See, everything was going to be just fine.
Perfect, in fact.
Tate had said Set a date. So Glo had set a date.
And last night on the phone, Tate hadn’t so much as hiccuped his hesitation at her ten-days-from-now announcement.
So maybe Glo’s fears really did reside only in her head.
Maybe everything was going to work out, she’d marry the man of her dreams, her singing career would skyrocket, her mother would be elected as VP, and they’d all live happily ever after.
After all, Glo had even won the showdown with her mother. Sure, she’d caught the senator in-flight, on her way to an event in Ohio, and her mother probably had her current speech notes in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other as she spoke to Glo on her earpiece, but her only concern was, of course, “We’ll have to make a media announcement immediately and offer up the contract to sell the photos. I’m sure People Magazine will want them.”
Right. Oh, Tate would be thrilled with the idea of his face in every grocery store.
Oh, and, “It’ll have to be on Friday night—Saturday I’m due in Minneapolis.”
“Friday night is fine,” Glo had said. “I’m thinking just a small event at the house in Nashville. By the pool. Just the band, a few friends, and the Marshall family.”
“Whatever you’d like, darling.”
What? Glo had never heard those words emerge from her mother’s mouth before.
It was much more expected coming from Tate. “Whatever you want, babe, I’m in.”
So, yes, Glo had probably dreamed up all her fears—literally. Because after that night, a week ago when she’d talked to Tate, her nightmares vanished.
Now, it was just a matter of finding the right dress.
“I’ve got you set up for a private fitting.” Her friend Cher held the door open as Glo, Dixie, and Kelsey entered Nora’s, a private bridal shop in the Green Hills district of Nashville. “Nora said she’d work with you personally. She works with designers, and I know you’ll probably need an in-stock dress, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get a one-of-a-kind sample.”
Cher wore a green maxi dress and gold sandals, her red hair caught back, and large gold hoop earrings. Glo felt spectacularly underdressed in her faded jeans, a white tunic, and flip-flops. But she had just gotten off a flight from Seattle, during which she’d approved a catering menu of brie and apple beer soup, a pumpkin seed and fig vinaigrette salad, filet mignon with a demi-glace, and butternut squash ravioli.
Cake tasting was later on today’s schedule, again, courtesy of Cher, who had contacts she’d used before during the book launches of her handful of best-selling authors. Apparently, being an acquisitions editor for one of the largest Nashville-based publishers had its advantages.
“She’s picked out a few dresses similar to the samples you pinned on your Pinterest board.”
“I think Kelsey pinned most of those,” Glo said and glanced at her friend who was stopped in front of a lacy A-line dress worn by a faceless mannequin. And Dixie had stopped in front of a mermaid dress that would only add va-va-voom to her already tall and willowy figure.
“Are things getting serious with Elijah Blue?” Glo asked her as Dixie turned away and followed her into the suite. Dixie had been secretly dating their drummer for the better part of three months. Or maybe not so secretly because even though they hadn’t mentioned it to their bandmates, Dixie and Elijah shared a look that hid nothing.
Dixie blushed. Lifted a shoulder. “We’re here for you.”
“This place is magical,” Kelsey said as she followed them to two long, pink velour sofas that faced a dais and three massive mirrors.
A gold chandelier hung from the ceiling, dripping a kaleidoscope of lights onto the white carpet. Chamber music played overhead, and on a tufted gold ottoman, a charcuterie tray held cheeses, meats, crackers, grapes, and fluted glasses of champagne.
Glo was really getting married.
She stepped up on the dais and looked in the mirrors. Oh, she looked tired, bags under her eyes, her white-blonde hair held back by a white bandanna, wild in the back. Maybe she was rushing things, maybe—
“Gloria Jackson. What an honor to fit you with the perfect dress.” The voice came from their hostess, Nora Kleinfeld, mid-fifties, petite, with pixie short, curly dark hair and thick red glasses. She wore a pair of billowy black pants, platform heels, a tight white tank, and a slew of bangles on both arms, which she opened as she stepped up on the dais. She gathered Glo into a hug, then kissed her cheek and pulled back. “Your mother must be so thrilled. Will she be joining us today?”
Oh, wouldn’t that be a boon for the shop? To have Reba Jackson’s entourage camped outside, the senator herself in the private fitting session.
“No. Sorry. She’s still on the campaign trail. But I told her I’d send pictures. And, of course, we’ll let everyone know where I got my dress when the press release is written.”
“Oh, whatever. Of course.” Nora waved her words away. “And who do we have with us today?” She turned to Glo’s group, neatly hiding any disappointment, clasping her hands together like they might be a kindergarten class.
“These are my Yankee Belle bandmates, and of course you know Cher. She roomed with me at Vanderbilt, and she’ll be my maid of honor.”
“Delightful. Cher sent me a number of designs, and I have matched them with some one-of-a-kind gowns from our recent trunk show. I think we can find something you’ll like. You ladies settle in to the viewing lounge and we’ll get Glo started.”
She gestured with her head toward the dressing rooms. Glo walked into the hallway and found her room. Inside, three dresses hung on high hooks, shimmering white, flouncy, lacy, and honestly, Glo didn’t know where to start.
“I suppose getting married in my jeans and T-shirt wouldn’t be right.”
Nora swept in behind her. “Not for the daughter of Senator Reba Jackson, darling. Now, I think we should start with some undergarments, don’t you?”
Under— “Like a girdle?”
“We prefer shapewear. I’ll be back with a sample.” She closed the door, and Glo examined the dresses. A strapless ball gown glittered with a sheen of tiny sparkles throughout the entire dress. The second was a vintage A-line with a sheath of embroidery over a V-necked top. But crazily, it was the short one that made her catch her breath. White silk taffeta with an organza overlay bodice, a sweetheart neckline, and a satin waistband. She dug her fingers into the deeply ruffled skirt that looked like roses. The dress would fall right above her knees.
Outrageous, gorgeous, and completely her.
With a pair of white leather snip toe cowboy boots inlaid with crystals, it would be perfect.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
“I found my dress,” Glo said.
“Perfect.”
It wasn’t Nora, but a man’s voice who answered, and Glo froze. Turned.
Sloan closed the door behind him, locked it, then turned, his dark brown eyes on Glo. “Please don’t scream. I come in peace. And I need your help.”
He wore a suit, his hair neatly clipped, was clean shaven and didn’t look at all like a criminal.
Or the man who’d tried to have Tate beaten to death.
She backed away. “I will scream if you come any closer.”
He held up his hand. “Not a step.”
She cut her voice low, barely able to hear it over the rush of her heartbeat. Oh, Tate was going to kill…well, her. Because she’d told her protection detail—Swamp and Rags—to grab lunch or coffee or whatever they needed after their long flight.
“How did you find me?”
“Cher. Apparently, you didn’t tell her about…well, how things ended between us.”
“How things ended? Sloan, you tried to have my fiancé killed—”
He held up a hand. “No, actually. I didn’t. I’m being set up.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“I never sent the Russian after Tate. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me.”
Glo cocked her head. “I don’t believe you. We figured it out, Sloan. We know you knew about the attack and told my mother about it even before it happened.”
“Shh. When Tate sent his goons after me, and I knew no one wanted to hear my side of the story—”
“Which is?”
“Someone inside your mother’s organization is working with the Russians. And they’re trying to make it look like it’s me.”
“What—are you crazy?”
He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand.
“Fine. Listen. I got a call from this woman from the CIA not long after I left the campaign. She said she was hunting a rogue group inside the CIA who wanted to reignite the Cold War. She was looking into possible connections to Senator Jackson’s staff and wanted to meet with me. I set up a meet in Seattle, but she never showed. Then, about a month later, I get a call and it’s her—she says to meet her at a hotel in Seattle. But when I get there, I find the door open and her—dead.”
Glo drew in a breath. Because she knew the rest of the story—how RJ and York had also found the body. “Tate thinks she was killed by a Russian assassin.”
“See?”
“No, I don’t see. Who would want to set you up? My mother’s people are loyal—”
“I was loyal. And then I got thrown under the bus—”
“Talk to Tate. He’ll straighten it out.”
“Are you kidding me?” He shook his head. “Tate would take me apart the moment he saw me.”
Yes, probably. She sighed. “So, who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe her campaign manager, Nicole Stevens.”
“We’ve known Nicole for years. She’s run all my mother’s campaigns, starting when she ran for mayor.”
“I don’t know, then!” He blew out a breath. “I just know that I’m a walking target. I’ve been trying to lay low, but…I’m scared, Glo. These are powerful people.”
In truth, she’d never seen Sloan like this. Despite his grooming, his voice shook, and a sweat had broken out across his forehead. So far from the childhood friend, band groupie, and, later, assistant campaign manager that she’d briefly, regrettably dated.
“What can I do?”
“Set up a meeting with your mother.”
“What—Sloan, there’s no way I can do that.”
“Of course you can. Tell her she’s in danger. Someone is conspiring against her. Tate can be there too—as long as he doesn’t hurt me.”
Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know...”
“Please—”
“Okay.” She held up her hand. “I need to talk to Tate first, and he’s not with me right now. He’s looking into the attempted assassination in Seattle.”
“When will you see him next?”
She gave him a look. “Sloan…”
“Glo. I wasn’t responsible for hurting Tate. I promise. And I need your help.” He drew in a breath. “You used to trust me, once upon a time. I’m still that guy. The one who went to your shows, the one who cared for you. I would never do something to hurt you.”
Oh Sloan. They did have history. And she never wanted to believe that he’d tried to hurt Tate. “I don’t know where he is, but I talked to him last night and he said he was following a lead into the attack. He asked me about my mother’s organization, Imagine, but I don’t know much about it. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I can ask him to talk to you. No promises though, okay?”
“Yes. Thanks, Glo.”
“How do I contact you?”
He shook his head. “I’ll find you.”
She gave him a look. “Please not at my cake tasting.”
A smile slid up the side of his mouth. “Vanilla with strawberry filling was always your favorite.”
A knock sounded on the door. “Gloria, are you okay in there? I have the shapewear.”
Sloan cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. “Your shape looks pretty good to me,” he whispered.
She glared at him, then raised her voice. “I’m fine. I don’t think I need them. And I found my dress…I’ll meet you in the other room.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
Sloan’s eyes widened.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Footsteps walked away, and she turned to Sloan, her voice low. “Get out of here.”
He nodded, reached for the door.
“Sloan—are you going to be okay?”
He drew in a breath, something painfully vulnerable on his face, and the months of fury in her heart faded away.
Maybe he was being set up.
“Yes. I think so. Thanks, Glo.” He slipped out.
She blew out a breath, tasting again her heartbeat.
Clearly, she’d been wrong about Sloan.
Either that, or she was about to get the man she loved killed.
York did not want to be a man who harbored murder in his heart. Who let anger and vengeance seep in and lurk in the dark corners of his mind. But his dreams—oh his dreams. They woke him with such ferocity and then settled like residue until the only thing he could think of was the feelings they left behind.
Like grief. And fury. And an insatiable need for justice.
People in his life had been murdered, and it left an urge to…well, pay back in kind.
But, no. He didn’t want to be that man anymore.
He still couldn’t look at RJ. Not after the memories flooded back—at least the ones with RJ, from watching her run after the near assassination of General Stanislov, to rescuing her in an alleyway in Moscow, to falling for her as they tried to escape the FSB, then finally following her to America where, for a fraction of a moment, he’d actually thought they could have a happy ending.
She was right. He should have stayed dead—at least then his past wouldn’t have tracked him down and suddenly put her in danger again.
As soon as he found Damien Gustov, as soon as he ended it, York would walk away from her again, and this time without a trace. Because how else was he supposed to protect her from whatever demons decided to rise from the past to haunt him?
Knowing RJ, she wouldn’t give up until she found him. The woman was as stubborn as her annoying brother Tate, who was laser focused on finding this man Sloan whom he was sure had murdered the woman York and RJ had found in Seattle.
Sophia Randall, RJ’s boss.
Which meant it could have just as easily been RJ, and that thought kept York awake staring at the ceiling or pacing the balcony in Wyatt’s apartment. York had never been so happy to get on a plane to Vegas.
Good thing Coco, aka Coco, his go-to hacker, still knew how to contact the right people. She’d snagged him a new ID. Twenty-four hours in Seattle and by Wednesday he was officially, illegally Mack Jones.
He hadn’t a memory of Vegas, but the place seemed too shiny, too bright, and way too hot, even in October. Tate booked them into a two-bedroom suite with an adjoining room in a downtown hotel—Tate and RJ in the suite, York next door. Apparently, big brother wasn’t about to let RJ out of his sight either.
“This place has a shark tank,” RJ said now as she came down the stairs from her bedroom in the loft upstairs.
“You can stay behind and hit the pool,” Tate said, coming in off the balcony overlooking a banana-shaped pool curled around a large aquarium.
The place smelled slightly of cigarette smoke, and York didn’t want to imagine the parties that had gone down in this place. It made him long for the tiny bedroom at Jethro’s, despite the short amount of time he’d spent there.
Tate wore a suit, so York had purchased a pair of dress pants and a jacket. Although he was grateful for Jethro’s gift of Ace’s clothing, it still felt weird to wear the hand-me-downs, and he needed a suit to keep up with Tate’s suggestion that they should be prepared for anything when they walked into Imagine, Inc.
York knew that Tate was hoping he might walk in and find Sloan eating a turkey sandwich, just waiting, apparently, for Tate to show up and start demanding answers.
Probably not likely, but Tate seemed to believe that if they found Sloan, they’d find Slava, and since York didn’t know where else to start looking for the Russian thug, it sounded like as good a plan as any.
RJ wore a light blue sun dress that did amazing things for her eyes, a pair of flat sandals, her dark hair back in a loose bun, and for a second he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Anywhere else, and someone else, with her.
Mack Jones and Sydney Bristow, starting over. Do you think we’d be happy in a small town like this? Making lasagna for dinner?
Maybe.
Then her blue eyes met his and he had to look away.
“Let’s go,” Tate said.
They had no weapons, but in the middle of the day probably they wouldn’t find trouble, even if they did manage to run into Sloan.
Please. Still, as he held the door open for RJ, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?”
The look she gave him shut his mouth.
They took the elevator down—fifteen flights—and headed past the lobby, the smoky casino pit with its dinging slot machines, and out into the heat.
Oh, the heat. It poured over him, and sweat slithered down his back. He rued his long hair, even if he had shaved.
“It’s only two blocks away,” Tate said and quick-walked toward Fourth Street.
He pointed to a building next to the US Bank building, a six-story, all-glass office building across the street from a US government office and a four-story parking ramp.
Please, God, don’t let any of them get hurt.
And funny that the prayer—if that was what it was—even emerged because York had been too embarrassed to talk to God since…well, since he’d realized just how absurd it was that he’d even stepped foot at the altar.
God had to have been laughing at his audacity.
As York entered the cool air of the sleek marble lobby, Jethro’s words threaded through him. Your soul yearned to be clean, to be new. And God, in His mercy, knew it. So, He gave you a clean slate. A fresh start. The opportunity to be the man you wanted to be.
Maybe, someday, he could be again.
Until then, York had unfinished business.
Tate read the lobby information. “Imagine, Inc. is on the fourth floor.” He took the stairs up. York and RJ followed him.
They emerged into an elevator area and a short hallway. Imagine, Inc.’s name and logo—a swash with ocean colors—were affixed to a door at the end.
“Huh,” Tate said. “I thought for sure we’d find an empty building.” He walked down the hall and opened the door.
“And you’d be right,” York said, coming in behind him. Because although the logo hung on a wall behind a built-in reception desk, nothing else remained of a functioning office but some spilled shredded paper in one of the rooms.
Tate headed over to a window in one of the vacant offices and looked out onto the street below, maybe hoping he’d see Sloan slinking away in a moving van.
RJ crouched in front of the shredded paper in the second office, running her fingers through it, picking up some of the bigger pieces. Good luck with that, York almost said, but his darkness didn’t need to bleed out onto her, so he went into the third office, at the end of the hall.
Stared out at the parking garage.
“Maybe they knew we were onto them,” York said.
“You think?” said Tate as he walked out of his room. “Only, how?”
RJ held a couple fragments of paper. “These are financial reports, but they’re too small to piece together.”
Tate made a face, his mouth a grim line, and shook his head. “Let’s get back to the hotel and call Coco. See if she’s been able to ping Sloan’s number.”
Tate had his collar unbuttoned by the time he reached the street. RJ didn’t speak, her gaze far away, as if she might be thinking.
York kept his head down, not sure he shouldn’t just say goodbye to RJ and vanish.
Maybe lure Slava off their trail.
“York, are you okay?” The question came from RJ as she fell in beside him. Tate was ahead, nearly to the light.
“Yeah,” York said.
“No, you’re not. You’ve barely spoken to me since we left Shelly. I don’t know what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything.” He grabbed her elbow as they came up to the light, a weird reflex he didn’t know he possessed. She didn’t shrug away, but he dropped his grip.
She knew how to cross the street, for Pete’s sake.
In fact, maybe he was simply overreacting. After all, she was still here, wasn’t she? Clearly tougher than she looked, and if she knew everything about him before he’d lost his memory and still went looking for him, then certainly…
No. He’d seen his nightmares. And he didn’t know how much of them were true, but they made him want to run from himself, if he could. Despite the screaming in his heart, he couldn’t drag RJ back into the life he’d left.
In fact, he wanted to strangle the other York who’d thought it might be a good idea to follow her to America.
They crossed the street and returned to the cool air of the Golden Nugget Hotel.
Silence surrounded them as they entered the elevator. Tate punched their fifteenth-floor button on the elevator with more gusto than he needed. A couple of women, clearly inebriated, got in next to them. Pool water dripped at their feet. The women wore thongs, their tops too small, and one of them grinned at York through the mirror on the wall. He smiled back, nodded, not sure what else to do.
RJ got off first, glanced at York, and then shook her head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She took out her key card and slid it into the door, let herself in. She was up the stairs before Tate closed the door behind them.
“Why is she angry?”
Tate glanced at him. “I don’t know. Maybe because she thinks you’re giving her the silent treatment. And now smiling at other women.”
“I’m not…” But he sighed. “Listen. Your sister deserves better than me—”
“That I can agree with,” Tate said. “Or at least the guy I see right now. The one I met a month ago, who’d do anything for her? That guy I liked.” He dropped his key card on the bar.
“Yeah, well, I’ve changed. I’m not sure I can be the guy she knew. Or want to. I kind of hoped I’d left him behind. And now I’m not sure I want to find him again.”
Tate looked at him. Nodded. “I get that.” He looked out the window. “I was a different man before I met Glo. She made me a better person, for sure. But sometimes, like now, I need the other guy, the guy I was before I met Glo, to show up and do what needs to get done.” He looked at York again.
“But the York I met a month ago knew what he wanted and why. He knew the happy ending was worth fighting for. He looked past the things he did to a better tomorrow. To hope. I think that’s the guy she misses. Frankly, so do I.” He turned and headed toward his room on the main floor.
York went to the window, staring out at the pool below.
Sometimes we find ourselves doing things in war that we would never do… But that moment doesn’t define me…
He heard a captured breath and turned. Stilled.
Slava—or at least the man York recognized as the one he’d grappled with on the porch—had a hand around RJ’s neck, a gun pressed to her head. He was walking her down the stairs.
RJ’s eyes were wide, her jaw tight, and shoot, but he knew it. Deep in his gut where his fears and vengeance and darkness lived, he’d just known something like this was going to happen.
And then, just like that, a flash of memory spurred into his brain, nearly sending him to his knees.
A woman, staring at him, her eyes wide, a man wearing a black nylon mask over his face, his hand around her neck, forcing her down.
He held a thick metal bar, raising it over her.
Run, York!
“I don’t want her,” Slava said, snapping him back to now. “But if she has to die because you’re stupid, that’s okay.”
York held up his hands. Breathed out. “Don’t hurt her.”
RJ’s eyes glistened. “Sorry. He was in my bathroom.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tate, just a shadow behind his door.
Slava must have seen his quick glance because he pushed RJ down to the bottom of the stairs and turned her, his back to the window. “Come out, Tate, hands up. One move, and she dies.”
Tate came out of the bedroom, his jaw tight, hands up, eyes fierce. He glanced at York, back to RJ.
One of them had to jump Slava, get him away from RJ.
Even if it meant getting shot.
A quick shout should do it—something to distract Slava while the other tackled RJ.
He swallowed, glanced at Tate, who drew in a breath.
Please let the guy be reading his mind because once upon a time Tate had been spec ops and York had no doubt he wasn’t going to sit around and let RJ get hurt.
York shouted and lunged for Slava.
As if RJ and he were in sync, she slammed her fist back, hard, aiming for Slava’s groin. He was onto her and dodged, but she slammed her foot into his instep, then twisted out of his grip.
Tate launched himself at her.
A shot went off, the sound muffled with the silencer screwed to the end but still bright enough to galvanize York as he took down Slava.
The shot missed him. But he didn’t look to see where the bullet went, too busy dodging Slava’s fist to his face.
York deflected it, then grabbed Slava around the neck. The man had a good three inches on him and was clearly used to grappling because he rolled and slammed his body onto the floor, landing on York.
York’s breath whooshed out and he lay there like a fish.
Slava whirled around. His fist came at York like a locomotive.
RJ whacked Slava with a lamp, jerking him off course. The blow landed on York’s shoulder, and pain seized him.
He gulped for air, wheezed hard, but in that second, Slava hit his feet and rounded on RJ.
Where in the world was Tate?
Slava grabbed the lamp away from her as if she might be a small child. She took one look at him, turned, and fled up the stairs.
Slava turned to follow her, but York hooked his foot around him and tripped him.
York found his breath, the air coming in hard just as Slava scrambled to his feet. The man was a freakin’ prize fighter the way he came at York, and he had a memory of the man in Moscow stringing him up and using him like a hanging bag.
Just a quick, dark flash, but fury ignited him.
York launched at Slava, ducking his fist, sending his own into Slava’s midsection.
Slava grabbed him around the throat with both hands, cutting off his air.
York hit him again, this time in the face. Drew blood.
Slava’s grip tightened.
York’s eyesight was getting blotchy. His next punch pushed the big man against the window.
His fingers dug into York’s neck. The room shadowed.
A shot shattered the glass.
York broke away, falling.
Slava swore and turned.
RJ stood on the stairs holding a tiny handgun, her aim shaky. “Let him go!”
Slava glanced at York, blood on his face, in his eyes.
York was a dead man.
Another shot.
Slava jerked hard, blood exploding from his chest, and he fell forward, to his knees, one hand out to catch himself.
He was dead before he landed.
York was on his feet, staring up at RJ. “You shot him.”
“No—I didn’t. I didn’t!” She came down the stairs. Her hands still shook, and York took the gun from her.
Checked the clip of the 9mm.
Full, except for one.
“Then—how—”
“Get down!” Tate said from somewhere behind them. “The shot came from the other building!”
York grabbed RJ’s wrist and pulled her down, practically landing on top of her behind one of the leather sofas.
Then he covered her body with his, his hands over her head.
“York, I’m fine.”
“Stay down,” he growled.
Silence, just his heartbeat as he waited.
Nothing but the wind against the drapes.
Tate made a sound, something of a grunt, and he looked up. The man was shrugging off his jacket, his teeth gritted, his arm bloodied.
RJ, too, had looked up. “Tate! You’re hit!”
She tried to push York away, but he wasn’t moving.
“Sorry, but there’s a shooter out there.”
“My brother is shot!”
“I’m fine, RJ—”
“Get off me, York.”
But he couldn’t move, suddenly paralyzed by the fact that—well, that this—this was his life. He’d moved with instincts, not a shade of fear as he leaped for Slava. Not a shade of fear and every intent on killing the man.
Murder in his heart.
Jethro was wrong. Violence wasn’t just a moment but was embedded inside him.
With that thought, York practically jerked away from RJ. She scrambled over to Tate, who had crawled behind the bar.
“York, get some towels!”
He ran to Tate’s bedroom and pulled a couple towels from the bath. Returned with them to the bar.
RJ ripped the arm from Tate’s shirt. A ragged tear scraped across his arm.
“I’m fine.”
“You need stitches,” she snapped.
Tate looked at York, a quick shake to his head. Stitches meant a hospital which meant questions which probably meant a gunshot reporting. And then there was the dead body in their suite.
Not the first he’d left in a hotel room. “Let’s get out of here,” York said. “RJ, I’ll get your stuff.”
She hadn’t yet unpacked, her bag open, and he had it zipped shut in moments. Tate just had a backpack, and he grabbed that too.
RJ had wrapped a towel around his arm, and now Tate pulled his suit coat over his shoulders to hide it. “Are you sure we should leave?”
“Yes,” Tate and York said, almost simultaneously.
Then Tate added, “We’ll call Vicktor and have him contact the police here. And give him our contact info. But I’m worried there’s a shooter out there waiting for a clean shot.”
York’s thought exactly.
They took the stairs down, all fifteen flights, and York grabbed Tate’s good arm the last few, just in case he decided to take a header.
York drove them in the rental to a motel outside the city limits, something small, with an inner courtyard that overlooked a peanut-shaped pool. Something he could pay cash for and sneak Tate into.
York settled Tate onto one of the double beds of their adjoining rooms and took a look at his wound. “I’ll go to a drugstore and get some antiseptic, topical antibiotic, and superglue. Maybe a bandage so you don’t wreck any more shirts, okay?”
Tate nodded. RJ pinched her mouth tight. But as he got up to go to the door, she came after him. And in a voice that wound around his heart asked, “Are you coming back?”
Frankly, she probably read him better than he had himself, because suddenly he wanted to say no. That now that Slava was dead, he planned on skipping out on them and leaving this life far behind.
But her beautiful eyes found his, and maybe the man Tate had described wasn’t gone. He knew the happy ending was worth fighting for.
Or maybe he’d simply merged with the one he wanted to be.
The one who had a taste of redemption, of hope.
“I’ll be back. I promise.”
Tate’s pride hurt more than his arm.
Although, in truth, his entire body burned every time he moved his arm—funny how something so superficial could burn through to his bones.
Or maybe it was more about the fact that he’d turned down Glo’s calls, twice now. Once last night, right before he’d taken off to Vegas, and one today, while York was patching him up.
She hadn’t left a voicemail either.
Tate had to call her back with something that resembled a good reason for declining her calls, probably right after he finished his current call with Vicktor.
RJ closed the motel room door behind her, carrying a cold can of grape soda from the machine down the corridor. She popped the tab and set it on the bedside table between the two double beds, pushing away the box of pizza, now closed, as she sat on the opposite bed.
He put his finger to his lips—pointed to the call, on speaker.
“According to my contact, they’ve already picked up the body and it’s heading to the coroner. I’ve asked him to keep me in the loop when ballistics comes back,” Vicktor said.
“It could be the same guy who killed Kobie at the wharf in Seattle.” Tate reached for the soda with his good arm.
“Your Russian friend Gustov.”
“How did he know where we were? And why did he kill Slava?”
“Maybe he missed.”
Right then, Tate knew he should take the cop off speaker. But his hand was holding the soda and the other arm was bandaged and useless and he wasn’t fast enough—
“Maybe he was aiming at you.”
RJ’s eyes widened.
Shoot. Tate made a face, shook his head as he met her eyes and spoke into the phone. “We don’t know that. And if he is, then he’s a terrible shot—”
“But you’re the only constant in both events.”
Except, and he hated to say it, but, “And York. He was there too.”
RJ caught her lower lip between her teeth.
York had gone outside after returning to bandage Tate up. He’d done a decent job, his hands practiced as he glued the wound’s edges together, added antibiotic ointment, and covered it with a bandage.
But York hadn’t even looked at RJ when he left, and Tate wasn’t entirely sure he was coming back. The man seemed particularly silent, almost broody as he’d driven them to the semi-seedy motel with lime-green walls, ancient carpet, and a painted fish over the beds.
If Tate was going to die, he would have preferred the presidential suite, but York was probably right to move them and lie low.
“Yes, right,” Vicktor said, agreeing that York might be a target. “Clearly Slava and whoever he’s working for know that York’s alive. But his position on the wharf was a considerable distance from Kobie’s. You were the closest probable target. Especially given your other run-in with Slava and the Russian mob six months ago.”
Thank you for that, Vicktor.
RJ got up and began to pace, her hands wrapped around her waist.
“If you give me the number of the detective, we’ll give our statements tomorrow,” Tate said.
“I’ll text it to you, but he’s already expecting you.”
Tate paused, then, “And I’m just confirming this, but Slava really is dead, right? No more sudden appearances in hotel rooms?”
“Yes. Chest shot, through the heart.”
Tate didn’t want to cheer, but maybe he could stop looking over his shoulder for the shadow of the Russian mob. Except, “Only problem is, there goes our connection to Sloan. We can’t question a dead man.”
“I’ll keep looking. Hang tight. I’ll be in touch,” Vicktor said and hung up.
Tate set his soda can down. Picked up his phone. Blew out a breath.
“And that’s the look of a man who knows he’s in trouble,” RJ said. “I don’t need to be an analyst to figure that out.”
“Glo called. Twice.”
“Oh.”
“She doesn’t know I went after Slava.”
RJ raised an eyebrow.
“I just thought…well, the less she knew, the better. But when she hears I got shot—”
“Yes, bro, you are in deep trouble.” She walked back over to the other bed. “This might help.” She pulled a phone from her pocket and set it on the table between the beds.
Tate stared at it.
“It’s Slava’s.”
“What? How?”
“When York was helping you out of the flat, I searched the body.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” He nearly leaped for it.
She slammed her hand over it. “Not so fast there, Slick. You want this phone and the information on it, you need to keep me in the loop. I know you and James Bond out there are freaked out, but I am in this. All the way to the bitter end. No matter what happens.”
“Sis—”
“Stop protecting me, Tate.”
“Stop being so freakin’ stubborn! Protecting you is my job—”
“You’re fired.”
“Funny. I can’t be fired from being your brother.”
“You got shot! He could have just as easily hit something more vital than your arm.”
“That’s my choice.”
“It is, you’re right. But just because you want to protect me doesn’t mean I have to stand on the sidelines. This is my investigation. I started it, I get to end it.”
He looked at her, his chest rising and falling.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Fine. You’re in. Now give me the phone so I can call Coco.”
“Not until you call Glo.”
“What is your problem?”
“She doesn’t need protecting either.”
His jaw tightened. “She very much needs protecting.”
“From whoever is trying to kill her mother, yes. From you, no. She’s all in, Tate. And you need to let her be.”
“She has enough on her plate right now.” He made a face. “Besides, she actually had a dream that Sloan shot me.”
Her mouth made a round O.
“So imagine how she’s going to feel when she finds out she was right.”
“It wasn’t Sloan,” RJ said.
“I still got shot.”
RJ sighed. “I think you need to trust her with all of you, Tate. Not just the things that you want her to hear. Or see. You’re the guy who steps into the line of fire. And she knows that. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“This sounds more like what you’d like to say to York.”
“It’s reusable.”
He gave her a small smile. “Okay, I’ll call Glo. Then, can I please have the phone?”
She lifted her hand.
He glanced toward the door. Back to her. “Give him space. He’ll come back to you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t help but feel that I should’ve never tracked him down. I just brought danger back into his life. But now that I have, we need to finish this. And then…well, then York can be free.”
He frowned, but she turned away and headed out the door.
He picked up the phone and dialed Glo.
His fiancée answered on the first ring. “Hey, Rambo.”
“Hey,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t take your calls. I was talking with Vicktor.” He eyed the phone RJ had found. “I think we have a lead on Sloan.”
Glo was quiet. Then, “Really?”
“Well, I hope so. I…I have to tell you something.”
She drew in a breath. “Me too, but…you can go first.”
If it was about the wedding, yes, he needed to go first. Because then she could spend the next hour talking about the wedding and he’d listen and by the time they were finished, he could be the hero again.
Oh, he hoped.
“I’m still in Vegas.”
A beat, then, “And? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not so much.”
A pause. “What happened?”
He took a breath.
“No secrets, Tate.”
Oh boy. “I came here to find Sloan. We have a lead that he might be connected to the Russian mob. I didn’t find him, but…I did run into Slava.”
Silence. Then, “The man who beat you up?”
“I got a few licks in—”
“Whatever—why on earth isn’t he in jail?”
“Actually, he’s dead.”
“What?”
“He was killed today in my hotel room.” And oh, he was so skimming across the surface, but he just didn’t want—
“Your hotel room? Oh, Tate, did he—he didn’t ambush you again, did he?”
Shoot. He should have rephrased that. “Yes—no, sorta—he ambushed RJ.”
“RJ? Is she okay?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She shot him.”
“RJ killed Slava?”
“No—he was killed by a sniper—”
“A sniper? What—”
“Calm down. Everything is fine. I was hit, but it’s just a nick—”
“You were hit!” Nothing in her voice said calm.
Maybe she should have gone first.
“Glo, I’m fine.”
But her breath was catching and she sounded like she might be trying not to cry.
“Babe, I’m fine. York superglued it shut, and we have a phone from Slava so we can track down Sloan’s whereabouts—”
“I know where Sloan is!”
His heart thumped. “What?”
“I know where Sloan is. Or was, at least. He came to see me yesterday.”
“What?” And now his voice had hit higher decibels. “Where?”
“In my dressing room at the bridal shop—”
“In your dressing room?”
“I was fully clothed, but here’s the important part—”
“Where was Swamp?”
“I sent him to lunch.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“Tate! Listen to me. Sloan is innocent.”
He had nothing, just his heart slamming against his chest wall. “No, he’s not.”
“He wasn’t the one who told Slava where you were.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Of course he was—”
“He said he didn’t.”
“And now we’ll never know, will we? Because Slava is dead.”
“Sloan didn’t kill him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—I don’t know. He’s not a sniper? He’s a politician?”
“Same thing.”
“Tate.”
“Fine. But listen to me, Glo. Sloan is not innocent. He’s up to his eyeballs in this thing. I saw him on camera at the hotel where Sophia Randall was murdered.”
Nothing, so he continued. “When I was visiting Vicktor’s office, I saw a picture of Sloan, caught on a security camera. He was at the hotel and very possibly the killer.”
“I know he was there, Tate.”
“What?”
“He told me that he was being set up. That someone had called him and told him to go there, but when he got there, he found her murdered.”
“He’s lying.”
“You should have seen him—”
“I’d like to see him, believe me. In person. Preferably alone, in a closed and locked room.”
“Tate. Please.”
“No, Glo. He’s using you.”
“He wants to set up a meeting with my mother and you, to tell his side of the story.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not even a little, Mr. I-Got-Shot-Today!”
He drew in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to Vegas.”
“You think?” And now she was crying. “I had a dream, Tate. A dream that you were going to get killed.”
“By Sloan, not Slava—”
“It doesn’t matter! Don’t you think, for one second, you might have thought twice about hunting down someone who had tried to kill you? And nearly succeeded. I’ll never forget sitting in that hospital, watching you try to breathe. Try. To. Breathe. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To fear that your next breath will be your last?”
“Glo—”
“It shattered me, Tate. I still have nightmares about it. I can’t…I can’t go through that again. Ever.”
“Glo. I’m not going to die.”
“Don’t even—”
“I’m fine!”
Silence.
He waited for a response, anything, but the line was painfully quiet. “Glo? Are you there?”
He looked at his phone.
She’d hung up.
What the— He pushed Redial and it went to voicemail.
Nice, Glo. But he waited for the voicemail to pick up. “You’d better be just mad at me and not suddenly dodging a bullet or something. Text me back, tell me you’re okay, or I’m on the next plane to Tennessee.”
He hung up and waited.
And waited.
And when the text finally came in, he wanted to throw his phone across the room.
I’m fine. But we’re not.
The wedding is off.
RJ just couldn’t escape the feel of York’s body covering hers, his legs bracketing her hips, his arms around her shoulders, his breath against her neck, protecting her with his body.
And sure, the word sniper hung in the air, but still, even after she’d told him she was fine, he hadn’t moved. As if reluctant to let her go. And oh, she hoped it was more than fear but something deeper that made York hang on to her.
The thing that had made his heart remember her even when his brain couldn’t.
She spotted him, a dark shadow sitting by the pool on a lounger, staring at the water. He didn’t even move as she came up and sat down on a nearby lounger.
For a long while, she said nothing. Because Tate had probably been right when he suggested giving York space. But despite Vicktor’s words, she had no doubt that that shot had been aimed today for York.
Not Slava. And certainly not Tate—that was crazy.
Damien Gustov was after York, she knew it in her bones.
“Who is Martin?”
The question jerked her out of her thoughts. She looked over to the man who had changed into a T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, flip-flops.
He looked very much like the Mack Jones he’d left behind.
But given the look on his face, Mack was long gone, replaced with someone dark, brooding.
Broken.
“Why?”
“I keep seeing this face. Tough guy, dark hair, square jaw. And I hear myself call him Martin. But it’s just a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit anywhere.”
“You used to work with him in Russia. When you were in the CIA.”
“So I trusted him.”
“I’m not sure. You did seem surprised to see him.”
He nodded. “That’s what I feel when I think of him. Surprise.”
“Crowley said he thought Martin might have been the one to blow your cover with the Bratva, but he wasn’t sure.”
York looked over at her. “Blow my cover? I worked undercover?”
“That’s how your wife and son were killed. Your informant turned on you—”
“Please don’t tell me any more.”
She closed her mouth, her throat tightening as he sank his face into his hands. He was so strong, it undid her to see him unraveled. “York, that was a long, long time ago.”
Oh, she longed to touch him. To climb onto the back of his lounger, wrap her arms around him, and pull him against herself. Help him hold on as he faced his past.
“I’m so sorry I tracked you down.”
He looked up then, his eyes hot. “Are you kidding me? What if Slava had found me first and killed Jethro? Or Raven? Or you?” He got up from the chair, pacing hard away from her. “At least you gave me warning.”
“Or led him right to you.”
He rounded. “He would have found me. That much I know. And killed people I care about.” He took a breath. “Like you.” He bent over and grabbed his knees. “It still makes me sick to think how close he came today.”
She too found her feet. “I’m fine. And so are you, and even Tate. And we’re going to find Gustov and stop him from hurting anyone else.”
He stood up. Then, crazily, he walked over to her and pulled her to himself.
Just held her in a grip so tight it nearly knocked the wind from her. “I can’t watch you die, RJ.”
She put her arms around his waist, unnerved. “You won’t.”
“Please go home.”
She stilled. Pushed away from him. “No, York. And I’m not having this fight with you. I already had it with Tate and won, and FYI, we had this conversation in Russia and there is no way, not a chance, I’m leaving you again, so—”
He swore. Something so crisp and raw and dark it startled her, her mouth opening. His gaze pinned her. “Don’t you get it? I watched my mother die right before my eyes. I watched someone beat her to death! And I can’t…” He held up his hand. Turned and walked away from her.
She couldn’t move. What—? Because he’d told her his parents had been killed, but… “Are you sure, York?”
He stood with his back to her. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I think so.” He turned. “I keep having this recurring nightmare of watching a woman getting beaten and yelling for me to run.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault.”
“No, York.” And even the warning in his eyes couldn’t stop her from walking over to him. “That wasn’t your fault. York, you did not get your parents killed!”
He drew in a breath, met her eyes with his. “How do you know that?”
She opened her mouth.
“Because I’m a good man?” He finger quoted the words. “Yeah, right. You said that before, and I made the mistake of believing you.” He shook his head. “Not again, sweetheart.”
He was morphing right before her eyes into the jaded, angry, hard-edged man who’d scooped her off a Russian street because he had to.
Not because he wanted to.
Her chest burned, tightened. “York, listen to me. You are a good man. I know you—better than you know yourself right now. All your memories lack context.”
“I’m a murderer.”
“You were a…transporter.”
He stared at her, something of horror on his face. “What does that even mean?”
“Um, well, uh…that’s what you called it.”
“I’m a real piece of work.”
“York, c’mon—”
“The answer is yes, RJ.” He looked up and met her eyes. “Yes, I think I could be happy in a small town, eating lasagna for dinner.”
Oh.
“I want to be done with this life. But…I don’t think you do.”
She stilled.
“Could you be happy in a small town, shaking the dust off the life you’ve built?”
She drew in a breath. “I…I don’t know.”
He nodded. “I get it. I’m not the man you met in Russia.”
“I liked the man I met in Shelly. The man who went to the altar.”
He blinked, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t think I’m that man either.”
Her eyes burned at the shards in his voice.
“I guess I don’t know what’s left.”
She stepped closer, and he didn’t move, not even when she pressed her hand to his chest, right over his heart. Then she touched his face, met his eyes, drew her thumb down along his cheekbone. “Remember what that preacher said? That when we cling to Jesus we’re changed. That we become who we were meant to be because there’s nothing else left. I believe in the man who’s left, still in here. The one clinging to Jesus.”
Then she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
He didn’t respond. Not at first, but after a moment, he gentled his mouth and kissed her back. Something filled with longing.
Maybe even hope.
Then she stepped away and met his gaze. “I’m not afraid to find out who you are, York Newgate.”
And for the first time since leaving Shelly, he smiled. Something slow, like the dawn over the lake, illuminating its depths. “Okay, Sydney, you win. Me either.”