Find Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 3) Page 9

  “Special adviser to the president?”

  “Yes. He said his name was Kade Dennon. He told me I had to find Clark and turn him over.”

  “Turn him over to him?”

  I nodded.

  “Why him? Why not the Secret Service?”

  I swallowed. “I, um, kind of got the impression that Clark wouldn’t be having his day in court, if you know what I mean. That guy meant business, and not the kind that involved due process and defense attorneys.”

  “He can’t do that,” Jackson argued. “I don’t care what kind of special adviser he is.”

  “That wasn’t the worst part.” I took a deep breath. “He also implied that I might be a part of Clark’s plans. To prove my innocence, I have to turn Clark over. I mean, if I can find him,” I added.

  “If he’s on the run, then the likelihood of us being able to catch him when all the powers of the US government are also searching for him is between slim and none,” he said. “How can you be sure he didn’t do it?”

  I gave him a look. “You can’t be serious. I know Clark isn’t your favorite person, but something like that is utterly out of character for him. Surely you know that.”

  He shrugged. “Who knows why anyone does anything? People change, and he may have motives you know nothing about. But it doesn’t matter. We need to find the real person behind it if we’re going to clear your name.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” I asked.

  Now it was his turn to give me a look. “They want to put my fiancée in jail,” he said. “That’s not going to happen. They’ve shut you out of Vigilance, so the best resource you have is me. Between the two of us, we can find out what they have on Clark and counteract it. If he didn’t do it, someone else did, obviously.”

  “You’re friends with the president. How is he?”

  “Friends might be pushing it,” Jackson said, taking my hand and leading me from the office. “But from what I’ve been able to find out, the news is correct. He’ll be all right. The bullet cracked a couple ribs, but the ricochet didn’t hit anything vital. He’s very lucky. He’s also a tough son of a bitch. Used to be a SEAL, you know. He’s no stranger to bullets.”

  I followed him toward the kitchen, guilt dogging me. I was keeping so much from Jackson. It wasn’t something I was used to doing. I didn’t like secrets and wasn’t a good liar, which was why I tried to avoid answering direct questions.

  Jackson still held my hand, and his thumb brushed over the ring I wore. “You know, you probably think I didn’t notice that you never actually answered my question.”

  I stiffened. Emotional territory instead of facts and logic and a plan—it was riddled with land mines. “Events precluded my being able to give adequate attention to your . . . proposal. You had obviously put a lot of time and thought into the evening.”

  He was still looking at the sparkling diamond. “I’ve never proposed to a woman before. I was quite nervous.” Finally, he looked up. “I still am, China.”

  My smile was too wide. “Why would you be nervous? Early wedding jitters?” My laugh was too forced. It wasn’t a surprise when Jackson didn’t even crack a smile.

  His eyes were a warm, honey brown that glittered in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. They were solemn, though, and he moved closer to me. He took my other hand in his, too.

  “China,” he said, and it was hardly more than a rasp of sound, “will you marry me?”

  I looked at him, really looked. He had the same expression that Mia had had when she’d asked if she could live with me. Hopeful, but afraid at the same time. Was he afraid of the embarrassment if I turned him down? Or did he fear something else?

  “What are you afraid of?”

  His gaze searched mine. “Being without you.”

  And I melted. I mean, not literally, that would be impossible. And painful. But in the Harlequin meaning of the word.

  “Yes,” I said, reached up to cradle his cheek in my hand. His skin was smooth and soft from shaving this morning. “Yes. I will marry you.”

  Jackson’s eyes were suddenly much shinier than usual, and he smiled. He took my face in his hands and pressed his lips to mine.

  It was a Moment. Even I could recognize that this was something that didn’t come along every day: the moment Jackson and I decided to spend the rest of our lives together. I memorized the feel of his kiss, the warmth of the sun against the back of my neck, the scent of Jackson’s aftershave mixed with the heavy aroma of coffee and citrus in the kitchen.

  When he lifted his head, neither of us spoke. I found my eyes were wet, too. My hand was still on his cheek and he held my face in his palms.

  My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I ignored it. It buzzed again.

  “You should get that,” he said, taking a step back. He turned away to reach for coffee mugs in the cabinet while I grabbed for my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t say my name,” Clark warned.

  I cursed inside my head, turning toward the windows so Jackson wouldn’t see my face. “What do you want?”

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “It’s hard to miss.” I glanced toward Jackson, but he seemed busy with the coffee.

  “I got a lead on who might be setting me up,” he said. “We’re supposed to meet today.”

  “How do you know it’s not a trap?”

  “I don’t.”

  My eyes slipped closed. Damn it. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  I didn’t. Still, “Where is this meet?”

  He snorted. “Like I’m going to tell you. I don’t need you sticking your neck out for me anymore. You’ve done enough.”

  My hand tightened on the phone. That sounded a lot like a precursor to a goodbye.

  “So,” he continued, “I guess I just wanted to say . . . thank you. And about last night—”

  “It’s fine,” I cut him off through lips gone numb. I’d been right. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” And I really didn’t want a rehash of that disastrous kiss, not with Jackson standing not ten feet away.

  “That or die trying,” he joked, which fell flat. When I didn’t respond, he said, “Gotta go. Catch you later, Mack.”

  “Wait—” But he’d already gone.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I hissed under my breath, angrily shoving my phone back into my pocket.

  “What’s going on?”

  I squeaked and jumped. Jackson was right behind me. His smile was crooked as he observed my antics, then handed me a cup of coffee. Since I’d taught him how to make it correctly, it was perfect.

  “Oh, just work problems,” I said, shifting my eyes away at the lie.

  “Can you talk about it?” he asked.

  “Not really.” Jackson had always been pretty good about accepting when I couldn’t discuss things with my job, and it went both ways. Much of what Cysnet was involved in was also classified or proprietary, so work usually wasn’t our first topic of discussion. But his easy acceptance now only made my guilt ratchet higher.

  I remembered what Granny had said, that he didn’t need to know. Clark was leaving again, so it wasn’t as though there would be a repeat. Of course, that’s what I’d told myself last time . . .

  “Let’s celebrate our engagement,” Jackson said. “Retread is calling your name.”

  It took me a second to realize he wasn’t being literal. Retread was my favorite store, and stores obviously couldn’t speak. “An idiom,” I said. He grinned.

  “I hear they had a whole new stack of used Harlequins come in. You know, for Granny.” His smile grew wider and he winked.

  “Good,” I said, ignoring him. “She’ll love that.” And if I read a few of them before shipping them off to Florida, then I was just getting my money’s worth. Going to Retread was normal and routine for my Saturday schedule. Routine was good, especially when I was powerless to help Clark. Plus, if I didn’t go, Jackson would kn
ow something was wrong.

  “I have something else to show you,” he said. “Follow me.”

  We went out to his garage, which was big enough to house ten cars. Jackson had thought it was “cool” that I had a thing for cars—something I picked up so I had a topic of conversation with my dad and brothers—and recently he’d taken me shopping for a new Jaguar. He’d let me pick out all the bells and whistles and ordered it.

  “Look what came,” he said, flicking on the lights.

  I squealed in delight. “It’s here!” I clasped my hands in glee, wanting to jump up and down. I ran over to it, lovingly running a hand over the curves of the hood.

  “Jaguar F-Type SVR Coupe 5.0 all-wheel drive, supercharged, with five hundred seventy-five horsepower under the hood. Can go zero to sixty in three point five seconds, with a top speed of two hundred miles per hour. Exterior color of Firesand, with a panoramic glass roof and no rear spoiler because it would slow down the top speed by fourteen miles per hour.”

  Jackson dangled the key fob in front of me. “All yours. Consider it an engagement gift.”

  There was nothing like the promise of speed and power under the hood to turn me on. I pushed thoughts of Clark aside. Jackson was right. Today was special, and I’d been having all the feels, as Mia would say, before he’d called.

  Taking a fistful of Jackson’s shirt in my hand, I pulled his head down for a kiss. A deep, I-want-you-here-and-now kind of kiss that had him backing me up against the side of the car.

  “Let’s christen it,” I whispered against his lips.

  He needed no persuading. Still kissing me, he undid the button and zipper on my jeans and shoved the denim down my legs. Locking his hands on my waist, he lifted me up to sit me on the hood of the car, my legs dangling between the front wheel and the driver-side door. Toeing off my shoes, I kicked my jeans aside. The metal was cold underneath my thighs, but it didn’t bother me one little bit.

  I went to work on his belt and the fastening to his slacks. His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, then my neck. Wedging himself between my knees, he pushed apart my thighs and touched between my legs.

  I sucked in a breath, losing track of where I was regarding the status of his zipper.

  Jackson had pianist’s fingers . . . on the thin side, but long. He made up for this by using two at a time.

  I clutched at his shoulders and gasped. “Oh God,” I moaned. “You looked at that article I sent you, didn’t you?” His fingers bent, sliding and stroking inside me.

  “You mean the article on the 3-D clitoris?”

  Speech was beyond me, so I just jerked my head in a nod.

  “It was very informative,” he said, pressing a kiss to my neck. His fingers moved deeper and faster. “And knowledge is power, right?”

  I moaned again, it ending in more of a mewling sound than a proper moan. I think it even echoed in the garage, not that I cared.

  My orgasm was quick and powerful, making me send even more echoes off the walls. Then I went to work getting to the part of Jackson I wanted most at the moment.

  “You know, some might think you want me just for my cock,” he teased as I shoved his slacks down his hips, freeing his thick erection. My mouth watered at the sight.

  “Not true,” I said, brushing my thumb gently over the tip. I was gratified at the sound of him sucking in a breath between his teeth. “I’m quite fond of Mr. Happy’s life-support system.”

  It took him a second to catch on, then he laughed. Our lips met on a smile, which is one of the best ways to start a kiss.

  Bending my knees to plant my feet on the hood, I leaned back on my elbows, then cocked an eyebrow at Jackson.

  “Do you need an invitation?”

  “I think your body language is invitation enough.”

  He guided himself into me while I watched. It was an erotic sight, especially given our location. After years of seeing bikini-clad models posing on cars, I felt like I was in their same league. Screwing a really hot guy on the hood of an equally hot car.

  Jackson held my hips and was quick, thank goodness, because after the orgasm and heat of the moment had passed, the metal was darn uncomfortable and verging on slippery. And what wasn’t slippery was skin stuck in a not-so-good way.

  His breath in my ear was a good sound, and I smiled as I crossed my ankles behind his back.

  “Best new car ever,” he said, pressing a kiss to my mouth.

  “Ditto.”

  We put ourselves to rights, adjusting clothes, and I hopped on one foot then the other as I pulled on my tennis shoes.

  “Do I get to drive?” I asked, redoing my ponytail.

  “Of course.” He tossed the key fob to me, and I slid into the driver’s seat. I immediately grumbled about how far I had to move up the seat and raise it, but eventually I was situated.

  “Buckle your seat belt,” I said. “Time for me to give you a ride.” Sex joke! Ha ha ha.

  Buddy, the owner of Retread, greeted us when we walked in. The musty smell of attic and basement that clung to the items filling every nook and cranny of his store assailed me. It was a comforting smell. I’d visited this place every weekend since I’d discovered it upon moving to Raleigh.

  “Got anything new for me?” I asked, pushing my glasses up my nose.

  “Yeah. Uma dropped by a whole trash bag full of paperback romances.” He jerked a thumb. “Over there.”

  “Uma?” Jackson asked me as I headed in that direction.

  “Oh. She’s this little old lady who looks like what Uma Thurman will look like in forty years. We call her Uma.”

  “Does she know this?”

  I paused, glancing up at him with a frown. “I don’t think so. Do you think we should tell her?” It was only then that I caught the twitch of his lips. “Oh. You were joking.”

  He touched his nose with his index finger and winked. “You’re getting better.”

  I pawed through the latest in paperback drop-offs while Jackson drifted through the store. It was empty of any other patrons, and I never knew how Buddy stayed in business. My personal theory was that his family was independently wealthy and let him pursue his hobby without requiring it to turn a profit.

  I had an armful of books when I found Jackson in a neglected alcove, holding a metal lunch box.

  “What did you find?” I asked, peering over my stack.

  “A Buck Rogers lunchbox,” he said, showing me. “I had one of these in kindergarten. I loved that show.”

  “Who didn’t? Twinkie was awesome.”

  He popped it open. “Look, it even still has the thermos.”

  There was such little-boy delight in his voice, I couldn’t help smiling. “Okay, since you got me the Jag, I guess I can buy you the lunch box.”

  We ended up leaving with more than two dozen dog-eared romances plus the lunch box. I was already eyeing one called Falling for the Highlander, with a bare-chested kilt-clad hot guy on the cover. I had a thing for the Highlander men and had watched Outlander season one at least half a dozen times.

  After we’d stored our purchases in the trunk and I slid behind the wheel, something caught my eye.

  “Jackson, what’s that?”

  We both looked at the metal talisman, hanging from the rearview mirror. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before.

  Jackson reached out, slowly removing the object from where it hung. I scrutinized the symbol.

  “That . . . isn’t that a Roman numeral?” I asked. It looked like the number two, with two vertical lines and two horizontal, one above and one below.

  “Yeah, it kind of looks like that,” Jackson said, turning it over in his hand. His face was pale, which alarmed me.

  “Jackson? Are you okay? What is that?” But he just shook his head.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Someone playing a prank, that’s all.” He smiled, but it seemed forced even to my untrained eye. “Let’s go.”

  “I didn’t leave the doors unlocked,” I persisted. “And w
ho would possibly play a prank like that?”

  “Drop it,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Okay. Red-flag warning. “Jackson—”

  “I said, drop it.”

  I almost didn’t, but Jackson’s lips were pressed tightly closed, and he was looking out the window now, the talisman clenched tightly in his fist.

  “Fine,” I muttered, backing out of the parking space. I started home, but after a couple of miles, Jackson spoke.

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  I automatically glanced up in the rearview mirror. There was a big pickup, an F-150, right on our tail. As I watched, it inched closer, then put on a burst of speed, slamming the Jag in the bumper.

  The wheel jerked and I struggled to keep control. Then we were hit again.

  “Get away from him,” Jackson said, twisting around to look out the window behind us.

  There was an exit ahead. I hit the accelerator.

  While the Jag might have been able to go from zero to sixty in three point five seconds, I didn’t go that fast, not least of which because I didn’t want to black out from the g-forces.

  The engine purred, growling like its namesake. The tires gripped the pavement as the trees on the side of the road flashed by in streaks of brown and green.

  “Did he follow us?” I asked.

  “Yes, but you’re losing him. Keep going.”

  I accelerated coming out of the next curve, gaining more speed, then tapped the brakes as another curve came up.

  Nothing happened.

  I pressed the brakes again. Still nothing.

  “Jackson,” I said, trying to remain calm.

  “Yeah?”

  “Um, well, there’s no easy way to say this. The brakes are out.”

  I saw his head swivel my direction, but I kept my eyes on the road. We were going more than a hundred miles per hour with no brakes. I didn’t dare look away.

  “Okay, well, lay off the gas,” he said.

  “I’m not pressing the gas,” I gritted out. “But we’re going downhill.” The car was going faster and faster. I didn’t dare try to downshift, not knowing how badly the transmission would react.

  There were cars ahead, including a semi in the passing lane, and we were coming up on them fast.