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  He took a heavy breath. Maybe it was time to end the silence.

  Rayna beat him to the job by ten seconds. “Damn it.”

  He glanced at her. Though she’d only muttered the words, the glow from the tablet in her lap highlighted every facet of her pained grimace. Max kept the devices around like most people kept sunglasses or breath mints, so it didn’t surprise him when Rayna had pulled that one out from under the passenger seat. She’d turned it on a few minutes ago and had been tapping at the screen ever since.

  “You okay, bird? Are the meds wearing off?”

  Fortunately, it looked like Mua’s goon had meant to induce fear more than lasting damage when he hit her. That didn’t stop the son of a bitch from booking his ticket to the end of Z’s fist if they were ever in the same room again. Tempting as the fantasy was, he looked forward to calling Garrett in an hour and hearing that the FBI had not only thanked his friend for the tip but had a plan in place to bring down Mua and his network for good. Not being in the thick of that action, even now, made him feel like a fish out of water, but he’d gladly flop around for a few days for the reward of looking into the forests of Rayna’s eyes again and telling her the monster was gone for good.

  For now, just one more glance gave him the answer to his question. She wasn’t okay, but it didn’t seem related to her bruises. She attacked the tablet with another angry swipe. “If I ever see that dickwad again, I’ll drill him with more lead than I did his brother.”

  He felt his eyebrows jump. Yes, she’d shot King. But since then, he’d seen the woman’s commitment to compassion on shitloads of occasions. Once, he’d tried to whack a field mouse in her garage, only to be pummeled and ordered to set it free in the backyard.

  “Okay.” He cautiously strung out the syllables. “Should I ask for elaboration?”

  She stabbed the screen again. “The bastard only started at KOMO. Every news outlet in the city has the story now.”

  Zeke shrugged. “We expected that.”

  “But they’re all wrong!”

  “We expected that, too.”

  “No!” she protested. “Not like this.”

  He shot a concerned stare at her. There was a sob in her voice, and it continued across her face.

  Without hesitation, he pulled the Jag over.

  Once he’d stopped, Rayna curled her knees to her chest. “I want to kill him, Zeke,” she whispered. “I swear to God, he’s not going to do this to you. Not because of me.”

  A strange calm took over him. He recognized the feeling well. He’d gone there a handful of times already in his life, on missions when his death was pretty much a given outcome.

  The soul-deep acceptance had been what stabilized him enough to survive all those times.

  From the depth of that calm, he said, “Let me see it, Rayna.”

  She didn’t move. He reached and pulled at the pad. At first she fought him but finally gave way, seeming to comprehend she would never win a tug of war like this.

  The screen lit up with the home page for the Tribune. He winced with embarrassment at the first photo they showed, his military ID photo from about four years ago. He looked like he had a pole up his ass. He’d felt that way, too. Farther down in the article, there was another picture that didn’t make him feel much better. It was a grainy screenshot from the video footage taken by that pop-up camera man, undoubtedly one of Mua’s wolves in a media fleece. It showed him standing over both of the bastard’s henchmen, the chain still in his hands, violence branded across his face.

  The words between the two photos were an even bigger bog of bullshit.

  Soldier Goes Insane, Instigates Brutal Downtown Beatings

  Two men are in intensive care tonight at Harborview Medical Center after an altercation with a US Army officer just returned from a stressful overseas mission.

  Sergeant Ezekiel Gabriel Hayes, stationed at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, engaged two men taking a cigarette break outside a downtown nightclub earlier this evening. The men gained consciousness long enough to state that Hayes appeared agitated and angry. They speculated he might have been under the influence of cocaine or methamphetamines. The men’s names are being withheld from the media until their families can be notified.

  He snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, guys. I hear it takes a while to find ‘family’ in hell.”

  “Not funny,” Rayna snapped.

  He continued reading.

  A friendly conversation apparently became heated when a woman, Sergeant Rayna Chestain, a member of a medical corps unit at JBLM, emerged from the club as well. When Hayes began lascivious advances on Chestain, the two men tried to assist and were assaulted by Hayes. He retrieved a heavy chain from his car, as well as brass knuckles and a tire iron, to continue his attack.

  After incapacitating the men, Hayes forced the woman into another car, tagged by eyewitnesses as a dark blue Sierra truck with upgraded hubcaps and license plate TR01ACY. Though the police have set up checkpoints on all major highways, Hayes’s location is unknown.

  A manhunt has begun, jointly operated by the Seattle Police Department and the army. Hayes is to be considered armed, well-trained, and extremely dangerous. If identified, do not approach this dangerous suspect. Dial 9-1-1 or—

  He flipped the tablet’s cover shut.

  Okay, he’d had more comfortable moments in his life. But his anxiety wasn’t due to this cartload of lies. His job, often his very life, depended on using deception and custom-created personas. He just wasn’t used to being public about it. Really public. And dragging someone he cared about into this goddamn spotlight with him.

  “Well, fuck,” he finally muttered. With a sigh, he turned to stash the tablet behind her seat. He was pulled up short on the way back, her stare burning into him.

  “Well, fuck? That’s it?”

  He frowned. “For now.”

  Rayna dug her fingers into his forearm. “How can you be so calm about this?” With her other hand, she tilted his head in order to peer back at his bandage. “This has got to be bleeding again and taking all the fluid from your brain, too.”

  As wonderful as her touch felt, he pried her hands away. “I’m fine. You can check it out in full soon, Flo Nightingale. Just not now.” Though reason dictated that the night was their friend more than foe, he couldn’t get over the feeling that they were exposed as a water truck in the Sahara right now.

  She twisted her fingers into his. “Damn it! This is unfair!”

  Zeke looked down at their joined hands. Her tapered nails were painted pink. It was a few shades lighter than her jacket and reminded him of little girl birthday party streamers. “You’re right,” he replied.

  “Damn straight I’m—”

  “It’s totally unfair to you.”

  “No. Wait. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” He lifted his head, bringing his gaze inches from hers. She smelled like pink, too. Her cardamom spice had a spun-sugar softness wound with it, a sweet contrast to the treated leather of the car. “And I know what I meant.” He untwined one hand to tenderly frame one side of her face. “You should’ve gone to a hospital and been checked out for all this. By now, you should be home in bed, helped to sleep by painkillers, warm in your sheets, and dreaming of what Halloween parties you’re gonna go to next week.”

  She huffed. “I don’t know whether to belt you or kiss you, Hayes.” Despite her threatening words, her throat gave up only a rough whisper. “Over half of Seattle is going to think you’ve downed the jungle juice for good, and you’re worried about me?”

  He didn’t say anything. Rain began to cascade over the car…and heat sluiced through his blood. It poured from the spigot of her touch and her words. Damn it, when she talked to him like that, husky and low, like sharing a secret just for the two of them…he yearned to make it just that. A moment only for the two of them.

  Not the right way to think right now, man. Not the right thing for you; especially not the right thing for her. You
’re stronger than this. You have to be.

  “I think there’s been enough of that belting shit tonight, honey.”

  So much for the dutiful self-talk. And so much for the parting of her lips, only by a half inch at best, as if wondering that she interpreted him right.

  Her half inch was his damn mile.

  In two seconds, he had her mouth buried under his.

  Fuck…yes. She even tasted like pink. A buffet of cherry cream and cotton candy, of spun sugar and whipped meringue, of summer and sweetness in the dark, shitty winter of this night. Of his whole goddamn life. She was more perfect and delicious than he remembered. More pliant, more responsive, more incredibly open with the passion she gave him in return, spearing its way through his body and straight into his cock.

  His mind flooded with a fantasy. He’d shove the sweats to her knees. Pop back her seat. Order her to turn around, and grip it while he slid into her from behind. With his fingers on her clit and his hard slaps on her ass, she’d pulse all over his cock while filling the car with her orgasmic screams…

  That was all fine and good until they broke apart for air. Her face, lighted by the dim glow from the dashboard, was filled with longing, desire, need—

  For all the things he still couldn’t give her.

  You are a selfish, depraved bastard.

  “I’m sorry,” he gritted. “Hell, Rayna. That shouldn’t have—”

  She grabbed his hand before he could yank it away. “It’s okay. It’s more than okay. Zeke, listen. I have something I need to—”

  “It shouldn’t have happened.” He gave the words as if they were a command, issuing it as much to himself as her. While he restarted the engine and gunned the Jag back onto the highway, he set his jaw and concluded, “And I promise that it won’t again.”

  Chapter Ten

  The weather got worse as they drove another hour north. It was a perfect companion for Rayna’s mood. Her chest was a thunderhead of frustration, her mind on fire with a thousand stabs of angry lightning.

  With a strange jolt, she remembered pizza dough. An uncooked slab of it sat at home in her refrigerator. She was going to make a giant, gooey, pineapple and pepperoni pie as a self-pity snack as soon as she got off the phone with Sally. That had only been six hours ago. She’d almost disconnected the call before Sal picked up, because she began to think the pizza would be enough to help her deal with the weirdness of her feelings surrounding Zeke.

  Shit. Weird didn’t begin to describe how she felt now. Conflicted? Probably. Torn between appreciation and exasperation? That one was good. Completely baffled about what she was going to do in the middle of the Cascades Forest with him? Ding, ding, ding. Someone give Sergeant Chestain a prize.

  Just when it didn’t seem the highway could get darker, Z swung the Jag onto a murkier side road. The pavement gave way to gravel and dirt, which had now turned to rain-soaked muck. Mud spattered the car’s windows and front windshield.

  “Is Max going to speak to you again after this?” she cracked with grim humor.

  “He knew where I was going,” Z muttered.

  “The middle of the Haunted Forest?”

  When they rounded the next corner, she winced through an attack of spoke-too-soon.

  Zeke directed the car up onto a paved surface again—a driveway formed of interconnected flagstones. It swept around in a wide horseshoe shape that had a spacious three-floor cabin at the apex. There was nothing remotely “haunted” about it. The deep A-framed building had a glass wall that took up its first two floors with an intricate stained-glass pane fitted into the triangle shape of the top floor. The front porch was bracketed by natural stone pillars and contained a spacious swing that was currently protected by a rain cover. Hanging baskets across that area were still surprisingly abloom, brimming over with verbena that seemed impervious to the downpour.

  She felt an instant, welcoming presence from the place. A firm strength, as well.

  Zeke threw the car into park but didn’t cut the engine. He gazed over as if trying to assess her reaction to what she saw. She didn’t try to hide her smile. His uncertainty was a bit different. And a lot endearing.

  “Wow. I get to enter the inner sanctum of the Zeke Hayes private lair.”

  His eyes narrowed by a fraction. “How do you know it’s mine?”

  “Oh, it’s yours.”

  He shot her a nonplussed glance. “Stay here while I get some lights turned on. The entry will be slick in this piss party, and I don’t want you falling into the stream.”

  “Falling into the—huh?”

  He’d already left the car and was sprinting through the rain.

  After a few seconds, lights from the cabin spilled into the torrent. Rayna watched Z moving through the rooms on the ground and second floors, scooting around the furniture with wide and easy steps. He clearly had a comfort level here. She wondered how often he came up to enjoy the hideaway.

  She also wondered who came with him.

  The twinge in her stomach didn’t get time to fester. He was at the car door less than a minute later, bearing a jacket he’d gotten from inside, holding it over her as she got out and bolted for the house. The flagstones gave way to a wood-plank bridge. Sure enough, the din of the rain got joined by the clamor of a rushing stream that she judged to be about fifteen feet below. Also as he’d predicted, the boards were slick. Even in her tennis shoes, Rayna slid and nearly went down. Only Zeke’s hold, solid as a steel pole around her elbow, kept her balanced enough to make it inside on her feet.

  She wasn’t sure what to expect once she’d entered the cabin—but this wasn’t it.

  If there was such a thing as décor porn, she was sure Zeke was capable of corrupting millions with his forest-cabin version of it. Recessed lighting led the eye toward a sunken living room with a huge leather couch that was flanked by overstuffed love seats, all done in inviting shades of brown, russet, and dark blue. Large seating pillows on the floor were covered in complementary fabrics. They were arranged around the fireplace, which soared through to the second floor, its mismatched stones forming an eclectic piece of artwork in their own right. Reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room, she caught a glimpse of the dining room and kitchen, both possessing the same inviting colors and comfortable woods. On the walls were unique pieces fashioned out of a combination of copper and driftwood. The one over the couch depicted a sunset with a family of deer. On the wall next to her, waterfowl took flight off a lake.

  One word tumbled off her lips. “Wow.”

  Zeke scooted past her to the thermostat. “I hope that’s a good wow,” he said while flipping on the heat.

  “Here’s the part where I really get to hit you, right?” After he joined her in a soft laugh, she blurted, “Zeke, this is— I mean, I never expected—”

  “I know what you expected.” He lifted a knowing smirk. “I like hanging out at Bastille, honey. But I wouldn’t want to live there.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the club.” She gave him an inquiring stare. “Come on. Even your apartment near the base isn’t—”

  “I don’t live there, either.” He walked to the bar area, set into the alcove beneath the stairs, and swung down a bottle of Scotch along with two glasses. “That’s just a parking space for my body when I’m not here or out on a mission. Here, drink it. In case you don’t know, that’s good shit, so do it slowly.”

  She made a face into the glass. “I’m strictly a wine girl, thanks.”

  “You’re so blue, I’m going to call you Smurfette in a second. Drink.” He took a small sip from his own glass. “It’ll warm you up—and give you some liquid courage.”

  “Courage?” The distraction of her curiosity lent the ability to tip the Scotch to her lips. Holy shit, he was right. It was like drinking fire and tasted just as horrid. Between a couple of chokes, she asked, “For what?”

  “For calling your brothers.”

  Damn. She’d forgotten about that detail. “You promis
ed I could look at your bandage.”

  “After you call your brothers.”

  “Now who’s doing the stalling thing?” She smirked at his peeved scowl. “I only need to call one of them, you know.”

  “Close enough for rock and roll, honey,” he called while pacing into the kitchen. While he was gone, Rayna took another hit of her Scotch. Dear God, people drank this stuff on purpose? The only benefit she could fathom to the act was how every inch of her body acknowledged each warm sip. By the time he circled back into the living room with a sizable satellite phone in hand, her third sip was proving his theory true about the liquid fortitude, as well.

  “You ready?” He extended the phone.

  She took a deep breath. “Not really.”

  Z’s eyes laughed at that, though the rest of his face was sober. “I’ll be right here.”

  As you always have been. She yearned to say it aloud but knew where her weighted words would lead. He’d roll his eyes. Tell her she was full of shit. She’d finally get so fed up, she’d blurt out everything from the hypnosis session, and God only knew where that would lead right now. Z fiercely guarded the things that different people knew about him. Cross the lines into a life compartment in which you weren’t supposed to be, like her visit to Bastille, and you suffered the not-so-pretty repercussions.

  Right now, she was preparing for a metric shit ton of backlash from another neurotic man in her life. She just had to figure out which one.

  She had seven choices on the big-brother hotline. Actually, six. After the scene that went down in her kitchen on Friday morning, Trevor was off the options list. She crossed off Dallas, as well. He was eleven months behind Trev, a chronological proximity than made him just as much a butthead, especially since ATF had crowned him Special Agent in Charge on the squad. Finn and Shane were rarely reachable, a fact that had nothing to do with their Alaska addresses. Finn was simply surgically attached to his helicopter, and Shane took the “ranger” part of his national parks badge to a different level of serious.