“I’m okay,” I said.
But he scanned for himself like he didn’t believe me. “There’s blood.”
There was? I looked down. “It’s yours.”
There were scratches across his hand that were red and angry but didn’t look deep. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “I’m not hurt. Are you okay?”
It was cramped in the back seat, but he moved to fit his body on the floorboard. It had to be uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to notice anything other than me. His gaze didn’t waiver.
“I’m okay now.” He took in an enormous breath. “They put a lot of bullets in this car.”
Over the roar of the engine and the shot-out windows, it was unlikely Derrick could hear us. But Jason had said it in a hushed, worried tone like he’d thought one of those bullets had ended up in me.
He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, and when his hand came down, it fell right beside mine, letting the edges of our fingers touch. Up front, I could barely hear Derrick on his phone, calling in to report what had happened.
My hair fluttered in the cold wind, and I pushed it out of my eyes. “Why did you take off when you saw the picture?”
He gave me a dubious look. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“Tell me.” I stared into his dark eyes and demanded honesty.
His gaze dropped down to where our hands were just barely touching. “I needed a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t like the thought of him taking you away from me.” His face contorted. Once again, this was something he hadn’t meant to reveal. “Fromus,” he amended.
My heart lurched forward with his slip, beating faster and making my face flush hot. “Are you going to tell me again that I’m just a job?”
“No.”
“Then promise me you’ll stay with me.”
He didn’t blink. “I will.”
His hand, resting on the seat bench, didn’t move when I took it in mine. He made no protest. Instead, he covered it with his other hand, as if making a commitment.
We ditched the mangled SUV in a parking garage and exchanged it for a vehicle in Orland Park. The Tahoe was at least ten years old but had no bullet holes. After the disaster at the gas station, I was informed that Bill was coordinating a joint task force with the FBI and would join us as soon as he could.
Two more marshals rode behind us as a convoy.
The twenty minutes in the Tahoe were tense and quiet. Everyone was on edge, and I spent the ride picking glass out of my hair. It was easier to focus on that. Plus, it had gone everywhere. Down my shirt, in my mouth. The tiniest bits sparkled on my eyelashes when I blinked.
I had to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose because I reeked of gasoline, almost as bad as Jason did from the front seat.
The Tahoe pulled into the parking lot of a two-story motel set back from the busy highway. It didn’t look overly sketchy or seedy, but not terribly new either. I wondered if the litNo Vacancysign was because of me.
“Anyone who pulls into this parking lot has a badge,” Jason said as he carried my bag up the stairs and to a room, unlocking the door. “Your room’s been secured. Derrick’s on your left, I’m to the right.”
I followed him in. There were bulletproof vests in the open closet I assumed the marshal who had secured my room had hung there. The carpet was stained in places, and the noise from the highway was constant, but it didn’t matter much. The door had automatically swung shut behind us, which meant we were now alone.
Everything I’d felt on that staircase in the basement returned, but not for him. He tossed my bag onto the bed then strode toward me. I held utterly still as he lifted a hand and brushed glass dust off my eyebrow. His touch was gentle, and familiar, and by no means sexual, but it sent an electrical current down my spine regardless.
“We need a shower,” he said.
The image of our naked bodies pressed against each other under a stream of hot water was instantaneous in my mind, and my breath caught. I pictured his hands sliding over my skin, slippery with soap, in perfect freaking detail, and it caused heat to pool inside me.
