True Shot (19 page)

She relaxed in slow degrees. “I don’t know which side I’m on,” she said softly. “What if I’m on the wrong side?”

The muscles in his chest clutched painfully. “I highly doubt you’re the bad guy, Sam.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You’re forgetting that I know your sisters. Charlie and Alex are the best people I’ve ever met. They’re good,
really good
, people. And you’re made of the same stuff.” He rubbed her back through the blanket in slow, soothing circles.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

“I know you are. Just sleep, okay? I’ll be right here the whole time.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

 

It took only a few moments for Sam to fully relax in Mac’s arms, but when she did, she dropped into a deep sleep, only to find herself furiously packing . . .

 

Because she has a secret.
But Sam didn’t say that. Or mention that she knew what that secret was—and that it would mean the end for their mother’s ironfisted reign as the queen bitch of the house. Both her sisters would find out soon, though. “You need to respect her privacy, Charlie. She’ll share when she’s ready.”
When I make her.

Dad.
Thinking of him nearly crumpled her resolve. Not her dad. Not technically, anyway. A trip into her mother’s head had told her as much, and given her the name of the man who was her biological father. Ben Dillon. She planned to meet him very soon. “I’ll make a plan on the way.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

F
linn rolled over and fumbled for his ringing cell phone on the bedside table. After a caller ID check, he flipped it open. “Give me the news, Natalie. I’d like to start the day in a good mood.”

“We’ve located the Suburban in the parking lot of a strip mall in the Fair Oaks area of Fairfax County. Car battery was removed, which disabled the GPS.”

“Clever.” He sat up, rubbing one hand over the razor stubble roughening his jaw.

“Restaurant with valet parking reported a stolen 2009 Toyota Camry yesterday. Silver. No GPS or LoJack.”

“Damn it.” And like that, any hope of a good mood fled. Flinn rubbed at yesterday’s knot still parked at the nape of his neck.

“I know. Can’t get a much more generic car than that,” Natalie said. “Plates have most likely been switched, too.”

“Finding that car will be next to impossible. Samantha would know to stick to back roads.”

“Even without her memory?”

“The drug in her system temporarily affects only episodic memory.”

“I have no idea what that means, sir.”

Flinn reminded himself that curiosity was one of the things he liked best about this research analyst who eagerly broke the rules to assist him. Hero worship at its best. He planned to reward her well. “Episodic memory is what makes you who you are. Procedural and semantic memory is your knowledge of the world around you and how things work. Samantha no longer knows who she is or what she’s done in the past, but she still knows how to handle herself as an N3 operative. Her episodic memory will eventually begin to return.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Dr. Ames developed that, didn’t he? He’s a genius.”

Flinn’s flush of well-being went cold. He didn’t like sharing adoration, especially when the man he had to share it with was in the process of losing his cool and possibly jeopardizing everything Flinn had worked for. “Speaking of Dr. Ames, please arrange a flight for him to either Tampa or Fort Myers, whichever’s cheapest. As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” She sounded hesitant, probably because his tone had gone cold and professional. Served her right.

“Use my personal American Express. Send the itinerary to Dr. Ames’ personal e-mail. And don’t mention the trip to anyone or in any work e-mails. Got it? As far as any of us are concerned, Dr. Ames is going on vacation.”

“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t—”

He snapped the phone closed. He was so fucking tired of promising young women disappointing him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

S
am woke, tension suffusing every muscle as she assessed the threat level. Someone was holding her. Someone who snored softly near her ear. Someone with strong arms, a solid chest and a clean, soapy scent. Someone who made her feel safe in a hostile world.

Mac Hunter.

As the name came to her, she unclenched her muscles, savoring his heat against her and the even in-out of his breathing.

She couldn’t imagine what she would do without him. While her memories swirled and eddied like dangerous riptides, Mac had become her life jacket, helping to keep her head above the tide of chaotic information.

Amazing that he’d stuck by her. Maybe he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t promised Charlie that he’d get her home in one piece, but she had a feeling that he would. He’d given up his dreams to provide his own sister with a stable home. This was a man who’d risk his life for a stranger.

She hoped to God that she was worth it.

He adjusted position then, burying his nose against her T-shirt-covered collarbone, pressing himself more closely against her, as though seeking body heat . . . or more intimate contact. A soft humming sound in his throat sent a shiver through her, and she wondered if he was dreaming.

She thought of the brief flash she’d gotten of his thoughts earlier, when he’d comforted her. Simple contact—she’d clung to his arm—and all his sympathy, concern and horror had flooded through her in a rushing wave. She wondered whether she could control that wave, or direct it. Her flashback with Flinn had suggested she could. And she was in the perfect position to experiment now.

Holding her breath, she shifted so that Mac’s nose brushed the side of her neck, focusing all her attention and energy in his direction.

The motel room blurred . . .

Surprise dropped her out of the moment, and she landed back in her own head, breathless and way too warm.

He was having a sex dream about
her.

Behind her, Mac’s body telegraphed his enjoyment of the dream, and she had to resist the urge to wriggle backward a little closer, to seek assuagement for the throb between her thighs. Having been in his head in those moments, she hadn’t reached climax, though she’d watched herself come, through his eyes. Or rather, her dream self. God, that was weird.

And frustrating as hell.

Biting into her lip, she held still and berated herself. This was inappropriate on so many levels. She never should have tried to get into his head. What an absolute invasion of his privacy.

Yet . . . she couldn’t deny that what she’d seen—felt—warmed her through and through.

He was dreaming about her.
Her
.

She started to smile. Then frowned. What the hell was wrong with her? Had she suddenly regressed to the maturity level of a teenager? Didn’t she have bigger things to worry about? Closing her eyes and with a small shake of her head, she shoved the thoughts away. Forget it, Sam, she thought. Just forget it.

She drifted for a few more minutes, letting herself enjoy the feel of Mac’s breath against her neck, shivering a little at the ticklish sensation. She thought of the earlier times she’d accessed his memories, the resulting headaches. Yet, this time she felt fine. Was that because she’d prepared herself for the flash? Or maybe since it was her first empathic experience of the day, her brain didn’t feel overtaxed. She’d also deliberately sought the flash, so maybe her intentions had an impact, too.

And
what
an impact. She shuddered at the remembered passion he’d felt with her in his erotic dream. And then she wondered how long it had been since she’d snuggled with a man. Or something hotter and sweatier.

Her brain stuttered at that thought. Was she married? Engaged? Otherwise involved?

She checked her left hand. No tan line where a ring used to be.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything.

And if she were attached, then cuddling in bed with Mac Hunter—and eavesdropping on his naughty dreams—was inappropriate.

After gently extricating herself, smiling in spite of it all as Mac grumbled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, Sam tucked the blanket back around him, careful to steer clear of his still-obvious, um, excitement jutting against the bedclothes. But, God, it was impressive.