I scowl at the locked door for an hour or so, willing it to open.
It doesn’t.
Desperate for a change of scenery, I shove to my feet and stride to the front window. Flicking back the corner of the curtain, I peer out at the parking lot.
Steam is rising off the pavement in the midday sunshine. It’s one of those muggy July afternoons, when the air is so thick you practically need gills to breathe properly.
The air-conditioning unit gives an ominous rattle, struggling to beat the heat. It’s on its last legs. I can only hope it doesn’t stop working while I’m still a guest here at the lovely Budget Inn.
Oh. Did I say guest?
I meant prisoner.
The black SUV is still parked directly across from my door. Even from here, I can make out the two federal agents watching me through the windshield, their faces show clear disapproval as soon as they spot me. With a sigh, I let the curtain fall back into place and step away from the dust-streaked window.
Stay out of sight, they barked when they shoved me in here ten — or was it twelve? — hours ago. Gallagher’s orders.
I begin to pace angrily back and forth across the small motel room, a ping pong ball of rage scoring treads into the carpet. I glower at my surroundings as if that might somehow make them more appealing.
The rusty red sofa. The orange and purple bedspread. The tacky watercolor wall paintings of Dutch windmills and winding rivers. The stained puce carpet, clashing horribly with the striped yellow wallpaper.
I’m not sure which ring of hell this is, but it seems to have been specifically designed to assault the senses with as many contrary patterns and color schemes as possible. I eye the bed, wondering what it would look like under a blacklight.
Probably best you never find out.
Honestly, after today, I’m considering writing to the Vatican to apply for sainthood, because I have given new meaning to the phrase patience of a saint after spending twelve long hours sitting in this tiny ass room, going out of my mind with worry. So bored I considered gouging out my own eyeballs just so I’d have something to do besides stress and panic and pace.
Wait.
Actually…
I take it all back.
I don’t have the patience of a saint. Oh, no. I have the patience of a fangirl waiting for the next installment in her favorite book series. Because, seriously, no one does the whole suffer-in-silence-for-years-on-end-without-any-hope-of-a-sequel quite like bookworms. (Also, there’s the small fact that I don’t think I’d make a particularly good saint… what with my short temper and propensity for colorful curse words and, oh yeah, the one way ticket to Hell I’ve probably earned myself after practically celebrating my husband’s impending doom last night.)
With a groan, I collapse on top of the grody bedspread and close my eyes. They spring open again almost instantly when I hear the beep of a keycard followed by the sound of the door swinging inward. I sit up just in time to see Agent Lucy Sykes step inside the crappy motel room.
“Finally! An intelligent life form on this desolate planet!”
“Hello to you too, Shelby.” Her lips tug up in a smile. It wavers a little as she eyes the questionably clean armchair across from my bed. Nonetheless, she sinks into it with a sigh and crosses her long legs. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. Turns out, shootouts involving the Russian mob require an exceptional amount of paperwork.”
“Ah.”
“How are you holding up?”
I heave a mighty shrug. The FBI sweatshirt — courtesy of one of the agents who locked me in here wearing nothing but my freaking peach nightie — hikes higher on my thighs. I tug it down with annoyance.
Sykes eyes my scraped-up legs. “Gallagher told me you got pretty banged up, last night. If you’re in pain I can get you some Advil.”
At the mention of his name, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking the question that’s been nagging at me since I was loaded into a black SUV last night and carted from my house to this crappy motel just off Route 1 without so much as an explanation.
Where the hell is Conor?
Why isn’t he here?
“I realize this isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Sykes says, pulling my attention back to her. “But it’s close to the Bureau, which means we can keep a revolving shift of guards staked out. Plus it’s nondescript enough to keep you safe until we’re sure the Evanoffs are no longer a threat.”
“And how long do you expect that’ll take?”
“Unclear. We searched your attic and found some of your husbands belongings stashed there… but nothing of any value. Certainly nothing worthy of Alexei Petrov’s wrath.”
“So you still have no idea what Paul took from him?”
“Unfortunately not.” She blows out a breath. “Nor do we know why Petrov’s men seem to believe you’re the one in possession of it.”
“They aren’t the only ones. Paul seems to think I have it, as well. Which makes no freaking sense considering he’s the one who stole it in the first place.”
“Shelby, I need you to think. Is there anything you can remember — anything at all — that your husband said last night that might help us sort this mess out?”
“He kept saying I had to run away. That I wasn’t safe so long as I had ‘it’ and that they’d never stop looking.” My eyes narrow in concentration. “But I don’t know what ‘it’ is. It makes no sense. How could I have something that’s supposedly this valuable and not even realize it?”
“It’s my personal belief that ‘it’ isn’t an object at all. It’s money. A lot of money, siphoned from Petrov’s private accounts into Paul’s pockets. Only… he probably put it in your name to cover his tracks, hoping his uncle wouldn’t connect the dots until it was too late.”
“Oh.” I blink as I digest this news. “But wouldn’t I know if there was a Cayman Island out there with a designated Shelby Hunt vault of cash?”
“Not necessarily. As your husband, Paul could’ve made deposits on your behalf without your knowledge. But… by putting your name on the account, he needs your authorization to access the stolen funds. Which is likely why he’s been so fixated on recapturing your affections, these past few months.” She pauses. “It also explains why Alexei Petrov sent his thugs after you in the first place.”
I have to admit, her theory does sound plausible. Far more plausible than the idea that I have in my unwitting possession some mythical object that Petrov is desperate to recover.
“I guess that makes sense,” I murmur. “I should’ve known Paul wasn’t actually interested in winning me back out of some twisted sense of love or husbandly duty.”
Sykes pauses tactfully. “Right. Well. As of now, this remains a theory. We haven’t found any sort of paper trail yet.”
“But you will?”
“If it exists, our analysts will find it. They’re the best in the world.”
My head tilts as something occurs to me. “I thought, when they took Paul, my part in all of this would be over. But if you’re right about this — if they can’t access the funds without my authorization… they’re going to keep coming after me, aren’t they?”
“It’s unlikely they’ll pursue you now that they know the FBI is involved. As soon as we locate the accounts, we’ll freeze whatever funds they contain. Their only shot would be to grab you before we have a chance.” Her eyes narrow. “And we don’t plan to let that happen.”
I pull in a shaky breath, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. “What does that mean for me, exactly?”
“For the time being, it means you’re stuck here where we can keep an eye on you.”
“Great.” I grimace.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer. We’ve got every available agent trying to track down the stolen money, running your name through every database known to man. If that account exists, we’ll know about it soon. That’s the beauty of a paper trail — follow it to the end, you always find your treasure.”
My lips twist. “Files don’t lie?”
“Precisely.” Her eyes crinkle up. “Oh — before I forget — I have something for you,” Sykes says, reaching into her bag. “Your phone. I grabbed it from your purse when we were doing a search of the house. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion — I just figured there might be someone you’d like to call…”
“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.” I take the phone and charger cable from her. The battery is dead, so I plug it into a nearby outlet.
Sykes is watching me carefully. “Have you talked to your family at all since…”
“Since my life exploded? No. My parents and I are on more of a HEB schedule.”
“HEB?”
“Holidays, emergencies, birthdays.” My smile is weak. “We’re not all that close.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s nothing new. They never approved of me getting married so young. They pretty much cut me off as soon as I told them about Paul.” I laugh, but it’s joyless. “Ironically, I think that’s one of the reasons I tried to make it work with him for so long, even after things went cold between us. A part of me thought if he turned out to be a shithead, it meant my parents were right about him. Right about me.”
“Ah. And you’re afraid, if you call them now…”
“It will just validate what they did — cutting off their daughter because they didn’t approve of her choices.”
“I’d tell you they’ll come around eventually, realize the error of their ways, and apologize, but…” She shoots me an empathetic look that says she understands my struggles all too well. “Parents have a unique ability to constantly point out their children’s mistakes without ever taking accountability for their own.”
“Truer words never spoken.”
“What about your friends? Can you talk to them?”
I wince. “I don’t want to burden them.”
“I doubt they’d see it that way.”
“One of my friends is pregnant — about to pop, no exaggeration — so she definitely doesn’t need this stress in her life, trust me. Another has two toddlers under the age of three, so every day is already a catastrophe without me adding drama to the mix… One is on her honeymoon… Another is sailing around the world…” I trail off. “So, it’s just me. On my own. Again.”
Sykes is staring at me with sad eyes.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Sykes! I’ll start to think you actually have a heart.”
“Dear god, we can’t have that.” She laughs and rises to her feet. “I should probably get going, anyway. Someone will be by later to drop off dinner for you. Any requests?”
“I’m a vegetarian. Anything green is generally a safe bet, though I never turn my nose up at some chips and guac.”
“Got it.” She scribbles a note on the small pad she seems to carry everywhere. “I’ll be back in touch when we have an update on the Petrov situation. In the meantime, just sit tight and try not to go too stir crazy.”
“No promises.”
“Here’s my card.” She slips a small white rectangle from her purse and sets it on the end table. “If you need anything, you can call me.”
“Thanks, Agent Sykes.”
“It’s Lucy.”
I smile softly. “Oh. Well, then… goodbye, Lucy.”
She walks to the door. “See you soon, Shelby.”
I manage to keep the smile on my face until it clicks closed at her back, leaving me alone once more in the dingy motel room.
I wake to the sound of a keycard beeping.
Sitting straight up in bed, my covers go flying as I watch the door swing inward. A large man’s silhouette fills the frame, massive enough to send my heart lurching into my throat. Before he can take a single stride into the room, I’m out of bed — leaping off the mattress, grabbing the lamp off the bedside table, holding it aloft like a baseball player stepping up to home plate.
Just try me, bucko!
The overhead light flickers on. I blink my eyes as they struggle to adjust to the brightness. When the room comes into focus, I feel my cheeks flame the same color red as the gaudy motel sofa.
Conor is standing in the threshold, his hand still poised on the light switch, his lips twitching like he’s about to burst into laughter.
“Hey, batter batter.”
With as much dignity as I can muster, I lower the lamp and set it on the table.
I hear a low chuckle a few seconds before the door swings closed. Avoiding his eyes, I tug my sweatshirt down so it covers my underwear a bit more thoroughly and smooth a hand through my sleep-mussed brown waves.
“What are you doing here, Gallagher?”
“Bringing you this.” He sets my duffle bag on the sofa — the one I packed the first day we met. It feels like years have passed since then. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’m a light sleeper.”
“Clearly.”
I finally look up. He’s leaning against the wall across from me, his dark eyes totally alert as they sweep me from head to toe. They linger on my bare legs for a second longer than strictly necessary.
My chin jerks upward in a stubborn move. I wait for him to say something, but he’s silent as a freaking grave. After a long moment of frigid silence, during which my hands curl into frustrated fists and my teeth begin to gnash together with rage, I finally realize he’s not going to speak at all.
“Well. If that’s everything you came for…” I look pointedly at the door. “I’ve got some vital beauty rest to get back to.”
He doesn’t move a muscle. “You angry at me about something, Hunt?”
“Why would I be angry?” I snap.
“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.” His eyes narrow on mine, hard as lapis and twice as blue. “You’re not acting like yourself, that’s for damn sure.”
“And how am I acting?”
“Bitchy, for starters.”
“When you wake someone up in the middle of the night, it’s called cranky not bitchy. Not my fault you caught me during a bad REM cycle.”
“No. That’s not it.”
I lock my jaw tight, refusing to say another word.
The truth is, I am angry with him. I’m so angry I could spit. So angry, my hands are itching to pick up that lamp and chuck it at his head — for real this time. And the strangest part is, I’m not even sure why I’m so mad. I don’t have a good reason to be so full of rage. I don’t even have a bad reason for it.
I’m perfectly aware that I should be grateful for everything he’s done for me. After all, he’s been there every step of the way since this insanity started — a constant, annoying, reassuring, infuriating presence in my life, keeping me out of harm’s way and well stocked in Mexican take-out, shielding me from gunfire and saving me from scary bad guys. (On more than one occasion.)
Hell, he’s barely let me out of his damn sight for three straight days.
At least… until last night.
After the shootout at my house, not only did he allow me to drive off with two strange agents I’d never met before… he didn’t even bother to check in on me when I finished getting my ribs bandaged by the paramedics. In fact, he never spoke to me again after pulling me out from beneath that porch bench and telling me about Paul’s capture.
Not at the scene. Not all day yesterday, as I sat alone in this shitty room, wondering what the hell was happening out there… whether he’d caught up to the Evanoff brothers and engaged in another shootout… whether he’d had another close encounter with a bullet…
Whether he was alive or dead.
When he finally did decide I merited some intel, he sent Sykes to do his dirty work. I’m not sure why that stings so much; it’s not like he answers to me. He has no obligation to tell me anything. As he’s reiterated multiple times over the past few days… this is just a job for him. I’m nothing more than an asset. Something to be managed. One more task on a checklist before he gets to clock out at night.
“That’s a new look,” he murmurs.
I flinch. “What?”
“The look on your face right now. Can’t decide if you’re preparing to kill me or…”
“Or what?”
He shrugs and pushes off from the wall. I go tense, watching as he closes some of the distance between us. Every muscle in my body is poised to either bolt or…
Or what, Shelby?
Throw yourself into his arms?
And what, exactly, would you do when you got there?
Hit him or hug him?
Kill him or kiss him?
I shake myself to clear the absurd thoughts. “What do you want, Gallagher? It’s late and I’m tired.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s got you so riled up.”
“I am not riled up!”
He just stares at me.
A scoff flies from my mouth. “Fine. I’m riled up. But only because it’s three in the damn morning.”
“Not buying it, Hunt.”
I throw out my hands. “I don’t know what you want to hear.”
“How about the truth for once, instead of an evasion or a dodge or a cutesy comment designed to distract me from what you’re actually feeling,” he says lowly.
Oh boy.
My stomach drops to my feet.
Conor takes a step nearer. “Or, if you’re not inclined to share why you’re so pissed off at my general presence tonight, how ‘bout you tell me something else instead.” His voice is soft, cajoling. “Why don’t you let me in on one of those other secrets you’re determined to keep so close to the vest? The ones you hide from everyone — whether it’s your neighbors or your family or your friends. The ones you’re afraid to admit out loud, ‘cause they terrify you too much.”
“I don’t know what secrets you’re referring to,” I lie, heart pounding too fast, thinking about bruised cheekbones and cold bedsheets and Christmas mornings and my uncontrollable need for control.
“No?”
“Nope.”
He leans in. “Bullshit.”
I suck in a gulp of air and try to look away from him, but my eyes seem to be stuck in a dark blue tractor beam. There’s no escape. No avoiding that deeply perceptive stare, that sees straight through every wall I put up.
He is the one person who’s never been fooled by my smoke and mirrors. Who’s ever called me out on my need for perfection. Who’s ever pushed me to talk about all the not-so-picturesque parts of my marriage to Paul.
Judging by the pointed direction of his questions, he already knows all my secrets. Or… suspects, in any case. But if he thinks I’m going to admit them out loud, to share them with him of all people… he’d better get accustomed to disappointment.
Why would I ever confide in someone I can’t stand?
Conor’s eyes never shift from mine, nor does he back away a single inch. Knowing him, he’ll be more than happy to stand here until the sun rises, waiting for me to speak. He may call me stubborn, but he takes the freaking cake when it comes to digging in his heels.
Until tonight. Because I am absolutely not breaking the silence first.
Nope.
No way.
Not happening.
“Tick tock,” he murmurs, egging me on. “I’ve got all night, Hunt. And I’m not leaving without an explanation. So you can either tell me why you’re pissed… or you can tell me something else. Something real. Something that matters.”
“Why do you even care?” I hiss.
“Call it… professional curiosity.”
“I can think of a few other names for it. And for you.”
We glare at each other as the silence drags on, as the air grows heavy with unspoken thoughts. The narrow foot of space between our faces seems to simmer with tension the longer we go without speaking. I grit my teeth to keep the words inside, determined not to cave to the pressure, determined not to let him win, determined not to—
“Where were you?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
His brows skyrocket to his hairline. “Sorry?”
“Where were you? And where have you been? Last night, after the shootout, you just… you disappeared on me.” I swallow hard, hoping it might unravel the fragile thread of vulnerability running through my voice, woven between thick cords of anger. “I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know where you were.”
He’s silent, watching me through narrowed eyes.
“Not that I even care,” I tack on hastily. “It just would’ve been nice to know, seeing as there are insane twin mobsters wandering the streets of Boston, out for our blood and armed to the teeth, if last night was any indication.”
His loaded pause is legendary. It makes all previous pauses seem utterly insignificant, by comparison. “You worried about me, Hunt?”
“No,” I snap. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Wasn’t aware I was.”
“It’s just inconsiderate to banish me to a sleazy motel for an entire day with nothing to do except watch soapy shows on a static-prone television and wonder what the hell was happening with Paul and Petrov and the Evanoffs, before falling onto a lumpy mattress to get some rest and most likely catching a severe infestation of bed bugs in the process because, dear lord, did I mention how sleazy this place is?” I plant my hands on my hips. “I know our government is cash-strapped but come on. Spring for a Hilton, for the love of god. There are prisons more pleasant than this motel.”
I finally run out of breath… and out of words. In the silence that follows, a fierce blush slowly steals its way up my neck and over my cheeks as I realize Conor is watching me with unmistakable amusement.
Why can’t you ever just keep your mouth shut, Shelby?
Conor’s lips are twitching and his eyes have turned ultra warm. Up close, the effect is dizzying. It’s like staring into two melty blue galaxies, swimming with stars.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me, Hunt.”
I snort. “Did the paramedics check you for brain damage?”
He takes a step closer, forcing me backward, crowding my body up against the wall beside the bed. I feel my spine hit the hard plaster and lock my knees to keep them from going weak when those constellation eyes come within six inches of mine. Before I can bolt, Conor’s hands come up to rest on either side of my head, effectively caging me in.
“You’re pissed I locked you up here alone, instead of staying with you.”
My jaw clenches tightly to contain my comeback.
“You’re pissed I sent Sykes here today instead of coming myself.”
My chin jerks up but I don’t refute his words.
“Hunt.” He blows out a breath. “I’m the head of my division. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m sure you’re simply dying to tell me.”
“It means,” he says tiredly. “I’m in charge of all the organized crime cases that come through the Boston Bureau. I’m at the top of the chain of command. I have a lot of people who report to me. And though this case is our top priority right now, there’s more than one file on my desk at the moment that requires attention.”
“I understand that!”
“Then why the fuck are you so pissed off about it?”
“That’s not what I’m pissed about!” I retort, breathing hard. “I’m pissed because—”
Because I let myself believe this was more than just a job for you. That I was more than just another file on your desk to be dealt with. That what we were doing here…
Mattered.
I bite down on the words before they escape.
God, I’m such an idiot.
“Waiting on pins and needles here, Hunt.”
“I… I’m…”
My lips press together as I search for something to say. For anything to say, except the scary truth that’s suddenly staring me straight in the face:
This is not Conor Gallagher’s life.
His life is what happens when he walks away from me at the end of the day. His life is outside this conversation, outside this crappy motel room, outside anything having to do with me. And I’m not sure when I started to care, or why it bothers me so much. I’m not sure of anything at all, anymore.
“Let it go,” I whisper, voice stripped of all anger. “Please… just let it go.”
A fissure of concern appears between his eyes. “Now you’re really freaking me the fuck out, Hunt.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
His jaw clenches. “Like hell it doesn’t.”
“Just go home, Gallagher.”
His fist bangs the wall beside my head, hard enough to make me flinch. “No. I won’t fucking go home. I’m not about to leave you here when you’re clearly upset and refuse to tell me how I can fix it.”
“It’s not your responsibility to fix it!” I yell back at him, anger returning in a flash. “You’re not my keeper or my savior or my knight-in-shining armor. We aren’t friends. You’re the one who told me that. Or did you already forget?”
“Hunt—”
“Don’t Hunt me!” I shake my head and, for some baffling reason, I’m suddenly fighting tears. “You know, when you climbed through my window and rescued me that night, right when this first started, I thought you were on my side. I thought you cared. But now I see nothing you’ve done is out of loyalty or anything resembling actual human emotion. I’m just an obligation to you. And you’re just a robot, going through the motions, handling me like you handle every other case that comes across your desk.”
His teeth grit. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”
“What else am I supposed to think? Huh? Three days ago, you dragged me into an interrogation room like a criminal and set your blonde attack dog on me. Two days ago you accused me of harboring my asshole ex in the attic. And one day ago you left me all alone, had me locked up in here without so much as a word, while you went off to deal with… with… whatever issues you deemed more vital on your freaking to-do list!”
“You want to know what I was doing yesterday? I was looking for your idiot husband,” he roars back at me, anger contorting his handsome features. “I was out doing my damn job. And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not your fucking fairy tale hero. Real life doesn’t always have a happy ending. It’s not all sunsets and roses and carriage rides with some asshat princeling in tights who swoops in to save the day with a glass slipper!”
“You think I don’t know that?” I try to laugh but it comes out as a sob. “You think I don’t know how very fucked up life can be? You think I don’t know that Prince Charming sometimes turns out to be the villain? You think I don’t know that sometimes the princess winds up getting totally screwed over?” I shake my head. “What story have you been reading that has a happy ending? Or a happy beginning and middle, for that matter? Because it’s not mine. If you think it is, you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Except I have been paying attention — for six long months, in fact! Which is why I’m not about to let this case fall to pieces just because you might get your goddamned feelings hurt in the process!”
My spine snaps straight. “Thanks so much for clearing that up!”
“Anytime!”
“Perfect!”
We both fall silent, too angry to say another word. The only sound in the room is our equally ragged breathing. Conor’s mouth is so close to mine, I can feel each puff of air on my lips. The animosity is so thick between us, you could cut it with a knife.
My eyes narrow. “I’m so glad we’re in agreement, then.”
“That’d be a first,” he mutters. “What are we supposedly in agreement on here, Hunt?”
“That there’s no need for us to interact anymore.”
“Woman, what are you—”
I cut him off. “Seeing as we aren’t anything to each other besides agent and asset… surely it doesn’t matter who debriefs me. So, I’d prefer to deal with Sykes from this point forward.”
“Too fucking bad.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he spits. “You don’t get to push me away just because you’re pissed at me.”
“Push you away?” I scoff. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“I think has everything to do with me.”
“Oh, you are more full of yourself than a damn Russian matryoshka doll!”
“Nice dodge.”
“I’m not dodging anything, you jerk. I don’t need to. Sykes told me your analysts are tacking down that bank account as we speak. And once they do… the case is just about closed. Filed, finished. Over.” My voice drops to a low, angry whisper. “Which means so is this god awful chapter of my life. And so are we.”
Conor is glaring at me like he’s never hated anyone on the planet as much as he hates me. His mouth opens and I brace myself for his reply, knowing it’ll be something truly terrible. Something that’ll hammer the final nail in the coffin of this antagonistic work arrangement we’re both so desperate to escape.
It’s almost funny — after everything we’ve already screamed and shouted and sneered at each other, I think I’m well prepared for whatever he might say to me in this moment. Yet, when he finally retorts…
I’m thrown for a loop.
Because he does something far worse than anything I ever could’ve imagined. Something that brings my whole world crashing to a stop. Something that makes those words I uttered to him in anger entirely obsolete.
“We aren’t over, Shelby,” Conor mutters darkly, eyes burning into mine. “We haven’t even begun.”
And then he kisses me.