Читать книгу Seduced by the Sniper - Elizabeth Heiter - Страница 9

Chapter Two

June, present day

“You missed a spot,” Chelsie told Maggie Delacorte as they walked out of the Washington Field Office.

Scott’s younger sister looked nothing like him. A few inches shorter than Chelsie, with dark brown hair cut into a stylish, practical bob, and light blue eyes, Maggie shared only one thing with her brother: the intensity in their gaze. Or two, counting their willingness to put their lives on the line in FBI tactical positions.

Maggie shrugged, swiping a hand over her face that completely missed the smear of camouflage paint left along her hairline. “Doesn’t matter. I have a date with my TV and a bowl of popcorn tonight.”

That was Chelsie’s evening plan, too. She smiled at her friend, who’d been with the Washington Field Office’s SWAT team for the past four years. SWAT was an ancillary position, meaning Maggie did that in her spare time. She spent her days as a regular Special Agent working civil rights cases like hate crimes and human trafficking. She was in the thick of it all the time, while Chelsie had come back to the WFO a year ago and not only dropped hostage negotiation but switched to the safest job she could find. White-collar crime, where lives were rarely on the line. Where she wouldn’t have to stand by and watch while nine people were shot and killed.

Chelsie shuddered and Maggie eyed her questioningly.

As the days had turned into months, she’d slowly stopped having nightmares about her only case as a negotiator. The FBI had found her not to have any fault in the incident. They’d cleared her within a week and expected her to continue as a negotiator. But Chelsie had wanted out. It was her job to change the outcome of cases like that. If she couldn’t do it, she had no business being a negotiator.

Maggie knew about that day—it had been big news at the time. But Chelsie had never discussed it with her, especially not what had happened the night before with Maggie’s older brother. The only one-night stand she’d had in her entire life.

And she certainly wasn’t going to put any of that on Maggie now. Tomorrow was the anniversary of the shooting, but they’d caught the perp the same day. She’d testified against him, and his trial had finally concluded last month.

Clayton Connors was a former soldier, honorably discharged after suffering minor injuries in an IED that had killed the rest of his unit. It had seemed likely that his insanity plea would land him in a mental institution instead of prison, but after a week of deliberating, the jury had found him guilty. Chelsie had watched as he’d been led out of the courthouse in shackles, heading toward a maximum-security prison. He’d never be getting out.

The same couldn’t be said for the man who probably still gave Maggie nightmares. Maggie had never shared her past with Chelsie, but she’d heard a few office whispers over the years. The Fishhook Rapist, who’d claimed one victim every September 1 before releasing her with a brand on the back of her neck, had started with Maggie a decade ago. It was when Maggie had been a senior in college, and Chelsie was certain it had led her friend to the FBI.

Maggie was a lot braver than she was. Instead of hiding behind the safest cases she could, she’d jumped into one of the roughest, and probably most dangerous, jobs in the Bureau.

Chelsie opened her mouth, wanting to ask Maggie how she did it, then promptly closed it. They’d bonded in the Academy as two of the few women in the class, but Maggie had come in with Ella Cortez, and theirs was a friendship Chelsie could never hope to match. She and Maggie shared stories in the office and got a beer together after work once in a while, but that was the extent of it.

She’d never told Maggie—or anyone else—the profound sense of failure she’d felt after the shooting. It had eroded her confidence to the point where her parents and three younger brothers had been certain she would quit the Bureau entirely. But somehow she’d stuck it out. Maybe one day, she’d feel like she belonged here again.

Instead of saying any of that to Maggie, Chelsie put on her usual smile and waved as Maggie hopped into her car. Then she strode to the back of the parking structure where she’d left her trusty old compact. Her steps slowed as she approached.

Beside her little car was a hulking black SUV. And even from a distance, though she hadn’t seen him in more than six months, she recognized the man standing beside it.

His hair was a little bit longer, not so close to a buzz cut as it had been a year ago. It was a little bit blonder, too, as if he’d been spending a lot of time in the sun. His deep brown eyes were covered with a pair of sunglasses, but she could still picture their exact shade. His expression was neutral, his jawline hard, but like always, he seemed to crackle with barely contained energy, seemed to exude charm just standing there. He looked as though he’d put on muscle, though she knew firsthand that his lanky form made him appear thinner than he actually was. When she’d taken off his clothes, she’d discovered muscles that had felt like steel under her greedy fingers.

She forced herself to keep moving, to stare at him with what she hoped was an expression as bland as his. She was five foot ten in flats and he still had half a foot on her. “Scott. What are you doing here?”

There was no question he’d been waiting for her. Anticipation fluttered to life in her stomach. He’d pursued her in those first few months after the shooting. He’d shown up at Shields or stopped by the WFO to see Maggie and then found a way to seek Chelsie out, too. He’d given her that sexy smile, and asked her to dinner, or out for drinks. Eventually, she’d said no enough times that he’d stopped chasing her.

She’d been shocked that he’d wanted even a second night. Chelsie had heard about some of his exploits through Maggie over the years, so she knew Scott had a reputation as a one-date kind of guy.

One-night stands had never been her style. But that night, she simply hadn’t been able to resist him. She’d been on such an incredible high when she walked into Shields. She’d finally become an FBI negotiator and she’d wanted to celebrate. None of her usual friends at the office had been available, so she’d gone by herself. She’d expected to grab a beer and toast her accomplishment, then go home.

Then Scott had sat down next to her and bought her that beer. Out of all the women in there, Scott had turned the full force of his charm on her. The sexy, lopsided grin; the intensity of his gaze focused solely on her; the feel of his fingers brushing over hers—it had hit her with a longing she’d never felt. They’d stayed until closing time, long past when all the other agents had left.

When he’d invited her home, she’d planned to say no. But somehow, she’d stared into his deep brown eyes and found herself nodding, her heart beating faster as she’d told him to lead the way. She’d followed him out of that bar before she could change her mind.

Until this moment she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him.

She tried to forced back the emotion, tried to ignore the little voice in her head telling her it could have worked, if only she’d given him a chance. Scott might have chased after her, but he’d just wanted a repeat of that incredible night, a simple fling. It would have ended quickly, but inevitably someone would have found out. That wouldn’t have made a dent in his career, but it sure would have hurt hers.

She didn’t date other agents. As a woman, that was a quick way to make everyone around her question how she’d succeeded in the Bureau. She didn’t need that.

Especially since it had happened once before. She hadn’t gone out on a single date with her supervisor back in LA, but he’d shown interest, and that fast, the rumors had started. It had taken a transfer to Washington, DC to stop them. That romance would have been forbidden. One with Scott wasn’t—they didn’t work on the same squad. But she didn’t want to risk it—her career or her heart. Not for someone who wasn’t searching for anything remotely serious.

She’d known serious wasn’t Scott’s style the second she’d met him, years ago, when she’d been out at a pub with Maggie and Ella and a few other agents. He’d swung by their table, said hello, his gaze lingering longer on the female agents, then he’d been off. He hadn’t paid her any special attention then, but she’d definitely noticed him. She’d realized right away that it was probably better he hadn’t homed in on her, because she didn’t do casual. And it had been immediately obvious that casual was the only way he worked.

It didn’t matter how her pulse picked up at the thought of him, even a year after their one incredible, spontaneous night together. It didn’t matter how completely in tune his sense of humor had been with hers, how strangely comfortable she’d felt with him, how right his body had felt pressed against hers. It didn’t matter how much she’d wished things had turned out differently. Because the truth was, he reminded her too much of a day she wanted desperately to forget, reminded her too much of her failure.

She tried to keep her face impassive, wishing she had her own shades to cover eyes that were probably showing too much as she stared up at him. Had he decided to try again? Was she crazy to keep resisting him?

His biceps flexed as he reached up and removed his sunglasses, and that fast, Chelsie’s shoulders dropped. There was no heat in his eyes, just cool professionalism. If there was a hint of something more intimate lurking in those chocolate-colored depths, he hid it well.

“Chelsie.” Scott’s deep voice was flat and even, nothing like the way he’d growled her name as he’d lowered himself on top of her. His mouth had caressed hers exactly right, with a familiarity he shouldn’t have known. His hands had slid over her body with a similar confidence, making her writhe beneath him desperately.

She swallowed hard, trying to banish the memory, and saw recognition flicker in his eyes, and couldn’t hold his stare.

If Scott Delacorte had known exactly how to touch her, it wasn’t because they were somehow magically in tune. It was because he had a lot of practice. Chances were he’d long since moved on. If she couldn’t seem to do the same, she at least needed to do a better job of pretending.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to hide her reaction and looked back into his eyes.

His blank expression had cracked, letting a hint of what she’d seen in his eyes a year ago peek through. But his voice was hard and urgent as he demanded, “I need you to get in the SUV and come with me.”

“What? Why—”

“Connors escaped from jail this morning. We’re putting you in protective custody.”

* * *

AS SCOTT SPED out of the WFO’s parking structure, he sensed Andre’s gaze on him from the passenger seat. They’d been partners since Scott joined HRT. When you’ve put your life in someone else’s hands enough times, spent enough missions scouting out targets for days on end, you got to know the person. Andre definitely knew something was up.

Scott had never told him about Chelsie. He wasn’t the type to kiss and tell in general, but he wasn’t completely secretive, either. Still he’d never spoken to anyone about what he’d shared with Chelsie. Somehow, it felt too intimate, and he wanted to lock the memory away, keep it only for himself.

From the backseat, Chelsie finally spoke up. “How’d he get out?”

“Faked a medical emergency,” Scott said. “The ambulance was in a car crash. Connors overpowered his guard and then tackled the driver. He was gone before the police arrived.”

Andre turned in his seat, stretched his hand toward Chelsie. “Special Agent Andre Diaz. Scott and I are partners at HRT.”

“Chelsie Russell. So, Andre, why the protective custody?”

Tension vibrated in her voice. As an agent, she was well aware they wouldn’t put her into protective custody simply because a criminal from one of her cases had escaped.

“There was a break-in at your apartment this afternoon, about an hour after Connors got out,” Andre said in his typical straightforward way.

“What? Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“There’s probably a message on your phone,” Scott said. “You were in a meeting.”

Scott sensed Chelsie lean forward in the backseat, and he couldn’t help but notice the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. He wanted to reach his hand back and clasp it around hers, but he swallowed the urge and tightened his grip on the steering wheel instead. She might still have been attracted to him on some level—he’d seen that in her wide blue eyes the second she’d stepped close to him in the WFO parking lot—but Chelsie had made her feelings about him clear.

“Did he take anything? And how did he find me?” Chelsie asked.

“Well, the place wasn’t ransacked,” Scott answered. “We don’t know how he tracked you down.” Her information was unlisted, but apparently Connors’s skills extended beyond his rifle.

“Are you sure it was Connors?”

“No. But prison officials went through Connors’s cell after he got out and it seems like the guy was fixated on you.” Scott gritted his teeth, remembering the briefing the team had gotten from Froggy an hour ago. The Bureau wanted Chelsie Russell in protective custody, and since Connors had gotten his marksman training from the military, they wanted a pair of snipers watching her.

HRT did protective details all the time. Protecting another agent was an unusual assignment, but Scott had volunteered. Every time he thought about Connors, he remembered how the man had shot the tactical mirror out of his hand from two hundred yards away. There were top-notch snipers in HRT, but this was Chelsie’s life they were talking about. Regardless of her feelings for him, he had to be the one protecting her. And Andre, good friend that he was, had immediately raised his hand, too, when Scott volunteered.

“He fixated on me, how?” Chelsie asked, her voice tight.

“Your name was written repeatedly in a notebook that was found in his cell,” Andre said. “He had limited internet privileges and when they checked, they discovered that he’d been looking for information on you.”

At Connors’s murder trial, the prosecuting attorney had argued the only reason the two community-center workers and Chelsie had lived was because Connors hadn’t been able to line up shots on them. He’d been drawn to the site because of the military connection, but for some reason, after his capture, he’d become obsessed with Chelsie.

The FBI wasn’t sure why he’d fixated on her—she’d barely arrived on scene before Connors had taken off. Maybe it was because, unlike the community-center workers, who’d been inside the building when he’d started shooting and who he might never have known were there, Chelsie had talked to him. Whatever she’d said must have made an impression. Or maybe it was just because she was the only one he’d known was there whom he hadn’t been able to hit.

Apparently now he’d decided to come back and finish what he’d started. The two community-center workers had been put under protective custody, too, but the locals were handling that. And they’d only found references to Chelsie in Connors’s cell.

“He won’t get anywhere near you,” Scott promised, and he knew there was no way anyone in the car could miss the too-personal conviction in his voice.

Andre’s eyes flicked to him, then away, as the car went briefly, uncomfortably silent.

The silence stretched until finally Chelsie asked, “Where are we going?” Her voice was neutral, but she was trying too hard to sound as though she hadn’t noticed his intensity.

The scent of strawberries faded as she leaned back in her seat, away from him.

“We’re taking you to a safe house,” Andre answered. “There’s a bag for you in back. We had one of the cops who responded to the break-in pack it for you.”

“A female cop,” Scott added, ridiculously bothered by the idea of a male cop pawing through her underwear drawer. An equally ridiculous thought followed—the hope that the cop had packed the underwear set Chelsie had been wearing when they were together. Pale pink and completely, unexpectedly feminine, especially underneath the straight-cut dress pants and loose button-down she’d worn to Shields.

“Okay,” Chelsie said, obviously having no idea about the direction of his thoughts.

But from the way Andre’s lips were quivering, he had an idea. When Scott glanced at his friend, Andre’s eyebrows lifted toward the dome of his shaved head.

Ignoring him, Scott turned onto a random side street, weaving his way leisurely through the neighborhood and keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.

“No one,” Andre said as they came out the other side and Scott made a series of sudden, erratic turns.

They didn’t have a tail. Good. There was no reason to think they’d been followed, but Scott wasn’t taking any chances. Finally, he got back on the freeway and started driving south.

Ironically, the safe house was only fifteen miles from his home, ten miles from the scene of the shooting. It was in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned farmhouse on a flat, empty piece of land that would telegraph anyone’s approach for miles. No good place for a sharpshooter to set up a hide, which was the reason they’d chosen it.

He and Andre had driven over there right after the briefing and set the place up, leaving Andre’s car behind. Then they’d gone back for Chelsie. Good thing they’d been fast because although a message had been left for Chelsie not to leave the office, apparently it hadn’t been delivered.

Hopefully, they’d catch Connors quickly and lock him behind bars again, and Chelsie would be safe. She could go back to her white-collar cases at the WFO and he could go back to pretending he didn’t miss her.

But as she leaned forward again, and he took a deep breath of strawberry—his new favorite scent—Scott revised that thought. Hopefully Connors would stay on the run long enough for Scott to change Chelsie’s mind about giving him another chance.

* * *

THE SAFE HOUSE looked a lot like Scott’s cozy little bungalow.

As soon as Chelsie stepped through the door, she halted, making Scott walk into her. He gripped her arm quickly, before she stumbled, and the feel of his strong fingers wrapped around her elbow sent goose bumps running up her arm. The heat of his body against her back made her want to lean into him and hook her arms around his neck. Instead she jerked forward out of his grasp, and put some distance between them.

Not glancing back, she stepped farther into the house, and tried to cool down. It had been a year! And they’d only spent one night together. An incredible night, but still... How could he still affect her like this?

It was ridiculous. He wasn’t her type at all. She didn’t go for the too-handsome, too-charming playboy types. She dated accountants and engineers, decent looking but not so attractive that every woman in the room stared. They were safe and serious. She picked the ones who didn’t feel threatened by her job because they believed her when she said she sat behind a desk. Guys who wanted more than a little fun and a little fling.

“I’m going to catch a nap.” Andre’s voice broke into her thoughts and she turned to face him. “Scott and I were called in for a case about—” he checked his watch “—eighteen hours ago.”

“Sure, okay,” she said, and silently cursed at how nervous she sounded. Hopefully Andre would think it was just the situation, and not the thought of being alone with Scott.

Scott’s partner nodded at her, his dark brown eyes unreadable as he moved past her toward one of the bedrooms, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tactical bag hanging from his other hand. He was undeniably attractive, probably in his early thirties and about her height, with smooth, dark skin, and biceps that strained his T-shirt.

As Andre disappeared into the room at the end of the hall, closing the door with a soft thud, Chelsie glanced back to find Scott watching her. He, too, had a duffel bag over one shoulder, and a tactical bag over the other. And, she realized, a small blue duffel bag tucked beside the tactical bag. Her belongings.

She held out a hand for it. “Sorry. I can take that.”

Scott gave her the bag, his fingers brushing hers...on purpose? The same sensitivity rushed up her skin, the feeling of him lingering after he’d stepped back.

“Why don’t you go ahead and settle in?” He tossed the car keys on the table and put his bags down. “I’m going to make a quick phone call and then I want to review the case file.”

Chelsie nodded mutely as her stomach churned. After her testimony at Connors’s trial had concluded, she’d hoped she’d never have to see anything from that horrible day again. Even thinking about the case made the memories rush back, the metallic scent of blood floating on the wind, the heat of the sun beating down on her shoulders, the bang of the rifle as another man fell and nothing she said made any difference.

She turned away from Scott, hoping he wouldn’t see the emotions on her face, and walked down the hallway to another bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, glancing around as her heart rate slowed. The shades were drawn on the room’s sole window, and she’d keep them that way. The room was simple: a single bed, a nightstand and a dresser, all mismatched. A dusty treadmill sat in the corner with an ancient radio propped on top of it.

She set her duffel on the bed, not bothering to see what the cop had packed for her, and sank down beside it. The springs on the bed sagged too far under her weight as she stared at the blank walls.

The bones of the house really were a lot like Scott’s little bungalow. But Scott’s house had been full of charm and personality. For a guy with a reputation with the women, she’d expected a true bachelor’s pad: leather couches, a big-screen TV and a black bedspread on a king-size bed. Instead, she’d discovered his taste in decorating ran to blues and greens. He had artwork on his walls, family pictures on his tables and his bedroom could only be described as cozy.

She’d been in his house just once. And most of those hours had been spent in his bed. So why could she picture it better than some of her friends’ houses that she’d been to dozens of times?

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” Scott’s voice suddenly carried into her room, loud enough for her to overhear.

He must have gone into the third bedroom, had to be on the phone. With a girlfriend? Was Scott Delacorte actually dating someone seriously enough that she might miss him if he was away for a few days? Heck, for all she knew, he was living with someone.

Chelsie pushed the thought out of her mind. It was none of her business.

Still, she couldn’t help straining to listen as he added, “Keep an eye on her, okay?” He sounded stressed, as though whoever needed looking after was someone he didn’t want to leave alone. As though he wanted to be the one watching over her.

Did he resent being sent to a safe house to watch over Chelsie instead?

Stop it, Chelsie told herself. Scott had given her plenty of opportunities to be with him. She’d been the one to say no. She had no right to be jealous of whoever had his attention now.

But as she heard Scott say goodbye to whoever he’d called, she knew it didn’t matter what she told herself to feel. The truth was, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Scott in the past year. But he wasn’t a real option, just a momentary distraction, and she needed to deal with it. She stood, squared her shoulders, and went to the door, yanking it open.

Scott was standing on the other side, his hand raised as though he’d been about to knock. He slowly lowered his arm as she stared up at him.

And then, before she could move, he’d taken a step forward, until he was standing so close to her that she could see his eyes darken and his pupils expand. And then his head lowered toward hers.

He moved slowly, giving her time to step away, but she couldn’t seem to break his spell. And then she was the one moving toward him, pushing herself up on her tiptoes and threading her fingers in his hair.

His mouth came down hard on hers, his lips urgent and so familiar. She sighed in the back of her throat as she pulled him closer. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her again and again, until she felt as if she had been transported backward a year.

As if the massacre had never happened. As if she’d gone home with him from Shields—the only truly spontaneous, irresponsible thing she’d ever done—and just stayed. As if this was the beginning of something, instead of long past the end.

The thought brought her abruptly back to reality. She untangled her hands from Scott’s hair and pushed against his chest as he was walking her backward, toward that single bed. She pushed a little harder and his lips left hers.

His gaze was intense, but as he stared at her, all trace of emotion disappeared. He stepped back abruptly, making her stumble, and his lips hooked up at the corner derisively. “Still playing games with me, Chelsie?” His voice seemed to caress her name, but the expression on his face was one of disgust. At her? At himself? She wasn’t sure.

But when he turned and walked out of her room, she didn’t call him back.