Conor’s mouth slams down on mine — hard and hot and possessive.
At first, I’m so stunned I can’t do much more than hang on for dear life. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed, I’ve almost forgotten how. But as his hands slide into my hair, as his chiseled body presses me into the wall, as his stubble scrapes against my cheeks and his lips move with mine…
A long-forgotten spark inside me flares to life.
It doesn’t take long for that spark to become a flame… for that flame to become a blaze… for that blaze to become an unstoppable inferno.
I am combustible, I think as I begin to return his kiss in earnest. I am burning up, burning out of control.
Who knew immolation would feel so damn good?
Leaning into Conor, my mouth opens beneath his to grant him access. Our tongues brush and he growls low in his throat, a thready sound of desire. Pent-up passion explodes between us. It’s a ravenous flood of lust, a fiery torrent of unleashed need so strong it threatens to drag me under.
If it does, I worry I’ll never find my way back to the surface.
I’m not sure how they get there, but suddenly my hands are around his neck, sliding up into his hair. I drag him closer, desperate to hang onto this feeling for as long as it lasts, to hold him in the circle of my arms for every possible second before we inevitably realize this is wrong, that it shouldn’t be happening, that we’ve crossed an unspoken boundary. Before we snap back to our senses and stop this madness and return to hating each other’s guts.
Except… the thing is…
It doesn’t feel like madness.
It doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels right. So right, I can’t believe it took us this long to get here, to this moment — devouring each other with no regard for the rest of the world, without a single care about the case or the crazed men after us or even the small fact that we can’t stand each other.
He pins me harder against the wall, every delicious plane of his muscular chest pressing into mine through the fabric of my sweatshirt as he strokes his way down my body. When his fingers find the bottom hem, they slip beneath it. I can’t help the gasp that flies from my mouth when his hands hit the bare skin of my hipbones.
God, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched this way.
With desire and passion and need.
With big hands and rough fingertips.
I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, like I might explode outward into a thousand pieces, my body unable to contain all the emotions firing through my nerve endings as his hands slide around to the small of my back. He tugs me closer, until we’re flush together, his mouth never breaking from mine.
The sensation is sinful. Criminal. So good it should be illegal.
Not that I’d really mind him breaking out the handcuffs, sometime…
Conor’s mouth drops to my neck. He’s kissing the sensitive hollow beneath my ear and my whole spine is arching with pleasure and things are really starting to get good when…
RIIING.
RIIIIIIIG.
RIIIIIIIIIIIG.
He groans as he rips his lips from my skin. Fishing his cellphone from his pocket with one hand, he glances at it with such annoyance, I half expect him to hurl it across the room. Before he has a chance, it rings again — flashing SYKES across the screen.
With a low curse, he lifts it to his ear. “Someone better be dying.”
He stares into my eyes as he listens to whatever she’s saying. We’re still pressed tight together. Beneath my hands, his chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to regulate his breathing. I’d bet his pulse is racing just as fast as mine.
“You’re sure?” he says sharply, eyes going alert.
My brows arch.
Whatever Sykes called to report is not making him happy. In fact, based on that expression, it’s making him decidedly unhappy. Which shouldn’t exactly be a surprise. In my experience, calls that come in after midnight generally aren’t conveying good news.
“No. No, you were right to inform me.” His body tenses, every muscle tightening as though he’s preparing for battle. “I’ll handle her extraction personally.”
Extraction?
My mouth opens to interject but there’s little point. Conor is already stepping away from me, all his attention absorbed by Sykes’ words. I swallow down my protests as he walks across the room, ignoring the lance of hurt that shoots through me at the abrupt loss of his touch. Slumped back against the wall, I try to slow my breathing as I watch him sling the strap of my duffle over one shoulder.
I never even got a chance to change.
“Keep me apprised of the situation as it develops, Sykes.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the dark locks. “I want everyone working on this. Yes. I’m aware of that.” He pauses. “I don’t care. She’s priority number one.”
My heart flips.
Conor’s eyes meet mine. “I want hourly reports on his movements.”
His?
“Yes. I will.” He blows out a sharp breath. “See you there.”
He disconnects the call.
From opposite sides of the room, we stare at each other. It’s clear neither of us wants to break the silence first. It’s even clearer that something between us has changed, shifted like a tectonic plate beneath our feet — and I’m not referring to whatever situation Sykes just told him about on the phone.
I search for the right words and come up pathetically short. What can I possibly say about our unexpected seven minutes in heaven? Besides, of course, the obvious…
It never should’ve happened.
We weren’t thinking clearly.
Momentary insanity.
Never to be repeated.
The room is so quiet, I can hear the ice machine just outside the door humming in the night.
“So,” Conor says finally. I notice his hand is clenched around the phone so tight, his knuckles have gone white. “That was Sykes.”
“I gathered as much.”
“Right.” He shakes his head, as though he’s trying to clear a haze from his thoughts. “She had some rather alarming new intel. Intel that concerns you.”
Okay, so… I guess we’re just going to skip right over the fact that we just made out like two handsy, horny teenagers in the backseat of a car after prom.
Fine by me, Gallagher.
Avoidance is my middle freaking name.
(Actually, my middle name is Quinn. Not that that’s vitally important, at this moment. Or at any moment. Ever.)
Moving on!
My brows lift. “More alarming than the Evanoffs taking Paul?”
At the sound of Paul’s name, something dark flashes in Conor’s eyes. He buries it away so quickly, I’m almost convinced I imagined it… but when he speaks again, his tone is no longer hazy or warm. He’s returned to that typical cool indifference I’ve come to know so well.
“Alexei Petrov was just caught on camera entering the country at Logan Airport. His private jet landed an hour ago.”
“What!? You don’t mean…”
“Paul’s uncle. The head of the Petrov crime family. Yes, that Petrov.” His expression is grave. “He hasn’t been in the USA for years. I very much doubt he decided to take a spontaneous holiday to Boston for no good reason.”
“He’s here because of Paul.”
He nods tightly.
“And the stolen money.”
“We still haven’t confirmed this is about money. Despite our analysts best efforts, they’ve uncovered no evidence that Paul was embezzling cash on the side.”
My brows lift. “So you don’t agree with Sykes’ theory?”
“Petrov just flew halfway around the world.” Conor’s head shakes. “That fact alone leads me to believe this isn’t about money. If it were, he would’ve let his associates handle it without ever stepping foot outside his mansion in Moscow.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I don’t know. But it’s clear whatever your husband stole is not merely valuable. It’s also personal. It must mean a great deal to Alexei. So much so, he’s determined to reclaim it — in person — from whoever has taken it.”
“And… just so we’re clear… he thinks that person is me.”
Conor nods again, jaw clenched.
“So…” My mouth goes dry. I’m afraid to ask, but I force myself to do it anyway. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not safe out in public. It means we have to get you off the grid. Now.”
Taking two strides forward, he grabs my hand, laces our fingers together, and starts tugging me toward the door. Hesitating at the threshold, his eyes meet mine. I think I actually see worry in their depths. But that can’t be right.
Conor Asshole Gallagher never gets worried about anything.
“He’s coming for me, isn’t he?” I ask before I can stop myself. The fear in my voice is potent.
“He will not lay a hand on you,” Conor growls menacingly. “That’s a vow.”
I do my damndest to believe him as we step out into the night. The two agents in the SUV flash their headlights at us as we bolt toward the Jeep Wrangler — hand in hand, like two fugitives on the run.
Bonnie and Clyde.
I can only hope we don’t meet the same grim end those two did.
We’re driving so fast, the world is nothing but a dark blur.
I’m not sure where we are, exactly. Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. I stare out the window, searching for any sort of landmark that might help me narrow it down, but nothing familiar jumps out from the barren urban sprawl.
The endless stream of looming brick warehouses to either side of the street look half-abandoned, their windows either boarded up or bashed in, their adjacent parking areas full of litter, broken-down cars, and off-duty construction vehicles. We speed under a bridge overpass, fly by a row of round petroleum storage tanks, and careen around a huge lot full of dirt, piled higher than the treetops. At least, I think it’s dirt… until we get a little closer and I see the mound is pure white: a massive mountain of road salt, already being stockpiled in preparation for the brutal Boston winter to come.
It’s been twenty minutes since we got the call about Petrov, and Conor hasn’t uttered a single word to me since we climbed into his Jeep. His jaw is clenched even tighter than his grip around the steering wheel as he maneuvers expertly around deep potholes and exposed manhole covers, shifting gears so seamlessly I think he must’ve been a NASCAR driver in a former life.
Thankfully, there aren’t too many other cars on the road at this time of night.
Or is it morning, now?
Honestly, I’ve lost track of the hour.
I’d ask where we’re going, but I doubt he’d give me a straight answer even if he could hear me over the roaring of the wind through the Wrangler’s open roof. I pull my whipping hair up into a high ponytail, then reach into the duffle bag at my feet and dig around until I locate a pair of jeans. It’s past time to ditch the sweatshirt-dress. Comfortable though it may be, it’s not exactly conducive to life on the run. Not unless you plan to distract the bad guys by flashing your lady business before making a swift getaway.
Hell, you never know… it might just work…
We drive through the dark, low-rent neighborhood for another few minutes before we turn down a narrow dead-end street and pull into the driveway of a nondescript, single-story house with a very small, overgrown yard. My eyes widen as I take it in. At least, what little I can see of it illuminated in the headlight beams.
Shabby brick facade, peeling paint, rusted mailbox.
I think we must be lost, but Conor shuts off the engine and hops out onto the cracked pavement. Before I can so much as ponder what we’re doing at a place that — it must be said — makes me homesick for the glamorous Budget Inn, he’s rounded the front of the Jeep and pulled open my door with an aggressive yank.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, grabbing the duffle by my feet.
I decide it’s best not to put up a fuss as I follow him around the side of the dilapidated dwelling, stepping over crushed beer cans and dirty plastic bags. The grass is so long, I don’t think it’s seen a lawnmower since the Paleozoic Era.
Conor stops at the back door and knocks three times. My eyes widen at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone’s definitely home.
I’m not sure who I expect to open the door — a crack dealer, perhaps? — but when it swings inward, I find myself staring at the last person I’d ever presume to encounter in a place like this.
“Sykes?!”
She smiles faintly and throws the door wider. “Get in here, you two.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as Conor ushers me inside, following close on my heels. Given the state of the yard, my expectations are quite low for the interior design of this ramshackle little hovel. Thus, I’m stunned to step into a lovely, updated kitchen complete with granite countertops, modern appliances, and polished chrome light fixtures.
What the eff?
My eyes widen further as Sykes leads us into the living room, where two men in all black are waiting on the plush black sofa, sipping styrofoam cups of coffee and typing rapidly into heavy duty laptops that appear to be military grade. I recognize them from last night — they’re the same agents who drove me to the motel. Evelson and Kaufman. I’m not entirely confident which one is which.
When they spot Conor, they both cease typing long enough to nod and mutter a respectful ‘Sir’ before resuming their activities.
What the mother-effing eff?
I feel like I’ve stepped into an episode of Black Mirror. Or a fantasy film. Nothing is as it appears. If they led me into the bedroom down the hall and told me there was a magic wardrobe that opened straight into Narnia, I wouldn’t blink twice.
“Where the hell are we?” I ask.
“Safe house,” Conor says flatly, dropping my duffle to the floor with a thud. “May not look like a palace from the outside, but it’s equipped with all the latest tech, a world class security system, satphone capabilities, and bulletproof windows. Should suit our purposes nicely for the next few days.”
I swallow hard. My brain is stuck on the phrase bulletproof windows and I can’t seem to move past it.
“Hey.” Conor’s eyes find mine. “I told you. Petrov will not get to you. Not here. This place was designed to hide in plain sight. Blackout curtains, no tenants in either of the neighboring houses, and a pantry with a steel-enforced door that doubles as a panic room in a pinch. You’ll be safe here, Hunt. I promise.”
Our gazes lock like magnets, charging the air between us in the length of a heartbeat. I tell myself to look away but I’m completely transfixed. Lost in a deep blue sea, remembering exactly what it felt like to have those indigo eyes three inches away… that body pressed close… that mouth moving against mine with urgency and heat and passion.
It’s probably the last thing I should be thinking about, given the circumstances, but I can’t seem to force my brain to stop replaying our stolen moment against the motel wall, when we set aside our grudge match and struck a temporary truce. One sealed with an unforgettable kiss.
Look away from him, you idiot!
No good will come of this!
It’s all too easy to ignore my own advice.
The moment drags on far longer than it should. I feel heat rise to my cheeks when Agent Sykes clears her throat gently.
“Anyway…”
Conor’s eyes cut away to focus on her. “Status report?”
“Evelson and Kaufman are attempting to geo-target Petrov’s cellphone to get a beat on where he’s headed.” She gestures toward the men on the sofa. “We’re also actively monitoring traffic cameras and deploying drones all over the city, trying to figure out where he went when he left the airport.”
Conor’s jaw tightens. “Is a team in place at 29 Merriweather?”
I jolt at the mention of my home address.
“Yes. We’ve got snipers on a neighbor’s roof and SWAT on standby.”
He nods tersely. “Where do we stand on the Evanoffs?”
“They’ve been off the grid since last night. I assume they’re lying low, waiting for Petrov to arrive. Now that he’s in the country, they’ll likely rendezvous with him to deal with—” Sykes’ eyes flicker to me. She shifts nervously on her shiny black shoes.
“Paul,” I finish for her, filling in the blank. My heart clenches with guilt when I think about him in Righty and Lefty’s not-so-gentle hands. “Do you think… is there a chance he’s still alive, then?”
“They won’t kill him. Not yet, anyway.” Conor’s lips are a flat line. I notice all the warmth has fled his eyes. “His uncle will want a chance to deliver his own brand of justice to your husband.”
A shiver moves through me.
Conor sees it. His frown grows more pronounced. “Don’t worry. We’ll do our best to get him back to you before any permanent harm comes to him.”
Back to me?
“What—” I start, but he’s already turned to look at Lucy.
“Any leads on their location?”
She sighs. “Nothing solid yet.”
“Sir, if I could interject,” one of the agents on the couch chimes in. Kaufman, I think. “We’ve got a B.O.L.O. out with all local BPD units for the vehicle they used to flee the scene. Think we may have a hit on the license plate. A sedan matching the description was just spotted parked outside an apartment building in Eastie.”
“What’s the address, Evelson?”
Oops. Not Kaufman.
The agent rattles off a street in Orient Heights.
Conor glances at Sykes with raised brows. “That’s the Petrov apartment where Paul Hunt’s been staying.”
She nods. “Can’t be a coincidence.”
“We swept that area yesterday. There were no signs of their car,” he mutters. “Why go back now? They have to know we’re monitoring all known Petrov properties…”
“Maybe they thought it would be safe since we’d already done our sweep?” Sykes shrugs. “No one ever accused the Evanoffs of being particularly bright.”
A muscle is ticking in his jaw. “Something feels off about this.”
Her blonde brows are by her hairline. “Be that as it may, boss… we’re obligated to at least check it out.”
“It’s too easy.”
“Or maybe we just got lucky for once,” Sykes retorts. “Either way…”
Conor runs a hand through his hair, then gives a shallow nod. “Do we have vests here?”
“Hallway closet. I’ll get them.” She walks out of the room without another word.
He turns to me. “Hunt—”
“You’re leaving,” I say softly.
“I have to take point on this.”
I nod. I’m afraid to open my mouth — afraid, if I do, I’ll beg him not to leave again. Not to leave me again.
He takes a stride toward me, a conflicted look on his face. “Evelson and Kaufman will stay here with you. We won’t be gone long.”
I nod again.
He takes another step closer. His voice goes low. “Hunt—”
Whatever he’s about to say never makes it out of his mouth, because Sykes walks back into the living room carrying two black kevlar vests. They look heavy, judging by the way her arm muscles are straining as she passes one to Conor and straps herself into the other.
My heart pounds a mad tattoo inside my chest as they prepare for the raid — loading up on ammo from the gun locker hidden inside the kitchen pantry, communicating back and forth with the tactical team at the Bureau. I’ve never felt more useless. I might as well be a piece of furniture; some decorative fruit bowl, sitting in the corner of the room with no purpose at all.
“SWAT is en route,” Sykes tells Conor, double checking the safety of her gun. “Ready to roll?”
“I’ll meet you at the car in two.”
She nods, waves at me, and disappears outside.
Alone in the kitchen with Conor, I suddenly don’t know where to look or what to say. Nothing is settled between us. In fact, after the kiss we shared earlier, things are more confusing than ever.
I’m not sure whether we’re friends or enemies, whether we still hate each other, whether anything from here on out will be different. The only thing I am sure of is… there’s an undeniable part of me that’s terrified by the prospect of him putting himself in danger.
Despite the heavy protective vest he’s wearing, despite the three guns I know he has strapped to various parts of his person…
I’m so unbelievably scared that if he walks out that door, he’ll never come back through it.
Inexplicably, I find myself wanting to cross the room to him. To close this frozen distance between us, wrap my arms around his waist, and beg him not to go.
But that would be absurd.
He’s a grown man. A badass FBI agent. The head of his division.
He can take care of himself.
He’s done this before.
He’ll be fine.
Still… no amount of reassurance is enough to stop the next words from popping out of my mouth.
“Tell me you’ll be careful.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I’m always careful, Hunt.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I just…”
His brows lift. “What?”
“I don’t know how I’d handle any of this without you,” I admit in a whisper, my voice barely audible. “I… I need you here. I need you with me.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak… but his eyes are suddenly warm. So warm, they’re practically burning into mine as he stares at me from the threshold of the open door.
“Plus,” I add nervously. “If you don’t come back, who’s going to boss me around and do that death-glare thing when I start to ramble and call me by my last name in a very severe tone that would probably be intimidating under different circumstances, but sort of pales in comparison to the bad guys with guns running around, continually threatening my life?”
His lips tug up at one side. “Glad to know my services are appreciated.”
I try to smile back at him, but my lips aren’t cooperating. “Good luck out there.”
Conor turns and starts to walk out the door. At the last second, he pauses with his hand on the knob. He doesn’t turn around, but his gruff voice carries back to me.
“Shelby.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Conor?”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
Then, he’s gone — the door swinging shut behind him with finality.
For a long, frozen instant, I stand there in the kitchen, hardly able to draw breath. After a minute, I realize it’s because something is lodged firmly in my throat.
My heart.
To distract myself from thinking about the Eastie raid, I take the longest shower of my life, standing beneath the hot torrent until the entire bathroom is fogged up with steam. When the water finally runs cold, I find a hairdryer in one of the vanity drawers and blow out my long locks into soft, summery waves, taking far more care than I usually would.
I tell myself it’s merely a way to pass the time. A stalling tactic to keep my anxiety at bay.
Certainly not because I want to look nice for someone…
The lie would probably be easier to swallow if, afterward, I didn’t upend my toiletry bag using all my best products to achieve the perfect sultry red pout and smoky eye combination. I’m not generally a big makeup fan, preferring a fresh, natural look for most day-to-day outings, but this particular morning I find myself going all out.
Mascara, eyeliner, lipstick.
The whole shebang.
To complete the ensemble, I pull a casual white linen sundress out of my duffle and slide on a pair of brown leather sandals. It’s the most put-together I’ve looked — and felt — in days.
Not bad for a neurotic, sleep deprived gal on the run. I smirk, examining the final results in the mirror. Not bad at all.
Back in the living room, Evelson and Kaufman are still hard at work on their laptops. Neither of them so much as glances up when I pass through on my way to the kitchen. I can’t help but admire that level of concentration.
The clock on the wall informs me it’s not even nine in the morning. It feels more like midnight to me — probably because I’ve had about twelve cumulative seconds of sleep over the past few days. My internal clock is upside-down and backwards. Yawning cavernously, I put on a pot of coffee and settle back against the counter to wait.
Again.
Waiting seems to be my new specialty. It’s practically all I’ve been doing lately, whether waiting for rescue in a dining room chair, waiting to be questioned in an FBI interrogation room, waiting for answers in a crappy motel room…
Waiting for him to come back.
Time is ticking by in achingly slow increments. Despite my rather elaborate getting-ready routine, not even two hours have passed since Lucy and Conor left. I assure myself they’ll be back soon as I pull three mugs from the cabinets and fill them to the brim with coffee.
Balancing a steaming cup in each hand, I make my way slowly into the living room. “Hey, I thought you guys could use some—”
My words dry up.
My feet go still.
Evelson and Kaufman aren’t typing. They’re on their feet, phones pressed to their ears, both talking rapid-fire into the receivers. There are twin expressions of fear and anger on their faces as they stare across the room at the television screen mounted on the wall. And believe you me, seeing two badass dudes with giant muscles looking fearful…
It’s enough to make my hands shake so badly, several drops of coffee spill onto the hardwood floor.
Moving in slow motion, I pivot around to look at the television. The sound has been muted but the picture is crystal clear. As is the headline blaring across the bottom of the screen.
EXPLOSION AT EAST BOSTON APARTMENT COMPLEX
There’s a field reporter talking into a microphone in the foreground, but I barely see her. My eyes are fixed on the building behind her. The one that’s currently consumed by flames, a raging inferno bursting out every window, eating its way through the panels of the roof, devouring wood and stone alike. A living, breathing monster of fire.
A new headline flashes across the screen.
SEVERAL CONFIRMED DEAD AT SCENE
Both coffee cups hit the floor, shattering into pieces on impact.