She tried not to edge away from him. “Yet you killed her.”
“I said I was sorry,” he bellowed right into her ear.
Pain filled her head, and she cringed away from him. A sob escaped her.
“My poor girl.” He brushed hair away from her face. “You need to learn not to make me angry.”
Right. She tried to see past the blindfold, but there was nothing. “You’ve obviously been keeping track of me for years. Why start up the game this year? Why start taking redheads and playing the game now?” It was a risky question, but she had to know.
“Would you like a Shiraz or a Cabernet?” he asked.
She didn’t press or ask how he knew she liked both vintages. “Shiraz.” She held perfectly still. “I do have another question.” Maybe he’d answer this one.
“You can ask me anything.”
She swallowed over a lump in her throat. “The explosions back at the apartment. You could’ve killed Heath and Denver, and you didn’t. I’m sure you have guns.”
“That would’ve been no fun. If this works out, they need to see my happiness.”
If it didn’t work out, he needed them to be tortured by her death. Her nerves jumbled inside her with the urge again to scream. “I see. Thank you for the honesty.”
“No problem.” He shifted against her, and suddenly she was in his arms being carried. His very strong and fit arms. Who was this guy?
She gave a small yelp. “Where are we going?” Kicking wouldn’t do any good.
“To dinner.” He set her down on a hard chair and fastened what felt and sounded like handcuffs around her ankles. Seconds later, he sliced through the bindings around her wrists.
She stilled. “Are those handcuffs?”
“Yep.”
Okay. Cops had handcuffs. So did FBI agents. Was his voice becoming more familiar? Oh God. It couldn’t be. “Reese?” she asked.
The blindfold was whipped off.
She faced an empty chair over a table set with fine linens and crystal. A wooden counter ran along the wall of the kitchen, holding a sink and two plates. He moved then into her view, and she could see his broad back. He transferred the plates to the table and sat across from her. It took her a moment for her vision to focus on his face.
He smiled.
She blinked. “I know you.” He looked different without the colored contacts and weird putty along his chin. Her mind scrambled. He was the fake marshal who’d tried to kidnap her from her apartment before Heath had rescued her. “Marshal D. J. Smithers.”
He laughed again, his brown eyes twinkling. “Just a cover.”
“Oh?” Her hands were free, but no weapons were within reach. “Not your name?”
“No. You’ve met me before, however. My name is Daniel.”
CHAPTER
36
Heath came to as he was being loaded onto a gurney. Pain filled his entire body, so he dug deep and tried to expel it. When that didn’t work, he just ignored it. “Anya?” he croaked as he was lifted. Sounds bombarded him—surrounded him—the sound of too many people breathing and moving around.
“Hold on, sir,” said a younger male voice. “You have pieces of wood embedded in your body, but you’ll be okay. You need to hold still until we get you to the hospital.”
He struggled. “What? Where?” He opened his eyes to see the smoldering ceiling flashing by. “Anya?” He tried to jerk up, and hands held him down. “Let me go.”
God, he could barely move. Was his right side going numb?
