Relentless Pursuit (9 page)

Every minute he'd worked for Dubshenko felt like a little bit of his soul died.  He'd done a lot of crazy crap he wasn't proud of, but he drew the line at kidnapping and hauling an unwilling woman across state lines.  Woman, hell, she'd barely been older than her mid-teens.  No way in hell was he turning an innocent girl over to a twisted pervert like Dubshenko and his buddies.

Struggling to pull himself upright, he hissed at the stabbing pain in his side.  Felt like a cracked rib, maybe two.  His shirt was still ripped open from the search for the vest. He angled his back against the wall, leaning back against its coolness and looked at his side.  Enormous black-and-blue bruises marred his side.  Oh well, he thought, the good news is there's no ribs sticking out through the skin. 
I've had worse
.

His eyes scanned the boxy room.  Other than an old padded vinyl office chair, with a broken wheel and one handle hanging on by a rusty screw, there wasn't anything in the space.  Nothing.  No bed, no cabinets.  A single, bare light bulb hung from an exposed fixture, its cord dangling from the ceiling. The dim light barely illuminating the space.  No windows and only the one door straight ahead.  A few roaches crawled up the wall near the corner, and he shuddered in disgust. 
Real classy place
.

He eyed the chair again, determining the likelihood of using any part of it for a weapon.  The metal swivel base would be hard to detach, and he didn't have the time to disassemble the whole thing.  The handle might work as a club.  Otherwise, he was basically out of luck and running out of time.

With one hand braced on the wall and the other on the hard floor, he heaved himself upward, groaning at the pain shrieking through his torso.  He leaned over trying desperately not to puke up his guts.  When the wave of nausea passed, he took a tentative step away from his supporting wall and staggered over to the chair.  He rolled it backwards until the spine of the chair pressed against the wooden doorframe, to hold it steady while he wrenched the loosened arm free. 
Metal and not plastic.  That's good
.

He took a chance and tried the doorknob, turning it slowly and as silently as he could to the left and right.  Yep, just like he thought, locked.  He'd have to bide his time until one of the guards, or Dubshenko himself, came to check on him.

How much time had passed while he'd been out?  Hours?  All night?

What about Jinx?  The last thing he remembered about her was Dubshenko rubbing it in that she'd been at the police station and a bomb had gone off.  Please, don't let her be hurt.  He was a stupid son of a bitch for bringing this danger to her doorstep, and he cursed himself for being a fool.  Damn the FBI and the DEA for dragging him into this mess to begin with.  They should have had a trained agent doing this, not some ex-con with an ax to grind.

He eased himself down on the edge of the chair after scooting it back from the doorframe.  Barely five minutes had passed before he heard the murmur of voices growing ever closer.  How many?  He listened, trying to distinguish who was talking.  Two males, right outside the door.  Keys rattled and the doorknob jiggled and he rose silently from the chair, positioned in the space that would be behind and to the side of the door when it opened.

He'd only get one shot, so he had to make it a good one.  The door swung open with a bang, and the talking stopped as the men strode into the room.  They stopped in their tracks, obviously looking for him.  Holding the chair arm like a baseball bat, he swung with all his strength, connecting with the skull of the closest man.  The sickening sound of metal meeting bone echoed, but he didn't pause, didn't stop to think, he just acted.  As the first man fell to the floor Carlo dove for the second guard, wrapping his arm around his throat, his forearm against his windpipe.  Using his other arm as leverage, he exerted more and more pressure, cutting off the air.  He flailed, struggling not only for air, but for freedom.  Carlo didn't relent, gave him neither.  Time seemed to stand still, except for the jerking movements of the man, his struggles growing weaker as he was deprived of oxygen.  Finally, he slumped forward, and Carlos turned him loose, letting his body hit the cement with a resounding thud.

He couldn’t afford to wait and see if he'd killed either man.  A quick frisk of both yielded two guns and a set of car keys.  Perfect.  Now if only he didn't run into anybody else, he'd get out of this dump and contact his handler.  This whole situation had FUBAR written all over it.  There wasn't a con big enough to dig his way out of this tar pit.

He stepped out of the room and turned right, heading down the hallway.  Luck was on his side, it looked like the two goons were all Dubshenko had sent to handle him.  The front door stood open and inviting, the cool air scented with the lovely fragrance of decaying garbage, stagnate water and pine trees.  Yep, they were outside of New Orleans Proper, that was for sure.

Only one car was parked outside, and he hit the key fob.  The lights blinked, and for the first time that morning Carlo smiled.  It grew even bigger when he thought about Dubshenko's face when the bastard realized he'd escaped.

Yep, it was a good morning to be alive.

Chapter Nine

J
inx rubbed her face against the enticing warmth beneath her cheek.  She was having the most incredible dream.  Solid muscled arms trapped her against a rock hard body, holding her encircled in a cocoon of safety and desire.  The slow glide of a hand up and down her spine, the roughened fingertips rasping against her naked skin tingled from the tip of her toes straight to her core.  On the last downward stroke of that hand, it continued its sensual journey further, and grasped her butt, squeezing and molding it.  She heard a throaty gasp and realized the sound came from her.

For the first time since this whole ordeal started she felt comfortable, and she burrowed closer to the mysterious stranger cradling her in his arms.  It had been so long since she'd allowed herself to be this close to a man. The temptation was too much to resist.  With a sigh she succumbed and snuggled against—a naked male chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

Her eyes flew open and the dream receded, replaced by the reality displayed in the early morning light peeking through the outer corners of the drapes. 
Oh, crap
.  Sometime during the night, while she slept, she'd become entangled within the arms of the sexy detective.  The bed was narrow, but that was no excuse.  She remembered starting out lying on her side as close to the edge as possible without falling off.  Heck, she'd almost volunteered to sleep on the floor herself since he wasn't gentleman enough, but one look at the nasty stains and she'd changed her mind.  Not even for a million bucks—who knew what had caused those stains—but she had a vivid imagination and that was just gross.

Every emotion seemed to pile on at once. She'd given in to the tears trying to cry without disturbing him, but he'd surprised her.  He'd held her while she cried, his hold gentle yet firm.  His fingers glided through her hair with a soft caress. Not in a sexual way, but more as a comfortable touch shared between friends.  Before long, the tears had stopped and she'd slid into a dreamless sleep.

Until this morning.  The dream started oh so slowly, but before long had turned into a carnal montage of passionate touches and kisses that warmed her from the inside out.  Now the dream was shattered, and cold reality loomed in its place.

She blinked slowly, rising up enough to stare at his face.  His eyes were closed as he slept, his deep even breathing steady and sure.  Her arm was flung across his stomach, and one of his legs firmly wedged between hers. His thigh pressing up against her in a place where a stranger's leg shouldn't be pressing.  Sliding her arm off his rock hard abs, she had a fleeting wish she could slide her fingers through the spray of dark hair curling across his chest.  Lightly furred, but not too much. Which she really didn't like on a guy, his was just the right amount.  Her fingers itched to follow the narrowing trail from his nipples, down, down, down, until she reached…

Stop, don't go there, Jinx.

“Go back to sleep, babe.”  His arms dragged her up against him, snuggling closer, burying his lips against her neck.  The leg between her thighs rubbed against her, and she felt wetness pool between her legs.  She swallowed her moan.  The fingers of his right hand cupped her breast and circled the nipple before squeezing it, and a bolt of need rocked through her.

“Um.  You smell incredible.  Want you.”

She knew that voice, heard it in the erotic dream she'd just woken from.   This couldn't happen.  Not now—not ever.

“Detective, please move your hand.  Now!”

Remy shot upright in bed and gaped at her, shock apparent on his face.  She didn't even try to control her laugh.  His hair stood straight up, and he had a crease in his cheek from where he'd lain on the pillow.  He looked altogether too cute for her piece of mind. 

“Damn.  Sorry.”  He stretched and the blankets pooled around his waist, baring that sculpted chest she'd just been fantasizing about.  “Forgot where I was for a minute.  You get any rest?”

“Some.  What happens now?”

Remy threw back the covers and slung his legs off the side of the bed.  He stood and stretched, arms reaching toward the ceiling and Jinx couldn't help it, she looked.  The man was seriously built.  Not like a body builder, which wasn't her type anyway, but with a long lean torso and the well-defined muscles of a swimmer or a runner.  His brown hair was longer than she'd expect from a cop, but then most of the cops she'd dealt with where uni's, not detectives.  Apparently, they had a whole different set of rules.  She wondered if the good detective would be doing so much to keep her safe if he knew how often she'd had dealings with cops in the past.

I thought that former life was over and done.  It's not fair—I put it all behind me.  Can't think about that now.

“Time for a quick shower, and then we're back on the road.  You want to go first?”

“Thanks.”

She rose from the bed, tugging down the hem of her t-shirt, praying it covered her big butt.  Grabbing up the clothes from atop the backpack for him to wear, she laid them on the corner of the bed, snatched up the backpack and fled into the bathroom.

Remy swore softly as the bathroom door closed.  He'd woken up horny with a gorgeous woman in his arms.  Still half asleep he'd done what came naturally, and palmed her breast and snuggled in to kiss her soft skin, expecting to have a bit of fun before work.  Instead, he'd woke to the icy voice of the woman he was supposed to be protecting.

Which was a shame, really, because he found her stunning.  Just the kind of woman he loved.  Heck, he'd never been picky about how a woman looked.  He loved them all. Whether it was in a sisterly fashion, a motherly fashion or as a lover, women held a special place for him.  His
maman
taught him and Max to always treat women with respect.  But there was something about Jennifer that called to him.  She was built like a nineteen forties pin-up. One of those calendar girls with lush full breasts, a trim waist and an ass that made you want to grab it with both hands and squeeze.  The kind of body a man could ride for hours and never tire of.  Yet he couldn't touch her.  She was his job.

He walked over to the window and parted the crack in the curtain, looking around.  Not sure about the time, but it probably wasn’t much past dawn. Everything had that early morning look to it.   Walking back to the bed he reached under the pillow and pulled out his gun, automatically checking to make sure the safety was on before flopping down against the headboard to wait for her to finish showering.

Wonder how she'd react if I went in and asked if she wanted to shower together?  
He laughed aloud knowing the answer. The ice in her tone when she'd asked him to take his hand off her breast—she'd freeze his balls solid with a glare—if she didn't take a knife to them.

Once they were back on the road they'd take a circuitous route toward Shreveport.  Use back roads and stay off the main thoroughfares.  He'd find a way to call Captain Hilliard when they made a pit stop.  Hilliard had a burner phone he'd picked up before they'd split town, so it couldn't be traced.  At least Remy hoped so.  He'd also needed to get a message to Max about picking up a few more burners and getting them to Hilliard, so they'd have extras and he could destroy each one after a single call.  Better safe than sorry.  Not a problem, he knew Hilliard would trust any phones Max picked out since he'd worked with Max before, and knew he was trustworthy.

He heard the shower cut off, and his imagination took over.  Closing his eyes, he pictured Jennifer climbing out of the tub and grabbing the threadbare towel hanging beside it.  With an unconscious sensuality she'd rub the terrycloth against her porcelain skin, starting with her ankles and working her way up those mile long legs, wiping away the droplets of water with each sweep of the towel.  Inching ever so slowly upward to dry her hips and her stomach, gliding the towel even higher, flicking it over the mounds of her breasts, the rough material causing her nipples to peak and harden as the abrasive cloth rasped against her skin.  She'd drag out her sensual dance, her head thrown back, exposing the sexy expanse of her throat while she used little circular movements before stretching out first one arm and then the other, drying each inch of her body. Then, finally wrapping the miniscule towel around her lush curvy body, and tucking the fold between her ample breasts.

This was his daydream and he began fashioning it into a spectacular playground, morphing the images to suit his whim.  He pushed open the door and she whirled around, gasping at his presence.  When she started to speak he placed a fingertip against her lips, hushing her with a brief shake of his head.  With a practiced ease his hand rose, flicking open the fold of the towel, watching it pool around her feet.  His eyes swept up taking in her statuesque beauty.  Jennifer had a body built for sin, and everybody knew Remy was not a saint.   Her damp, blonde hair spilled across her shoulders. The ends brushed against the turgid tips of her breasts, and they tightened as the nipples peeked out from beneath the wet strands.