The Reunited

SIXTEEN





HE heard her say his name.

Even as he lay there, more awake than asleep, Joss heard her say his name.

And he wanted to hit something.

They’d connected in that dream—finally, a real connection, not just those remnants of a dream.

But did he have time to track her down today?

No.

He was meeting Jones in an hour.

There was already somebody out there, lurking and waiting for him to vacate the premises—Joss could feel her presence, a tired, cranky bitch who just wanted to plant the “effin cameras and get her ass back to bed,” as she thought it. But no . . . she had to clean the f*cking cabin, too, what in the hell did he think she was, a maid?

Her thoughts, high-strung and erratic, had Joss groaning. Rolling out of bed, he shuffled to the kitchen and got a cup of coffee. He’d hit the grocery store last night and gotten himself a fresh bag of coffee. He wasn’t touching anything his good buddy Hennegan had used.

He’d set the coffeemaker to brew before he went to bed, so there was already coffee waiting and the scent of it did something to wake up his lethargic brain.

Coffee in hand, he headed to the bathroom. Shower. Coffee. He just might wake up in time to meet with Jones and explain just what in the hell he needed to do. Convince the boss he had to do it this way. And wait for the shit to hit the fan. Listen to Taylor inform him in that very polite way of his that it wouldn’t happen.

And then Joss would tell him to f*ck off, he had to do it this way, and then they could get down to business.

There were things he was meant to do . . . so those certain things could unfold as they needed to.

This sucked.

But first he had to wake up enough to face the damn day. Still clutching his coffee as if it were a lifesaver, he shuffled to the shower and turned it on. Hot. Enough hot water pounding down on him should clear the cobwebs from his brain. Between that and the coffee, he should be able to handle facing Jones.

One more swig from the cup, hot enough to burn his tongue, and then he all but fell in, standing under the brutally hot spray and groaning as it beat down on tense, tight muscles.

Just needed to get past the dream. Needed to wake up . . .

Needed . . .

Dru . . .

Groaning, he slammed his head back against the tile wall. He needed not to think of her just now. Because that was all it took. He’d woken up edgy and needy and now . . .

The heat from the shower wrapped around him, kissing his skin almost like a woman’s mouth. Almost, but not quite. That was fine. He’d close his eyes and pretend.

Pretend Dru was here. Wrapping his fist around his cock, he let himself slip back into the dream he was trying to forget and started to stroke. Thought of her lips. Her smooth, honey gold skin and that sleek, shiny hair.

His breath hitched in his lungs as he neared the head, imagined it was her hands on him. Or her mouth. Or her sweet, sweet p-ssy . . .

“F*ck,” he snarled, jerking harder. Harder.

Hunger, almost painful, twisted in his gut, and he surged away from the wall, slamming a hand against the tile in front of him, head bowed, water pouring down. Her face . . . her eyes. Her . . .

He needed her here. With him.

Instead he was alone . . .

With a ragged, tortured groan, he came.

And even though he was there alone, with nothing but his thoughts, they were thoughts of her . . . and it was more satisfying than anything he could remember in a long, long time.

She was real. Real. Here. And he could find her.

As soon as this damn job was done and he could leave.

* * *

LEAVING was the last thing Dru needed to do. She dressed like she was going to work out in the fitness facilities provided. She did that often enough. Sometimes she even ran on the grounds.

So that wasn’t so unusual.

She kept her pace steady, knowing she had a shadow.

But she kept going longer than her shadow could.

Running was her escape. Even when she knew she had to come back.

She’d done this more than a few times, and Patrick hadn’t been particularly pleased, but neither had he said anything.

The dumbf*ck following her was going to get his ass ripped for letting her evade him, but that was his own fault, and this time, she had a hard time feeling guilty that another was going to suffer over Patrick’s anger with her. She’d seen this one through the flashes with Patrick, seen him enough to know that Patrick used him for his dirty work.

If he chose to work for a monster, then he needed to be prepared for what the monster would do.

And maybe build up his endurance.

He fell back after the second mile.

By the third mile, he was no longer in sight when she rounded the corner and she let loose, pounding the pavement and letting herself take off.

Her muscles were loose and easy by the fourth mile, and she breathed easier once she’d fallen onto the lesser known paths to leave the resort property. She hadn’t spent so much time crawling over satellite feeds of all of this property for nothing. She knew it like the back of her hand.

Part of her wanted to just keep running. She could do it . . . throughout college, she’d done long-distance running and she still kept up with it. Her muscles would ache and burn if she did more than eight or ten miles, but she could do it, if she had to.

She could run, leave this place behind.

She had contacts. She hadn’t come into this job blind—that would have been suicide.

She had her phone, cash, stowed on her. She never left her room without taking a few necessary items with her after all.

And in a secure location not too far from here, she had everything she needed to get back to her life. To who she was . . . She could go back to England, pick up the pieces of her business, and forget all about this.

The echos of the screams stopped her. The pain they’d suffered. The loss.

Slowing to a halt, she bent over and gave herself a minute to catch her breath.

Yes. She could run.

Yes. She could leave Patrick behind, disappear and return to life, pick up the pieces, and get back to her job. The only thing she really had to do was make a couple of phone calls. The few people who knew where she was, well, she’d rather they not worry that he’d done her in.

She could let them know. Maybe even send an anonymous tip to people who were better equipped to handle the monster that was Patrick Whitmore.

It would be so easy . . .

“But that’s not who I am.”

I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.

Besides . . . if she left, it might make it harder for a certain someone to find her when this was all done.

I’ll find you again, Dru.

She might have told him it was best if he didn’t, and she meant it. For now.

But sooner or later, she’d stop fighting to keep him out of her head.

With a faint smile curling her lips, she straightened back and started to move. This time, it was at a slower, steadier pace.

Her legs might be nothing more than noodles when she got back.

And she’d want to eat like a wolf, sleep like the dead.

Sounded like the ideal way to handle her beloved fiancé.

* * *

TAIGE and Cullen were circling around each other like a couple of angry wolves. Still. Frankly, Taylor was tired of it, but there wasn’t anything he could do.

Cullen was in a sullen state, eyeing everybody else in the room like he wished they’d just get the hell out and leave him alone with his wife.

Taige was in a dark, angry mood that he couldn’t do a damn thing about.

Taylor needed to get his ass to that grease pit that served as a restaurant—he was supposed to meet Crawford shortly.

The question was whether there would be bloodshed while he was gone.

Eyeing Taige and Cullen, he figured probably not. Taige might look like she wanted to pound her husband bloody, but Morgan just looked miserable.

His own fault, Taylor figured. After all this time, he should be able to read his wife better.

He couldn’t blame the guy for being pissed at him, and Taylor wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. It was only going to get worse for the Morgans, too. Jillian had it in her—Taylor wouldn’t seek her out, but she’d come looking for him again. It was just fact.

It would cause some bumps and bruises for them. Taylor didn’t see any way around it, but damn if he wanted to hang around and deal with it. He didn’t much want to leave Dez here, either, but he couldn’t take her with him and she didn’t seem to want to bail.

Unable to delay any longer, he gathered up the neat stacks of his files, tucked them inside his briefcase. “I have to go,” he said, directing his words to Taige and Dez.

Taige jerked a shoulder. “Hope Crawford is holding up okay,” she said, hunched over the table, determinedly ignoring her husband.

Cullen was giving Taylor that same, determined attention—or lack of it.

Shifting his attention to Dez, he found her watching him with that familiar amused glint in her eyes.

It figured she’d find something to be amused about in this, he thought.

Crossing over to her, he skimmed his fingers across her cheek, down her neck, paused briefly to touch the scar on her neck. A smile canted her lips and she swayed closer, pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she murmured. “You know that?”

“Yeah . . . I know that.” It was his miracle. She was his miracle. He rubbed his mouth against hers, reminded himself they weren’t alone, that he had a job to do, an agent out there with a gift inside his head that he wasn’t fully acclimated to. “I love you, too.”

Pulling back, he glanced toward the tense couple sitting at the table. “You should go downstairs. Have breakfast. Go shopping.”

“No.” Dez smiled. “If I have a yen to shop, I will. And I already had breakfast. Now, go . . . I’m sure I can handle it.”

He grimaced. Her handling it wasn’t the problem.

After another quick kiss, he headed for the door. He’d already lingered longer than he should have, but he had enough time to get there, he figured.

But then the elevator doors slid open and he saw who was waiting for him.

* * *

IT was cool out. Cool, damp, and the air smelled of rain.

Joss leaned back against the prick’s car as he waited for Jones to show up. It was early, the sun drifting up from the horizon, slow and steady, painting the world in soft colors of gold. The pretty display was lost on Joss. He was eyeing each of the cars narrowly as though they’d magically turn into the car he needed to see.

Jones wasn’t here yet.

Brooding, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out into the still, cool gray of the morning.

He was tired. His head ached like a bitch. He didn’t want to be out here doing this job, even though, logically, he knew this was one of the most important jobs he’d ever done.

Somebody had died here. He could hear her whispering, although there was nothing he could do for her. She was too old, just a fragment, and she was so weak and faint.

He doubted she’d even hear him if he tried to reach out. She kept whispering, Stop the car, please, just stop and let me out—

Then there was a scream, over and over, and he felt the echo of her death. Over and over. The only glimpse he could get of her was of a woman dressed in a skinny skirt, her hair done in a sleek style that made him think of the forties. She’d been dead a long, long time, and even when he lowered his shields, her presence didn’t get any stronger. Dez might be able to help her, but Joss didn’t have the . . . compassion she had. That was what made her so damned good at her job. She connected because of her heart. Maybe when this was done, she could come back here and help—he didn’t know.

So he was stuck there, listening to the woman whisper and scream as she relived her death.

It had happened three times, and he’d let it happen each time as he tried to figure out if he could help her, but halfway through the fourth, he’d figured out he was useless. Although she’d never hear him, he’d muttered an apology and slammed his shields back into place.

Now she’d scream, beg, and relive her death over and over . . . but he wouldn’t hear it. Made him feel like a damn coward.

He’d tell Dez about the place, though. If the girl could be helped, Dez would know how.

As the echo of her scream tore through his memory, he groaned and shoved away from the SUV, starting to pace. Jones wasn’t here yet. What the hell? The guy was usually early. Like thirty minutes early, or more. Taylor liked to get the lay of the land. It was a wise way to do things in their line of work, Joss knew. Of course, his natural inclination was to stumble in at the last minute, but he went against his natural inclinations and was early more often than not. Never hurt to take a look around. Scope out the area.

And in this case, listen to a ghost cry for thirty minutes.

His phone vibrated and he pulled it out, saw the message.

Running late. Unexpected complication. Be there ASAP.

Joss scowled and went to text him back.

But the tingle down his spine stopped him.

Slowly, he lifted his head. He couldn’t see her. Not yet.

But with his heart thrumming in his chest and his heart racing, he knew what was going on.

Her . . .

It was her.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, he moved away from the car, lowering his shields just enough so that he could feel her.

There—

Just down the road.

Running.

Form-fitting black spandex clung to her hips and thighs, stopping just a few inches below that delectable ass. A short sleeveless T-shirt, wet with perspiration. A grim look on her face.

Hurt so good, my ass. How many bloody miles have I done now . . . I’m going to have to crawl . . .

The ramble of thoughts in her mind stopped him from sensing anything else.

Then he stepped into her path and the dazed, numb shock replaced her rambling thoughts as he closed the distance between them.

Seconds later, there was no dazed, numb shock.

Just dazed, delighted pleasure as he caught her face in his hands and took her mouth.

She tasted of salt and sweat and woman. His woman, Joss thought. He groaned against her lips as her hands came up, gripped his wrists, her short, neat nails biting into his skin.

Her mouth opened for him and he growled with satisfaction, tracing the opening with his tongue before swooping inside to taste more of her, to take more of her.

It was heaven. It was perfection.

Then it was over, as she tore away from him, her chest heaving, her face flushed.

“You again,” she muttered. A look that might have been fear came and went in her eyes as she glanced around.

Bugger—what if they caught up? If they saw that . . .

He couldn’t keep up with her thoughts—her shields were too solid, and once she’d shored them up, he could only follow fleeting glimpses.

There was enough, though, to let him know she was afraid.

Very afraid.

Who would follow you? he wanted to ask. Why be so afraid?

But now wasn’t the time.

For either of them.

But he wasn’t about to let her leave so soon. Advancing on her, he watched as she backed away one step. Then another. “I guess I shouldn’t be pawing you in the middle of the sidewalk,” he said, crooking a smile at her.

She arched a brow. “It would be nice.”

“I’ll do it there, then.” He glanced over her shoulder, watched as she did the same. A blush crept up her cheeks as she eyed the motel. “You think I’m going to let you grab us a quicky motel? I don’t even know your—”

She stopped abruptly, swallowed.

“My what?” he asked.

She paused, eyeing him nervously for a moment. “Your name. I don’t even know your name.”

Joss continued to walk forward, one slow step at a time, waiting until she backed up. A few more steps had them in the shadow of a big RV—exactly where he’d been planning. “Now that’s not true, baby girl. You know my name just fine.”

“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t.”

But the echo in her mind said otherwise.

Grinning at her, Joss dipped down and nuzzled her neck. “Liar . . .”

As his lips cruised along her bare skin, she groaned and arched her head back. “This is insane. Completely insane.”

“Yeah.” He traced a path along her skin with his tongue, heat punching inside him at the taste of her. It was different. She was different. Stronger. Wiser. Sadder. And she didn’t remember him, but he didn’t care. That may change and it may not, but he didn’t f*cking care. She was here, she was with him, and some part of her knew him. He could tell, could feel it.

As she pressed closer to him, he slid a hand around her and curved it over her lower back, spread his fingers wide until he could feel the firm curve of her ass. Lifting his head, he said, “What’s my name, Dru?”

She stared at him through her lashes, a dazed look in her eyes. Shaking her head, she leaned in, seeking out his mouth.

He wasn’t about to argue with that. When she opened for him, he tugged her closer. The feel of her, all soft and warm and female, was almost too much. Through the sturdy fabric of the sports bra she wore, he could feel the soft swells of her breasts, and he wanted to peel the material off her, lick away the sweat, then make her sweat again . . . as he brought her to climax a dozen times.

His cock ached, throbbed, and each light brush as she moved against him was the sweetest torment.

Fisting his hand in her tank top, he dragged it up, baring skin damp from her run. Higher, higher, until it caught under her arms. Leaning back, he stared down at her. The utilitarian black sports bra shouldn’t have been so f*cking sexy, but it was. She could have worn sackcloth and ashes and she’d still be beautiful to him.

In his mind’s eye, an image from a time long past drifted—her standing before him, in white petticoats edged with lace, presenting him with her back and asking for his help in lacing up her corset.

Swearing, he dipped his knees and wrapped his arm around her hips, boosting her high. Her breasts were on level with his mouth and he nuzzled them, wishing he could strip her naked, take her here.

“Joss . . .” she gasped out.

* * *

THE look in his eyes should have infuriated her. It was amusement, mixed with triumph . . . and something else. But as he dipped his head and brushed his lips along the edge of her sports bra, all she could do was cradle the back of his neck and wish she could get even closer. “You do know my name,” he murmured, pleased.

“We’re out in public,” she snapped, reaching for the icy, snotty tone she’d crafted and refined so long ago. Really, it should have worked.

All he did was shoot her a lazy, slow smile.

“Yeah. It’s a good thing, too, or I’d have you naked and I’d already be so deep inside you . . .” He raked her skin with his teeth. “It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway, duchess.”

For a minute, she let herself believe him. Let herself believe it could happen. Believe it would.

But then reality came crashing down on her, and she made herself think about what was really going to happen sooner or later. In a matter of weeks, she’d be married to Patrick Whitmore if she didn’t find the proof she needed before then. If she didn’t find it, then she’d marry him and keep on looking until she found it.

Either she’d find it . . . and get away from him.

Or she’d end up dead when he discovered what she was up to.

In all likelihood, the second option was what would happen.

She dreamed too often of her death, death at the hands of a violent, angry man who hated her.

She knew how likely it was if he discovered what she was up to. There was no point in pretending otherwise, and no point in trying to think up other options. Every time she did that, she ended up having to talk herself out of running. She couldn’t run away from this. Too many girls had already died, and if she didn’t do something . . . who would?

Big, strong arms came around her, and a gentle hand stroked her back. She didn’t even realize she’d collapsed against him, her head against his shoulder, gripping him tight and close as though she never wanted him to leave.

She didn’t. This man she’d seen exactly twice.

Yet some part of her felt as though she knew him . . .

Joss.

The dream.

“What’s wrong, duchess?”

She shivered as he whispered it, his lips pressed against her neck as he spoke.

“Whatever is wrong with you, calling me that?” she said, swallowing around the knot that had lodged in her throat. Easing away from him, she eyed him nervously before glancing around. Nobody could see them from here, unless of course Patrick had managed to stash his men in the hotel. Not likely, that.

“I dunno. Seems to suit you. The accent. The way you carry yourself . . . all smooth and elegant.” He touched his finger to her lip. “What scares you?”

“I don’t see how that could suit me,” she said faintly, ignoring the last part of his question as she tugged her tank down.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, putting himself in her way.

With a brittle smile, she shook her head. “I’m not afraid,” she lied.

“Don’t lie to me. You know as well as I do, it doesn’t work. You’re terrified, damn it. Why?”

Dru shook her head. “It doesn’t do any good to talk about it. You can’t help anyway. I must go.”

Part of her questioned why she wasn’t furious with him—this was a stranger. She didn’t know him. But all she could think about was how much she wished she could stay. How much she longed to go back to him . . . lean against him, touch him. Taste him. Take him.

But when he reached for her, she evaded him.

“Meet me here tomorrow,” he said flatly.

“No.” She continued to back away, glancing around for signs that one of Patrick’s men might have caught up with her. Nothing. There was a shiny black car in the parking lot of the Waffle House across the street, but it wasn’t one of Patrick’s. If it was, she’d know. She’d feel it somehow.

“Dru, talk to me.”

She shot him another look. Then, finally, fury and frustration sparked inside her, and she glared at him as it bubbled over and spilled out. “Stop. Damn you, why couldn’t you have come into my life a year ago? Two years ago? Why now? I can’t have you now.”

Without bothering to explain, she took off running.

She was torn between hoping he’d follow, and praying he wouldn’t.

* * *

I can’t have you now—

The utter heartbreak in her words was enough to gut him.

He went to take off after her, but a strange burning tingle down his spine stopped him. The chiming tone from his phone two seconds later had him swearing.

Now.

Of course, now Jones comes on the scene. Still staring at Dru’s back, he pushed a thought toward her. He didn’t know if it would work—he didn’t know what her skill set was, but Jillian’s was strong enough, he should be able to make a corpse hear him.

We’re not done, Dru. And you’ll damn well talk to me. I can help . . . whatever it is.

She stumbled a little.

Then kept on running.

Yeah. She heard him all right.

Blowing out a breath, he looked back at the Waffle House. Taylor Jones was standing by his car. Dez wasn’t with him . . . but he wasn’t alone.

Joss recognized the blonde from here.

He didn’t know her name, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen her before.

This was the woman Patrick had been checking out the night before.

And Joss knew her vaguely. He’d seen her around. He just couldn’t remember where.

* * *

“JOSS, have you met Nalini Cole? She’s with the unit. Fairly new, though.”

Joss slumped on the couch, eyeing the long, cool blonde narrowly.

“I’ve seen her around,” he said, directing his words at Jones, but still keeping his eyes on Nalini. “Can’t recall where just yet.”

She laughed. It was a clear, bell-like sound. Almost angelic. It matched that pretty, pale hair, matched the clear, refined oval of her face.

But it didn’t match those dark, sultry eyes.

Her face said angel and her voice seemed to echo it.

Her eyes, her body, the way she moved, the way she watched people . . . all of that screamed . . . devil. Or maybe trouble.

As she leaned forward, a smile curved her red-slicked mouth. “Now that’s not entirely true, is it?” she asked. She posed prettily, the swells of her breasts on display as she continued to watch him.

“Well, I did see you . . . last night. Just not entirely with my eyes. Before that? Don’t recall just where I saw you, and I don’t have time to wade through the maze of information I’ve got crammed into my brain.”

Cutting his gaze to Jones, he said, “What’s going on, boss? I’ve got a bitch of a job to do, and we’ve got some serious logistics we need to hammer out.”

Jones opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Nalini said, “He wants a blonde, doesn’t he?”

She toyed with her hair. It was done up in a series of tiny braids . . . no. Not braids, exactly.

“Dreadlocks,” she offered. She gave him a serene smile. “They’re called dreadlocks.”

“Next time I’m grilled on the hairstyles of women, I’ll keep that one in mind.” He raked her over from head to toe and then shook his head. “You’re all wrong.”

“No. I’m perfect.” She leaned back, abandoning the seductive pose, the sex kitten smile, and gave him a grim look. “And more . . . I was pulled here for just this. I knew the minute I saw that f*ck last night why I was down here, but I’ve been having nightmares, bad fits, things that I can’t even explain, and it’s been going on for weeks. My . . . abilities don’t normally work like this, but something has been pulling at me, guiding me. I headed down here over a month ago.”

“A month . . .” He shot Jones a look. “I thought you said she was with the unit . . . unless she’s been working this, too?”

“Freelance,” Jones muttered. “Cole has commitment issues.”

She snorted. “I also have issues of being wanted for crimes I didn’t commit—you don’t want that on your plate, sugar.” She continued to stare at Joss. “I’ve been down here a month. I’ll be sitting at a table, and I’ll hear a scream. But there’s nobody there. Then I’ll feel a knife, and it’s like I’m dying. Or I’ll feel hands on my wrists, my ankles. And somebody’s tearing into me, raping me. Over and over. But I’m alone in my hotel room. The worst . . .” She paused, her lashes falling to shield her eyes. “I was in the middle of a mall, walking around, and then I was on the ground. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. But I could see . . . I should have seen the roof of the mall over me, but I saw trees, blue sky. And then there was something big, and fast . . . and I felt pain like I’ve never felt before. It was over in a few minutes, but it seemed to last forever.”

Leaning back in his seat, Joss studied her. “You are . . . what, precog?”

“Not so much.” She sighed and pulled something out of her purse, laying it on the table between them. Joss leaned forward, eyeing the gold chain, the silly charm that hung from it. “I found this at a pawn shop up in Atlanta. It shouldn’t have ever been sold . . . the guy who sold it screwed up. They aren’t supposed to take stuff from the girls they grab, but this one does. He takes whatever jewelry he sees on them and pawns it. This . . . I saw it in a store and for some reason, I had to touch it.”

“You’ve got psychometry,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. It’s the weaker gift and I thank God for that.” Shaking her head, she scooped the necklace up and tucked it back into her bag. “If I had a stronger connection to what was going on, I think I’d go insane. It’s hard enough sleeping right now.”

Joss could completely understand that. “Booze helps.”

“Jose Cuervo and I are practically best friends right now.” Still holding his eyes, she leaned forward. “You’re down here because you’re after a slaver. I’m down here because I’m feeling those girls . . . those women he takes. I can help you. I’m supposed to help you.”

Joss continued to stare at her, and then he sighed, skimmed a hand back over his hair. “He may like your face, your body, but I think your hair is going to piss him off. Can we fix it?”

She shrugged. “Dreads aren’t like pigtails. They don’t come out the way a braid does. Save me for the last. It’s not like he gave you a lot of time. Save me for the last, and then put me in there. The only other option with my hair will be cutting the majority of it off . . . and he wanted long hair, right?” Nalini paused and shrugged. “My hair’s the least of the problems in the long run. Even if you get me in there and he decides I don’t suit, then I’ve been there and I can still help.”

“Not if he decides to shoot you between the eyes for not being what he needs,” Joss snapped.

“Not going to happen.” She shook her head. “And I think you know it. I wouldn’t be down here if I wasn’t supposed to help somehow. I’m here. Use me.”

Use me.

Joss rubbed his forehead. Use me, she says.

The big problem, that was exactly what he needed to do.

And she’d already managed to take care of what he’d thought was going to be his biggest problem . . . informing Jones about how he planned to go forward with this bitch of a job.

He slanted a look at Jones. “I assume you know what I’m planning to do.”

Jones stared at him. “I figured that out after I hauled the bastard out of the trunk last night and saw the very vague resemblance. Are you certain you can pull this off?”

“No.” Joss shrugged. “But the idea has been in my head almost from the get-go. The kid you pushed on me planted the idea in my skull, so I’m assuming that’s how she foresaw it. Hopefully she didn’t foresee me dying, but if she did, I don’t want to know that.”

I’m not going to die, he told himself. I’ve got too many reasons to be here.

“I still need two more girls. Biracial, and a Latina.” He paused and then added slowly, “We need to use agents on this. Preferably from within our own unit . . . the quieter we keep this, the less chance there is of f*cking it up.”

“I’ve got an agent who would be perfect for the biracial woman you need. Her name is Vaughnne MacMeans.” Jones sighed and smoothed down his tie. He caught Joss smirking at him and he dropped his hand. “And she’s a telepath . . . her reach is pretty much limitless. I think you’ve worked with her a time or two.”

Joss grunted.

Jones could work out the logistics. He needed to get back into position for now.

* * *

“WHERE have you been?”

At the sound of his voice, Dru had to lock her knees to keep from collapsing.

She laid her keycard on the table and looked up, smiled. “Patrick! What a wonderful surprise.”

He continued to sit in the armchair, watching her. He’d been out of sight, hidden by the wall. Lying in wait, she thought. Like an alligator.

“Where have you been?” he asked again.

“I went running.” She gestured to her clothing and smiled, shrugged. “I needed to burn off some energy.”

“And our facilities here aren’t adequate?”

Careful . . . careful . . . Dru smiled at him even as she desperately, selfishly prayed, Please God . . . let him leave, business, he doesn’t want to touch me right now, I don’t care! “Oh, it’s not that. I just needed a good hard run and I can’t always focus as well on the treadmill. I wanted to be outside.”

She took off her trainers and then went to him, kneeling down on the floor at his feet, even though her tired legs practically screamed when she did so. A light touch told her this was a good move to make . . . he liked the subservience of it. She wondered what he’d do if she shot a hand up between his legs and ripped off his bloody balls.

Giving him a simpering smile, she said, “It’s so lovely here, Patrick. The sky is so blue. I watched the sunrise as I ran. I can’t wait, though, to be away from all the people and the buildings. Someplace where there’s a bit more privacy.” She pressed her lips to his knee. “Just us.”

Some of the anger dimmed and she caught a random, fleeting flash. It wasn’t a thought so much as an image. He wanted that privacy, too. So he could have her play his little whore whenever he chose. It was a sheer struggle of will to keep her smile in place.

“The wedding is just a few weeks away,” he said. He touched the tip of her nose. “I’d thought perhaps we could go to lunch, but you need to bathe. Perhaps you should do that.”

She had another flash. He hadn’t come up here to take her to lunch. He’d come up here to f*ck her. He didn’t like seeing her all hot and sweaty, though. Now he was turned off. Excellent.

A way to smack down his libido without really making him too angry.

“I’ll do that. Lunch out would be wonderful.” She rose and gave him another smile. “After that run, I’m positively famished.”

“You’ll have to order it in, Ella. I’m running behind now.” He eyed her critically. “Make sure you eat enough. You have to put the weight back on, and running like that isn’t going to help.”