Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(57)
He moved and she froze, holding her breath as he turned onto his back with a heavy sigh. His eyelids didn’t even flutter—he was still out cold. She picked up her blouse and took a moment to stare at his strong jaw, his perfect mouth, his scruffy beard, which she now knew could send shivers over her most sensitive skin.
She crept into the bathroom, eased the door shut, and switched on the light. Whoa. She cringed at her reflection. She looked as though she’d been up way too late having way too much fun—which she had.
The last time she’d shared a hotel room with Derek, she’d woken up horribly hungover—parched throat, headache, dizziness, the whole thing. She felt the same way now, even though she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. So, a sex hangover. Another first for her.
Four times. Maybe for him it was normal, but for her it was . . . unexpected. Surprising.
Maybe even life-altering.
She turned on the shower and climbed under the steaming-hot spray, careful to keep her bandage from getting wet. She hoped the shower would revitalize her, since ten minutes of sleep hadn’t done the trick. Her legs were sore. And her mouth. As she slathered soap on herself, she discovered a hickey on the swell of her right breast. God, when was the last time that had happened? Derek didn’t just have sex, he had sex, with the same relentless intensity he did everything else.
As the water sluiced over her, she realized she was ravenous. He had to be hungry, too, and she thought about inviting him to breakfast. But maybe that was too relationship-y.
’Morning, sweetie. How about an omelet? She imagined him sitting across the table from her, his big hand curved around a coffee cup. She imagined watching him eat pancakes while she remembered him kissing her and licking her and . . . there was no way she could sit across from him ever again and not think about all the ways he’d touched her.
Suddenly, her brain snapped awake. She couldn’t take him to breakfast. What was she thinking? She couldn’t take him anywhere. Gordon’s orders last night had been to get him in or get him in custody. As in arrest him if needed. As in do not stop for sex or pancakes or Starbucks lattes. She needed to get him up and out of her hotel room so he could deliver himself to the office, pronto, to provide the statement he should have provided last night. He needed to document his evening from start to finish, from his underwater discovery to his interview with the dancer. And please, God, omitting the part where he sneaked into an FBI agent’s hotel room and set her off like a firework.
Four times.
She jumped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She cracked the door to the bedroom to let the steam escape as she hurriedly dragged a brush through her hair. She could dry it later, after she got Derek up and moving. She stepped from the bathroom and looked at the bed.
Empty.
Her stomach dropped as she glanced around. His boots were gone. His jeans were gone, his T-shirt, his belt, his socks. Every sign of him had vanished, even the condom wrappers that had littered the nightstand, and she stood there, stunned, in her too-small bath towel.
He’d gone without a word. Without a kiss. She scanned the room. He hadn’t even left a note on the dresser.
Tears stung her eyes. But she refused to go to the window, refused to allow him to catch a glimpse of her peering through the curtains looking for him.
She went back into the bathroom and brushed her hair again, more slowly this time. She should have seen this coming. Escape and evasion. One of his specialties. He probably did this with all the women he slept with. Why would she be any different?
Her phone dinged, and she felt a pitiful burst of hope as she rushed to pick it up. She saw a slew of messages from Lauren and Torres and even Potter—who’d texted her three times. Nothing from Derek, though. And nothing from Gordon, either.
A sharp rap on the door had her looking up. For a moment, she didn’t move. More rapping, and she could tell it was a man, although she knew it wasn’t Derek. The SEAL who’d slipped into her hotel room like smoke wouldn’t come pounding on her door in broad daylight, loud enough to wake the dead. She threw on some workout clothes as her phone dinged again with yet another message. She ignored it and answered the door.
“Where’s your phone?” Potter demanded. “I’ve been texting you.”
He stood there in his perfect pinstripes, a Starbucks cup already in hand, and she fought the urge to slam the door in his face.
“I don’t usually text from the shower. What’s up?”
“We found Matt Palicek,” he informed her.
“Great. Where was he?”
“Not great. He’s in the morgue.”
* * *
Matt Palicek’s apartment was swarming with law enforcement—Houston PD, FBI, there was even a sheriff’s cruiser. Derek spotted Elizabeth’s white rental car at the far corner of the parking lot beside Potter’s Taurus.
After cleaning up at his folks’ place and wolfing down some breakfast, Derek had finally made it to the FBI field office to recount the previous day’s events ad nauseam. He’d also filled out paperwork and answered questions from a bunch of suits, including Elizabeth’s friend Lauren, who’d relayed the not-so-surprising news that Matt Palicek had turned up dead last night. His Avalanche still hadn’t been found.
Derek pulled his pickup into a space and watched the crowd of cops in his rearview mirror. His mission here was twofold. One, glean some useful intel about Ameen’s dead accomplice. And two, talk to Elizabeth. As he got out and scanned the scene, he knew the second part of his mission was going to be tougher than the first.