Running With the Devil (5 page)

His size twelve feet moved pretty fast anyway. When he caught his first real glimpse of her, he skidded to a stop on the Berber carpet.

For christsake. She had freckles. Freckles!

Man. He was in so much trouble.

Kenna had propped her slim shoulder against the door jam and crossed her bare ankle in front of her other shin. Her elfin chin came up. Her eyes snapped defiance. “Well? You disappointed?”

Drake’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus. Are you kidding me?”

Her hair was about a million different shades of blonde, brown, gold and red. Sassy, just like her. As he stalked closer he noticed that without all the face paint caked on, her skin practically glowed. Her smart mouth was the color of pink roses swirled in cream.

His groin tightened when he imagined sliding his cock in and out of that mouth. Finally he focused on her eyes.

That incredible lavender gaze stared back at him. Somehow he’d known those beautiful eyes were one hundred percent hers.

His hand cupped her neck. He brought her mouth to his. He kept the kiss easy even when his every instinct screamed to show her how frantic was his need to possess her.

“You’re kissing me again,” she said breathlessly.

“I know.” A heady scent of sweet soap and warm woman lodged in his nostrils. Burned into his brain. “You smell like an exotic flower.” Between flirty kisses he herded her toward the living area. “I’ll bet you taste even better.”

“Give me a break. I thought you were here to fill me in on the details of the case before we meet up with your partners.”

Drake took a mental and a physical step back. Exhaled. “Fine. Sit down and we’ll talk.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No. Let’s get this over with.”

Kenna decided Agent March’s rapid transformation from playful to persistent was nerve wracking. “Well, I’m thirsty. Be right back.”

She snagged a bottle of lemon-flavored seltzer water and leaned against the kitchen counter to gather her thoughts.

Tick tick. Hum.
The fridge kicked on. Green light glowed from the digital microwave clock.

The galley-style kitchen sparkled. She’d scrubbed black crud from the stove burner rings. The steel sink shone. The butcher-block countertop wasn’t piled with junk mail and weeks-old newspapers. She’d even tossed the rotten carrots and mystery fruit from the veggie crisper. Good thing since she wouldn’t be around for a few days.

Time to quit stalling. She pulled the garbage from underneath the sink and plopped it on the linoleum. Then she wandered back into the living room.

Drake had made himself comfortable on her chintz sofa.

She perched on the arm of the wing back chair. “So, what do you want to know?”

“The basics. Do you live alone?”

“No. I have a roommate.”

“Who? Marissa?”

“No. Shawnee Good Shield.”

He frowned. “Where is she?”

She squinted at the calendar. She had no idea when Shawnee would roll back into town. “On an archeological dig in Harding County. In the summertime she’s only here a couple days out of the month.”

“Does she know about Jerry Travis?”

“No.” Shawnee would never have let Kenna go through with it last year. And if she’d found out Marissa was behind it… She shuddered to think how Shawnee would’ve reacted.

“Anyone besides Marissa know about your escort work?”

Her nose wrinkled. “It’s not exactly escort work.”

Pause. “Well, what is it?”

“Far out of the realm of my real life and personality.”

He seemed to ponder her words as his gaze took in every nuance of her face. “What is your real life like, Kaye Anne?”

Acutely conscious of her damp hair and her face free of makeup, Kenna fought the urge to fidget. “First off. No one calls me Kaye Anne except my mother.”

He grinned slow, easy, and oh-so-sexy. “She should’ve named you
Cayenne.
It suits you, hot stuff.”

After the initial rush of pleasure from his flattery, she shook her head. “Wrong. Kaye is introverted and horribly bookish. Out of touch with the latest styles.”

“I don’t buy it.” His introspective gaze swept over her conservative clothes. “There’s more Kenna in Kaye than you’re ready to admit.”

She glanced at the sky blue sweatpants and matching camisole, complete with tiny satin bows and lace. Boring. Her original clothing choice—a funky red and white polka-dot halter sundress complete with shiny black “fuck me” pumps—hadn’t looked boring. But she was afraid if she would’ve worn it Agent March might’ve believed she’d been dressing for him.

“I doubt the sexy number you wore earlier tonight fell from the sky.”

“It fell on the floor actually.” She smirked at his frown. “Online shopping at eBay is a godsend.
Click.
Five new mix and match outfits from the sexiest store around without having to stand in the glare of fluorescent lights and suffer through the attitudes of seventeen-year-old anorexic salesgirls. Plus it’s cheap.”

“So none of the leather, spike heels, low cut shirts and miniskirts are your clothing?” he asked skeptically.

Kenna smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the velour. “Kaye bought the stuff but Kenna wears it.” Would he understand the difference between Kenna and Kaye? She enjoyed playing Kenna, even when that wasn’t who she really was.

Or was Agent March right? Was she only fooling herself?

Her gaze drifted to the row of Snow Babies figurines symmetrically lined on the top of the entertainment center. For the first time in her adult life her choice of décor embarrassed her.

The urge arose to smash those sappy, happy pieces into shattered chunks of ceramic. Replace them with some risqué sculpture of engorged bronzed man parts or naked lovers entwined in a passionate embrace.

His sexy voice broke into her violent redecorating fantasy.

“It’ll be easier if I keep calling you Kenna. No chance of mistakes that way.”

“That’s fine.” She’d been thinking of herself as Kenna for days, anyway, in order to prepare herself. She blew out an aggravated breath. “I suppose you’re ready to go.”

Drake settled his muscular arm across the back of the mauve and crème floral couch. “In a minute.”

She uncapped the bottle and drank deeply. Concentrated on the cool water rushing down her throat. When he continued staring intently, she snapped, “What?”

“You seem to know an awful lot about wigs, makeup and changing your appearance.”

Agent March remained suspicious. Big surprise. “Didn’t I tell you? I graduated from spy school. Same class as Sidney Bristow. Except she always got the hottest clothes.”

He didn’t crack a smile.

“Geez. Lighten up. I was kidding. My first foray into higher education was beauty school. At the Mystique Edge I learned the tricks of the trade.”

“You still cutting hair?”

“Sometimes. Mostly for friends. On weekends I work at a couple of retirement homes, styling hair for little blue-haired ladies. Pays for my groceries.”

His eyes moved over her, lingered on her unstyled hair and bare face. “Although you’re hot as hell as a brunette and a redhead, I have to admit I like the way you look now the best.”

She couldn’t help it; she blushed. She didn’t believe him for a second, though. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Drake’s nostrils flared, and he leaned forward, as if hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. “Damn if you don’t smell sweet.”

“I’m not very sweet-smelling when I’m out in the field. Not many showers at the sites.”

His lips twitched. “Geology seems an odd choice.”

“Not when you consider I’d gotten sick of being on my feet all day. Sick of the stink of permanent solution. Sick of the never-satisfied customers and the itty bitty paycheck.”

“But why geology?”

“I dated a geological engineer for a while. Found out I had rocks in my head where he was concerned.”

He laughed.

“Fell in love with geology instead of him. I still won’t get rich, but my employment prospects are better.” She scowled at the water bottle she’d inadvertently crushed in her hands. “Provided I actually come up with the tuition to finish my degree.”

Drake shifted. He settled his strong forearms on his knees. “I told you I’d pay you.”

“I know.” Her gaze strayed to the quartz clock nestled between a set of blue geode bookends. “But that doesn’t mean I believe you.”

“Me specifically?”

The second hand on the clock counted off the time she was wasting. “No. It’s just…I’ve waited for grants. Personally, and for the geology department. Requisitions don’t mean squat to the government. Even if the appropriate agency does miraculously approve your request and decide to pay me, it may be months before I see a check. I need the money in my account now.” As the words spilled out she knew she sounded incredibly callous.

“Kenna—”

Her gaze whipped back to his. “Don’t try to placate me, March.”

“I’m not.”

“Good. Then if you’ve got enough dirt on me let’s go.”

Drake stood and bent to pick up her duffle bag, but she beat him to it.

“Hand it over,” he said.

“Nope. You really want to help out, grab the garbage in the kitchen.”

Grumbling, he slipped past her, returning with the tied white bag. “Anything else?”

“I’ve got everything I need.”

She locked the door. They moved out the front entrance and down the stairs leading to the Dumpster.

Kenna shivered in her skimpy top. Drake trotted ahead, throwing back the plastic black cover and tossing the bag inside. The lid thumped. When she caught up to him something cracked beside her ankle.

Fearing a stray animal, she spun toward the sound. Looked down. Then another ping, closer, this time next to her hip. What the hell?

Confused, she looked at Drake.

He yelled, “Get down,” and tried to shove her face into the concrete.

She cursed, but stayed where he’d shoved her.

The stench of diapers, spoiled meat and rotten fruit registered before he automatically reached for the gun on his hip. Instead of the plastic grip of his Glock, his fingers connected with the smooth leather of his belt.

Fuck. Unarmed, zero back up and saddled with a civilian.

A fourth bullet pinged against the Dumpster. The fifth—a beat later—pounded into the container to their left. The sixth grazed the plastic lid on their right.

Nothing happened for several seconds…which crawled by interminably.

So they did have an advantage—the shooter couldn’t pinpoint their exact location.

But for how long?

Drake couldn’t outwait the bastard all night.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The utility light flickered, sending a strobe-like effect across the shadowed cement. A dog yipped and barked. The booming bass of a stereo reverberated from the parking lot before it was abruptly silenced.

He had no way of knowing whether the danger had passed and only one way to find out. Without moving his feet, he leaned over, placing his lips next to Kenna’s ear. “You all right?”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She nodded.

“Stay put. I’ll get my car. If I’m not back in ten minutes run to the manager’s office and have him call the police, okay?”

“No. Don’t go.” Besides a quick shiver, Kenna remained motionless. One small hand clutched the duffle bag. Her violet eyes were big as saucers.

“I have to.”

He studied the shadows, gauging which area would offer the most cover. A deep breath later he took off, aiming for a corner of the closest building. Sixteen steps and he flattened himself against the brick. Sweat flowed down his back in a river rivaling the Mississippi.

Silence. No shots rang out.

Adrenaline pumping, Drake crouched and ran the length of the complex, coming to an enclosed concrete courtyard where the sixteen units converged. Little cover there. The place was lit up like the Fourth of July. For security purposes it was great. For his intention to sneak around it pretty much sucked.

An eerie blue glow wavered from the community swimming pool. Three sides were enclosed by a redwood fence. He popped his head around the corner of one end, noticing the locked gate. Floral-printed chaise lounges stood empty. White resin lawn chairs were stacked. The striped umbrellas were tied shut.

The ceramic pots of petunias weren’t large enough to conceal a poodle, so the shooter hadn’t jumped the fence and hidden in there. Good. It’d be harder now for the son-of-a-bitch to get the drop on him from behind.

He listened to the sounds of the night. Traffic. The buzz of streetlights. Nothing out of the ordinary save the thumping of his heart. Ducking down, he scooted to the nearest edge of the parking lot, leaping from car shadow to car shadow on the balls of his feet.

While stopping to catch his breath, a car door slammed. He froze and hunkered against the rear wheel well of an oversized Dodge dually pickup.

Even though his pulse tripped, Drake forced himself to wait for the sweep of headlights. But the vehicle turned the opposite direction and didn’t give away his position. His relief was short lived as two women approached and lingered by the rusted-out Honda next to him to chat.

If they saw him, they’d scream. If he showed himself as a precautionary measure, they’d scream. Either way he wished they’d stop dissecting some asshole’s selfish attitude in the sack and get going or else
he’d
scream.

After they roared off, Drake stretched. His knees cracked like Rice Krispies.

He squinted. Across the back lot sat the black Jeep. The rental looked drivable. No slashed tires or broken windows. He frowned and dragged a shaking hand through his hair.

Why hadn’t the shooter disabled his car? If they’d been following him, wouldn’t they have tried to keep him from escaping?

Unless they’d showed up
after
he and Kenna had gotten here and had no clue what kind of car he’d driven.

Or…unless he wasn’t the target.

Shit.

Drake moved quickly, not wanting to leave Kenna alone and unprotected another second. He slipped into the seat, shoved the key in the ignition, keeping himself from burning rubber to get to her.

He rolled up beside the Dumpster and reached back to open the door.

A wide-eyed Kenna launched herself into the rear passenger side. She held the camouflage duffle bag like body armor as she dove for the floorboards. Once she’d slammed the door, Drake sped out the back exit of the complex.

Conversation remained pointless as he drove in circles, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. Soon as he was certain no one had followed them, he parked in the Save-Mart lot.

Curled up in the fetal position in the back seat, Kenna’s body shook. Her pale eyes held the glassy sheen of shock.

“Hey,” he said, stroking an unsteady hand down her arm. God. She was so cold. When he repeated the gentle caress, she recoiled. He managed not to flinch at her rejection. “You okay?”

Hysterical laughter bubbled out. “Okay? I’m f-f-ucking p-p-eachy. Th-thanks f-f-or asking.”

He touched her again anyway. “Jesus. You’re like a Popsicle.” He twisted, intending to climb into the backseat with her. “Let me warm you up.”

Kenna shrank further into the burgundy leather. “You just stay the hell up there and leave me the hell alone.”

“Kenna—”

“Don’t.” Her mouth trembled but she firmed it. “I didn’t ask for this. This is your fault. You dragged me into this.”

Drake’s gut clenched at her bitter tone. With more harshness than he’d intended, he said, “By involving yourself with Jerry Travis you got into this on your own.”

“He’s dead! I told you I don’t know anything!”

In frustration, he threw up his hands and smacked the headrest on the passenger’s side. “Don’t you understand? It’s my job to investigate every avenue, even if it appears to be a dead end.”

“Then am I a dead end?”

“Not any more.”

Minutes ticked by. She measured him in silence and he was relieved to see she’d stopped shaking.

With a sigh, Kenna swung her sandals to the floor mat. She sat up and pressed her back against the door. “What aren’t you telling me, Agent March?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why was someone shooting at you?”

Drake could act the big, macho man and spout something lame like this was all part of his job; it wouldn’t be a lie. He decided to tell the truth for two reasons. First, Kenna needed to realize the severity of the situation. Second, if he pissed her off, maybe that anger would erase the dejection from her sweet face.

“What makes you think they were shooting at me?”

Everything inside Kenna shriveled in horror. “You think
I
was the target?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Her stomach roiled, snapping her fragile control. “For godssake, how can you even
think
they might’ve been shooting at me? You’re a goddamned DEA agent. I’m a doctoral candidate. No one is trying to kill me for my thesis.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she froze. Had that jerk-off Trent somehow played a part in tonight’s gunfire?

Kenna tried to blank the expression from her face, but Agent March caught it.

His shrewd gaze sliced into her like a laser. “Tell me who has a reason to want you dead.”

“Not dead. Scared maybe.” She nervously wound the purse straps through her fingers. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Let me make that determination.”

“Last year my grant application never made it to the appropriate department. When I found out too late to apply for a student loan or an endowment, I thought I’d have to drop out of the program. And I panicked. During a moment of drunken stupidity I told Marissa. She offered to lend me the money, but I…I just couldn’t
take
it, hence me earning it from Jerry Travis. Once I finally had the cash and paid the tuition—which was past due—I discovered this other guy in the program, Trent Eagle, had applied for and received the grant money. Instead of me.”

Agent March stayed curiously silent. “How well do you know Trent?”

She squirmed. “He dated Shawnee for a couple months.”

“He knew you were a grant recipient?”

Kenna nodded. “Our department is small. At first I didn’t fault him for applying. I mean all’s fair. But as the year wore on I suspected he’d done something to sabotage my application.”

“Why?”

“Little comments he snapped off when he thought I couldn’t hear him. Plus it made him psycho that my grades were better and the professors liked me because I’m not such a know-it-all asshole who plays the race card at every opportunity. Even with the financial help he nearly washed out and he’s ineligible for the grant this year.”

“So, realistically, he has a reason. He could’ve been the shooter.”

“Unlikely. Trent’s a wuss. He’d slash my tires or badmouth me, but he doesn’t have the balls to do anything dangerous. Especially not to my face.”

“You think he was responsible for your grant application getting messed up again this year?”

“Possibly. I told him if I found out he’d sabotaged my application I’d bring it up with the Dean of Students and the Financial Aid Office. Then he’d get kicked out for sure.”

“Anyone else you pissed off lately? Another guy you ‘toured’ around the Rally?”

She bristled.
Tell him Jerry Travis was the only one
, but the truth stuck in her throat. “Me not riding around on the back of someone’s Harley isn’t a killing offense.”

He’d focused his attention on a young couple quarreling over their screaming toddler as they unloaded diapers and beer into a beat-up beige minivan. “Who’d you meet tonight before I showed up?”

Kenna opened her mouth to tell him about the unsettling Mexican guy Marissa had almost brought over, yet something stopped her.

Drake turned, pinning her with a hard look. “Who?”

The coolness of his tone stung. “Some friend of Marissa’s.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Not personally.”

“What’d he look like?”

Kenna described him the best she could remember. Her voice faltered as Drake’s face remained blank as a statue.

“Did he have a spider tattoo on his left hand?”

The black and red image jumped into her mind’s eye. “Yes, now that you mention it, he did.”

He swore.

“What?”

“That was Tito Cortez. I’m assuming he’s the guy who’s having the party. His cousin Anson runs the Compadres. He’s about third in line of the Compadres command structure. Jerry told me about him and Tito is loosely connected to some people I deal with in Florida.”

She frowned. Where had Marissa dug Tito up? And why had her friend assumed she’d be willing to hang around with a thug?

“The Compadres have chapters across the country, including Florida, and are into everything from drugs to drag racing and strip malls to strippers,” Drake added.

“Terrific.”

He tilted his head from shoulder to shoulder.
Crack crack
. A grinding pop echoed and he groaned. “Move up front. Facing backward is giving me a serious pain in my neck.”

“This whole thing is a serious pain in my butt,” Kenna retorted.

“Too bad. Like it or not you’re in this up to your ass. Since we don’t know what’s going on, at least if you’re with me you’ll be safe.”

“Safe? Jesus! We just had people fricking shooting at us. How is that safe? Why am I even with you, March?” Dramatically, she smacked her forehead. “That’s right. If I don’t cooperate with you the IRS will come knocking. Or I’ll end up in the Meade County jail for solicitation.”