Dark Waters (2013) (14 page)

“Let’s get some wheels, Marco, and track this bastard down.” Maybe this was the guy Davis had sent Anna to. All he knew was he was done sitting around with his thumb up his ass waiting for something to happen. “We’re gonna need some equipment.”

The boys in Chicago were busy running damage control after one of them killed a cop and shot some PI who was nosing around too close for comfort. Rand would handle getting the gear they needed himself. He had his own contacts. They were elite soldiers used to operating in hostile environments under pressure, not undertrained, underequipped cops.

Rand had no intention of doing time for his crimes—goddamn, he’d gotten medals for some of them in the past. If Anna was with this Brent character, he’d set it up so the guy went down for Anna Silver’s murder. It seemed like poetic justice, and after all the shit Davis had put him through, he was looking forward to a little payback.

The distant sound of a phone ringing had Anna blinking away the grit in her eyes as she lay in bed. She fought to surface through the fog of exhaustion and tried to figure out where she was.

Then she remembered—the edge of nowhere with the last man on earth she should trust.

She squinted at her wristwatch on the dresser: 9:00 a.m. Wow. She’d been awake for most of the night and had finally drifted off when the sun started to lighten the eastern edge of the horizon. The phone carried on ringing. She staggered out of bed and onto the landing. Brent’s bedroom door was closed. She hadn’t seen him since she’d accused him of keeping her here for his own reasons and he’d told her to grow up. He was right. It wasn’t like he’d keep her around because she was such great company or anything. And
he didn’t seem to want to hurt her despite her being a royal pain in his butt ever since she’d arrived.

Sheesh
. Talk about being paranoid. She ran to the kitchen, but just as she was about to pick up the receiver it stopped ringing. Rats.

“I need coffee,” she told the empty space. Exhausted, she fixed a pot, and was just filling a cup when Brent came down the stairs, freshly showered, wearing a shirt—albeit unbuttoned—and a pair of clean, well-worn jeans.

Although he might be wearing more clothes than usual, there were still plenty of hills and valleys visible beneath that open shirt, and every one of them looked like an adventure.

She averted her eyes, wishing she were someone else. Someone with the courage to enjoy looking at a fine physical specimen of a man without blushing. Although, crap, couldn’t he be just a little out of shape? He made her aware of all the soft places on her body that no gym was ever going to fix.

She braced herself. She’d acted like a brat last night. “I need to apologize for what I said.” Her gaze hit his feet and she blinked. He wore socks—a first in their short acquaintance.

“Forget it. I have to go out. Don’t answer the phone.” He shot her a scowl.

Forget it?
How could she?

“Aren’t you curious to see who was calling you?”

He looked at her like she was crazy. Then he grabbed a cup of coffee and an expression of bliss crossed his features as he took a sip. “Damn, if you didn’t talk so much, I’d keep you around for your coffee and your cooking.”

“Yeah, I always wanted to be someone’s housekeeper.” She lifted an unimpressed eyebrow, but felt a weird sliver of pleasure at his words. No one had ever offered to keep her around before. Not for any reason. She wasn’t an easy person to get along with. Ironically, neither was he.

He grinned and all those body parts that had been dormant for eons started to jiggle for attention. Crap—this was not what she needed.

“Where are you going?” Anna crossed her arms over traitorous nipples. Her nightshirt hung to mid thigh and she wasn’t wearing anything except panties underneath.

“I have a meeting in Port Alberni.” His expression didn’t encourage questions.

“I want to come too.”

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I’ll be back by dinnertime. You just enjoy the rest.”

That was what normal people did. Relaxed on the beach, built sand castles, and enjoyed the view. She paced the kitchen floor. “I’m already bored out of my skull.”

“You’ve only been here two nights.” He sounded incredulous and it made her smile.

“I have nothing to do.” God, she hated being a whiner, but being idle was driving her crazy. All her books were in Cauldwell Lake. Her garden. Her home. She’d had e-books on her phone, but that was toast. This summer she’d planned to redecorate her office. Summer was her time to get things done, and yet here she was trapped doing nothing, with no end in sight, and she couldn’t settle.

“You’d never have survived prison.” His shirt matched his eyes and the effect was mesmerizing.

“That’s why I don’t break the law.” She didn’t want to be mesmerized. He had beautiful everything but it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t the sort of guy to fall for.

“Fine, come with me but”—he ran a frustrated hand though his too long hair—“in case you’ve forgotten, you’re supposed to be in hiding.” He went into the laundry room and pulled a ball cap off a peg, and dusted it off by slapping it against his thigh with a
whack
. “Wear this.” He tugged it over her hair. “You’ve got five minutes to get ready. As much as I hate this guy, I can’t be late.”

She dashed up the stairs, making sure her shirt didn’t ride up and flash the guy. “Who is it?” she called.

“My parole officer.” He followed her and she knew she was blushing even though he couldn’t see anything. Or maybe he could because his eyes gleamed when his gaze met hers at the top of the stairs. She closed the bedroom door and hurriedly pulled on a denim skirt and a blue shirt that didn’t match her eyes. Brushed her teeth, took a swipe at her hair, and grabbed her pocketbook. When she came out of the bathroom she noticed the handgun was missing off the bedside table. Brent must have removed it—which was fine with her. She didn’t like guns and wasn’t sure she could actually shoot another human being anyway. She met him coming out of his studio carrying two huge canvases wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper.

“Is that a bribe to keep you out of prison?”

“If that’s what it takes.” A line cut down one cheek as he grinned.

She sighed. She needed to stop making him smile.

“If you must know, Miss Sarcasm, they’re original pieces for an exhibition someone’s running of my work in New York City.”

She noticed a slight tinge of scarlet touch his cheeks. “Impressive stuff.” She let him lead the way down the stairs.

He looked back over his shoulder and she told herself not to fall for the charming rogue persona. “People are crazy, what can I say?”

“Some more than others,” she agreed. He laughed and her heart gave a little tumble. She didn’t tell him she had one of his paintings over her bed at home and that it was better than therapy when it came to helping her relax.

Half an hour later, they were rumbling along the dusty gravel logging road in Brent’s truck. It was royal blue with rust around one wheel arch and a foot-long crack in the windshield. Not what she expected from a wealthy painter.

Brent’s brooding silence and tight features didn’t invite idle chitchat. They hit a rut that had her airborne and he thrust his arm across her chest in an old-fashioned protective gesture that had her flinching away from him. A flush burned across his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he said, giving her an unreadable look from under his lashes.

“It’s OK.” She wished she didn’t automatically freak when a guy touched her. Not just with him, but men in general. She noticed something different about his profile. “You shaved.”

He rubbed his chin. “Usually I can’t be bothered, but I try not to look like a Neanderthal for the people who can put me back inside.”

“So if you break the conditions of your parole, you go back to prison?”

“Yup.” His shoulders tensed. He obviously didn’t want to talk about this.

“What about your gun?” Anna asked.

“What gun?” Brent deadpanned.

The gun was a parole violation. She’d probably known that but it hadn’t registered until now. The fact he’d given it to her at the cabin was an even bigger sign of trust than she’d realized. He’d handed over the power to put him back inside, and from what she knew, that was the last thing he wanted.

“How long are you on parole for?” What she really wanted to know was why he’d killed his father. Brent didn’t seem like a bad person—maybe a little scary, but not evil. So what had caused him to take a life?

His lips turned down. “For the same amount of time my dad’s dead. Forever.” He made it sound like he deserved every minute, and yet…there was something about him that made her want to believe in him—or she was the biggest fool to ever walk the face of the earth.

“If you could go back in time,” she asked quietly, “would you change what you did?”

The tension in the cab stretched as taut as a fifty-pound shark on a ten-pound line.

“No,” he said finally.

Her stomach clenched.

That simple word reminded her of all the reasons she needed to be careful around this man, at a time when she was just beginning to relax her guard.

Brent sat in the parole officer’s waiting room in Port Alberni and stared at the institutional green walls and matching linoleum. This place was nothing like prison, but it held the same tinge of fear and grimy unease that was a constant reminder of that demoralizing institution. Prison was meant to be punishment, but knowing he’d killed his father had been punishment enough. The rest had been torture.

The guy opposite had a nervous tic and way too much energy than was sensible while visiting your parole officer.

Brent held his gaze for a second and moved on. The other guy did the same. Not a connection, just an exchange of information.
Don’t fuck with me
. The secretary opened the door. “Mr. Carver.”

Brent stood and walked into the office. Anna had gone to pick up a bunch of supplies from Walmart. He certainly didn’t want her in this soul-sucking place. The secretary sat back down with a smile, but the parole officer didn’t even look up as his pen whizzed across paper.

Until last year he’d been down to reporting every three weeks, which had been bearable. After Gina’s murder, even though he’d had nothing to do with her death, they’d upped it back up to weekly. Pain in the ass.

“Anything to report, Carver?” The guy’s abrasive tone irritated Brent, but he’d dealt with worse over the years.

“No, sir.”

The guy slowly raised his head and gave him a gimlet stare. “How’s the painting?” He made it sound like Brent did finger painting for elementary students. Although it must grate like a horsehair jockstrap to know the con you were in charge of could earn more by doodling on a napkin than you made in a week.

He gave a slow nod. “Got a big exhibition in the States next week.”

A cruel smile played on this guy’s lips. “Pity they won’t let you in.”

Jerkoff
. “Oh, they’ll let me in.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. Noticed the secretary checking him out from under her lashes and gave her a wink. “They already gave me a visa, but no way in hell am I going to New York City. Or missing my appointment with you.” This was a great excuse to feed his agent.
Goddamn parole officer won’t let me go—

“If it’s to further your career, I’ll sign off on the visit.”

Now
that
was twisted. Why couldn’t he have his old parole officer back? She’d been strict but didn’t like to pull the legs off spiders. “I don’t want you to sign off on it. I don’t want to go to NYC.”

Perspiration glistened on the man’s shiny forehead. “Fortunately, I get to make the rules, not you, Carver.”

“And what happens if I don’t like your rules?”

The pen paused as small eyes gleamed. “You can always issue a formal complaint, but we both know how that would turn out for you.”

Not good.

Shit.

Anger welled up, but Brent forced it down.
Never show reaction
. Although this guy wasn’t the same as a guard, he had the power to send him back. Brent wasn’t ever going back. He took his slip of paper and folded it neatly into his wallet.