Something About You (17 page)

OFFICER HARPER ENTERED the kitchen, having finished his check of the second and third floors of Cameron’s house.

“We’re all clear.” He looked at his partner, Officer Regan, who had checked the main level. “You good?”

Regan nodded. “We’re good.”

Cameron followed them to the door and locked it behind them.

“So what do they do now?” Collin asked. He’d taken a seat at the counter while the cops had done their walk-through.

“They’ll follow us to the bar and wait outside until the night shift shows up.”

“Why do I get the feeling that things are more interesting when Jack Pallas is around?” Collin teased.

“Things with Jack have gotten a little . . . complicated lately,” Cameron said.

“Complicated” was certainly one way to describe it. On Saturday night, after she and Jack had rejoined Wilkins, Amy, and the rest of the bachelorette party, they’d barely said two words to each other—the two words on her part being “thank you” after he and Wilkins made sure the house was secure when they dropped her and Amy off, and the two words on his part being “you’re welcome.” She hadn’t heard from nor seen Jack since.

Which was just fine with her. Really. Over the last five days she’d had time to sort through her emotions. Sure, she and Jack had done Those Things She’d Never Admit in a random office in a nightclub, but she’d decided this was all simply part of that post-traumatic stress she’d been fighting off lately. She’d been on some crazed high after the excitement of the power outage, had gotten riled up, and Jack just happened to be there. With his mouth on her breasts.

Tell me.

Let me touch you.

Cameron felt a little flushed every time she thought back to that evening. Apparently, there was one level on which she and Jack had no problem communicating openly.

She filled Collin in on the events of Saturday night, leaving out the most racy parts. Which was odd, because normally she told Collin everything. But some of the things between her and Jack felt . . . private.

“Sounds like I missed quite a party,” Collin said when she’d finished. “So where do you and Jack go from here?”

“Nowhere,” Cameron said with emphasis. Hadn’t he been paying attention to the post-traumatic stress part? She’d mentioned that point at least six times. “Saturday night was nothing. A fluke.”

Collin threw her a skeptical look. “Babe, I hope you’re at least fooling yourself with that.”

Nope, not really. “All right. So I’m physically attracted to Jack,” Cameron conceded. It was a big step for her to admit even that much out loud. “Who wouldn’t be? You’ve seen him.”

“Rugged hotness, sex in a shoulder harness—yep, I’m familiar.”

“Right. But I can conquer a physical attraction. I mean, he told thirty million people I had my head up my ass. What kind of self-respecting woman would I be if I fell for a guy like that?”

“It would be somewhat ironic,” Collin agreed.

“Plus, he doesn’t even like me,” Cameron added.

Collin cocked his head. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“No, I’m not worried. I just think, given our history, that it would be foolish of me to think that Saturday night was about anything other than a mere physical attraction on Jack’s part.” Cameron paused. “So it’s a good thing he and I are on the same page with that.”

Collin seemed to be amused by her assessment of the situation. “I think you need a few drinks to help you sort this out.”

Cameron waved this off. “I don’t need to do any sorting.” She gestured to her outfit. “But I do need to change out of this suit before we head to the bar.”

“I’ll head up with you,” Collin said, sliding off the stool and leaving the kitchen with her. “I want to check the guest bedroom. I’m missing my Sox sweatshirt, and I thought maybe I left it here one of the times I stayed over. Either that, or Richard snagged it when he moved out.”

Cameron followed Collin up the stairs. “Have you talked to him since then?”

“Not once. I thought I’d get a phone call, or at the very least an e-mail. But apparently he thin—”

Neither of them saw the attack coming.

A dark figure lunged at them when they reached the second floor, a mere blur that moved blindingly fast. With Collin in front of her, Cameron never saw where the man came from. He struck Collin across the head with something in his hand, and Collin moaned and sank to the floor. Cameron screamed his name.

The man, dressed all in black, whirled around. He wore a ski mask that covered all of his face except for small openings at his eyes and mouth, and she noticed that he wore black gloves.

The object in his hand was a gun.

Pointed straight at her.

Cameron felt as though her legs were stuck in quick-sand. She looked over to where Collin lay on the floor. He wasn’t moving.

The man with the gun moved toward her.

Cameron took a step back, retreating slowly down the stairs. The man followed her.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

As he took the next step, he lifted his gloved hand and pointed.

You.

Seventeen

JACK LEFT THE Triumph in an open spot near the end of the block and walked over to the unmarked police car parked in front of Cameron’s house. He’d taken his time on the way over, soaking in the fifteen-minute drive along the lake. In about three weeks he’d have to put the motorcycle into storage for the winter and his cold-weather mode of transport, a Ford LTD Crown Victoria, while practical, didn’t pack quite the same punch.

As Jack made his way over, Harper, the senior cop on the day shift, unrolled the driver’s side window.

“She just got here a few minutes ago. She’s with McCann.”

Jack noted this information, not happy about the fact that Cameron wasn’t alone. He’d called her office and had been surprised to learn from her secretary that she’d gone home early. At the time that had seemed fortuitous, since he preferred to talk to her in person, anyway, and her house would be more private.

He thanked the cops and headed toward the front gate.

For the past few days, he’d been avoiding this conversation. Mainly because of how surprised he was by his actions on Saturday night. He was not an impulsive man. Impulsive men in his line of work quickly found themselves dead. Or worse. He personally had survived the worst of it at the hand of Martino and knew the only way he had lived to tell was because he’d kept his wits through the pain and waited out those two excruciatingly long days for the right moment to strike.

What had happened with Cameron at Manor House had left him feeling unsettled. Off his game. He didn’t often let his guard down around people. That made a man . . . vulnerable.

Somehow, she had gotten behind his defenses. And now, every instinct told him to stay as far away from her as possible, to harden himself against her even more than he had in the past. He would ride out the remainder of the Robards investigation, and then walk away without a second glance.

Except for one thing.

You saw what you wanted to see.

That slip-up of hers had been in the back of his mind, nagging him, ever since she’d first said it. Who knew what she meant by that? But if there was some other explanation for her being in Davis’s office that morning—the day he’d been transferred by the DOJ—he wanted to know about it.

He needed to know.

So this time, he wasn’t leaving until she talked. He would get the answers he wanted. Today.

Jack strode up the steps to her front door. He rang the doorbell and waited.

No response.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

Jack looked back at the undercover car parked on the street behind him.

In the passenger seat, Officer Regan rolled down the window and shrugged. “Maybe they’re in back. McCann said something about having a drink while we were checking out the house. They’re probably sitting on the deck or something.”

Officer Harper stepped out of the car. “You want us to check it out with you?”

She probably was just sitting on the deck, having a drink.

But probably was not good enough.

Jack took the steps two at a time. “One of you guard the front and keep trying the doorbell. The other of you should go around the east side of the house.” There was a gate that blocked access to the back of the house from that side, but it was still worth checking.

Drawing his gun, Jack went the opposite direction and cut around the side of the house. All the windows appeared undisturbed, and as he carefully peeked in each one, he saw nothing. Nor did he hear anything.

He moved cautiously around the house and into the backyard. Seeing that Cameron and Collin weren’t there, he crept up the steps that led to the deck and pressed his back against the house. On his one side was the door, on the other a window. The door was nearly all glass except for a solid oak border. The window at least had curtains that would provide some cover. Being careful to remain as concealed as possible, he peeked through the window.

Nothing.

The kitchen and great room were empty.

She wouldn’t leave without the police escort.

Jack tightened his grip on his gun. His eyes searched the house as he tried to stay out of view.

Then he saw it—something that made his pulse race.

On the other side of the kitchen, a large decorative mirror hung on the wall opposite the stairwell. He could see Cameron in the mirror—she was standing on the stairs.

A man wearing a black mask stood behind her, holding a gun to her head.

The front doorbell rang and the masked man looked in that direction, clearly using the gun to keep Cameron quiet.

From the east side of the house came a sudden clanging sound, and Jack ducked out of the window. The sound had come from the gate, and he silently cursed whichever of the two cops had been careless enough to make so much noise. He peeked back into the window.

Cameron and the masked man were gone.

Knowing they had to have gone up the stairs, Jack ran for the fire escape that led to the upstairs balcony, being careful to move stealthily enough so as to not make a sound. He reached the second floor and headed to the French doors outside the master bedroom. He reached out with one hand and quietly checked the handle of the door. Locked. Staying out of sight as much as possible, he looked through the glass.

He watched as Cameron entered the bedroom, the gunman right behind her. The man gripped her neck with one hand, pushing her, and held the gun to her head with the other.

“I never saw your face,” Cameron was saying. “You don’t have to do this.”

Hearing the fear in her voice, a fury took hold of Jack. He raised his gun to take a shot through the window.

But the man must have seen the flash of movement. He looked over, saw Jack through the glass, and yanked Cameron in front of him, blowing the shot. Refusing to leave Cameron alone with the gunman one second longer, Jack reared back and fired his gun twice at the glass French doors.

He dove through.

Jack burst into the bedroom, barely aware of the glass shattering all around him. He hit the ground on one knee, slid across the floor, and hurtled himself up with his gun aimed at the masked man—

—who had his arm wrapped around Cameron’s neck. His own gun pointed at her head.

“Let her go,” Jack growled.

The masked man tightened his grip around Cameron’s neck. Using her as a shield, he backed out of the bedroom, into the hallway.

Jack followed, his gun trained on the man and ready to fire the moment he had a clean shot. “There are cops on every side of this house. You’re trapped. Put down your weapon and release her.” Without shifting his gaze, he did a quick assessment of the guy. Five feet eleven, roughly one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Cameron’s physical description had been nearly spot-on. And through the slits of the mask, Jack gained one additional piece of information: the man had brown eyes.

The masked man paused at Jack’s warning. Then he pressed the barrel of his gun harder against Cameron’s temple, digging into her skin.

Jack got the message, loud and clear.

Back off.

He kept his eyes and gun on his target. “You shoot her and you lose your shield.” He stole a glance at Cameron. Her face was white. She blinked, and tears ran down her face.

Jack forced himself not to show any emotion. But for the first time in his life, he felt real fear.

The masked man backed toward the stairs, and out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Collin laying motionless in the hallway. The man dragged Cameron with him up the stairs, nearly choking her as he forced her to keep up with him. Jack followed, his mind running through the mental floor map he’d made of Cameron’s house during his two security checks.

“If you want out of this house, you’ll have to let her go,” Jack warned. “You can’t run with a hostage.”

The man showed no reaction. At the third floor, the stairs ended in an open-air balcony with pitched ceilings and a skylight. To Jack’s left was an office. To the right was a large, unfurnished room. Although he couldn’t see it from his position, he knew there was a door on the north wall that led out onto the rooftop deck.

Without hesitating, the masked man pulled Cameron into the room on Jack’s right. Jack followed, realizing that however long the man had been inside the house, waiting, it had been long enough to familiarize himself with the layout.

The man headed to the door that led outside. There was a moment’s pause as he shifted his position, then, reaching around Cameron’s neck, he pinned her against his body with his elbow and forearm. He pointed the gun upward, bracing the muzzle right underneath her chin. He reached his free hand behind him to unlock the door.

So precarious was Cameron’s position at that moment, Jack couldn’t contemplate taking a shot—one slip of the intruder’s arm and it would all be over.

He needed to say something, anything to reach out to her. “Cameron—look at me.”

“Jack,” she whispered, her eyes holding his and pleading.

He heard a crash downstairs, the sound of wood splintering—a breaking door—just as the masked man pushed open the door to the deck and pulled Cameron outside. With two hands on his gun, Jack followed them across the rooftop. Behind them, the pitched walls of the house and the room they had exited blocked the view of the street, which meant it was impossible for Jack to see what was happening with the police officers below.

The man moved steadily and quickly to the far wall of the rooftop. He kept Cameron in front of him at all times, never giving Jack any opening. Without saying a word, he backed against the wall that overlooked the backyard. He glanced sideways, and Jack assumed he was searching for the fire escape one story below them.

Then he turned and looked at Jack.

Everything happened in an instant—the man suddenly took his gun off Cameron, pointed it at Jack, and pulled back the trigger.

“No!” Cameron shouted. She grabbed for the gun as it fired and the bullet splintered the wood of the deck mere inches from Jack’s feet. Cameron faced the man as they struggled. Jack didn’t have a shot with her between them, so he lunged for them instead.

The gun went off again and Cameron stumbled back.

“Cameron!” Jack yelled.

He caught her as she sank to the deck. He saw blood spreading over her blazer. While he held her, the man bolted and dove over the side of the roof, onto the fire escape.

“He’s getting away,” Cameron muttered with a stunned, pale look. “Just leave me.”

Like hell he would.

Harper and Regan burst through the doorway with their guns drawn.

“He ran down the fire escape,” Jack shouted as he eased Cameron down to get a better look at the gunshot wound.

The cops moved instantly toward the fire escape, then ducked for cover as shots rang out from below. There was a pause, presumably as the killer ran, and the cops took off in pursuit.

Jack focused on Cameron. He reached into his blazer for his cell phone and called for the paramedics and backup.

“Is Collin okay?” she asked when he hung up the phone.

“An ambulance is on the way. Everything’s okay now.” Jack pushed her blazer off. “Jesus, Cameron—what were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t just let him shoot you.”

“Wouldn’t have been the first time for me.” Jack saw that the blood was coming from her shoulder. Not wasting a moment, he yanked open the top two buttons of her shirt and pushed it aside to get a better look.

Cameron closed her eyes. “Tell me the truth—how bad is it?”

Jack hesitated.

She panicked. “Oh God—that bad?”

He decided it would be best to just lay it on the line. “So on a scale of one to ten of all the gunshot wounds I’ve seen, this is . . .”

Her eyes widened.

“. . . about a point two.”

She sat up. “A point two? I bled through my blazer. Don’t tell me that’s a measly point two.”

“Admittedly, I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds, so my curve may be steeper than most,” Jack said, blotting her shoulder with the blazer. “But the point is, you’re going to be fine.” His throat tightened—he’d seen a lot of things between the FBI and Army Special Forces, but he doubted he’d ever be able to forget the image of her stumbling back after the gun had gone off.

“Well, point two or not, it hurts. A lot.”

“Good. Maybe now you’ll think twice about getting yourself nearly killed by attacking a man with a gun.”

“Gee, with that kind of thanks, I’m thinking that’s the last time I take a bullet for you.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Jack growled.

She managed a slight mischievous smile. “You were worried about me, Agent Pallas.”

“From your tone, I’m guessing I don’t need to be any longer.”

They heard the sound of a siren as an ambulance pulled up at her house.

“You probably should go now—try to catch the guy,” Cameron said.

Jack looked down at her, cradled in his arms. “I probably should,” he said huskily.

He stayed right where he was.