Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) (8 page)

Travis stepped closer, locked his fingers around
Samantha’s upper arms and molded his mouth to hers. For a second, she pressed
her fist against his shoulder, then gave into the pressure of his lips.

“Shee-eet,”
Duel
stuttered. “I didn’t mean
here
…now.”

Samantha jerked back and stared at Travis as if she
thought he’d lost his mind.

Travis wasn’t so sure he hadn’t.

“What are you doing?” she cried. “Don’t you
ever
do that again!”

Travis glanced at Duel.

Duel shrugged. “You’re on your own, buddy.”

“Coward,” Travis muttered.

Sam’s face turned red as her gown. She glanced around
wildly. Her lips trembled. She straightened her shoulders and finally turned
back to face them. Her expression looked dark as a rolling thundercloud. “You
two are
so
not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny,” Travis said grimly. “Besides,
he told me to do it. In fact, he dared me to do it. Wanna dance?”

Sam’s gaze leapt from Travis to Duel and back to Travis.
“You’re both nuts! No. I don’t want to dance. Are you insane?”

“Maybe. But I
do
wanna dance.” Travis caught her elbow and guided her onto the dance floor
before she could utter a single protest.

“What are you doing? I said I don’t want to dance.”
Samantha’s dark eyes snapped with fury. She held herself as stiff as a pole,
and kept a good distance between their bodies.

Inside, Travis felt his heart jerk. Samantha was in his
arms and she felt damn good. He tilted his head, his attitude a bit cocky. “You
like my kisses.”

“I do not,” she gasped.

“Deny it all you want, but the high flush on your cheeks
gives you away.” He yanked her closer—close enough so her full breasts pressed
against his chest.

“What are you doing?” she snapped.

“We were too conspicuous standing here with you hissing at
me like a coiled rattler.”

“I do not hiss.”

“Rattling a warning then.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful in that flowing bit of nothing.” He
flashed a quick eye at the vivacious curves of her firm breasts. They spilled
over the heart-shaped top of the vibrant red gown. “Scarlett O’Hara,” he
uttered softly.

“What?” She blinked. “You don’t make a lick of sense.”

“How ‘bout I just lick you, and we forget the sense part
of it?” He traced his tongue beneath the soft, warm flesh near her left ear.
Travis didn’t think he’d ever forget how she tasted, or how tight her nipples
became when he’d suckled them that long ago night.

She was just so damn cute. No way could he stop wanting her.
Hell, he didn’t want to stop wanting her. Sam reminded him of Valerie
Bertinelli, only a younger version
—
same
bob of shiny brown hair that curved toward her chin, same snap to her sultry,
coffee-hued eyes, same rosy flush to her cheeks, same bubbly sound of laughter
—
when she laughed, which was rare these
days.

“Don’t look at me that way,” she ordered primly.

“What way?”

She tried to squirm out of his grasp. “You know what way.”

“Don’t.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “It isn’t
going to kill you to dance with me one time.” Travis drew her closer. He heard
her sharp gasp and lifted a brow. “I can’t help what you do to me.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You did once.”

“Don’t you dare mention that night. I–it was…
it
was
—
”

“Good?” Travis lifted a dark brow. “Better than good?
Great? Fantastic?”

“No! It was…
nothing.”

“Ouch.
You like
to pretend it was nothing, but honey, my memory’s much better. It was
incredible. You felt delicious. I must have felt good inside you because you
climaxed multiple times and so damned fast, I couldn’t keep up with you. It was
something all right, or you wouldn’t still be running from it…or me. You came
undone in my arms, sweetheart, and you’ve been running away from the truth ever
since. But you can never run or hide from the fact that I had my dick so
friggin’ deep inside you and you…you were moaning and bucking like something
beautiful and wild beneath me.”

“Shut up! I don’t want to talk about what happened. It
should never have happened. You know it. I know it. I was married.”

Travis snorted. “Bull shit. You didn’t have a marriage.
You might have had a ring on your finger, but your marriage had wrecked long
before I came along. You were living a lie then, just like you are now. He beat
the crap outta you before we left on that assignment. Why? You never told me
why.”

“And I’m not going to.”

“Why did he beat the hell outta you just before we left?”

Tears welled into her eyes and she lowered her gaze. “It’s
none of your business what happened between David and me.”

“Oh, God. Was it because of me?”

Her startled gasp told him he’d hit on the truth.

“I told you, it’s none of your bus
—
”

“Don’t. Stop freezing me out.” Travis frowned.

Sam lowered her gaze and kept it lowered. “I don’t want to
talk about it. Please? Just let it go. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead.”

“I wanted to kill the bastard.” Travis exhaled. “I would
have, if someone hadn’t beaten me to it.”

Samantha’s head jerked up. She pressed trembling fingers
over his lips. “Don’t. Don’t say that. Please. He’s dead.”

“Good riddance.”

Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m asking you to let it go, all
of it. Forget what happened between us. It was a once in a lifetime mistake…I
made.” She stiffened in his arms. “One I won’t ever repeat. So do…forget it.”

“I can’t.” Travis drew a deep breath, and slowly released
it. “I can’t.” He looked around. They’d stopped on the dance floor. People were
staring. He tightened his hold on her narrow waist and picked up the steps
again. “Relax. Act as if you’re having a good time in my arms. Molly can take
care of herself for three minutes.”

Samantha tilted her head and scowled at him. “It’s our job
to take care of her.”

“It’s our job to mingle. We’re mingling.” Travis danced
her to a quiet alcove. “Why do you hate me?”

Her mouth gaped. “I
don’t
hate you.”

“Yes, you do. Why? Because I gave you the best damn
orgasms you ever had?”

“What on earth gave you that idea?”

“You.”

“Travis…
I
—
”
She looked around as if desperate to find justification to walk away. “Look,
Molly’s excusing herself. Once she’s out of here, we only have to mingle for a
little while, watch the Secret Service until she’s clear, then our job’s
finished. Let’
s just get through this evening.”

Travis dropped his arms to his sides. “Yep. Heaven forbid
Molly doesn’t make her date.”

“Excuse me. I have work.”

“Samantha?”

She looked over her shoulder. Impatience speared her face.
“What?”

“Is Hayley my daughter?”

She turned to face him, an edge of wariness in her eyes.
All the color drained from her face. He knew he’d blindsided her with the
unexpected question. Catching her off guard was the best way to read Sam.

“No,” she said in a ragged voice. “What on earth gave you
that idea? She’s David’s daughter.”

“I wanna see her. I’ve never seen your little girl, not
since she was a newborn. You don’t even keep a picture of her on your desk. Why
not? Afraid I might see it?”

“I don’t display her picture for her protection. Lots of
people come and go from my office. They aren’t always the good guys.”

“That doesn’t wash, Sam. I find it a little strange you
have no photos of your daughter on display. Everyone else has pictures of their
kids on their desks, at least those who have children. Is there something wrong
with her?”

“Of course not. She’s perfect.”

“I want to see her.”

“No.”

“Sam, I want to see her.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me from seeing her.”

“Yes, I can. She’s my daughter. You come near her and I’ll
have you arrested.”

“I’m going to see her,” Travis stated. “It can happen
before or after a DNA test. Your choice, but I
am
going to see her.”

“You bastard, leave her alone, and leave me alone.” She
whipped around to leave.

“Sam.” He called her name softly, but the warning was
there, plain for her to hear if she heeded it.

She turned round, impatient.

“If Hayley’s mine, then that night we spent together was
no mistake. Our daughter is not a mistake, and don’t
ever
say that again.”

“There is no
our.
Hayley belongs to David. You wore a condom…remember?”

“Yeah. I remember. And I remember being in you without
one, too, right after. I remember how good you felt and how close I was to
coming again. Maybe I did…a little, before I pulled out of you.”

“You didn’t climax, Travis. Not then. Not even a little,”
she snapped.

“I was wet. I always thought it was from before, but maybe
it wasn’t
—
”

“For God’s sake, lower your voice! Hayley is
not
your child. Forget it.” She turned
away, her back stiff with rage.

“I wish I could. Sam?”

She looked over her shoulder once more. “Leave it alone,
Travis.”

“For once, just tell me the truth. Is Hayley my daughter?”

Samantha tightened her lips. “I just told you, she’s
my
daughter. That’s all that matters.”

“That isn’t all that matters, and you know it.”

“It’s all that matters to me,” she said, ice coating her
words. Samantha hurried away, leaving him standing there with the taste of ash
in his mouth.

Chapter Four

Here is a small fact—You are going to die.

~Markus Zusak

McLean, Virginia

February 16, Monday

Thirty minutes after the assassination…

Jayla
skinned off the once spotless white gloves, balled them up, and tossed them
over her shoulder in the general direction of the back seat of her sassy red
Mustang. She drove like a crazy woman down Interstate 495.

The
perfect little peacock-blue pillbox hat followed the once spotless white
gloves, landing haphazardly on the edge of the seat.

Perfect?

Not
anymore, she thought a tad hysterically. With Molly’s blood splattered all over
it, it was far from perfect or charming any longer. She didn’t even want to
think about what else of Molly’s was on her clothes. Her hand trembled as she
returned it to the steering wheel and clenched her icy fingers around it tight
enough so her knuckles gleamed like bleached bone.

Molly
was dead.

Death.

Dead.

All
around her people she cared about were dead. And way too near for comfort was
the one person she knew who was involved right up to his cold gray eyes.
Assassin!

Why
had she never realized? Suspected?

Punch the button!

Jayla smothered a hysterical laug
h. Punch the button,
like that would have saved either of them. She knew Kane Masters well enough to
know he got what he wanted
—
when
he wanted
—
and if it wasn’t given to him
willingly, well hell, he didn’t let that stop him.

He
was like the Energizer bunny—
he kept going and going, until he got
what he was after. Three months ago was a fine example of him taking what he
wanted. It was the last time she’d seen Kane
—
until tonight outside the elevator
—
gun in hand.
Fuck!

Why
did she have to be the one who saw what happened? He’d never cease hunting her.
When he set out to do something, Kane was like a bloodhound. The remainder of
her life could be marked in hours. Short hours.

When
she walked away from him three months ago, she’d known in her heart that if he
ever wanted to find her, he could. D.C. was big, but it wasn’t so big she could
lose herself and escape him for very long. One didn’t walk away from a man like
Kane Masters, unless he let her.

No,
you didn’t walk away, she thought bitterly. You were carried away in a coffin.
Jayla bit her lip and suppressed a sob. Someday, God,
someday
, she’d have her revenge.

“Why?
Why did I have to be in the damn elevator tonight, at that precise moment?”

Witnessing
a murder, being in the wrong place at the wrong time in D.C., sucked the big
one! However, Jayla couldn’t help wondering if she had to observe something
like Molly getting her head blown off, why couldn’t it have been just a plain
old ordinary, simple little thing, like a measly street killing or a robbery
gone wrong?

But,
no, oh no, she had to go for the Texas oil strike. She had to be the only
spectator of the murder of Molly Westcott
—
the
nation’s freakin’ beloved
first lady! A real friggin’ nightmare she
wanted to wake up from, and knew there was no hope of it happening.

And
she was wearing Molly’s blood.

What
if
she
became a suspect?

“Why didn’t I stay at the Vintage Party five minutes
longer, then I wouldn’t be in this mess?”

What
was it about her that drew trouble like white on chicken shit?
Five minutes!
If she’d stayed a measly
five minutes longer, she’d have missed the entire fiasco. Of course her life
would still be headed down the crapper, but it wouldn’t be because of this.

“Oh, Jesus.” Panic-stricken, she suddenly realized she’d
left Molly lying there in the elevator, dead as a mackerel. Was it some kind of
treason to leave the body unguarded? Did one protect the body of the
president’s wife no matter what? “No! I’m not the Secret Service.” But she was
the stepdaughter of a U.S. Senator. Were there certain kinds of rules, laws
that applied to her—different from say the ordinary Joe Blow on the street? She
pounded the steering wheel. “What was I supposed to do?” Tears welled into her
eyes. “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m sorry you’re dead, sorry I couldn’t save you or
stay by your side.”

It
wasn’t as if she could heft the first lady over her shoulder and disappear with
her, or repair the damage. Calling nine-one-one was out of the question. It
might be what she ought to have done, but she knew better than to do it, unless
she had a death wish.

Kane
was already hot on her ass, or he would be.

Jayla
swiped away the tears wetting her cheeks and fought against giving in to the
bubble of nausea churning around in her gut. Angry that she’d been caught up in
the nightmare of Molly Westcott’s death, she grabbed a tissue from the box on
the opposite seat and blotted her face.

Aghast,
she stared at the soft absorbent paper in her hand. “Oh, God.” Dark pink smears
stained the flimsy tissue.

Don’t cry. Don’t fall apar
t. Not now. Think. Think about anything
else, except
—
Jayla drew a sharp breath to
steady her nerves and slowly exhaled.
Okay.
Think
about the hours before Molly’s
death
.
Think about how much fun you
had at the Vintage Party.

A
deep sob slipped past her lips. She knew in her heart and soul, as long as Kane
lived, she’d never be safe, and that fact had nothing to do with the
assassination of the first lady. It made no difference that her best friend was
head of the CIA, either.

Kane’s connections were much more powerful and led
straight to the top. Before Samantha could do one thing to help her, Jayla knew
not only would
she
already be dead,
but it was likely Sam and her little girl would go missing, or die in some
tragic accident as well.

Even though she realized Sam would willingly take the
chance, Jayla refused to involve her friend or put her or her daughter at risk.

Don’t think about
the hopeless mess you’re in.

She gulped back another sob. She needed to think about how
happy she’d been only a few short hours ago, or at least as close to happy as
she was ever going to get. Yes. Think about something pleasant.

Think about the Vintage Party, the wonderful 60s music
she’d danced to. Think about the cute young man she’d flirted shamelessly with,
then let him fondle her boobs on the dance floor, because hell, she was free,
and it was something she’d missed doing her teenage years.

In spite of everything that happened in the elevator,
Jayla loved the concept of the Vintage Parties. They were the latest rage in
D.C. She should have stayed a little longer at the party, danced one more dance
to the beat of the Stones, Elvis, or the Dave Clark Five. It wasn’t as if she
hadn’t been having a good time. She had. But she had an early flight, things to
do to prepare for the trip.

So what if she had
last minute packing?

Why the hell did she leave the wonderful party and head
back to the Ambassador at that precise moment?
Oh, Jesus, she hadn’t even made it to the penthouse to collect the
last of her luggage.

Ho! Like she was going to Hawaii now? “Get real, Jayla.
Kiss the trip good-bye. Kiss your
ass
good-bye. You aren’t going anywhere, except straight into a witness protection
program, jail, or the graveyard.” Most likely all three, depending on who got
their hands on her first, then decided what role she played in the entire fiasco.

And damn it, for once in her life, she was innocent. She
had nothing to do with Molly’s death, except for being there when it happened.
One simply did not walk away from witnessing the first l
ady gunned down. The
Secret Service would be all over this
—
all
over her.

Jayla shivered. She was in such deep shit. All she wanted
was to go home, wrap up in a comforter, a cup of hot chocolate laced with
strong brandy in hand, and block the entire nightmare out of her mind. If she
had the ability, she’d turn back the hands of time and change her life from the
moment she hit her early teens. But hindsight was twenty-twenty.

Home? She smothered a bitter laugh. She had no real home.
No real love, no one who was important. Not anymore. Wasn’t there something
sadly wrong with her life that she had no one who loved her? No one who wanted
to keep her safe? Provide her a home filled with children and love?

Home
was
the penthouse floor of the Ambassador in D.C.
—
sterile, clinical
—lonely. She’d gladly take those
lonely, clinical rooms right now, but she’d only made it to the fourteenth
floor.

“What the hell was Molly Westcott doing on the fourteenth
floor? Alone?”

Where were the Secret Service Agents who were supposed to
make damn certain nothing happened to a member of the first family? The men in
dark suits and darker sunglasses who were supposed to protect the president and
his family?

“Oh, crap…
where’
s
the president?” Jayla drew a deep breath and tried to collect her wits, tried
to recall exactly what she’d seen and heard, but it was all a jumble in her
head, obliterated by the muffled coughs of the two gun shots and the blood.

Two
shots?

Shit. Yes. There were two shots.

But Molly had been shot only once, one kill shot to the
head. The thought jumbled around in her head.
Two shots?
Yes. She was absolutely certain she’d heard two shots
before Molly was slain.

Had someone else been shot?

Or had Kane missed with his first blast?

Had he shot at
her
and missed? No. No way. She’d been an easy target. If Kane had taken a shot at
her, she’d be congealing right there on the cold floor next to Molly. So who
else had been there in the corridor besides Kane?

Who?

The only answer that made sense was the president. It had
to have been. Yet she couldn’t wrap her mind around such a devastating thought.
She must be wrong. Surely, she was wrong.

Jayla frowned. Recalling distinguishable sounds mingled
with the horror she’d felt when Molly was shot. A man’s pain filled shout.
She’d heard his muffled bark over Molly’s terrified,
‘Punch the button!’
What had he said? Run? Yes. He’d yelled, run.

Jesus
—
the
president?
Her thoughts had made a full circle and brought her back to the only one that
made sense. What if he was on the floor, there in the corridor lying in a
puddle of blood? Maybe John and Molly had slipped away from the agent
s
for a little
—
yeah
—
a
little—
that worked. After all, they were husband and wife. They’d
pretty much lived in a fish bowl for the last two years. Maybe they’d needed
quality time alone?

But no, that couldn’t be.

Molly was supposed to be hosting a dinner party right at
the moment she died. So why hadn’t the first lady been at the White House
performing her political duties, smiling, greeting foreign dignitaries, playing
hostess to her big dinner affair, and kissing ass?

Jayla shifted into third gear and spu
n
the sporty red Mustang with the souped-up Roush engine off the exit ramp of the
Georgetown Pike near McLean. The powerful, streamlined ragtop convertible shot
like a bullet up Dolley Madison Boulevard
—
in
the wrong freakin’ direction.

“Damn it!” Frustrated that she’d not only overshot her
exit, but taken the wrong one, Jayla banged the steering wheel with a clenched
fist and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Please don’t let me get caught.
Please let whatever cop’s on duty be somewhere choking down donuts and slurping
coffee.”

With that plea, she spun the wheel and shot across the
median. She ignored the fact the car fishtailed and flung mud and dead grass in
all directions. She’d already avoided death once this night, what was a little
fishtailing compared to facing a friggin’ bullet?

Thankful for the seatbelt that held her securely, she
whipped the wheel to her right. The honey of a car turned on a dime, and she
was back on pavement. The tires squealed, but clung to the wet asphalt like a
leech on a fresh wound.

Jayla punched the gas and shot down the street in the
right direction.

Giving a sigh of relief, she hooked a left onto the final
stretch. Immediately the CIA buildings, surrounded by the two-hundred-fifty
acres they resided upon, popped into view. Eyeing the green light ahead of her,
she prayed it didn’t change before she reached it.

“One more block, I’ll be safe.”
One more block, no one will dare attack
me,
shoot me, kidnap me, or
attempt to murder me.

“God!” She tapped the brake, slowing for the light ahead.
Hell, it was Murphy’s Law. If she continued speeding, the light would change at
the last possible second. Yep. Sure enough, it jumped from green to red in a
single heartbeat.

Green. Yellow. Red. Freakin’ red! It glowed like a neon
sign in the dark, reminding her of the crimson stains that had spattered the
elevator walls, pooled on the floor, stained the front of her suit and
splattered her face and hair.

Jayla swore and hit the brake hard. The car rocked to a
sudden halt in the nick of time. She could have run the red light, but again,
Murphy’s Law applied. Sure as shit, if she sped through it, the cop she hoped
was somewhere downing donuts and coffee would be right here, parked alongside
some damn buildin
g
—
a
ticket-happy patrol officer itching to pull out his pad and write the big one.