Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(42)

She shook her head. “My landlady lives downstairs,” she said. “But I can’t…” She looked down at her disreputable self.

“No,” he agreed. “You can’t.” He bent down, peered at the lock, then fished for a pocketknife and pried a narrow hooked thing out of it.

In a couple of minutes, the door swung open. The familiar scent of vanilla and rose potpourri wafted out. She stumbled forward.

Mr. Big grabbed her arm, pulled her back. “Me first. Just in case.”

His gun appeared in his hand. Her eyes skittered away from it as he slunk into the dimness inside. It didn’t take him long. Her place was small. He came back, waved her in. She fumbled for the light switch.

He clashed with her place. He looked so dense and vivid, prowling around among the light colors, the sheer curtains. Her place looked even smaller with a huge, shaggy, slit-eyed, bloodstained guy stalking through it clutching a gun.



Twitching curtains aside, squinting out windows, he stared at everything as if he expected something to jump out and bite him. He ran his fingers over a fuzzy afghan that was draped over the sofa. Poked a squishy pillow, prodded the floppy silk flowers that dangled off a shelf. He peered at her bookshelf, her CD rack. Carrie’s prints. Josh’s weird, abstract art photography. And the family photo gallery over the couch.

“That the guy?”

He’d found the one of Justin that she hadn’t gotten around to ditching yet. “Yes. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “He looks like an *. You should take it down.” He removed it from the shelf and handed it to her. Becca tossed it into a wastebasket, frame and all. Nothing to do but agree with him.

Her life before Nick seemed like something that had happened a long, long time ago. She was embarrassed, when he stared up at the stuffed animals on the shelf, the battered ones Carrie and Josh had played with when they were tiny. He probably thought she collected them. Babyish, but people did it.

He made no move to go. She pondered the options. There were no social rules for what had happened. Should she offer him a drink, as if he’d just brought her home from a date? Should she, what, make him coffee?

This was her last chance, though, to ask the question that would haunt her forever if she didn’t. Even though she was afraid of the answer.

She clutched the edge of the table for support, and swallowed several times. “You said, um, that lives depended on this operation. That you’d traded them for mine.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said, warily.

She took a deep breath. “Whose?”

He was silent for so long, she’d concluded that he wasn’t going to answer at all. She was about to pass out from holding her breath.

“I was overstating it,” he said. “She’s probably already dead.”

Her eyes popped open. Something twisted, knife-sharp, in her chest. “She?” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched. “A little girl,” he said. “Abducted last year. From Boryspil, in the Ukraine. Her father was an undercover cop. He was helping me. Someone ratted him out. He was killed. I don’t know where the security leak was. But I know it was my fault.”

Her throat tightened, started burning. She waited for more.

His shoulders lifted. “There’s no reason to think she’s still alive,” he said. “But I promised her mother…I was hoping I could tell Sonia something. Put an end to the wondering. I won’t be able to do that now. But f*ck it. I probably wouldn’t have been able to anyway.”

She pressed her lips together, hard.

“It was a long shot,” he said. “But since you asked, that’s why I gave a shit.”

The knot in her throat reached critical mass. Tears spilled out.

He looked dismayed. “Oh, shit. Please. I shouldn’t have told you.”

She tried to choke it back. “I’m so sorry. Was she—”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I think about it as little as possible, or else it drives me bugf*ck. Forget I said anything.”

His words knocked her back. “OK,” she whispered. “I just meant…I wish I could fix it. I wish there was something I could do. To help.”

His unreadable gaze slid over her bedraggled, torn up, something-the-cat-dragged-in self. “There is something,” he said.

She brightened, mopping away tears with her forearms. “Really? What can I…” Her voice faltered as her body translated what lurked in the hooded depths of his eyes.

Something tightened in answer, low and hot in her body.

How could she even think about sex, after what had happened?

But she was. Oh, she would. In a heartbeat. She ached to grab onto him. He was so strong and solid, seething with energy. So hot.

Of course, she wanted to grab onto anything strong. She felt so vulnerable and scared. She was desperate for comfort, but this man wouldn’t give her any comfort. He was anything but comforting.

He would take, and take, until she was all used up. She could feel his hunger from across the room. And she felt so fragile.

She inched back with instinctive female caution. His eyes narrowed. “For f*ck’s sake, cut the scared kitten routine. I won’t force you. I may be an *, but I’m not that kind of *.”

Her back straightened up. “I’m not a scared kitten.” She tried to sound dignified, and ended up sounding stiff. “I just thought you were referring to something I could do that was, well, important. Not just…” She cleared her throat, with some difficulty. “…ah, opening my legs.”