August moved down the hall toward the front of the restaurant, his hackles raised. He’d hated leaving Gigi behind in the office. Not having her where he could see and protect her went against everything in his being.
The bullet that had hit Sherry was intended for Gigi. He couldn’t take the risk of the shooter’s next round hitting his target. Whoever had fired that shot was skilled.
August passed Sherry’s lifeless form. A pang of guilt hit his chest before quickly diminishing. As sad as it was that Sherry had been killed, there was nothing he could do about it. He had one mission—protect Gigi and take out her assassin. And that’s what he’d fucking do.
He lifted his weapon and scanned the empty dining area. Plates of food sat abandoned on tables, chairs were turned over, and glass from the shot-out front window covered the cheap linoleum.
The assailant’s car was gone. What the fuck?
Where the hell had the sonofabitch gone?
He’d shot him. He knew that without a doubt. Right before he’d half dragged Gigi to the back, he’d hit the assassin. Problem was, he hadn’t seen him go down. He couldn’t be certain the guy was dead until he saw for himself. And then put a bullet in his head for good measure.
Glass crunched beneath his shoes as he raced toward the open window. A breeze blew into the now eerily calm space. Tension radiated up his spine like mercury in a thermometer. He stepped through the broken window and scanned the parking lot.
Blood splattered the asphalt. The guy had run because he was severely injured. Had to be.
August lowered his gun and pressure built between his temples. Fuck!
The guy could be hit badly enough that he wouldn’t be able to come after them, but was he wounded enough to die? Maybe not. There was no way of knowing.
August turned and reentered the building.
This guy had come here to finish a job, and August was sure that if the man was alive, he intended to follow through. Retracing his steps, August kept his weapon trained ahead of him. Just because the man’s car was gone didn’t mean he’d left. He could’ve moved his vehicle and gone around back to trick them.
August breezed past the office door where Gigi hid, not so much as glancing in its direction in case the assailant was watching him. He kept going and entered the kitchen.
Oil sizzled and the stench of overcooked fried food permeated the air. Every atom in his body was hyperfocused. His finger moved on the trigger, ready to take out the sonofabitch if he was hiding.
He strode through the kitchen, bathroom, and small storage room. Empty. Goddammit, he’d gotten away.
August turned and crossed the hall to the office. “It’s me,” he said, banging on the door. “Let’s go.”
He heard a chair scrape and then Gigi swung open the door, her backpack over one shoulder. “What happened?” Her face was stark white, her hazel eyes scared and haunted.
“He’s gone.” Not wasting a moment, he caught her elbow and pulled her down the hall. As Sherry’s body came into view, he quickly circled his arm around Gigi’s shoulders and clamped his hand over her eyes. “Don’t look.”
But her sharp little intake of breath told him she’d caught sight of the body. He steered her around Sherry then led her through the door and outside. The morning air chilled his cheeks. Sirens wailed in the distance—he needed to get away from here quickly—but otherwise the street was dead quiet. It was still early, and the truck stop was outside of Cheyenne. Plus, word of the gunfire had probably already spread. He guided Gigi across the road to his SUV, which was waiting on the side street next to the building.
The assailant’s vehicle hadn’t been in the parking lot when August had arrived. The fact that the guy had shown up seconds after him made August’s insides wrench. If he’d been minutes behind—
“What do you mean he’s gone?” she finally asked. Their footsteps scraped over the pavement.
“I shot him. He’s injured but not dead. His car’s gone, so he drove somewhere. Hopefully off a cliff.”
Anxiety puckered Gigi’s brow. “Where are we going?” she asked, as he yanked open the passenger door and she slipped inside.
August shut the door and rounded the hood then sank into the driver’s seat. He could breathe a little easier now. Backcountry Protection Services’ vehicles were equipped with bulletproof glass and bodies. While he still had to be vigilant, he didn’t have to worry about a bullet entering Gigi’s head.
“Are you going to answer me?” A hint of impatience laced the question.
“We’re getting the hell out of here before the cops show up. Okay with you?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. He turned on the vehicle and steered onto the interstate, not waiting for a response.
“What took them so long? Surely someone called not long after Sherry was shot.”
“Nearest police department is fifteen minutes away. I don’t suppose there’s much action in the area usually.”
“How do you think he found me?”
He cut his gaze her way then to the rearview mirror. Police lights were visible in the distance behind them. August kept his speed slow and steady, not wanting to alert them. Right now, no one could be trusted. Police included. The last thing Gigi needed was her name showing up in the system.
“You don’t like answering people, do you?” Gigi’s tense words popped into his thoughts.
He stifled a groan. “I’m running on two hours’ sleep, okay? I’ve been driving for days. Not to mention my mind is focused on keeping you—and me—alive. So if you don’t mind, can we save the questions?”
She huffed and folded her arms across her chest then looked out the window. “Fine.” She jabbed the radio button and scanned until a station came through the crackle of static. A country tune played through the speakers. The only thing worse than the twangy voice singing about lost love and dusty roads was Gigi’s tone, so he’d let the shit play as long as the woman next to him kept her anxiety-inducing questions to herself.
The song ended. “This just in,” said the radio host. “A man outside Castle, Wyoming, was found dead in his home this morning. Authorities believe the owner tried to stop a home invasion, resulting in a homicide. Police are asking the public for any information . . .” The voice droned on and August tightened his hand on the wheel.
“Oh my god.” Gigi’s aghast whisper fell around him.
He glanced at her pale face. Tears misted her eyes and her fingertips were pressed to her lips.
Until now, she must have been hoping Joe had survived. Now that hope was dead in the water. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words sounding strangled.
She shook her head and turned away from him to look out her window.
August’s grip on the wheel grew even tighter. The leather crackled beneath his hold. He should be holding her. Doing something—anything—to take away her pain. But goddammit he couldn’t. Fear made him a weaker man. “It’s not your fault.” His words came out harsh, cold. Because Christ, he couldn’t give in to the paralyzing emotion that made him want to cry for her.
She snorted. “You don’t really believe that and you know it.”
He muttered a curse. “Look, the man responsible for hurting Joe will pay. I know it’s not much, but justice will be served.”
A sniffle was her only response.
“Still . . . I’m sorry,” he said again, forcing more feeling into his words, letting his guard down an inch to prove to her that he cared. That she didn’t have to go through this alone.
“Thanks. I appreciate you saying that.” Although she sounded genuine, there was something else there. Emptiness, maybe. As if his apology couldn’t penetrate the pain surrounding her heart.
Maybe nothing would.
Ten minutes or so passed in silence. If Gigi was still crying, she was hiding it well. He didn’t touch the radio dial in case doing so would draw her out of whatever cocoon of comfort she’d found.
No one pulled them over, and very few vehicles were on the road. No threat in sight. Which meant he could relax a fraction and think. He had a few minutes, tops, before Gigi started asking questions again.
And he had no fucking clue where they were going other than far from here. Instinct directed him toward home. There was something about battling on your own soil that brought greater strength. But four months ago, Gigi had almost been killed in Seattle.
Home would be the first place the cartel would look for her. So the question was, should he try to hide her? Witness protection hadn’t done a good enough job at it—what made him think he could? Backcountry Protection Services had a couple of properties to choose from, one being a cabin in the woods. He could put her there, but really, hiding wasn’t sustainable. Their best bet was to stay in the city. He’d have backup from the guys there.
He couldn’t provide twenty-four-hour protection. Unless he moved in with her. Which wasn’t happening. Still, his mind drifted to the idea. Waking up next to Gigi, sharing a space with her, sharing his bed with her.
His dick grew hard.
Fuck. This was exactly what he didn’t need. A hard-on. He couldn’t think when all the blood from his head was below his belt. Couldn’t think when Gigi’s flowery scent floated through the car. When every subtle movement at the corner of his eye made him snap his gaze to hers.
Gigi did terrible things to him. She made him horny, jumpy, and flat-out stupid. It was that stupidity he had to watch more than anything, because if he wasn’t careful, his confused cock would end up right where he wanted it.
He’d already had Gigi. Their two-week fling had been fun, sexy, exciting . . . and heartbreaking. He’d fallen fast and hard for Little Miss Hastings, and if he was smart, he’d stay far away.
Only he couldn’t. Because he wanted her to live. That was the thing with caring about people. Correction. He didn’t care about Gigi in that sense. Well, maybe a little. But not wanting to see someone’s brains get blown out was within the normal range of feelings. Certainly didn’t mean he was still into her.
“Can we talk now or are you still too spooked?” she asked.
A muscle ticked at the junction of his jaw, he definitely wasn’t into Gigi anymore. Into getting her out of his hair, yes.
He nodded and summoned a professional tone. “Sure, Ms. Hastings—”
Gigi snorted. “Are you trying to pretend we didn’t sleep together?”
August rubbed his palm over his cheek. The problem was, he most definitely couldn’t forget the sleek curves of her body, the way her legs had clamped around his waist, and the warm, wet cavern of her delicious softness.
He cleared his throat. He’d keep his composure if it killed him. “I don’t live in the past. But I’ll call you Georgia if you prefer.”
She made a gagging noise. “Ugh. Please don’t. Call me Miss Hastings over that monstrosity.”
He smirked. He thought Georgia was a cute name, and it amused the shit out of him to know she disliked it so much. He tucked that valuable information aside to annoy her with later.
“My plan, Gigi, is to return to Seattle until we can get things settled. I suspect we’ll hear from the FBI and the U.S. Marshals. They’ll want to put you back into witness protection.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“It’s for your own safety.” He ground out the words. It took great effort to feign he believed them.
“Because that worked so well the first time? Absolutely not. I refuse.”
He sighed. He couldn’t blame her. But what she didn’t see was that her unwillingness to trust the authorities made her safety his concern. And the concern of Backcountry Protection Services.
Rami, August’s good friend and co-owner of the company, just happened to be in a serious relationship with Ivy, Gigi’s sister. So the odds of Rami not using their men to guard Gigi were slim to none. Matter of fact, he’d bet his left nut Gigi was his problem whether he wanted her to be or not.
“Back to your earlier question,” August began, wanting to stuff aside the logistics of his near future. “I’d also like to know how the cartel found you. I mean, in the government’s defense, it’s extremely unlikely there was a leak that led the cartel to you. I don’t think many people have ever gotten to a witness protection victim.” He slid a suspicious glance her way. “Not anyone who’s been careful and followed their rules.”
Gigi squirmed in her seat. “Yes, well. I did everything Joe told me to and was careful to follow the rules.”
“Every rule?” August pressed. Her words said one thing but her body language screamed another.
She twirled a lock of brown hair. “Every rule . . . within reason.”
He shook his head and swore under his breath. “What the hell did you do?”
“Hey,” she snapped. “Don’t use that tone with me.”
“You’re guilty of something, so spill it.”
She heaved. “Fine. I sent a postcard to Ivy. But, I mean, god. There’s no way that’s what led them to me. I didn’t use a return address. I didn’t even sign the damn thing! I wrote a vague message in the bottom corner that you’d need a magnifying glass to read. Hell, I bet Ivy threw it out thinking it was junk mail.”
“Mm-hmm,” August drawled. “And when did you send this incriminating letter?”
“It wasn’t a letter!”
“Recently, I take it.”
Gigi let out a hiss of frustration. “You’re impossible. Three freaking weeks ago. So, what, the cartel works for the U.S. Postal Service? That’s the only way they’d even know—”
“You’d be surprised by the lengths madmen will go to in order to silence people.”
She flung her hands in the air. “I don’t need to be silent. They could just forget all about me and everything would be fine and dandy. But no, they’ve got a grudge.”
“Cartels tend to hold grudges,” he said flatly.
“Whatever. It’s my fault.” Her tone had changed. Sadness clung to her words.
“What’s done is done.”
“Tell that to Joe.” She sniffed. “He only tried to protect me. I knew I shouldn’t have sent the card. I just thought . . .” Her voice grew impossibly small. “I just thought it was harmless. Without an address, I—”
He sent a glance her way. She was running her fingers under her eyes. Tears glistened on her fingertips. The sight tugged on his heartstrings.
Dammit, she shouldn’t have this effect on him. He hated that she was hurting. Hated that she blamed herself for Sherry and Joe. She hadn’t asked for any of this and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to take it away. He couldn’t even comfort her. Doing so would only put him in the danger zone. He was powerless when it came to distraught women, weaker still with Gigi.
He had to keep her at arm’s length of it killed him or she’d rip out his heart like she’d done two years ago. So instead of pulling over the fucking car and holding her when she needed human contact, when she needed comfort and connection . . .
He kept his gaze on the road and his mouth in a firm line like the pathetic coward he was.