Appealed (25 page)

I pull my car up to the curb in front of my townhouse and kill the engine. Kennedy's eyes are a satisfied kind of tired, and her cheeks and nose are pink from the hours in the sun. Her hair is pulled on top of her head in a messy bun, with a few loose golden strands brushing her neck.

It's almost scary, how beautiful she is. Even more stunning than the first time I saw her in that red dress, and I really didn't think that was possible.

“You're not even going to ask me if I want to go home?” she inquires with a smile and a raised brow. “Kind of presumptuous, isn't it?”

“I prefer to look at it as deductive reasoning.” I hop out of the car, come around, and open her door. She takes my hand and I pull her straight into my arms. “Plus, you have to shower, I have to shower, there's a drought . . .”

“In California.”

Ever so slowly, I lower my lips to hers—just a teasing touch. “We all need to do our part.”

I feel her smile against my mouth. “You sound like my uncle Jameson.”

This disturbs me. From what I remember of her conservationist uncle, he was a cross between General Patton and Cheech & Chong. An odd-duck, militant hippie who I don't want her thinking of while I'm kissing her.

So I ditch the bullshit and go for honesty.

“I don't really care about saving water.” I skim my nose up her neck, scratching the delicate skin along her collarbone with my beard, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Then I whisper in her ear, “I just want to fuck you in the shower until neither one of us can stand.” My tongue traces the shell of her ear, making her shiver in the best way. “Is that wrong?”

When she answers, her voice is shaky. “That sounds . . . not wrong to me.”

I pull Kennedy tight against my side and smack her ass. “Let's get on that, then.”

•  •  •

The first thing I'm aware of the next morning—before I open my eyes—is the sensation of soft, smiling lips trailing up my jaw, the tickle of breath against my neck, and the teasing brush of hair along my shoulder.

And this time, it's definitely not the cat.

Kennedy buries her face in the crook of my neck and inhales me. I stretch my arms back, grab her, then roll over so I'm facing her, cocooned in my arms. I kiss her properly on the mouth—morning breath and all.

Then I notice what time it is. The sun is up—but just fucking barely.

“I have to go into the office,” she says.

I smooth her hair down and smother her face against my chest so she'll stop saying silly things.

“Shhh . . . you're dreaming. Go back to sleep.”

“Brent,” she says with a laugh. “I didn't get any work done yesterday. I really
have
to catch up today.”

Unhappy growls tumble around in my throat. Kennedy soothes them with gentle hands and a kiss for my mouth.

“I'll come back tonight. But I'm going to bring the boys with me.”

One eye cracks open. “They have food and water. Cats don't need anything else.”

“They need love. Attention,” she insists.

“Cats disdain love and attention. It's beneath them.”

She laughs again. “Not mine. I've been neglecting them—and if this is going to work out, I don't want them resenting you.”

The woman knows how to deliver a convincing argument. “Fine. The cats can come.”

A sweet peck of a kiss gets planted on my sternum. And then she slips away . . . like sand through my fingers.

I must have dozed off again, because in the next instant Kennedy's dressed. Her clothed breasts press against my back and she whispers good-bye as she kisses the bed-warmed skin at the nape of my neck.

I mumble back, still half-asleep, “Bye, baby. Love you . . .”

•  •  •

It's past noon by the time I drag my ass out of bed. I don't have to tell you this is completely fucking weird for me. My only defense is that Kennedy was a wildcat last night—completely wore me out. A few hours and one Red Bull later, I have enough energy for a run, and head down to my favorite jogging trail near the National Mall.

Afterward, I walk back to the townhouse, grinning like an idiot every step of the way. Because I'm thinking of a certain tiny blonde who totally owns me. I'm looking forward to hearing her bitch and moan about her day, watching her eat, listening to her laugh. She has such a great laugh.

Damn, I'm pathetic. I'm starting to annoy my fucking self.

When I get to my front steps, Jake, Stanton, and Sofia are there, waiting. Looking way too serious for a Sunday afternoon.

“Why the long faces?” I joke. “Who died?”

Not one of them cracks a smile, and a cold chill slithers up my spine.

Stanton averts his eyes and Jake watches me, ready and tense, like he's anticipating a reaction. Sofia steps forward.

“Brent, sweetie . . . something's happened.”

T
he automatic doors to the emergency room slide open and I head straight for the reception desk. “Kennedy Randolph.”

Behind the desk, the dark-haired woman's mouth hangs open slightly before she recovers. “Um . . . there's no Kennedy Randolph here.”

She's lying. Even if she wasn't bad at it, spotting the automatic tells people do when they're nervous or hiding something is necessary for my job. This is the second hospital we've come to—and the receptionist at the first one wasn't lying.

One of Jake's contacts, a private investigator, called him after seeing the whole thing go down. He saw the pretty blond prosecutor get into a dark sedan with government plates, a driver at the wheel. And just a few blocks down the road, at an intersection, he saw that sedan get T-boned by an SUV—and flipped.

Intentionally.

Shots fired. FBI on the scene. Flashing lights and sirens. Injuries, medics.

Body bags.

So it's actually a relief that the receptionist is lying to me; it increases the odds that Kennedy isn't in one of those bags. Or wasn't when she got here, anyway.

I lean over the desk. “I know she's here, and I know why you're telling me she's not . . .” My voice wavers and my hands clench with frustration, panic—the urge to tear the hospital apart looking for her, or to go find the fuckers who dared to do this to her and tear
them
apart. “And you have to let me see her.”

Even before she opens her mouth, I know she's going to shoot me down. “Sir—”

“I'm her husband.”

It's not a smart lie; too easy to disprove. But it'll get me in—or at least get me to someone higher up in the chain who I can convince to let me in.

The desk lady's face softens. “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone, turning her back to whisper into it.

Stanton, Sofia, and Jake watch me as I pace, fingers locked behind my neck, every muscle tight and straining. After a few minutes, a square-jawed guy wearing deceptively casual jeans and a button-down emerges from the door that leads to the bowels of the hospital. His eyes are quick, observant—but his face is deliberately blank.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Kennedy Randolph—” I start.

“Is not here,” he finishes.

“I know she is.”

“No, you don't.”

“I'm her—”

“
No
, you're not.”

It takes everything I've got not to grab him by the throat and squeeze the answers out. “Are you FBI? Are you with the Marshalls? Your department's job was security—keeping her
safe
.” My cheek twitches. “Bang-up job they're doing, Skippy.”

“I have no information for you. It's time for you to go. Now.”

“Is she alive?” My voice sounds like a captive who's been tortured for intel, and is finally broken. “Just give me that, for fuck's sake.”

I don't care about the rest—her hair, her face, her arms, her legs—they don't matter. I'll love her without them. As long as she's still breathing. As long as she's still her.

Stone-face gives me jack shit. “Information on an active case can only be given to immediate family. I'm not confirming that there is an active case, but if there was—you are no one's immediate family. So I have nothing for you. I won't be telling you to leave again.”

I move forward, ready to get in his face, but Sofia's hand on my arm pulls me back. “Come on, Brent. That's not going to help. Let's go.”

I let her pull me outside to the sidewalk.

“Fuck!” I push my palms against my eyes. “God fucking damn it!”

Was this what it was like for my parents after my accident? While they waited for the doctor to come out to tell them if I'd made it?

It's like there's a hot poker under my ribs, pressing against my stomach, my lungs, my heart. Burning me alive slowly, from the inside.

I drop my hands and turn toward the door. “I'm going back in to talk to that agent. I'll make him—”

Stanton steps into my path. “You'll get arrested. Not the way to go, man.”

I grind my jaw so hard the sound echoes in my eardrums.

Jake puts his hand on my shoulder, and his voice is clear and calming. “Brent, pull it together. You have resources: take a breath and call them.”

I've always hated assholes who use their money and connections to exert undue influence—and believe me, I've known a lot of them. But at this moment, I've never been more grateful for my last name. Because it opens doors.

I take my phone out and dial. “Dad? I need your help. Do we know anyone in the U.S. Marshal's Service?”

When he replies, my eyebrows go up. “The director, huh? That's convenient. Can you call him for me?”

•  •  •

Ten minutes later, Urban Cowboy walks back into the waiting room. “Brent Mason.”

I stand, but when the four of us move to him, he puts up a hand like a traffic cop. “Just you.”

I'm immediately engulfed in Sofia's strong embrace. “Call us as soon as you can—let us know how she's doing.”

“I will.”

Jake squeezes my shoulder, Stanton smacks my back. “Anything you need.”

“Thanks.”

Then I get into the elevator with Super Cop. As the doors close, he tells me, “She's all right.”

My lungs collapse. Deflate. Like I've been holding my breath for a millennia—waiting to hear those words.

“Broken arm, two cracked ribs, some facial contusions, but nothing serious.”

Okay. She's injured, but she'll heal. I'll help her heal.

Thank you, God.

As the elevator starts to rise, I feel his eyes on me. “My supervisor called, told me to get you upstairs straight away.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“He said the director called him personally.”

“That sounds about right.”

He pauses for a beat and then asks, “Who the hell are you?”

There's only one way I can answer. I lower my voice and look him in the eyes. “I'm Batman.”

And he actually cracks a smile. Then the elevator opens on the tenth floor and he leads me down a hallway. There are a few agents milling about, but only one door has an armed guard stationed outside. They nod to each other, the marshal opens the door, and I step in alone.

The lights are low, the blinds closed. Kennedy's propped up in a hospital bed, her left arm encased in plaster hanging in a sling. I stand there for a minute, reminding myself that she's alive; looking her over, taking in every mark, every bruise. Her face is a mess—bottom lip split in the middle, caked with black dried blood; her left cheek is scraped raw, already starting to turn purple; the eye above it is swollen completely shut; and there's a row of stiches at her hairline.

“You're here.” Her voice is soft—raspy—like her throat is sore.

And then I'm sitting on the bed, cupping the uninjured side of her jaw. She leans into my palm, and my throat strangles so tight I can barely get the words out. “You're okay?”

She tries to smile, but can't quite manage it with her lip. Her good eye gazes back at me—that sweet, soft golden brown. “I'm okay.”

My other hand gently—so gently—runs through her hair, over her shoulder, settling on her chest, soaking up the feeling of her heart beating strong and steady beneath it. I swallow hard and my eyelids burn, because she's my Kennedy and she's hurt . . . and I could've lost her. For good.

“Jesus, Kennedy . . . let me just . . .” I can't finish. Instead I pull her into my arms, chest to chest. I turn my face into her neck, breathing against her soft skin that still smells like peaches beneath the scent of hospital antiseptic. She's trembling, so I stroke her hair and rub her back and rock her slowly, resting my lips against her temple.

And I want to stay just like this. Where I know she's safe because my arms are around her, and I'll never, ever let anything fucking hurt her again.

“They hit the car hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, her fingers clinging to my bicep. “I wasn't wearing my seat belt, and we flipped on our side. I saw their feet—I knew they were coming for me.”

I press her closer and have to force myself not to hold her too tight.

Her voice goes shaky and I hear the tears. “And all I could think was that I'd never see you again.” She pulls back just enough so she can look up at me. “That I'd never have the chance to tell you that . . . that I have loved you forever . . .”

The last word comes out on a sob, her face crumbling. “. . . but never as much as I love you right now.”

I wipe her tears away with my thumb, kissing her softly—just a brush against her upper lip. And my voice is steady, solid, with the easiest words I've ever said.

“I love
you
.”

Then I tuck her in against my chest, my chin on the top of her head. “We're going to have lots of time to say that to each other, Kennedy. Over and over again. Thousands of days to show it.” I kiss her hair. “It's gonna be sickening.”