Jamie sang the chorus in a bassy undertone, the murmur mixing with the hum of the car under her cheek and the rumble of the tires on asphalt. Despite all that was or wasn’t happening between them, his company was a relief. His jokes were a relief—had she laughed even once since France? She should enjoy that while it lasted and refuse to regret what could not be.
At least when she woke—if she slept at all—it would be to a sexy, solid and oh-so-tangible man who knew her real face and her real name, and genuinely cared what became of her, even if he was an elephant to her ox.
* * *
ASJAMIEHEADEDNORTH, detouring in wild arcs to avoid traffic cameras, night swallowed the feeble attempt at day. The local wore off and the dull ache in his shoulder grew to a scalding pain that surged with every inhalation. In the footwell of the passenger seat, the rucksack practically glowed. A red pulsing light of temptation. One fentanyl capsule, or maybe an oxy, just enough to take the edge off.
But it wouldn’t end there, would it? Damn Andy for putting the fucking things in front of him.
No. Nobody to blame but himself. Like always. He’d only wanted the sedatives, since he was seriously short of firepower—and they’d indeed come in handy. He should have said no to the rest. Should have chucked them out. Still could. And would, soon as he got the chance.
He turned a sharp corner and the pain soared. He was a fucking princess. Flynn had once let Jamie stitch up his scalp without giving more than a mumbled curse. Jamie had watched people die of gaping, sucking, pumping wounds—not many, thank God, and may he never see that again. The pain was probably psychosomatic, on account of his location. An internal GPS.
He adjusted the mirror. Even in sleep the dark, curled shape of Samira’s body seemed tense.
Jamie, I’m not ready for... I can’t go there.
He winced, and forced his focus back on the dark road. Aye, he was a prime jerk to make a move on her. It didn’t take a psych consult to conclude she hadn’t advanced far in the stages of grief. No matter how often he made her smile or laugh, he couldn’t ward off her ghosts for long. He could pinpoint the moment of counterattack as they curled their fingers around her heart and pulled her back into the shadows. Her eyes would retreat into her skull, her jaw would tighten, her shoulders would slump. But she would come back to life when he said something that fired her up—and, wow, did she come to life when they kissed. The kiss of life.
Maybe that was his problem—oneof his problems. After spending so long in the business of saving lives, he had an instinct to breathe life into somebody who was ailing—CPR of the soul.
In the back seat, she groaned. She sat up in the darkness and rolled her shoulders, arching.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said.
“It’s morning?”
“No. But we’re basically in our own time zone, so it can be anything you want it to be.”
“How’s your arm?” she said, clambering to the front seat.
“Fine. Completely forgotten about it.”
“You still look pale.”
“It’s because we’ve crossed into Scotland. I’ve gone all pasty and grumpy and miserly.”
She twisted her torso one way and then the other. “Where are we?”
“We’ve just come through the Borders, closing in on Edinburgh.”
“Wow. I slept a long time. Shall I drive?”
“I’ll push through.” Trying to sleep would just focus his attention on his arm. This would be over soon enough. How soon could they catch a flight to France?
Hang on. Would Samira’s fake passport get her back to Europe, now she was officially wanted for extradition? Would Hyland have clued in the UK authorities on the method of her arrival, and thus her false identity? If Jamie couldn’t get her out he’d have to stay with her—and he wouldn’t take the easy way out this time, wouldn’t let her push him away.
And was that prospect intriguing or terrifying?
Both.
Samira grunted as a new song came over the radio—a soul-shriveling a cappella group cover of “Born in the USA.” “Ugh,” she said, diving for the radio.
“I think the antenna is broken. There’s not much of a choice.”
She dug around in the rucksack and pulled out a cord and an iPhone.
“You have a phone?” he said. “I thought we didn’t trust phones.”
