Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
DEAN
Grunting, I land, her body beneath me. A quick mental check says she missed. My body is still intact.
Thank fuck.
I really didn’t want to deal with shotgun pellets in my nuts.
Plaster falls, dusting a white halo in her hair, and I grip the barrel of the gun. It’s hot as hell, but better some burns on my hands than castration by Remington Tactical.
“Fuck.” I swear at the heat, then toss it behind me, where it clatters against a cabinet. “Looks like you’re going to have to put your handyman skills to the test on your ceiling now, Dr. Legarde.”
“I missed?” She blinks, her pupils nearly blown from a heady mix of adrenaline and tequila. She stills beneath me, except for shallow breaths pressing her breasts against my chest. She wiggles, and I nearly groan.
Shit.
Talk about new things to discuss with my shrink. I can just imagine it, me explaining how I nearly got shot, and how I was immediately turned on when I tackled the shooter.
Unpack that.
“Are you… are you going to kidnap me?” She’s breathing harder than she should be, her voice edging towards pure panic as her hands scrabble against my chest. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”
My chest constricts in sympathy.
But I don’t get up.
“You fired a shotgun at me, June. I’m not just going to let you go.”
Moving my hand over her body, I search for more weapons, and completely ignore her warm skin. I definitely don’t notice the soft curve of her hips under the gauzy material of her dress.
I don’t notice it one bit.
The sharp inhalation of breath gives her away, and I flinch back right as she attempts a head butt, her forehead connecting with my cheek. Pain sparks behind my eye and I growl.
“I swear to god, if you take me back there, I’ll lose it. I will lose my mind. Please don’t hurt me. Just tell me what you want.” She shakes her head from side to side, tears pooling in her eyes. Her nails dig into my chest.
All I can do is stare at her in confusion as tears roll down her cheeks, leaving clean tracks through the plaster dust on her face.
“Take you back where? I told you, I’m with the DEA. Why would you think I’m going to hurt you? Where do you think I’m taking you?” Something about this is important. My instincts scream at me to figure out what the hell she’s talking about.
She stops fighting, her body completely limp. “Prove it.”
Like this, I’m even more aware of how well she fits against me, her breathing pushing her breasts against my chest, her eyes so full of emotion and intelligence that all I want to do is prove something else entirely to her.
I lick my lips, forcing control over myself.
“Prove what?” I growl.
“Prove that you’re DEA. If you are government, call it in. No. You know what? Give me your phone and let me call it in.”
“Your dad taught you that too, huh?” Grudging respect for the smuggler starts to form.
Fishing my phone from my pocket, I unlock it, handing it over, trying to ignore what her shallow breaths are doing against my chest. “DEA website,” I say, leveling her with a stare. I’m trusting you not to call 911 and fuck this day up any worse.”
She glares at me but takes the phone, quickly tapping the screen. “I’m there. What now?”
“Go to the page with the field offices. Houston is overseeing this mission.” I smile at her speculative expression, the tightening around her eyes. “Go on. Verify that I’m working with them.”
She dials the number, and when she is well past the three digits that would signal she’s calling 911, I let out a long breath.
And realize I’m still straddling her.
“Hi, I’m calling to verify a field agent or, er, a contractor? Or something.” There is a pause as a tinny voice says something indecipherable on the other end.
“What’s your ID number?” June asks, relaxing beneath me somewhat, though her pulse still flutters in her throat.
A lazy grin spreads across my face as I rattle it off, only growing as June repeats it and is given confirmation. Slowly, she ends the call, never taking her eyes off me.
“Dr. Legarde,” I say, picking a hunk of ceiling plaster from her hair, flicking it towards the door. “I told you I’m not going to hurt you, and I meant it. I’m not taking you anywhere. At the moment.” I tack on the last part, because we do need to get to a safehouse soon.
Her eyes narrow, and she bites her lip.
I should get off her, but my body refuses to move. I don’t want to risk her taking a potshot at my crotch, either.
“Okay, so you’re with the DEA,” she says slowly. She’s looking anywhere but at me, her brown eyes wandering around her house. “But what does that have to do with me? How did you know where I live? Why are you stalking me?” The questions fly out of her, rapid-fire.
Somehow, June managed to control her panic.
“You’re interrogating me now?”
Surprise and respect mingle with suspicion as I look at her.
“You’re the one literally lying on top of me. Least I can do is ask why.”
Shaking my head, I resume searching for potential weapons. A quick check of her dress pocket reveals several shotgun shells and what looks like keys to the big boat out back, an orange floatie hanging from the keyring.
I slide them into my own pocket, readjusting my position on top of her. She grunts as my weight shifts, and we both freeze at the noise.
“I’m going to let you go now. We need to talk.”
“No kidding,” June grinds out.
My mind races.
How much information am I cleared to give her? What can I say that won’t make me sound like a stalker? How can I prove that she’s not about to fuck me and this op over?
With all the blood rushing to parts that are not my brain, I’m not exactly thinking straight.
“Are you going to run, or can we eat the gourmet meal I made for us like civilized people?” I finally settle on that, and it sounds stupid.
When she lets out a surprised laugh, though, I feel like I’ve won a fucking prize.
I much prefer her laugh to her tears.
“Gourmet? You made peanut butter and jelly.” Her stomach growls again, and I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
Something moves under me. Is her hand on my leg? My hip?
I shift, frowning, and the slight pressure disappears.
“Are you going to hurt me, DEA Dean?”
“Not unless you’re allergic to peanuts.” Tilting my head at her, I smile, but she looks away. “Are you going to try to shoot me again?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She knees me in the groin, my eyebrows rocketing up. “If you stop poking me with that .”
My smile disappears, embarrassment surging through me. Standing up, I offer her a hand, which she declines.
June crosses her arms, hugging herself, looking up at the ruined ceiling. The t-shirt sliding further off her shoulder, I pull another piece of ceiling from her hair.
“Explain,” she orders.
“Eat, and I will.”
“Why are you so hellbent on getting me to eat? Are you planning to drug me before carting me off somewhere?” She shakes out her hair, and more plaster dust falls out of it.
“Why are you so hung up on me kidnapping you?”
“You’re the one who carried me out of a bar, knew where I live, and made sandwiches in my kitchen, you weirdo.”
Exasperation sends my eyes rolling. “I am trying to keep you safe. And even though you seem more sober, a protein bar isn’t enough.” I point at the hole in the ceiling, unsure if I want to tip my hand to the rest yet. “And, frankly, your drunk decision making doesn’t seem to be the greatest. Case in point, you throwing tequila in the eyes of the Russian hitman.”
An exasperated sound gusts out of her, and she rolls her eyes before stomping into the kitchen. Where the shotgun lies.
She pauses, looking back at me. Then reaches out and grabs a sandwich.
A little relieved, I slide between her and the gun and take a sandwich for myself.
“Well? Ready to tell me why the DEA sent me a hot stalker?”
I can’t help smirking. “You think I’m hot?”
“Shut up.” She takes an angry bite of her peanut butter and jelly, and it’s adorable.
“You really don’t know?” I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that June might actually not be involved.
She shakes her head, more white dust falling from the strands. It takes a herculean effort not to comb it out with my fingers, not to tuck the wild mess behind her ear.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I settle for shoving the sandwich in my mouth, eating with a methodical quickness born of a lifetime of quick meals made for nutrition, not pleasure. A handful of Goldfish follow.
June chews neatly, precise little bites that have me watching her mouth as she clearly turns theories over in that pretty head of hers.
“Why in the world would the Drug Enforcement Agency be interested in me?”
I swallow, peanut butter sticking in my throat.
“Is the DEA interested in the wreck?” She squares me with a serious look that almost unravels me. “It doesn’t fall under their jurisdiction, not in the least,” she muses. “State Department, maybe. For repatriating the objects to Mexico or Spain, smoothing out the museum circuit. But not DEA.” She licks a bit of peanut butter off her finger and my eyes track the motion. My groin tightens, remembering what those curves felt like beneath me. Wondering what it would be like if she kissed me.
“Repatriating the objects?” I echo, leaving those thoughts behind.
“Yeah? From the Santu Espiritu . I still don’t get why they wouldn’t just approach me normally. Not like this.” She gestures to the newly shotgun-shattered ceiling above.
My eyes fly to the fridge. She thinks I’m after a… wreck? A shipwreck.
“For a man who’s been stalking me, you don’t seem to know a whole lot about what I do. Tell me what the hell is going on, or I’ll make you leave.” June fidgets, glancing at the gun, still chewing.
“And make me miss this delicious sandwich and your company?” I let loose the lopsided grin that usually gets me what I want. “Nah. I don’t think you would. Besides, I’m not interested in some disintegrating shipwreck.”
What I’m after is much more modern.
And much more dangerous.
“Why else would you steal my research off my fridge?” She fishes in her back pocket, revealing the folded tidal charts that had been in mine .
“You took them?” I rub a hand across my stubble in frustration.
Sneaky little thing.
“You took them first.” She jabs my chest, frowning at the folded papers. “Explain.” She turns her disappointed expression at me and I decide to fold. Just a little.
Maybe if I give something up, she will too.
“I am interested in something in the ocean. Something I think your father told you about.” Running a finger over the currents chart, I look back to her. “This ship? The Santu Espiritu ? The article said it went down with a hurricane in the gulf.”
An idea sparks, so I follow my instincts, tugging at the thread.
“Did your father tell you anything about where he thinks it might be lost in the gulf? Leave you anything that might help us, I mean you, find what you need?”
Her lips are a thin line, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What does the DEA want with the Santu Espiritu ? Or my father?” She throws her hands up. “He’s dead, though I guess you know that.” Her voice sounds rough, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “And no, the only things he was interested in were crabs and tourists willing to spend their money on guided fishing trips on the Betty . His boat out back.” Her voice wobbles a little. “Looking for the ship was a fun thing we used to do. Then I decided to stake my career on it. Great decision making on my part.”
I clear my throat. God. She’s either an expert at lying, or she’s telling the truth.
Shit. Shit .
“Shipment,” she says slowly, and her eyes light up. Snapping her fingers, she locks her gaze with mine. “ Shipment . The man in the bar, the Russian…” Her face blanches. “Hitman, you called him.”
I nod when she stares at me.
“He said something about a shipment.” Her voice goes slightly squeaky again. “You’re DEA… You think my father was involved with drugs? A drug shipment? And you think I know where it is?” She laughs, her hand half-covering her mouth in disbelief.
“I think it’s possible,” I say, inclining my head.
“You’re wrong.” She lowers her hand, brushing off some of the crumbs clinging to the countertop. “You’re wrong about my father. He would never have done anything involved with drugs, not after—he wouldn’t have.”
I open my mouth, trying to come up with a question for her, with a reason I was cleared to give her, when a sudden flash of light nearly blinds me.
June’s mouth opens in surprise, her eyes wide.
The sound of the explosion follows, nearly deafening me.
My ears ring as I see June scream, clapping her hands over her ears in what seems like slow motion.
Out front, the Jeep’s a fireball.
They found us .
We overstayed our welcome— her stunt with the goddamn shotgun made things take longer than they should have, and being so close to her… it distracted me. Of fucking course they found us.
My teeth grind together.
“Come on,” I yell, but she shakes her head. She can’t hear. Tears stream down her face, and in one swift motion, I grab the shotgun off the floor and throw her over my shoulder. Handing her the shotgun as I make a break for the sliding glass doors.
Hoping she’ll aim at whoever is about to burst through the front doors and not me. Trusting that she isn’t working with the cartel. Either she’s an incredible actress—which isn’t impossible, considering my ex—or she is a civilian and we’re both in deep shit.
Well, either way, we’re in deep shit.
My throat tightens, pulse hammering as adrenaline pumps through my body.
“They’re trying to kill us,” she yells.
“Don’t let them.”
Blinding light signals she made a shot into the deepening dark of evening, alongside the sharp report of the shotgun. Sliding down my chest, June wraps her strong, bare legs around my torso, the hot barrel of the gun sizzling against my t-shirt, my skin. Her hand dips into the pocket where I stuffed her shotgun shells, expertly reloading the chamber.
The hot barrel torches my shoulder as she uses it to steady the aim of the gun.
Smart .
I dare a glance at her as I run through the sliding doors, grunting as she fires another shot and the barrel sizzles on my skin. I don’t dare look back. We have to get to the boat.
Get to open water.
We have to get the hell away from the smugglers, who will sure as shit torture her for information. Or worse.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t have left my rifle in the goddamn Jeep.
She fires again, and I sprint. Her legs are locked tight around me, and I use one arm to balance, the other clenched around her waist.
Gulping air, I try to get as much oxygen in my bloodstream as possible.
Speed is our only option at this point.
“Give me the keys!” June shouts, kicking her heels into my lower back. “I only have one round left. You’ll have to hold them off.”
“Like hell!” The smell of barbecued skin fills my nose, my skin burning against the barrel.
“I have to untie the boat.” She kicks me again, and I barely feel it. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
“Fuck that.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” The shotgun barks again, impossibly loud in my ear, and she lets out a surprised, “Oh.”
I felt her say it, the way her body collapsed, the air forced out of her lungs, the soft breath against my aching neck.
“Shit.” I take the steps down to the dock four at a time. Lungs aching, legs screaming. I ignore it.
But I can’t ignore the warm, wet gush of fluid soaking my back.
The dock groans as I pound to the boat, shots pinging around us.
“Hang on, June. Hang in there.”
My arm feels limp, but there’s no time to think.
Clearing the space between the dock and the boat in one huge leap, I wobble as we land. June clings to me, eyes wide and dark, her face ashen.
“It’s gonna be okay, June. We have to get out of here. Hold pressure on it.”
She starts thrashing against me, but I don’t let her go. The boat is clean, empty save for scuba gear and a few fishing rods on the deck. There’s a tackle box near the steering wheel. I jam the keys in the ignition and the boat roars to life.
“We’re tethered,” June yells, staring at me, a strange expression on her face, pointing to the ropes tied to the wooden dock.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I yell back over the roar of the engine.
Out of habit, I look back, lowering the motor into the water. Five men race down the stairs from June’s bungalow as the triple engines roar, kicking up water and debris.
The men land on the dock and I gun it, shoving the throttle. Diesel fumes fill the air.
The boat gives a mighty heave, straining once, twice, before my stupid plan works. The wood, corroded from the salt air and seawater, rips apart and the dock violently disintegrates. Shots go wide, the Russians firing wildly as they splash down in the canal.
A bullet whizzes by us, embedding itself in the fiberglass seating.
“Guns don’t work as well underwater,” I snarl.
“You owe me a new dock, ex-Marine Dean.” June’s arms and legs shake uncontrollably in my arms. “And you better be good to Betty .” Her teeth are chattering.
She doesn’t let go, and neither do I.
“Who were they ? Are they after the wreck too? What the hell is going on?” Her questions barely make it through the ringing in my ears. And when I look at her, her expression is strained, her face ashen and drawn.
“Smugglers. Russian smugglers. Drugs, weapons, you name it.” Pain blossoms across my torso as the speedometer ticks past fifty.
“Russian smugglers,” she repeats. Her gaze goes vacant.
Shock. She’s going into shock. Gripping her side, I look for the bullet’s entry wound.
“This is a no wake zone,” she offers with a thin smile.
I follow her gaze to the sign, and the massive wave trailing us in the canal, part of the dock surfing on it. She tips her head back in laughter and I crack a smile, shaking my head in spite of the worry.
“Good thing the Coast Guard isn’t around.” The words sound muffled in the aftereffects of close-proximity shotgun firing. That, and the Jeep exploding. “They’re going to have their hands full with the Russian canal swimming competition, anyway.”
Her chest heaves, and her pupils are nearly fully dilated.
“You’re in shock,” I manage, wincing at the dull pain in my side.
“You’ve been shot,” she whispers.