He paused. “All right. Why? Why did you have these other soldiers somewhere else and not with us in the compound? Not raised and trained like we were? Without the commander’s guidance and gift?”
Oh. The sweet boy was still feeling loyalty to the commander, who’d been Isobel’s partner for years. She’d handled the science, and the commander had dealt with the training and most of the discipline. Recently, he’d been killed by one of their own soldiers, and the wound was still somewhat fresh inside her breast. “All scientific research needs different parameters,” she started.
Daniel frowned.
She continued, “Heath, Denver, and Ryker were sent out into the world and then relocated together as boys to a home where I could study them. They found each other, as I’d hoped, and their skills developed naturally, much like yours did.”
“So we’re all specimens to you.” Daniel’s voice remained level and merely curious.
“No. You’re family to me—I created all of you.” She clasped her hands together on the glass-topped desk. “Plus, my entire life I shared with the commander. It was nice to have a project that was just mine alone. All mine.” Those boys owed her. Without her, they wouldn’t even have life, much less each other.
“And Sheriff Cobb? You were his lover even back then. The commander didn’t know about the good ole sheriff, now, did he?”
Isobel lifted a shoulder. “He might have—I’m not sure. We had an open relationship, as you know.” The love of her life had had no problem seeking out other women once in a while, so she had seen no need to deny herself. She studied her loyal follower. “You deserve something for yourself, too. Think about it.” With his training, he’d be amazing in bed.
His eyes flared for the first time, and he gave a short nod. “I will. After I hunt down Heath and return the beating, maybe I’ll find something for myself.”
Isobel smiled. “That’s my boy.”
CHAPTER
12
Anya jolted awake in the SUV and then winced as her neck flared in pain. “Ugh.” The masculine scent of leather and male filled her head, and she glanced down at the heavy jacket draped over her chest. She breathed in deeply. Heath Jones. All Heath Jones. Her skirt had bunched up a little, and she pulled it down. She turned her head to see him looking at her from the driver’s seat.
“You talk in your sleep,” he said. “Something about cupcakes.”
She blinked and sat up, focusing on a snowy parking lot in front of a ramshackle motel with worn red doors. Clouds covered the moon, expanding the sense of being alone in the quiet world. “Where are we?”
“Halfway.” He held up a key—the old fashioned kind. “I need a few hours of sleep.”
He’d already checked in? Man, she hadn’t heard a thing. The wind rattled sleet against the window, which fogged quickly. “I can drive,” she blurted out.
“No.” He softened the word with a smile. “Sorry.”
“Control freak.” She handed his jacket over and drew hers up from her lap to shrug into. Her brain was still a little muddled, so maybe it was good she wasn’t driving the big vehicle. She opened the door and dropped to the icy ground. A sharp, cold wind instantly assailed her, and she hunched inside her jacket.
She needed to change into jeans and get out of her funeral suit.
Heath jumped out and came around the car to grasp her hand and lead her through the storm to one of the cracked doors. His hand enclosed hers with a firm and definite warmth, which sent a shot of awareness to spark in her abdomen. He carried both her suitcase and a duffel bag in his other hand, while she kept a tight hold on her laptop bag.
Wait a minute. She drew back. “Um.”
He quickly unlocked the door and pulled her inside, snapping the door shut. “It’s freezing out there.” Releasing her, he moved for a worn heater stretched across the wall and started twisting knobs, dropping into a crouch.
One bed. The minuscule room held one bed, a rickety table with two chairs, and a television console circa 1960. The carpet was an avocado green and the walls were yellowed. A very tiny bathroom lay off to the side. “I, ah, have a credit card we could use for a couple of rooms in a hotel with newer carpet,” she murmured weakly. What kind of germs were hidden in the carpet?
He looked up and grinned. “This place takes cash and doesn’t require identification.” Heat blasted from the furnace, and he stood, dusting off his hands. Even in the dim light, he overpowered the room with the sense of maleness. Strength and masculinity.
“Why can’t we use identification?” She swallowed. The bed was only a queen. Not even a king. A man his size needed a much larger bed. At least the flowered quilt appeared fairly new. But they could not share that bed.
“The case I can’t talk about.” He rubbed the dark shadow on his jaw. “Sorry about the one bed, but you’re the one who challenged a serial killer and asked me to be your groom.”
She shook her head and tried to find reality. Why was she so tired? “I did not ask you to be my groom.”
He shrugged. “Same diff. We’re engaged, baby. That means one room and one bed.” His voice was a low rumble that caressed her already overexposed nerves.
She eyed the bed.
