Silence came across the line for several heartbeats before Tom spoke. “I understand. But promise me, if you need help, you’ll call me. Immediately.”
“I promise.”
“Fair enough. I’ll try and swing by your office tomorrow to say hi. Night.” Tom hung up.
Josie slid her cell phone onto the night table and turned off the bedside lamp. She yawned. Yet her mind swirled. Was Tom right? Was she some victim caught in domestic disaster? Shane had earned her trust and then deserted her. He’d known all about her past and what abandoning her would do—and yet he’d left anyway. Was she weak in allowing him in her house?
Memories, ideas, possibilities whipped through her brain for an hour. Exhaustion pulled at her, though her mind took half the night to finally wind down. As she slipped into a shallow sleep, odd dreams in which she was lost in unfamiliar forests prodded her into wakefulness around dawn.
A low growl rumbled through the bedroom wall. Josie sat up, her heart pounding. Shane. He was hurt. The man had refused even over-the-counter medication before bed. She reached for the knife on her nightstand.
Her bare feet pattered across the wooden floor as she hurried into his bedroom. He lay on his stomach, tanned arm outstretched, covers pushed to his bare waist. Such a broad, masculine back, showcasing a life of battle. Scars, some quite old, testified he’d seen pain before. The dark tattoo covered his left shoulder, the graceful lines creating a tough-looking Chinese character.
Freedom.
He moaned low.
She stepped lightly, leaning over to pat his heated back. “Shane. Are you okay?”
Swifter than sound, he pinned her under his hard body, his hand at her throat. He pressed into her, his mouth near her ear. “Not this time. I told you never again—no more training like this.”
Josie struggled. Training? “Shane. I can’t breathe.”
He stilled. His eyes flashed open. “Josie?” The hand on her throat loosened. He shook his head, eyes focusing. The darkness failed to hide the still-fresh bruises that mottled his face. “What are you doing here?”
“You cried out.” She blinked back tears. Who moved that fast? “I thought your head was hurting you.”
“It is now.” He hardened against her, settling between her legs. The sweats failed to mask his sudden erection. Shadows danced across his angled face, making him both handsome and mysterious. His deep voice roughened to an almost guttural tone. “You want to take the hurt away, baby?”
Need flashed through her on the heels of apprehension. Instinct kicked in. “You’re scaring me, Shane.”
He instantly rolled over, releasing her. She hated that about him. Always had. He was so easy to manipulate with weakness, with fear or softness. But try to meet him head to head, and he ran right over her. Without causing a bruise. Apparently the real Shane was returning. “God, you piss me off.”
“I’m sorry I scared you.” He raked both hands over his face.
She wouldn’t scream. Not a chance. Levering up, she leaped onto his stomach, her knee pressed precariously close to his balls, the knife at his throat. “Now who’s scared?”
Soft light filtered in, making his eyes glow in the near-darkness. His entire body stiffened below hers. Ready to fight. “What do you think you’re doing, angel?” Warning melded with curiosity in his tone.
“You don’t know me, you moron.” She tightened her grip on the handle. “Maybe I did hire those men in the morgue. I could’ve been the one to injure you. To put you in the hospital and take your memories.” Her knee inched closer to his boys. Just once, she needed to see the real man behind the calm mask. “Yet you trust. So easily. Why?”
“Because you’re half my size and look like an angel.”
“That’s fucking stupid.” One swift move and she could sever his jugular. A move he’d taught her so long ago. “If you have a blind spot, Shane, it’s for women who look soft. I don’t know why.”
He frowned. No concern filtered in his eyes from her threat, so she pressed her knee up. His sharp intake of breath made her smile.
“Josie, move your leg away from my balls and get off me. Now.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll forget you’re soft and teach you a lesson.” The Southern drawl escaped, though his tone remained calm.
Finally. His façade was cracking. “Bring it on, asswipe.”
She flew into the air.
Her yelp echoed around the room. He’d levered his feet and tossed her up without moving his arms. Strong hands flipped her around on her flight down. She found her back pressed to his front, the knife at her jugular. Heat enfolded her. His broad hand in her hair tugged her head to the side, exposing her neck to the cool night air. “Asswipe?”
Both her elbows shot back into his gut. Her wrists were quickly secured by one of his hands at the small of her back.
“Did I ever tie you up, darlin’?”
Desire shot through her like a shot of hard whiskey. “No.” She tried to move, to tug her wrists free.
“Too bad. Restraining you excites me.” His head dropped and his mouth engulfed her collarbone. The knife clattered to the floor. “If you don’t want gentle, you should’ve said so.” He flipped her around, and his lips crushed down on hers.
She didn’t want gentle. She wanted Shane—all of him. Her nails bit into his chest while a moan filtered up her throat. Finally. Oh, she’d worn bruises after a particularly passionate and athletic night during their marriage, and they were well worth it. But something new had just sprung free. She sensed it. A wildness in Shane, something he normally trapped and kept veiled. Somehow, finally, it roared.
His mouth locked on hers. No gentleness. No softness. Just pure, raw lust.
She stretched up on her tiptoes, cradling his cock between her legs. Oh God. She wanted.
He stilled.
No. She clutched him closer.
A rustle sounded outside the window, and a scrape echoed from within the house.
He stepped back, grabbing her arms, his head turning toward the door. “Do you have a gun, angel?”
A gun? She gulped in air. What?
He shook her. “Gun. Where is it?”
“Um, I left it in the glove box in my car.” Fear slid through the desire.
Glass shattered. Something clattered across the floor. “Fuck.” Shane threw her onto the bed and rolled to the other side, yanking the mattress on top of them as they hit the floor. A bang echoed.
What? Smoke filled the space. Static. Her mind fuzzed. Her vision blurred. She reached out for Shane, for safety. Gone. Where was he?
Male grunts echoed. Flesh hitting flesh. She pushed the mattress away, grabbing the night table and pulling herself to her knees. Smoke hazed her vision. A ringing filled her ears. Smoke swirled around her.
A grunt pulled her attention from the smoke. Shane battled with a man in all black, fists flying, hands grabbing, bodies struggling. Shane’s knife flashed, wicked and sharp.
Blood sprayed. The attacker dropped to the ground, his eyes wide-open in death. Shane turned to fight another man.
Her hands spread out over the smooth bedside table. The phone. She grabbed it, squinting to dial the numbers. A roaring filled her head. She dialed 911, dropping the phone just as a voice echoed over the line.
Male voices bellowed behind her. Where was she?
Darkness fell across her vision. She lost her hold on the furniture, plunging toward the soft rug. Then, nothing.
Pain exploded across Shane’s cheek as the second man landed a punch. Flashes sparked behind his eyes. Memories. Noise, fighting, brutal and deadly.
He dropped to one knee, next to the man he’d just killed. The knife was kicked out of his hand to go spinning under the bed. Explosions ripped through his brain. A firefight in Asia. A training field with the dead littering the ground. Flashes of moments in time. Blurry, loud, confusing, the thoughts hit him harder than the bastard throwing punches.
Something ripped through his ear canal. Sounds… so many, so harsh, flooded his senses. Sounds beyond the normal. A car honked miles away. Cats hissed in a fight four neighborhoods over. Memories of other cars, other animals, tumbled through his mind.
Shane tried to yank his attention to the present, blocking his face from the worst of the hits. His limbs seemed weighted down with huge blocks.
A memory slammed him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Jory. Pain. Gone.
Glass crunched as a third man jumped through the window.
Shane caught a glimmer of gold from the corner of his eye. Josie’s hair. Her pretty eyes fluttered closed, and she dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Time stopped. All pain receded. Focus shot through him like an electrical current. He calmed. One thing mattered, only one.
Protecting his woman.
He leapt up, both legs flying to encircle the hitter’s throat. Twisting his knees, Shane cut off the guy’s air supply as they fell to the ground. He didn’t feel the jarring impact. An elbow to the temple knocked the intruder out cold. Rolling, Shane released him and flipped backward to his feet.
No questions, no concerns, nothing existed but the threat in front of him. The third man yanked a Sharkman Fixed-Blade out from behind his back. He stood about six foot, packed hard, with dead brown eyes.
“As combat knives go, that’s a good choice.” Shane said. How could he identify the kind of knife but not know his middle name? “Though I prefer the Black Frog.”
The guy smiled, showing a gold tooth. “That’s a good one, too.”
Shane angled to the side, keeping his body between Josie and the weapon. “Leave and I won’t kill you.” Probably not a true statement. He could think of twenty different ways to kill the guy without moving his feet from their current position. The blood flowing through the guy’s veins made a soft sound. One Shane shouldn’t be able to hear. He’d worry about that knowledge later. Right now, his focus was absolute.
The guy lunged.
Shane pivoted, slamming the heel of his hand against the man’s wrist and smoothly stealing the knife. Two steps forward, and he plunged the knife into the side of the guy’s jugular. Following his prey to the ground, he used both hands to slice open the man’s neck, fighting against cartilage and bone. Knowledge slammed into him that, although difficult, the task was easier than it should’ve been. His strength wasn’t normal, either.
Sirens trilled in the distance.
He stilled, glancing at the phone on the floor. Josie had dialed 911.
The blood rushed through his ears as he took in the bloody scene. He’d killed two men and knocked one out. Something whispered in the back of his head that he should take care of the unconscious man. Kill him so he couldn’t seek revenge.
Shane tried to take a deep breath and regretted it as the stench of death filled his lungs. God, who the hell was he? Why could he do such amazing things? None of the memories flashing back were good—none showed a decent life. His head pounded, and his gut clenched tighter than his fists. His bloody fists.
But instinct ordered him to take out the last man for good. So he stood and took a step toward the prone figure.
Josie groaned.
He stopped cold.
For the first time that night, his hands began to tremble. His angel lay on the floor surrounded by death and blood. What kind of a monster was he?
He’d left her, and now he’d brought danger to her door. Her distrust of him had ticked him off earlier, but now he had to acknowledge that her instincts were probably good. This time. Shame filled him that he’d left her alone. Why? Those memories had to come back.
Small, she lay curled on her side, delicate features so pale. He had to get her out of there. Grabbing a pillowcase, he quickly wiped blood off his face and hands, tossing the material onto the floor. Leaning over, he reached down to gently pick her up.
Two cops met him in the hallway, young and earnest, guns aimed at him.
Fire zapped along his vertebrae. Absolute calm followed. Moves to disable them, to kill them, ran through his brain so fast his shoulders tensed.
Josie stirred in his arms.
The closest cop settled his stance, his gun aimed at Shane’s head. “Put her down.” The kid had to be about twenty.
Shane took a deep breath. “No.”
The cop’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t want to shoot you, man.” His hand wavered just enough to increase Shane’s heart rate.
Shane leaned against the wall in case he needed to balance and kick out. “Call Detective Malloy. He knows what’s going on. Tell him someone broke into Josie Dean’s place.”
The other cop, just as young as the first, tilted his head and spoke into the radio strapped to his shoulder. He listened and then straightened up. “Malloy already heard the call—he’s on the way. And he sounds… pissed.”
“Yeah, I assume so.” Shane pivoted, fighting every instinct he owned so he could turn his back on the guns. “I’m putting my wife in her room. Feel free to follow me, but if you point the gun in her direction again, I’m taking it away from you.”
Not by one whit did he doubt he could do it. So many different ways to disarm the cops flashed through his head, his skull began to ache. Memories of fights, of stripping away weapons, of his killing people, ripped through his mind.
Whoever or whatever he was… there was no way he was the good guy.
Pity.
* * *
Men’s voices awakened Josie. She opened her eyes, keeping her body motionless in self-protection. A trick she’d learned from the foster parent who hit.
One voice filtered through the rest. Shane. Safety.
She sat up on her bed. “What in the world?”
Shane grabbed her hand from his perch next to her. How did they get back into her room? His gaze ran over her face. So serious. So pissed.
She fought a shiver. “What—”
“Flash grenade,” he muttered, wiping blood off his forehead with the back of his free hand. A cut splayed open above his left eye, and fresh bruises mingled with the yellowing ones already on his strong face and down his bare torso. He’d somehow donned jeans.
How many bruises could one body take?
Early sunshine glinted off the sparkling wooden floor. Cops in uniform strode by in the hallway, placing markers, taking pictures. Muted voices came from the guest room. A figure pushed off from the wall, his deep brown eyes bloodshot. “Mrs. Dean.”