Page 85 of Lock ’N’ Load

Chapter Twenty-Five

Trista lay in her bed, snuggled up with Poofy while binge-watching episodes of Saturday Night Live. Watching late-night TV had become their custom in the two weeks since she’d been whisked away to an FBI safe house.

Poofy busily purred louder than an electric razor, nuzzling her hand, demanding even more attention than usual. Not that she could blame him. Even she was bored out of her mind. Stuck in a tiny house, God knew where, with nothing but a few books, magazines, and two stoic FBI agents in the outer room standing guard over her to make sure she stayed put and didn’t misbehave. That meant no laptop.

The only things that had given her the remotest sense of joy were the notes Hentz had provided from Bonnie and Kevin, who were both worried about her, and the seven postcards from her parents that had been piling up in her mailbox. Apparently, they’d departed Hong Kong and were now island-hopping somewhere in the South Pacific.

She snorted at the idea that the postal carrier had continued delivering her mail even though her house was a burned-out shell. Not for long, thank goodness. Someone high up must have pulled some strings with her insurance company, because her claim was being processed in record time. The agents had delivered her the paperwork notifying her that she could start rebuilding in just a few short weeks. Hopefully by then, this would all be over, and she could start fresh. Maybe she’d even take a walk on the wild side and paint her house some funky color like magenta or chartreuse. The idea of a chartreuse house had her grinning for the first time in two weeks. It was all part of her newfound confidence in herself. Ironically, she had Matt to thank for that.

She held up her hand, looking at the charm bracelet that made a pretty, jangling sound whenever she moved. He’d broken her heart, and she doubted she would ever love as deeply again, but she didn’t regret what had happened between them for a second. Not only had he been her first, but he’d given her many other wonderful things. Through his eyes, she’d learned that she could be beautiful and sexy, and that other men saw her that way as well. He’d helped her to view herself in a different light. A stronger, more confident light.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, counting cracks in the paint. She was beginning to regret her decision to let the FBI watch over her, but staying with Matt another moment longer would have been too painful. Although she really could use a swig of the Dalwhinnie she’d left behind at his house.

“Who am I kidding, Poofy?” In response, the Angora stood and began kneading his paws on her thigh. It was him she missed. More than anything.

Since the moment they’d gone their separate ways, her life seemed empty, devoid of something she hadn’t known existed until she’d met him. Now that it was gone, she wanted it back. But the man had issues, deep-seated issues he needed to resolve before he could ever love a woman.

Cops don’t talk to shrinks. She understood that it was his warrior mindset—that aspect of a person who spends a lifetime protecting others—that made it virtually impossible for him to admit that sometimes he was the one who needed help. It was also fear that prevented Matt from moving on. Fear that seeking help would make him appear weak, undermining his ingrained sense of strength. Not his physical strength. That would never be in question. It was his emotional strength he feared losing, and he’d been that way for twenty years. At this point in his life, he didn’t know any other way.

“I tried, Poof.” She sat and scooped the cat into her arms, snuggling him against her chest. Matt could have been everything to her, and she to him.

Was I wrong? Should I have stayed and tried to help him?

No. He didn’t want her help. This was something he had to work out on his own. Still, it killed her not to be with him. To snuggle against his long, hard body as they’d done that one blissful night at the hotel. To feel his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hard length filling her.

When she groaned this time, it was out of sexual frustration. Now that she knew how wonderful lovemaking could be, she wanted more of it. But the idea of making love with anyone but Matt made her shudder with apprehension.

Lying back again on the bed, she sighed. “Maybe one day, Poofmeister. Maybe one d—”

Raised voices came from downstairs. A heavy thud, followed quickly by another, then… Silence.

Bolting upright, she froze, holding her breath. Doors opened and closed, but she heard no more voices. She set Poofy on the mattress and tiptoed to the door. Something isn’t right. These weren’t the normal sounds made by Donald and Angie, the two agents assigned to the overnight shift. Her heart began thumping crazily.

She pressed her ear to the door. Shuffling. Another door being opened. “Angie? Donald?” No answer.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and she stepped back from the door. The knob rattled. Someone was trying to get in, and it wasn’t Angie or Donald. They would have knocked. That was the prearranged protocol if they needed to speak with her.

They found me. Somehow the Russians found me.

She backed farther from the door, turning her head to search frantically for some kind of weapon. But she already knew there weren’t any. The only weapons in the house were the guns Donald and Angie carried on their belts.

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would beat right out of her chest. My phone, where is my phone? They’d given her another cell phone for emergencies and with strict orders not to contact anyone but Angie or Donald.

She yanked the covers off the bed, upsetting Poofy, who gave an indignant mew and jumped to the floor.

Again, the door rattled.

Getting to her knees, she searched under the bed. No phone, dammit!

I have to get out of here. But she was on the second floor. Could she really jump to the grass without breaking a leg? Probably not, but it was better than staying where she was and getting shot.

With trembling fingers, she shoved her feet into her shoes, then went to the window. Her hands were shaking so badly she struggled to twist open the lock.

Behind her, the wood splintered.

They were kicking in the door.

Turning back to the window, she flipped open the lock and gripped the handle, raising the lower pane. She glanced over her shoulder to see the door come flying off its top hinge, slamming against the wall.