready. She would wheel her bike quietly out the back of the garage and over the lawn at the rear of her house. She’d try to get it through the thick brush at the back of her property and onto the adjacent farm field. From there she could make her getaway.

But she had one more task—she had to e-mail Jalil. Her only friend in this world. He was the only one who knew the truth about her. He was the only one she kept in contact with. Because she owed him her life. He’d risked his own to get her out.

Skye pulled out the chair, sat in front of her computer, clicked the screen to life. She was careful what she said in her e-mails to Jalil, for both their sakes. It was always behind a veil that they spoke. They never mentioned the escape. The deception.

She tapped the keys. She told Jalil her wedding was off, that the project she was working on was still a go and that she wouldn’t be writing for a while. She was going away, into the mountains, because she needed a break from things. She needed to reassess her life.

Skye moved the mouse to click Send.

But as an afterthought she highlighted the part about going into the mountains, deleted it, then clicked Send.

It would be early morning in Amsterdam. Jalil would get her message soon. And she’d be long gone when he did.

From the bridge of the
Esmeralda,
he could make out the distant, misty green ridges of the Queen Charlottes. He adjusted the telescope. They were almost in position, in international waters off the Pacific Northwest Coast of North America. From the “cargo” ship he often used as a base, he would orchestrate the final stages of Operation Vector.

“A message came through.” His assistant’s voice sliced into his thoughts. “For Jalil.”

He jerked upright. It was always with the e-mails for Jalil that he got his most valuable information. They had stopped coming for a while. But that was all right. Jozsef had been in place. Then he’d received word Canadian authorities were onto his man and he’d had to extract him. Right before the wedding. Still, he was unconcerned the project would be compromised. Operation Vector was far enough along to hold the pieces together. And Jozsef had ensured the tracking device was in place. Two more weeks and all would be accomplished.

He made his way to the cabin that served as his office, seated himself at one of the computer terminals, reached for the mouse, hesitated.

He looked up at the massive oil painting that dominated the one wall of the plush cabin. It was a study of a woman. A woman so regal, so beautiful, she looked like a Greek goddess.

She’d had so much potential. He’d had her painted wearing white, holding her symbol. The sword. At her side was a massive jackal-headed beast in a white Egyptian loincloth.

Anubis.
His
symbol.

The ears of the jackal were like the gold horns of a devil. The black canine head bared jagged teeth to a world that lay at their feet. Theirs for the taking.

Until she’d crossed him.

He turned abruptly to his computer, clicked open Skye’s message.

Scott lay naked on his bed, sheets twisted around him. The glowing red symbols on his digital clock taunted. He’d watched them flip from 2:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m.

He threw off his sheets, kicked his feet over the side of his bed. He’d screwed up. He should’ve taken her lead. She’d opened the door, shown him a way in, and he’d freaking shied away.

Because he couldn’t take advantage of her?

He snorted. Yeah, right.

He rubbed the heels of his hands hard into the grit of his eyes. He really
had
lost it. He should have used her. Impartially.

But that was the problem. He couldn’t find that impartiality within himself. As much as he tried to deny it, he felt something for the woman.

It was lust. Pure and simple.

But he was lying.

Something had hooked into him when he’d held her in his arms on the night of her failed wedding.

That simple act of holding a soft woman in his arms had cracked open something deep within him. Something that went beyond the haunting pewter of her untamed eyes, beyond the way her seductive curves set every primal nerve singing, every red-blooded male cell in his body screaming with need to bed her hard and fast and long.

He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth.
Get a grip, Agent.
The one rule in this kind of game was that you held the reins of control at all times, that you called the shots, each and every goddamn one of them. Slip and you gave your opponent power.

He stood, limped over to his window. Dawn was barely a hint on the horizon as the sun crept in from far-off lands.

He watched as the first pale rays infused the dark sky with soft blue-gray. He had a job to do. And he better make good of it if he ever wanted to get back out there, over that horizon, into those foreign lands. And that meant keeping any feelings for the doctor in check.

That also meant using any opportunity she handed him.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn was a suspected bio-terrorist. The feds were after her. She was hiding something.

And he was going to get it from her. One way or another.

He was going to show Rex, Bellona, the whole bloody world, that he still had it in him. La Sombra’s men had blown out his knee, not his balls.

He clenched his jaw with fresh determination, reached for a shirt and jeans. The first step was to find out exactly why the feds were tailing her.

Once dressed, Scott limped to the kitchen, clicked on the kettle, poured biscuits into Honey’s bowl and punched in Rex’s number. He stared out at his neighbor’s house as he waited for Rex to pick up.

A sudden movement in the doctor’s yard caught his eye. The men from the brown sedan were marching up her driveway.

Uh-oh. Looked as if he was going to find out firsthand what they were after. He flipped his phone shut as the men climbed the stairs to Skye’s door. They hadn’t even waited until daybreak. They were going for the shock factor.

Scott grabbed his jacket. As his hand touched the leather, he heard a soft rapping at his kitchen door.

Honey yipped.

Scott unlocked the door, started to open it…but before he could register what was happening, Skye barreled through the crack, into his kitchen, knocking him off balance. She dumped her pack on his floor, swiveled, quickly locked the door behind her. Her movements were sharp, controlled. No emotion showed in the set of her features. Only her eyes. They were wide and pale with fear.

She turned to him. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Skye.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “Slow down. What’s the matter?” He knew well enough. Undercover RCMP were banging on her door and she was running for her life. He had her now.
Exactly
where he wanted her.

Her eyes darted to the window, then back to him. “I’ve got to get out of here, out of Haven. Can you help me? With your truck?”

“Hey, take it easy.” He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Sit. Talk to me.”

“Could…could you pull those blinds?”

Scott reached for the cord. “Sure.” He dropped the blinds. “Better?”

She nodded.

He took a seat opposite her. Honey milled at their feet, wiggling her butt, sensing adventure.

“Now tell me what’s going on.”

She bit down on her lower lip, studied him. He could see her fighting mentally, deciding what she should dish out to him.

“Those guys in that car, they’re following me.”

“You sure?”

“
Dead
sure.”

“Why? Who are they?”

“I—I don’t know.”

She was lying. She
had
to know it was the cops. “Why’re they after you?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

Scott made a face.

“Honest to God, I don’t know. You’ve got to believe me.”

“You must have some idea. Otherwise why are you running like this? Maybe they just want to talk to you.”

“Get real. They’ve been outside my house since yesterday. They followed me to Jozsef’s apartment and back.” The brightness of urgency burned in her eyes. “I need to get out of town. I need a ride. If you can’t help me, I’ll find another way.”