Читать книгу Alias - Amy Fetzer J. - Страница 8

Nevada

J ust past the state line, Darcy pulled into the Sleep Easy Motel parking lot, wishing it was her own driveway. But she was still hours away from Comanche, Nevada, and at two in the morning, she was bone tired, her eyes gritty.

She turned off the engine and leaned back into the seat. Mission accomplished. Mary Jo was at the safe house in Utah, and she’d zigzagged her way toward the motel to make sure that no one followed her. She’d removed the mask and wig somewhere in between when she’d stopped to grab a bite to eat. Her skin itched from the glue and all she wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed.

Grabbing her bags from the back seat, she climbed out, locked up, then headed toward her room. She stopped short when she saw a figure braced against the overhang support post outside, smoking a cigarette.

Jack Turner.

No man wore a black cowboy hat that easily.

Just seeing him made something under her skin shiver. But Darcy didn’t want to be anywhere near Jack tonight. Hours in the car with her own unpleasant thoughts for company, she felt combustible. Rainy’s death, the grief she’d shelved to help Mary Jo and leaving Charlie again when she just wanted to cuddle up with him and be safe had left her riddled with a mountain of emotions just waiting to crush her. Succumbing to them anywhere near Jack would just make a bigger mess of her life. He’d want to know too much, and right now, she felt weak enough to slip up.

“Well at least you didn’t get arrested,” she said.

He stared at her hard for a second, then pitched the smoke onto the pavement. “Don’t do anything that stupid again,” he said coldly.

She didn’t need a reminder of the danger she’d put herself in. The bruise on her hip would do that. “I didn’t have a choice. And I can take care of myself.”

He sent her an arched look that said after the stunt she’d pulled tonight, he wasn’t so sure. “Why do you keep doing this, Piper?”

Piper. God, what she wouldn’t give to hear her own name. “Because no one else will help them.”

“That’s what the cops are for.”

She scoffed. They’d been down this route before. Ever since that night nearly two years ago when he’d busted through a door to apprehend his bounty and found her helping a woman escape, he’d appointed himself her protector. She almost laughed. If he knew the truth about her, he’d be outta here. Or hauling her in to the police.

Darcy’s only advantage was that Maurice had never filed kidnapping charges against her. She knew why—it would mean giving up control of his life if he was investigated.

“If that always worked, then they wouldn’t be calling me, would they?” Or you, bounty hunter.

Jack moved away from the post, stopping inches from her. From under the dark hat, his China-blue gaze bored into her. He gently pinched her chin and turned her face to the side, looking for marks. “Did he hurt you?”

She stepped back, yet was touched by his concern. He looked as if he’d just about burn rubber to go avenge her.

“No, he never got the chance,” Darcy said. “I had the advantage of surprise and he was tanked already.”

He folded his arms. The motion made him look bigger. “You should know by now that booze just makes them stronger, meaner—”

“But slow and off balance,” she cut in. “Besides, you know that most of the time when I rescue a woman, the man isn’t home.”

Jack snarled something she didn’t get, then said, “Were you thinking of Charlie when you confronted that ape?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Don’t lecture me, Jack. You know I was. Charlie’s all I have. And if you don’t like the way I do things, then why are you always shadowing me?”

She didn’t expect an answer. She’d asked once. He never explained and wasn’t open to prying. Neither was she, so she dropped it. Though she’d tried skirting around him, he always found a way to be near. It was simply less aggravating to include him in her plans, and she admitted she felt safer with Jack and his big gun close by.

“Charlie needs his mother alive, not in a damn grave!”

His sharp tone stung, felt chastising, and she stiffened. “You think? Jeez, Jack, you act like I wanted to face down Eli. I waited as long as I could! He was going to kill her.”

“And then you.”

“Then be on time!”

His head snapped back, his expression taut.

She arched a brow. The air between them felt charged. Darcy felt so brittle and angry, she was spoiling for a fight.

“I’m capable of defending myself and you know it.”

What he didn’t know was that she’d graduated from the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women, a private high school in Arizona that recruited exceptional girls and trained them mentally and physically to become anything they could imagine. Many Athena graduates went on to do government work, or joined the military. Darcy knew more about survival, self-defense and investigating than the average woman. While she’d never thought of herself as exceptional, she had good reflexes, strength and a sharp mind. Of the rest of the Cassandra team, two worked for intelligence agencies, one had joined the police force, one had become a national newscaster who had been recruited for government operations on the side, and one was rising fast in the ranks of the U.S. Air Force. What Darcy did for abused women was dangerous enough, but her skills were in deception. By altering her face and hair and using her acting talent from UCLA Drama, Darcy could deceive her own mother. She’d never regretted not going into the CIA when they’d come to recruit her. She had Charlie because of that choice, and though the rest of her life wasn’t perfect, she wouldn’t trade being his mom for any of it.

Maurice was her only regret now. He’d taken control after she’d married him, but then, she’d given some up for him to do that. Never again, she thought, even if it meant ignoring her attraction to Jack.

“Yeah, but fast and agile doesn’t always match up against big and brutal.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered. For a second the cool ice of his gaze softened.

He was powerful without saying a word. His rare smiles made her stomach pitch, and Charlie adored him. That alone warned her that Jack Turner was in her life too much already. Yet Jack was so unlike Maurice. He respected her views, cared less what people thought and dressed more for comfort than style—his black hat was shaped with wear, his brown bomber jacket a relic from the fifties. He was rarely without either. Or his gun.

Like her, he played everything close to the vest, as if testing people. He didn’t play games. Didn’t waste time or words. If she succumbed to even a scrap of her feelings, he would take her heart. And she’d made too many mistakes to invite more trouble.

“You’re thinking too hard, I can tell,” he said softly, his gaze riveted to her.

His gentle tone rippled over her skin, making it tighten. “Yeah, I know.” She shifted, hitched her bag on her shoulder, stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. “I have a lot on my mind.” Before he could lend those big shoulders to lean on she said, “Go to your room, Jack. You must be tired, too. I’m fine.”

He frowned, his gaze scouring her features as if he could see into her soul. It unnerved the hell out of her.

“You sure? You haven’t been still for two seconds since you got out of that car.”

She pushed her fingers into her short layered hair, unknowingly making herself look a little wilder. “Yeah, but it’s nothing that some sleep won’t cure.”

He didn’t look satisfied, yet he took her room key, opening the door and pushing it wide then leaning against the doorjamb.

Across the parking lot, the Sleep Easy neon sign sputtered and flashed, splashing blue light over him. He looked her over, long and slow, the single glance telling her he knew what she looked like naked. Darcy’s insides clenched with bubbling need, her nerve endings raw near him, her body too aware of his. Desire spiraled and she closed her eyes, wishing him away, wishing he’d come to her.

She felt suddenly lost. Disconnected to everything.

No Rainy.

No freedom.

No solutions.

She raked her fingers through her hair again and gripped the back of her neck. Her eyes burned.

Damn, damn, damn.

“Piper?”

She slammed her eyes shut, craving to hear her own name. Darcy, she wanted to shout at him. I’m Darcy Allen. I’m here, behind all these disguises and lies, I’m here!

Then he was there. Up close. She didn’t have to look to know. She could feel him, warm and male. And oh, he smelled good. Hunger flushed through her body, begging for a man’s touch, to be a woman and not someone else’s savior when she couldn’t even be her own.

She opened her eyes, snared by the blue patience in his.

“I’m down there.” He gestured to the long corridor of street-front rooms.

She didn’t look. That made him too accessible—and tonight she was so on edge, she could feel it scraping up her spine and dancing on her last nerve.

She moved into the room, pulled the key from the lock and faced him.

He stayed where he was, a gentleman despite his jagged edges.

“Thanks for watching my back, cowboy,” she said.

“Anytime.” No pushing, no prying, just accepting as he stepped back. She closed the door. He didn’t leave till she locked it behind herself.

Darcy sighed, more with relief that she hadn’t done something stupid than at the prospect of a hot shower and some rest.

She dropped her bags and headed straight for the bath.

For nearly a half hour, she let the hot spray of the shower beat down on her body, washing away the tension in her muscles. With her hands braced on the wall, head down, she forgot about Mary Jo, about Eli Archer, and let her mind wander.

It was a mistake.

Her thoughts went immediately back to Rainy. The last time she’d seen her. In a coffin. Knowing Rainy was gone forever. Having to face it. Her heart broke all over again, and she relented to her pain, sinking to the floor of the stall and sobbing like a baby.

She missed Rainy. She missed her Athena sisters. And she felt very alone and worn.

Rainy had been the best, leading the Cassandra squad when they were young, coaching them, pushing them to be stronger, better. Without Rainy, the chain felt broken. Darcy didn’t have many people in her life, even fewer who knew who she really was, but Alex, Josie, Tory, Kayla and Samantha were the people she could count on in a crunch. They were bound together by more than an oath to each other. They were bound by the trials of Athena.

Pushing her hair off her face, she tipped her head back. Her heart felt like a wounded prisoner in her chest. Captured and hurting.

Turmoil boiled inside her and exploded.

She smacked the tile floor.

She wanted her life back, dammit! She wanted to hear her name spoken aloud, to stop being suspicious of everyone new in her life and constantly looking over her shoulder. She wanted to tell the Cassandras the whole truth about her marriage and wash away the shame of her weakness. She deserved better.

Charlie deserved better. Yet her own fear of losing her son kept her from finding a way to take her life back with both hands. It was by skill, caution and a hell of a lot of luck that Maurice hadn’t found her yet. There was no telling what he’d do if he did. He had it in him to kill her. She’d seen that when he put a knife to her pregnant belly and threatened to kill his own child if she didn’t behave. For the sake of her unborn child, she’d backed down then, smothering the urge to hit her husband.

Charlie was nearly four now, a happy, lively little boy and her entire world. He was the reason she’d planned her escape from Maurice’s estate. Charlie was the reason she had bitten back her pride and called Rainy for help.

Her throat tightened, knotting like old rope.

I can’t live like this anymore. With this crippling fear. Because without her freedom, she was just a shadow hiding in Piper Daniel’s clothes.

Maurice Steele strolled through his home, inspecting the staff’s work, then setting the alarms for the night. He was reluctant to go to bed just yet, with the house feeling extraordinarily empty. He supposed he should have gotten used to it, and a starlet in his bed would have eased his solitude, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he didn’t want to look at some well-used wanna-be in the morning.

He tightened the sash of his silk robe, walking into his library, then to his desk. He collected his papers, sliding them into his briefcase and setting it precisely to the right of his desk before pouring himself a brandy. He lit the warmer and set the snifter in the holder on its side, counting off the seconds toward perfection. The TV droned in the background.

He lowered himself onto the sofa, propping his feet on the table, and supposed that he was anxious for the reviews of his latest production. He’d have to wait. He had a fortune riding on it, and though he was certain it was spectacular, critics had their heads up their asses most of the time and rarely understood the entertainment potential of an action-spy thriller.

He sipped, holding the brown liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He rarely drank more than one and never drank in public. Some people speculated that he was a recovering alcoholic because no one saw him drink liquor. Maurice never responded to the gossip. It was his personal feeling that too much explanation gave them more to speculate about, and too much drink took away the edge on the brain, the command he had of deals and productions, on or off the set.

He was leaning forward for the TV remote to turn off the set when the news anchor, relaying the recap of lead stories for the past few weeks, said one word that made his attention snap to the screen.

Athena.

He turned up the volume and listened.

Attorney Lorraine Miller Carrington was dead, a car crash. Police didn’t suspect the death of the Harvard alumni attorney was more than an accident, yet gave no significant details. Maurice’s eyes narrowed when they flashed a picture of “Rainy,” as his wife used to call her. A pretty thing. The last time Maurice had seen her was at his wedding. They showed pictures of her in life, then one in death.

A film clip of the funeral appeared, but he didn’t hear the commentary. He only saw a group of women standing outside the church. His attention focused on one, a little boy clasped in her arms. He watched, his heartbeat gaining speed. She didn’t turn toward the camera, in fact, as soon as she spotted the camera she avoided it and left immediately. But Maurice had already recognized the woman’s delicate profile. Her stance.

Darcy.

Well, well. The little rebel has surfaced.

He hadn’t had time to study the child and he watched the clip roll to its end, hoping for another glimpse. He switched channels and after a few moments, it appeared again on another late-night station, the kind that had nothing to report but other stations’ news.

Maurice leaned back, tossing the remote on the table. So. Darcy had been in Phoenix two weeks ago. With his son. Maurice had sent a half dozen private investigators after her, giving them the story that he didn’t want the press to know. That she’d left in the night, with his son. But the press had found out. So had his friends, and he was left with the humiliating task of explaining away his very pretty wife’s disappearance. He’d complained to his friends that he’d given her everything he had and it wasn’t enough. And yes, he wanted her back. They believed him, thankfully, and he still wore his wedding ring to keep up the pretense. Maurice never hurt for feminine company—women found affairs with married men enticing—but seeing Darcy on the TV, he suddenly wanted her back under his control. Desperately.

She was too much of a rebel under all that beauty. He blamed Athena Academy and those Cassandras for that. He should never have married her, but she was poor and struggling and so lovely. He’d seen her as an uncut diamond, just waiting to be shaped and molded. He’d had to compete with a couple of men for her attention, but money made it easy. He’d seen her clothed by the finest designers, her hair styled by Hollywood’s star makers. For a time, she was the perfect wife, a beautiful, sexy bride to show off.

In the back of his brain the reminder that he’d been cruel to her—that he’d shoved her down the stairs and threatened her—tried to push to the surface. But it was overshadowed by the sight of the woman who’d dared defy him. Who’d run off with his son.

She was nothing but white trash, he thought with a flash of sudden sharp anger. With a drunk for a mother and no father she could claim. And look at her—that long black dress and dark wig. Haggard, skinny. Frail. Yes, yes, it had to be her. Clearly she couldn’t function well without him. He smiled slowly, pleased, knowing there was a lush, shapely body under that shapeless dress, plump round breasts on a petite frame. Dove-blue eyes in a delicate face. His little elfin princess, he thought, and for a moment he remembered having her beneath him, making love to her, nurturing her into a butterfly who had made him the envy of Hollywood.

He’d made her. She owed him.

And she was going to pay.

No one left him. No one smeared his reputation.

She’d evaded him for nearly three years, but now he had a trail. Weak, but still—it was a start. He reached for the phone, dialing, knowing exactly who owed him a favor and how to use them.