Chapter 8
Dawn’s grayish light filteredthrough the blinds as Essie woke with a start. She had no idea what disrupted her slumber, but her eyes were wide open now. In a matter of seconds, the fog of sleep lifted, and the full weight of yesterday’s events came crashing into her thoughts like a cinder block through a plate-glass window. Petrov. Vaughn. The stitches in her abdomen.
Jackson carrying her to bed.
That last part shouldn’t have made her pulse skip, but it did, damn it.
Searching for a distraction, she took stock of the dimly lit room. It reminded her of the bedroom in the off-base apartment that she and Jackson had once called home. Pale walls met hardwood floors, while the king-sized bed occupied most of the space, and a dresser took a spot below the wall-mounted television. The only personal touch was a photo on the nightstand of her and Jackson, taken during that weekend in Key West a few months before their marriage imploded. Sitting in the bar, with a drink in her hand and Jackson’s arm around her waist while they waited for the waitress to snap the picture, was one of the last times she’d truly felt happy.
In a rare show of weakness, she drew a deep breath and relished the remnants of Jackson’s scent that lingered in his sheets and pillow. This all felt so familiar. Too familiar. In happier times, she’d treasured this blissful part of the morning, when the problems of the day hadn’t weighed down her shoulders, and she could enjoy a few perfect moments of peace.
Too bad that time was long past.
With a sigh of reluctance, Essie slipped out of bed, teeth gritted at the throb of pain where Vaughn had come close to killing her. Her fingers skimmed over the bandage covering her stitches. Of all the stupid rookie mistakes. She knew better than to trust a man who doled out death for a living. If the blade had gone a couple of inches deeper, she would have spent the night in a refrigerated drawer with a tag attached to her toe.
She couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice.
Restless and edgy, she crossed to the window and peered through the blinds, searching for signs of danger. Not out of necessity, but because some habits refused to die, regardless of her level of safety.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous. You’re safe here.”
She’d sensed Jackson’s presence a second or two before he spoke. “I wasn’t worried about that.” At least not yet, but once Vaughn figured out where she’d gone, all bets were off. And he would find out. It was only a matter of time, which meant she needed to leave soon.
Essie turned toward the sound of his voice, and the sight of Jackson in black cargo pants and a chest-hugging shirt gave her all kinds of bad ideas she’d regret if she acted on them. It would be so easy to give in to the urge, but she knew that would only lead to more heartache for both of them. “Vaughn’s not going to stop until he fulfills that contract. I need to find Petrov before he does.”
If he hadn’t found her already. God only knew what the bastard had been up to since their confrontation in her apartment.
“I can help.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but you’ve already done enough. This is my mess—I’ll clean it up.”
A search of the room found her shoes at the foot of the bed, and she quickly slid them on. Her phone was on top of the dresser, but her keys were nowhere to be found.
Another glance through the blinds confirmed her suspicion, and she mentally smacked herself for not noticing it earlier.
“Where’s my car?”
“You mean that Taurus you boosted? Navarre’s bringing it back to where you said you got it. Then he’ll pick up your car, check it for bugs, and bring it to the house.”
Her stomach sank. “My bag was in the back seat.”
“Not anymore. It’s on the floor by the couch.”
Relief went through her. “Oh. Good. Thank you.”
She supposed she should be grateful for Navarre’s help, but part of her really hated the idea of owing him. Actually, she hated owing anything to anybody, because people had a habit of calling in favors at the most inopportune time. But she especially hated owing a man with whom she was locked in a mutually antagonistic relationship. She might have to actually be nice to the big jerk, and how horrifying was that?
“While we wait, how about I make us some breakfast?” Jackson suggested. “You still like ham and mushrooms in your omelet, right?”
Before she could tell him not to bother, he walked out of the room and headed for the kitchen, leaving her no choice but to follow, the oversized T-shirt swishing around her thighs with every step. “You don’t have to do that. I can grab something to eat when I get home.”
Her stomach chose that moment to growl, and she cursed her traitorous body. To be fair, she hadn’t eaten in more than twelve hours, and her body needed fuel.
“Ain’t no trouble at all. You know how much I like to cook.” Jackson tossed a grin over his shoulder.
He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the memory of how that scruff felt against her skin cranked up her internal thermostat.
“How many eggs do you want in your omelet, two or three?”
