Safe Passage Page 7

  Once she checked on the control group, she’d leave a note for Charly, tell her she planned to be away for a couple of weeks. They’d understand. No one would look for her for a while. She was booked off for a two-week honeymoon anyway. Some honeymoon.

  But first she had to figure out how to shake her tail. She had an uneasy sense whoever was in that car might try to make some kind of move on her tonight. Once it got dark.

  She’d best be ready.

  Skye sank down onto her sofa, trying to think, to come up with a plan. But all she could see was the white cake on the table across the dimly lit room. Three layers with two little figures positioned on top.

  One a bride.

  The other a groom.

  Mocking her from the shadows.

  Scott’s sat phone rang the minute he opened his front door. He let Honey in, closed it behind him.

  It was Rex.

  “Scooter ran that plate for you.”

  “And?”

  “You ready for this?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “The vehicle belongs to the feds.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “Shoulda made them for cops. What do our Royal Canadian Mounted Police want with the doctor?”

  “I’ve set up a meeting with our RCMP contact for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll know more then. I suspect it’s got something to do with Danko. We might have to let them know we’re working an angle on this case, as well.”

  “Great.” A possible turf war. He needed that like a hole in the head. Scott flipped the phone shut and stared out the window at the car. So the doctor was in trouble with the feds. It was time to pay her another visit. His brain ticked over. He could actually use this to his advantage. A “good cop, bad cop” kind of routine.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Yeah. He’d play this one for what it was worth.

  Scott and Honey climbed the two stairs to Skye’s porch. It was fully dark out now but no lights blazed from Skye’s home. Just a faint flickering glow. Candle, he assumed.

  He lifted his hand to knock, realized the door was slightly ajar. He edged it open, motioning Honey to be quiet.

  He peered into the dim light, catching sight of her in the living room. He bit back a chuckle.

  Dr. Van Rijn was slouched on a sofa, her long legs propped up on a coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other. Her feet were still shod in heavy black biker boots. In her right hand she held a wrist-braced slingshot. Yellow light quivered from a candle on the mantel over the fireplace.

  Fascinated, Scott watched as she took a metal bead the size of a large marble from a leather pouch resting at her side. She fitted it against the powerband of the slingshot, drew it slowly, steadily, back with her left hand.

  She aimed, right arm extended fully. And released.

  Before he could blink, the silvery-white wedding balloons hanging in the far corner of the living room exploded into tattered rags.

  Scott’s hand shot down to muzzle Honey.

  Skye reached for another bead. Scott watched, intrigued as she repeated the process. But this time she aligned her weapon directly with the wedding cake on the table in the dining room.

  He held his breath.

  She pulled.

  Released.

  The silver bullet whizzed, slamming the tiny groom dead in the heart. It shattered, flew back with a crack against the wall.

  Scott swallowed.

  The woman was an astounding marksman. And what she held in her hand was a deadly serious weapon. Stupefied, he stood motionless as she positioned another bead, stretched the yellow surgical tubing back taut.

  She raised it slowly, aimed at the heart of the little white bride standing lonely on the cake.

  But Honey could stay quiet no longer. She whimpered.

  Skye spun.

  Before Scott could breathe, the lethal bead was trained on him, aimed straight at the center of his forehead.

  He froze.

  Skye didn’t move. Her face was totally expressionless. That above all spoke volumes. He’d seen that kind of control before. He had little doubt she could kill.

  He cleared his throat. “You could hurt someone with that, Doctor.”

  Still she didn’t move. “That’s the idea, Mr. Futurist.” Her voice was steady, smoky.

  “Who do you plan to hurt?”

  “I can think of a couple of people off the top of my head.”

  “I’m one of them?”

  “Should you be?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She slowly relaxed tension on the slingshot, lowered her weapon, her expression still deathly serious. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean, Mr. McIntyre?”

  “Damned if I know. It sounded right. You scared the spit out of me. I don’t think straight when I’m scared,” he lied.

  She laughed, mirthlessly. “Sorry. Come in. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Oh, really. Who?”

  Her eyes flicked to the window and back. “No one. Doesn’t matter. Come in.”

  Scott felt as if he’d been invited into a lair. Wary, he stepped over the bags at the door. He nodded toward them. “You planning on going somewhere?”

  She stood as he entered the living room, stared him directly in the eye, her back straight as a rod. “What’s it to you?”

  He raised both hands. “Hey, I’m sorry if I’ve come at a bad time. I can come back later.”

  She studied him carefully. Her eyes cut briefly back to the window. Then she spoke. “No. My apologies. I’ve had a bad day. I could do with some company. Take a seat. Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the table. “Sorry the champagne’s warm.”

  By the way her eyes kept flicking to the window, Scott figured she’d noticed the tail parked across the street.

  And he figured she was worried. She didn’t want to socialize with him, she wanted him around for protection from whomever she thought was following her.

  And that suited him. Because he wanted information.

  He moved over to the table laden with wilted wedding hors d’oeuvres. A sad sight. He looked up from the table, at the jilted bride. Something snagged in his heart.

  He quickly glossed it over. Resting his cane against the table, he reached for two glasses, pulled a bottle of champagne from the silver tub of melted ice.

  Without speaking, he limped over to the coffee table, set the two glasses down, popped the cork with a muffled burst and poured frothing warm liquid into the glasses.

  Skye watched in silence.

  He straightened, held a glass out to her. She took it, fingers softly brushing his as she did, her touch leaving a wake of sensitized nerves.

  Scott swallowed his reaction, raised his glass. “I propose a toast.”

  Skye’s mouth pulled sideways in a grimace. “Yeah.” She raised her glass. “To being dumped at the altar.” She pressed the glass to her lips, took a slow sip, eyes locked steady with his over the rim.

  He noticed her lips were full as they rested on the champagne glass rim, moist with the drink. Scott felt sudden thirst, took a deep sip from his own drink.

  Still her gaze didn’t shift. Silence hung heavy, thick.

  He felt a prickle of unease, tore his eyes from her stare.

  Focus, dammit.

  He set his glass carefully down on the coffee table.

  “Why’d you come over tonight, McIntyre?”

  “I…wanted to see if you were doing okay. You were in a bad way last night.” He attempted a smile. “And I want my jacket back.”

  Confusion pulled at her brow. She glanced at the leather jacket slung over the backpack by the front door. “I’m sorry. I was going to bring it back. Thank you, once again, for taking care of me last night. It’s not my style to crumble like that.”

  “That, I can believe.” But despite her efforts at outward control, Scott could see the woman was jumpy. Maybe even flat-out scared. He decided to put his theory to test. “Well, you seem to be doing fine. I’ll just gra
b my jacket and be going now—”

  “Wait.” She grabbed his arm, eyes wide. “Have some food. Stay. Someone’s got to eat that stuff. Maybe Honey wants some. There’s plenty more champagne.”

  Scott could feel the urgency in her fingers. He was right. She was petrified. He pulled a face. “Got any ice?”

  “Plenty.” She made for the fridge, returned with a bucket of ice and set it on the coffee table. She moved quickly over to the hors d’oeuvres, started loading the lifeless snacks onto two plates. She brought them over to the coffee table, set them next to the ice bucket.

  She hesitated. “Did you see those guys outside, in the brown car?”

  So she had seen them. “Nope, why?”

  “They seem to be waiting for something. I thought maybe you might know them.”

  She was fishing. “Never noticed them.” He popped a cracker into his mouth. “More champagne?”

  She held out her glass. He poured.

  “Thanks.” She sat on the sofa, sipped, shivered slightly as she swallowed. She looked so drained. Cold.

  “Can I light your fire?”

  Her eyes snapped wide, startled by his gesture. “I…yes, thank you…I’d love some warmth.”

  He eased himself down onto his haunches and started to build the fire in her hearth.

  She picked at the food on her plate. But he could feel her eyes on his back, watching him as he coaxed tiny flames to life. Tongues of fire grew, licked, crackled around the kindling.

  With the fire fully engaged, warmth emanated quickly from the hearth. Honey moved near, flopping down beside him. Skye leaned a little closer. “Come join me on the sofa, McIntyre.” Her words were soft, her voice rich. It had an almost opalescent quality that rolled smooth, rounded and low through his gut.

  He looked up into her face. Her lids were low, sultry over the silver of her eyes. She reminded him of an animal who prowled, lean and hungry in the shadows. One not to be trusted.

  What game was she playing now?

  Scott tried to push himself to his feet, winced as fresh pain sliced through his knee. He dropped back down to the floor, choked a curse.

  The dangerous smoke wiped instantly from her eyes. Instead, concern etched into her features. “You okay?”

  “Nothing I can’t live with.” He breathed shallow, waited for the tide of pain to ebb.

  She reached out, tentatively touched his leg. “What’s the prognosis for your knee?”

  He shrugged. “I had a joint replacement. If I’m a good boy and rest enough, I should be fine. If not, I’m in trouble.” He blew air out slowly through pursed lips. “It’ll always be a thorn in my side, though. Just when I thought I was on the mend it’s all swelled up like a bloody balloon again.”

  “Let me see.” She dropped down beside him onto the hearth.

  “See what?”

  “Your knee. Let me see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I can help.” She reached down, started to roll up the leg of his jeans. Her braid fell over her shoulder. He could smell her shampoo. He jerked back, shocked at the hot reaction in his gut.

  Her hand halted in surprise.

  Her eyes slid slowly up to his, held. “Take it easy, McIntyre. I don’t bite.”

  Yes, you do.

  She turned her attention back to rolling up the cuff of his jeans. Scott sucked air in sharply, braced against the sweet, wicked electrical pulses that shot up the inside of his thigh as he felt her hands, cool and soft, against his ankle.

  Her eyes shot back up to his. “That hurt?”

  He swallowed, met her gaze. “Not exactly.”

  She touched the inside of his calf.

  He gasped. Nerves, already hot and sensitized from pain, zinged raw under the coolness of her touch. He gritted his teeth, flinched at the kaleidoscope of sensation.

  Her eyes held his. The air between them grew thick. Surged. Her lips parted slightly. She moved her hand slowly up the inside of his calf, splayed her fingers over muscle, began to caress with slow, rhythmic undulating movement.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling, Scott.” A carnal smoke swirled through the silver of her eyes. It snaked husky and deep through her voice. His own vision blurred.

  “Tell me if this hurts.” She pressed harder.

  His stomach swooped in reaction. He swallowed, couldn’t seem to find his voice.

  Her hand moved higher up the inside of his leg toward his knee.

  “How does this feel, McIntyre? Tell me.” Her voice purled through him. “I want to know what you’re feeling.”

  “Scott, call me Scott.” He split the hot tension, grabbed for a sense of normalcy. “Do you know what you’re doing here? You a medical doctor, too?” She knew damn well what she was doing to him. He was sure of it.

  “I know some stuff.” Her voice remained low, undeterred.

  Her eyes dropped to her hands as she worked the denim carefully up, exposed his knee. She sucked her breath in sharply at the sight of it. Her eyes flashed up to his. “That looks painful.”

  “You see, looks like a balloon.”

  “God, that’s one angry scar.” She traced the puckered, puce line of flesh softly with her fingers, following it around to the tender underside of his joint.

  Scott jerked back. Shocked. Not from pain but from the burning thrill of her cool hand on his hot, sensitive skin. It cracked a jolt clean through to his groin.

  “That hurt?”

  “You don’t want to know how it felt.” He heard the thick, heavy edge in his own voice.

  A faint, sultry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her lids drooped over her eyes, her voice went even lower, like smooth, hot mist over a desert well.

  He swallowed, his throat dry.

  She stroked the inside of his feverish knee with languid, rhythmic movement. He felt himself grow thick. “Does that feel good?”

  His loins answered, pulsed, hot and heavy between his thighs, aching for the languorous touch of her hands. By God, she was seducing him. And he was utterly powerless.

  She moved closer. He could feel the sweet warmth of her champagne-kissed breath. “Stretch that leg out in front of you.”

  He obeyed, his brain ticking over, too slowly, trying to find a way to take back charge.

  Skye took an ice cube from the bucket on the coffee table. She bent her dark head over his chest, touched the cube lightly to his skin.

  He gasped.

  She let the cube linger as his skin adjusted to the sensation. Melting water dripped around to the inside of his thigh, ran down toward his groin. She slid the cube over his knee, lightly.

  He couldn’t take any more, had to snap the sexual tension that simmered between them before he lost every last inch of his control. “Skye—”

  Her eyes darted up. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No…it’s just—” He knew what she was doing. This was her way of making him stay the night, of buying a form of protection against whoever waited for her outside. And by God, his body was willing to sell even if his brain screamed stop.

  The light from the fire danced silver in her low-lidded eyes. Her lips, so lush, so full, were open. And it was obvious, despite her ploy, that she was as turned on as he was.

  The knowledge was intoxicating. He felt himself lean in, drawn to that mouth of sin.

  She moved even closer, her lips almost touching his. He could feel her breath, warm against his mouth. Fire spurted to his loins, seeped molten through his belly. Her lips touched gently to his.

  And he drowned in that instant, engulfed by a blinding, raging wave of scarlet pleasure.

  What was left of the tiny ice cube fell with a chink to the floor. She moved one leg over him, straddled him, her braid spilled down over her shoulder onto his, and she took his bottom lip firmly between her teeth, a throaty, almost imperceptible growl emanating from somewhere deep in her throat.

  The fear she would bite down on his lip, draw blood only fuelled his desire. She bit a little
harder. He moaned. The swollen weight between his legs ached with hot, delicious pain. Screamed for release.

  She eased her pelvis against his.

  His control snapped.

  Chapter 6

  Scott grabbed the back of her head firmly in his hand, yanked her mouth down hard onto his. Her lips splayed open to him under the sudden pressure. Her legs split wider as she was pulled down over his groin.

  A groan rose from deep in his belly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deep, roughly exploring. She was hot. Sweet. Slightly fruity with the taste of warm champagne. His tongue slipped over hers. Danced. Mated. And he felt as though his loins would explode without the same hot, slick sweetness.

  Her pelvis rocked slowly against his, forcing rhythmic pressure onto the painful swollenness of his need. His vision went black. Red.

  And he felt her hand, sliding up the inside of his thigh. Then he felt her fingers, deft, undoing his buttons, working to lower his zipper.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  He felt himself swell out of the confines of his jeans into her soft hand.

  He snapped suddenly to his senses, jerked back, pushed her away. “Skye…no!”

  She jolted back. Shocked, lips swollen and hot-pink. Confusion clouded eyes dusky with silver and lust.

  He reached for his zipper, fumbled to contain his blatantly obvious male need.

  She watched his hand. Said nothing. But the question was raw in the set of her features.

  He reached up, touched the side of her face. “I’m sorry, Skye. I can’t—”

  She jerked out from under his touch, looked away, hiding naked hurt. And something else. He could see it in the faint blush that crept up her neck into her cheeks.

  Embarrassment.

  Scott cursed himself. He’d just rejected a woman who’d been ditched at the altar. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she was feeling. But that was precisely why he couldn’t do this. As much as he wanted, needed, to. As much as he needed to strip her naked, expose her deepest, innermost sweet secrets. As much as it might help him get to know her better. He couldn’t take advantage of her like this.

  “Skye, talk to me, look at me.”

  She did, turning her head slowly back to face him. When she did, she was an absolute study in self-control. Those silver eyes didn’t flinch. Instead they lanced into his. But she said nothing. She waited for him to speak.