Skin Tight (29 page)

And then he pushed inside her—so tight, so hot, so . . . perfect. Bliss rocketed inside his head. In this position, he could make love to her for hours, controlling his thrusts so he didn’t get carried away.

Mia really was a clever girl.

Rowan had to
do something he despised.

And it meant his most promising research had to wait. According to the board, if the situation wasn’t contained, there wouldn’t be a lab here to work in, which would require removal of all subjects and equipment. He shuddered to think how much data would be lost. In his opinion, they were overreacting, but they didn’t pay him for his beliefs: only for his results.

The soles of his shoes made no noise as he proceeded down the plain white corridor. He prided himself on the cleanliness of his facility, despite its underground location. It would irk him to be forced to relocate by a mere woman and the man who abetted her. In a way, he marveled at Mia Sauter’s resourcefulness, even while cursing her.

It hadn’t taken her long to put Thomas Strong under her spell, so not only had she somehow uncovered the truth about Micor, she’d also absconded with their AB negative blood donor. Without her regular infusion, I-53 had died during the night, thus ending that research avenue forever.

Rowan growled. Years of work lost and for what?

Angry strides carried him down to the lift at the end of the hallway. The terminal required his ID, thumbprint, and a retina-scan before the lift doors opened. Rowan stepped inside, and the elevator hummed as it began to move.

He hated being asked to take care of such business personally, but the liaison had made it clear that the board considered cleanup to fall within his purview as lab director, and if he wanted to continue in that position, he would make the mess go away before it splattered further, before the gods-cursed woman shared what she knew with local media. It would be impossible to contain then.

The doors opened to a secret room in what would appear to be a grain silo. Indeed, even if someone came inside, they’d find no evidence there was anything else, unless they knew where to look for the panel and knew the code to get inside. Even if they did, their identity would have to be on file for the lift to open.

Frankly, Rowan didn’t see why these two fugitives required his personal attention.

It wasn’t like they’d stolen any evidence. At this point, they only had speculation, and who would believe the sort of tabloid rag that would print a story without corroboration?

Still, if he wanted to continue his work—and keep his promise to Gillie—he had to toe the corporate line. The time was fast approaching, however, when he would cease being their pawn. Once he perfected T-89’s abilities, he’d take them both from the facility, auction the male to the highest bidder—he’d make some government a formidable weapon—and then use the money to start his own facility. And he wouldn’t force Gillie to treat any patients she didn’t wish to. From that point on, she would be like an elite doctor, picking and choosing her clientele. A surge of warmth flooded him as he imagined their future together.

Rowan hurried from the silo, then paused to ensure there was no one around. In his off-duty hours, he lived in the white farmhouse on the property, and it looked quiet from here. He made his way across the field, careful to take a different path so as not to wear a telltale hint in the native vegetation.

Thanks to the liaison’s lack of forewarning, he was running late.
Seven P.M., Janice’s Diner,
the message had read.
Bring your kit.

The drive passed in heated silence. Radio stations never played anything worth listening to these days, and he was angry at the necessity of this trip. By the time he arrived at the appointed meeting place, it was ten past the hour. He feared his target would have gone. But no. Janice’s was nearly deserted at this hour, and the burly fellow with the gash over his left eye had to be the one. The man sat hunched into the booth, gorilla shoulders nearly as wide as the bench. His hair curled like sheep’s wool, and he looked none too clean. Rowan could only hope he didn’t smell as repugnant as he appeared.

Well, no wonder he had no luck. He’s a brainless lump, and his quarry outsmarted him.
To be fair, Rowan suspected a couple lab chimps could do so.

With a faint sigh, he made his way over.

“You’re late,” the man growled.

“And
you
are an idiot. I fail to see how either is relevant to the task at hand.”

He sat down in the cracked red vinyl booth with a moue of distaste. If only he’d thought to bring his disinfectant. God, how he hated going out poorly prepared.

The thug balled up his fist as if he intended to punch Rowan like some feces-flinging savage. “Try it,” he said quietly, “and I’ll have a needle in you so fast you won’t have time to exhale before you die.”

The other man sat back, knuckles going white on the metal rim of the table. “I want more money. Nobody said anything about a guy who drives like Evel Knievel.”

“I’m authorized to offer you more.” He wrote a number on the napkin and passed it across the table.

“That’s not enough. He totaled my car. I think he’s had training, and it’s going to be a pain in the ass.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s so inconvenient when people resist the fate you have planned for them.”

“Mr. Smith,” as he preferred to be known, did not register the irony. “I know, right?”

“Regarding your refusal of this offer, the only alternative is for us to hire someone else to complete the job at which you failed. Surely your limited mind can comprehend that we will require repayment of our earnest money? And in ways you won’t enjoy.” He let his mouth curve into a smile.

It took a moment for that to sink in. Just as well, for the waitress arrived with a grubby sheet of typed paper, poorly coated with laminate. “Special’s chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn on the cob. For dessert we have apple pie or peach cobbler. The meal comes with coffee or iced tea.”

“Sounds good,” the killer grunted.

“You want coffee or tea, sugar?”

“Tea.”

The gum-popping, polyster-clad throwback to 1964 turned to Rowan with a Polydent smile. “And for you, darlin’?”

Rowan despised it when people he didn’t know used casual endearments, and he fought the urge to stick her with the needle he’d promised the hired gun. “Coffee. Black.”

As if he’d trust
them
to cook his food. The coffee was bad enough, and most likely he wouldn’t touch it.

“Watching your girlish figure, eh?”

He raised a brow, wondering if that was supposed to be funny. “Quite.”

“Before,” the guy said, “I think you were threatening me.”

Stifling a sigh, he murmured, “You think. Aren’t you sure?”

“No, I’m sure.”

“So you either accept this offer or I fire you. Which is it?” This was, at base, why he’d come: to dispose of the tool should it prove faulty.

The thug finally seemed to realize that a man could be dangerous without possessing wads of muscle. “I’ll take the new deal. Don’t worry. I’ll get them this time.”

“Excellent. I’ve been instructed to tell you that your payment is in a locker at the bus station. You’ll find the key has been left in a manila envelope at the front desk of the motel where you registered as Michael Hunt.”

God, such venal humor.

Slow horror dawned in the other man’s eye. “How did you—”

“We know everything, or near enough that we can find you, wherever you may go.
Don’t
disappoint me again, Mr. Smith.” With that, Rowan slid out of the booth and retraced his steps through the diner.

The glass doors pushed open, releasing him of obligation. Soon, so soon now, all of this would be over.

 

 

Gillie had been
alone for two days.

That wouldn’t have been a problem, except during the past few weeks, she’d grown accustomed to company. She didn’t know if something had happened to Taye or if she’d scared him with that clumsy kiss. God knew, he hadn’t seemed swept away by it.

She tested the memory of his reaction like a sore spot on the inside of her cheek and found it still tender. For all of ten seconds, he’d kissed her back, his mouth fever hot and hungry, and then he’d shoved her away, as if he were a frightened virgin.

“That’s not a good idea,” he’d said quietly.

She’d hunched her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“No. We’re getting out of here. Soon I won’t be your only choice, and you’d be sorry if I hadn’t stopped things.” Taye cupped her chin in his hand, eyes searching hers. “You don’t have to dispose of your virginity like this, as a defense from Rowan.”

“It was just a kiss,” she’d muttered. “It’s not like I demanded sex.”

With determination, she shoved away the faintly humiliating recollection. A kiss she’d instigated on the bathroom floor hardly qualified as magical. The awkwardness didn’t prevent her from worrying about him, however.

Her heart skittered in her chest as she stepped out of her quarters. They had long since ceased locking the door. Rowan deemed her no flight risk; that much was sure. Of course, the crazy bastard also thought she wanted to run away with him, so there was no accounting for the way his mind worked.

The white, clinical corridors contrasted markedly with the mock normalcy of her décor. She liked to pretend she was an ordinary girl with a small apartment, a television, and a job she hated. That was one reason she never came out into the facility proper; it destroyed the illusion. There was no grass, no sky, no sun, just endless white and soulless metal as far as the eye could see. Overhead, the fluorescent lights offered the same wattage day after day. She didn’t know how Rowan could choose this life for himself when the whole world beckoned.

Every instinct told her to return to her apartment. It was safe in there. Instead, she picked her way carefully down the hall. Silas often brought her this way for treatments, and she knew the cells lay past the treatment rooms. She had been kept in one until Rowan grew confident she could be trusted.

She got her lie ready.
I was looking for you. It’s been several days since I saw you.
Yes, that would work. If the words fed his ego and his delusions, he’d believe them. Gillie could envision how his face would soften and he’d give that awful smile. This time he might kiss her. She steeled herself against the possibility.
At least it won’t be my first.

Gillie tiptoed past the treatment rooms. From within, she heard low moans of pain. That meant the techs were working, carrying out the doctor’s instructions. She hardly dared to breathe as she went by.

She continued down the corridor. The horror of the cells struck her anew. They were eight by eight, and each contained only a commode and a cot. An industrial drain lay in the middle of the floor, necessary because the test subjects were hosed off once a week from a spigot in the ceiling.

Some of the walls were spattered with blood, or other, less readily recognizable substances. A few of the subjects sat and rocked; others lay in the fetal position on their cots. Two paced like animals. Another pressed her hands against the glass as Gillie went by. She stopped, unable to help herself, unable to deny the woman this moment of connection. Aching, she pressed her palms to the glass from her side. There was cognition in the other woman’s eyes.

Kill me
, she mouthed.

Gillie tugged on her pink scrubs, which were the only things Rowan ever ordered for her to wear. She found that faintly creepy, but at least she was out of the gray, institutional pajamas the other subjects had on. At last, the woman seemed to realize Gillie wasn’t wearing a badge.

The woman pointed at her cell door, a plea in her eyes, and Gillie had to shake her head. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

When the girl turned away, Gillie walked on. Mercifully, she could remember little of her time in these cells. They’d kept her sedated while they studied the limits and requirements of her gift. She didn’t know how the others bore it, and as for the ones who couldn’t, well, the madness was understandable.

She found Taye in the last cell. His swollen jaw and black eyes made him difficult to identify at first, but she knew the shape of his hands and the breadth of his shoulders as well. Not to mention the tousled dark hair. His gray pajamas were stained dark in splatter patterns. All too clearly she could see the crunch of cartilage and bone, echoed in the discolored fabric. Gillie recognized Silas’s handiwork; he executed the doctor’s punishments, but she’d never received the impression he enjoyed it.

He lifted his head as if he sensed her. His eyes took too long to focus, and Gillie had watched enough medical TV to know that meant a concussion.
If only I had the key code.
As if Taye read her mind, he extended a hand. Blue sparked from his fingertips, echoing in the panel, and the door popped wide, but he wasn’t steady enough to stand.

He tried and fell.

Which explained why she hadn’t seen him. Mindless of the cameras, she hurried into his cell and knelt beside him. “I have to get you out of here. He’s going to kill you.”

“Won’t.” His voice came out slurry through puffy lips. “He’s selling me to China.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Overheard.”

“So that’s why he had you beaten?”

“Also suspects I see you more than an hour a day. Couldn’t prove it.” He gave her a hard look. “Now he can.”

She helped him to a sitting position, an arm around his shoulders. It was hard to know where to touch him that it wouldn’t hurt. An ache sprung up inside her; he had been beaten because of her, because of a madman’s obsession.