Chapter 3
Christian watched Emily nearly jump out of her skin when Angel set off the explosion. He was sorely tempted to put a hand of comfort on her arm. But touching her was torture—not to mention strictly off-limits—and he definitely didn’t fancy dealing with another round of flag-at-full-staff, so instead he lifted a hand to his ear, waggled his eyebrows, and said, “Sounds like Angelis playing our song.”
Emily tightened the straps on her rucksack and stood up. “You have a dark sense of humor.”
“Do I?” He set off toward the back door. The sound of the reporters chattering excitedly among themselves as they rushed to investigate the ruckus was quickly drowned out by the loud, rolling rumble of thunder. The storm outside was nearly upon them. “Perhaps I do. But you livemy life and see what color yours turns, yeah?”
“Doth mine ears deceive me? Or is the mighty Christian Watson feeling sorry for himself today?”
“Not sorry.” He opened the shutters beside the back door a bare centimeter and scanned the steps outside. The last reporter was disappearing around the corner of the cottage. “Just stating the facts.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if you’re of a mind to statefacts, then how about telling us why you didn’t go to Chicago right away after Boss invited you to join him for a beer?”
“Certainly.” He shrugged. “Directly after you tell us what made you so keen to quit the CIA.”
The woman claimed to be an open book, but those particular pages of her story were redacted, paper-clipped, and superglued shut.
Her perfectly arched eyebrows slammed intoa scowl. Usually, he fancied his women smiling and sated. But there was something about Emily in a pique. Her fierce expressions and sharp tongue always heated his blood.
“Do you realize you have an annoying habit of evading my questions by firing counter-questions?” When she pursed her lips again, he was forced to look away. There was too much temptation there. If he continued to stare ather, he wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that he wanted to smear those lips—and the rest of her, for that matter—with butter and then lick her clean.
“Holy demented shit,” Ace cursed in his usual colorful way. “I swear, you two should go see a doctor. You’re both suffering from different-day, same-ol’-shititus. And it’s starting to annoy the hell out of the rest of us. Now, how about it?”He looked expectantly at Christian. “We good to go, or what?”
Right-oh.Although Christian would like nothing better than to argue with Emily for the rest of the day, they were on a clock.
Tentatively, he opened the back door and poked his head outside. He was hit by the smell of salty sea air tinged with threatening rain. Without turning back, he raised a hand and wiggled two fingers,a wordless gesture for the trio behind him to get cracking.
Ace was the first to slink past Christian. He did a quick battlefield scan, looking left, right, and center, before quickly and quietly setting off down the gravel path that wound toward the bottom of the hill. The trail intersected with a road that fronted the beach. Parked on that road was an old farm truck: their target.
Angelhad pointed out the vehicle before leaving the cottage. The Israeli was an expert at “appropriating conveyances.” Which was a fancy way of saying he could hot-wire and filch a car quicker than most people could sign their names.
One of Angel’smanyquestionable talents.
Emily and Rusty pushed past Christian and headed for the path. Christian was disconcerted to discover they were holdinghands. Disconcerted and…something else. Something that felt alarmingly like that foolish tosspot known as jealousy. Which was ludicrous because (A) Rusty was gayer than a Sunday morning tea cake; (B) Rusty was simply being a gentleman, helping Emily on the steep path; (C) Rusty and Emily were old friends; and last but not least, (D) even if Rustywasn’tgay andwasn’tsimply being a gentlemanandwasn’tEmily’s old friend, Christian had absolutely no claim on the woman.
Still, there it was. All green-eyed and snarling and making him want to chew nails. Jealousy. He wasjealousthat Rusty got to hold Emily’s hand, that Rusty got totouchher oh-so-casually while Christian spent most of his days keeping his hands curled into fists to stop himself from doing precisely that.
Grittinghis teeth, he locked the cottage. After replacing the key beneath a terra-cotta pot, he turned for the path.
He was halfway down the hill, determinedlynotlooking at Rusty and Emily, when he got the distinct urge to glance back at the cottage. Back at the place that was the symbol of his childhood when it had been relatively happy and healthy. Back at the spot he had longed for during thosenights after the car accident when his mother came home too pissed to—
He shoved aside the memories, refused to look back, and quickly caught up to the couple in front of him. The day had darkened to night. Not sweetly, but more like an ugly bruise. The warmth of spring was eclipsed by the clouds, and the wind had turned cold and harsh.
In the distance, a plume of smoke drifted upward,away from the glow of the burning vehicle below. Sirens sounded, the familiarbee-doo-bee-doo-beeof Christian’s youth. But all around them was quiet. Not a soul in sight. Everyone with a smidge of curiosity had donned their overcoats and headed toward the scene of the explosion, which was in the exactoppositedirection of the waiting vehicle.
Angel certainly knew how to create a distraction.No question.
Christian could see the Israeli perched in the truck’s driver’s seat, motor running. The rest of them were near the end of the path, headed straight for the vehicle, when the sky opened up. The downpour stung like needles of dry ice and instantly drenched them to the bone.
Emily let loose with a curse that made Christian smile. Whipping open the passenger-side door, Ace quicklyhopped in, scooting close to Angel. Rusty and Emily were next, piling in Keystone Cop–style. Christian realized, rather belatedly, that there was no room left for him.
While the old truck was brilliant for a quick snatch-and-grab—no alarms and easy to hot-wire—unfortunately it wasn’t built to carry a five-man crew. The bucket-style bench seat was barely big enough for the four people alreadystuffed into it.
He looked forlornly through the downpour at the bed of the pickup. Four rucksacks had been tossed haphazardly inside. With no small amount of displeasure, he thought,When escaping and evading, needs must.
Placing a foot atop the rear tire, ready to hoist himself into the back of the truck and hunker down for one of the most miserable rides of his life, he stopped whenEmily poked her head out the door and demanded, “What the hell are you doing?”
Rain had plastered her hair to her skull. It dripped from her long lashes and off the center of her plump bottom lip.
