| |
Zeke
Zeke was a damn good tracker, but he’d hit a dead end.
Aggie was gone, and he’d probably never see her again.
He returned to his motel room and tried to let it go. Finding Aggie—correction, finding Robin Hood—had been a task, and he’d completed it. It was over. It was time to let it go and move on.
Except he couldn’t, for the same reasons he’d taken the job in the first place. Her eyes. They kept appearing behind his lids every time he closed them, beckoning, beseeching. The harder he tried to ignore it, the more determined his brain was to not let him.
Everything reminded him of her. When he looked at the bed, he saw her sitting cross-legged atop the covers, either meditating or staring at the screen of her laptop, absently chewing her lip. When he got food, he thought of her penchant for healthy stuff. He couldn’t look at a shower curtain without imagining her peeking out at him, irritated and looking like the most adorable wet baby raccoon.
He’d imagined then what it would be like to touch that skin, to find out if it was as soft as it looked. Now, he knew that it was.
He knew a lot of other things too. Like beneath that nerdy exterior was a woman with great passion in her soul.
And not just passionate. She was intelligent and cunning, too. A wanderer, like him. And versatile. She was as comfortable in a multimillion-dollar dream house as she was a cheap motel room.
The thought made him pause. He imagined her sitting in the chalet, as if she owned the place.
Her words echoed in his head. “Who says I’m squatting? Maybe this is my place.”
He remembered the amusement in her eyes when she’d said that, how they’d sparkled, as if she was daring him to believe her.
He hadn’t.
“The Rover suits you. You should keep it.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Zeke.”
What if she’d been telling him the truth all along?
He started to remember other things too. Things he’d thought were incongruent at the time, but he’d passed them off as unimportant. The organic stuff in her fridge. The slick tech. People earning minimum wage under the table didn’t have that stuff. Nor did they typically practice meditation or know what Cebuano was.
Then, there was her philanthropy. Paupers weren’t typically philanthropic. It defied basic human nature. Sure, there were people who wanted to help others, but only after they took care of themselves.
He was a perfect example. He took care of himself first. Granted, he was a man of simple means. He’d grown up poor. Joined the Navy, so he’d have a roof over his head and food in his belly. Now that he was out, he hadn’t changed much. He did what he had to do to get by, using his skills to ensure his basic needs were met, whether that be working per diem in a tattoo shop or hiring himself out as a mercenary.
The point was, everything he did these days, he did for himself. But Aggie? She could wrap herself in wealth anytime she wanted to, but she didn’t.
Things clicked into place, like tumblers in a combination lock.
Robin Hood.
Legend had it that Robin Hood was of noble birth. Maybe Aggie was too. Maybe it was about more than redistributing funds. Perhaps Aggie, like Robin Hood, had left her castle and wealthy, powerful family and lived amongst the poor common folk, fighting with them and for them.
If that was the case, then there was a whole lot more to the woman than he’d ever imagined.
Fuck.
Why hadn’t he seen it before? She was a master at assuming identities. Why wouldn’t she have done so with him too?
Except she had shown him some of her true self, hadn’t she?
No longer worried about ditching the Rover, he drove back to the chalet. It was empty and ... clean. Too clean. The place smelled of lemons. Since they’d left, the linens had been replaced, the used towels had been removed, and the garbage had been taken out along with any perishable food items.
He went through the place, top to bottom, and found nothing. No clue to her real identity.
But someone knew. There had to be property records. Utility accounts. Vehicle registrations.
He was a tracker, goddamn it. He’d find her. And this time, he wasn’t working for anyone, except himself.