Fever Page 3

  “Where to, boss?” Taz grinned over his shoulder as he turned onto the freeway. “We can dump her somewhere off Highway Five. That’ll give you time to get your fill. Don’t worry, I won’t look.” He laughed. “Much, anyway.”

  Teague rubbed a hand over his face. For the love of God, that was the very last thing he needed to be thinking about. Even an impromptu sprint and a cracked cheekbone hadn’t cooled him down.

  He cast a look at Hannah to gauge her reaction to the threat. She tossed her head to get the messy strands out of her eyes and watched him with a look that clearly said, “try it and I’ll kick your teeth in.” How could such a small woman, handcuffed and gagged, look so ... formidable? Why couldn’t she have turned out to be Luke’s typical fragile-flower type?

  Maybe, after two years of living without Keira, Luke had finally realized his mistake. Maybe he’d pulled his head out of his ass—at least in one area of his life—and was reverting back to the type of woman he belonged with.

  Stupid thought. Luke wasn’t that evolved.

  The girl’s hands lifted toward her face, distracting Teague from his thoughts. He pointed at her with one rigid finger. “Don’t touch that tape.”

  Without taking her eyes off him, she ran her fingers over the newly healed skin of her neck. The I’ll-kick-your-teeth-in expression transitioned into what the fuck? Teague knew what came next: You’re a freak. He’d seen it before, and he didn’t want to see it again.

  He turned away and watched the streets flash by his window. Dusk came early to the city with the sun falling behind skyscrapers. Funny, he didn’t feel any different. He didn’t feel free. Probably because he was still a long way from what any sane man would consider free.

  “Just stick with the original plan for now,” Teague said. “Turn on the radio to the local news and head for the Bay Bridge. Is the money in the glove box?”

  “Yep.” Taz held up a wad of folded bills two inches thick.

  “And the clothes?” Teague scooted forward to look in the front seat.

  Taz lifted the brown grocery bag with a C scribbled on the outside, and tossed it to Teague. “That’s yours.”

  Teague nearly drooled as he rummaged through the contents. Brand new Levi’s, crisp T-shirts with cool logos like NASCAR, Harley Davidson, Hurley and Volcom. Packages of boxer briefs, snow-white socks and lightweight suede work boots. “I never thought I’d get so excited over clothes.”

  At the bottom, Teague felt plastic and pulled out a Ziploc baggie filled with toiletries: soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, razors and ... condoms. Lots of condoms.

  He cast a sidelong look at Hannah. She was inspecting the cuffs on her wrists. Probably trying to figure a way out of them. Teague had spent his three years in prison honing his abilities in an effort to bend metal with hopes of getting out of those irons. The closest he’d gotten was transference, the kind that had burned Hannah. Useless and pathetic.

  But he was glad she was preoccupied now, because it gave him a moment to shove the bag back beneath the clothes and try to clear his head. ’Cause what filled his brain when he looked at those condoms was clear all right. Crystal clear.

  A pristine fantasy of him lying naked in the middle of a big, comfortable bed with her equally as naked, straddling his lap with a sexy smile on that beautiful face instead of that perpetual scowl. Her hair fell forward over her shoulders as she split the foil condom wrapper with her teeth. Popped the latex securely between those full lips. Rolled it over his extended length with her mouth. Seated it in place with a suction that made his hands clench the sheets and his body arc off the mattress. Molded it to every rib of his dick with mercilessly confident strokes of those long, lean fingers before taking him deep inside her body and riding them both into ripping ecstasy.

  Blistering lust hit him square in the solar plexus and spread to his groin, where his blood ran hot. His eyes fell closed. He dropped his chin to his chest. The universe was against him. That had to be it.

  Sweat slid down his cheek, slipped off his jaw and hit the back of his hand. The irritation dragged him back to the second-to-last place he ever wanted to be. This was a fucking nightmare. He had a hard-on for a woman who was sleeping with a man who’d once been Teague’s best friend. A man who’d once been someone Teague would have died to protect. A man who’d ultimately betrayed Teague in the worst possible way.

  Thoughts of the past and all that had gone wrong eased the sexual ache. He dragged jeans, underwear, socks and a T-shirt from the bag. “What about the girl’s stuff?”

  With a disgusted scowl, Taz chucked another, smaller bag into the back. It hit Hannah in the face and dropped in her lap. “Should just strip her naked and leave her that way.”

  Shit. That was not an image Teague needed in his mind. Not after having their bodies plastered together for the last half hour. He already swore he knew every damn curve she had. Every damn perfect curve.

  Don’t go there.

  “Change your clothes.” He snapped the order without looking at her, leaning down to unlace his prison-issue work boots. He needed to keep his eyes off that side of the car. Avert his mind from the fact that she was getting naked only a foot away.

  He rattled the thoughts from his head with a hard shake, tugged off the boots and socks, then checked her progress from his peripheral vision. She hadn’t moved.

  Teague shot her a look. “You can do it my way or his way, but you’re gonna do it. So choose and get busy.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she did what she was told. He could bet she wouldn’t. And he didn’t relish the idea of undressing and then redressing her. Not at all.

  They cleared downtown and merged onto Highway Eighty headed east. Traffic was still light, which was good. The faster they got out of the city, the better.

  Teague leaned back in the seat and untied the waist of his CDC pants. Hannah had turned her attention out the window toward Treasure Island, her fingers stroking the skin of her neck again. He whipped off his flimsy boxers and pulled on the new boxer briefs, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the feel of solid support and soft fabric.

  God, the little things he’d missed. Ordinary, everyday things people took for granted. He’d never do it again.

  He shook out the Levi’s and pulled them on. “Perfect fit, man. Your woman does good work.”

  Taz’s laugh was low and filled with double meaning. “You know it.”

  “Come on,” Teague said to Hannah as he yanked a soft cotton tee over his head. “Get moving.”

  Her eyes narrowed in a scowl. She held out her hands and muttered beneath the tape, something Teague interpreted as, “Hel-lo.”

  “I know what you can do with those cuffs on, girl. Don’t try to pull that shit on me. Just do it.”

  They’d traversed the Bay Bridge when a siren trilled behind them. A gush of adrenaline burned beneath Teague’s sternum and spread over his ribs. He twisted to look out the back window.

  “You see ’em?” Taz asked, voice tight.

  “No. Did I miss something on the radio?”

  “I didn’t hear nothing.”

  Teague reached into the front seat with one hand and pulled on a Giants baseball cap with the other. “Give me the map.”

  “Traffic’s choking down, man.” Taz slowed and slapped the map into Teague’s hand. “What should I do?”

  “Whose car is this?” Teague searched for alternative routes to their destination, but didn’t want to veer too far off course. This plan had been hashed out too hastily as it was. Adding twists to the path would only lead them into an even bigger mess.

  “Cousin of a friend of a friend of a cousin,” Taz rattled. “But it’s registered to his stepfather. Different last names, different addresses. And he changed the plates with his brother’s stepsister’s Dodge Durango.”

  Well, hell. Those convoluted strings would never get untangled. The only snag would be anyone who had seen them leaving the hospital and reported it to police. But that was the great t
hing about San Francisco. There were so many people everywhere, nobody paid any attention to anyone else.

  The siren grew closer. Louder.

  “Probably an accident up ahead,” Teague said. “Change lanes. Move to the right. It’ll look like you’re trying to let the emergency vehicles through.”

  As soon as they’d settled in behind a purple spray-painted VW bus, Teague saw the cruiser’s lights flashing a half mile back. They were in the emergency lane, road dust swirling in their wake. He reached across the seat and wrapped a hand around the back of Hannah’s neck, pulling her down until she was out of view through the window.

  Taz’s shoulders curled forward. The slower the traffic crawled, the more drastically he hunched over the steering wheel.

  “Play it cool, Taz.” Teague tried for a reassuring tone, but had to work for it. He held his breath as the siren grew so loud it filled his head and scrambled his brain. The cop was directly behind them, then beside them, then in front of them. And kept going.

  Teague let all his air out in one heavy swoosh. His eyes closed as he dropped his chin to his chest. That’s when he felt it—the soft, warm skin beneath his hand. He opened his eyes and found Hannah’s head on his thigh, where he’d, evidently, been holding it.

  His hand splayed over the side of her face, his fingers caressing the shadowed bruises on her cheek from Taz’s backhand. The blood beneath her skin changed color as his fingers eased her body through the healing process—burgundy to purple to green to gold. And with every stroke, a zing of attraction traveled back toward him, squeezing his chest, drifting south and tightening his jeans.

  Her eyes were closed, her head heavy on his leg. For an instant, he considered letting her stay there, using the opportunity to complete the mending process for the damage he’d caused. She was so pretty. So soothing to look at. Her dark lashes were a beautiful contrast to her skin. Her nose small and straight. Her lips full and pink. And for the first time, her scent registered—something soft, a mix of floral and spice.

  As soon as the buzz of lust pulsed in his groin, Teague forced his hand back. Forced himself to shift away. No way could he do this—to himself or to her.

  Hannah sat up with sluggish movements, eyes bleary. She sent him a confused look before turning her attention out the window again.

  Teague reached over the front seat and clicked off the radio. Tense silence swamped the car, joining the white noise of the tires on asphalt. With his arms curved over the top of the bench seat, his gaze followed the cop’s lights. Just before the toll booth, where the freeway split to take traffic either north or south, a dozen police vehicles clustered. Uniforms stood out on the road, directing traffic.

  “Sonofabitch.” Teague smacked the vinyl seat. “It’s a goddamned fucking roadblock.”

  “What now, man? I got a full tank of gas. I say I put the pedal to the metal and blow by these cops, take a few out in the process. They won’t know what hit ’em.”

  Teague’s stomach clenched as tight as his fists and rolled with nausea. He wasn’t about to mow down a bunch of cops. Then again, he wasn’t about to go back to prison, either. He’d die first.

  “Stay to the right. It doesn’t look like they’ve got it completely blocked yet.” Teague knew from his years of responding to traffic accidents how slow the cops moved. “We’ll take the Eight-Eighty exit, back into Five-Eighty by way of Nine-Eighty.”

  “I don’t do numbers, jackass. Just tell me where to go.”

  Teague’s hand still tingled from where he’d been touching Hannah’s face. That was a switch for him—being on the receiving end of the heat. And the attraction, that was new, too. He’d never felt anything when healing in the past, granted that had been long ago, before prison.

  He rubbed the warmth against the roughness of the new jeans. “Like I said, stay right. Way right. Squeak through before it’s blocked.”

  Taz nosed the GTO mercilessly toward the right. Sirens closed in from every direction. Police units burrowed in along the shoulder, between lanes. Cops swarmed on foot over the quickly stagnating freeway.

  “Almost there,” Teague reassured, struggling to keep his anxiety under control and his body heat level. “Just another few hundred feet and we’ll be clear.”

  “Cop coming up on the left, Creek.”

  Teague darted a look in that direction. An officer walked toward their lane, carrying a yellow-striped sawhorse adorned with red lights like Rudolph.

  “Keep going,” Teague crooned. “Sit back in your seat, relax your shoulders.”

  As they inched forward, movement beside him caught his eye. He turned. Found Hannah’s taped mouth pressed against the window. Her cuffed hands lifted. She thrust them toward the glass.

  Teague caught one wrist on the downward swing inches from a solid thwack on the window just as they rolled past the cop. Teague locked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. She squealed, squirmed. The cop hunched and peered into the car. Teague buried his face in the soft mass of her hair, put one hand against the back of her head and held her face to his shoulder.

  And, he couldn’t help himself. He took one long deep inhalation of her gently floral, vaguely spicy, helluva sexy, one-hundred-and-fifty-percent female scent.

  They said every agent had one case in their career that haunted them. One they dreamt of in the night. One they reflected on during the day. One they took to their grave. This was that case for Jason Vasser.

  Jason leaned his elbows on the metal balcony railing outside DARPA Deputy Director Dargan’s office and squinted over the lights of downtown Arlington, Virginia. He took a deep drag on his Marlboro, pulling every last molecule of tobacco smoke into his lungs and holding it there. If he had to take this to the grave, that grave would damn well come sooner than later.

  He’d secretly hoped Jocelyn had called him here for personal reasons. It had been months since they’d been together. But, inside her office, the hard smack of plastic signaling the end of her phone call also indicated alternate motives for this meeting. And considering the recent news of Creek’s escape, Jason didn’t have to guess it also signaled the beginning of his hellish last days as a federal employee.

  She appeared beside him soundlessly, mirrored his stance and looked out over the darkened city. “Can I have one of those?”

  Jason pulled the pack from his pocket and shook one forward. He lit it for her with the flick of his lighter. And waited.

  “Schaffer is ballistic.” The quaver in her voice matched the tense vibration in her small body. Jason slid his barrier into place. Her stress was as contagious as H1N1, and far more lethal.

  “Senator Schaffer wouldn’t have this problem if he’d taken care of the situation five years ago.” Jason shrugged and stared at the red-rimmed glow of his cigarette. “All seven of those firefighters should have been eliminated at that warehouse explosion. Compassion always bites you in the ass.”

  “It wasn’t compassion.”

  “Oh, right.” Jason chuckled, knowing very well Schaffer didn’t have a compassionate cell in his flabby body. “Election year. Those are big ass-chompers, too.”

  She wrapped one arm around her waist and stared into the night. “Where would Creek go?”

  “Why ask me?”

  She turned those sharp, light eyes on him. “Because you interviewed him initially after the fire. You followed him after he was released from the hospital. You were the first to notice his ... abilities.”

  “Long time ago, Jocelyn.” Jason winced at the slip of weariness in his voice. Definitely time to retire.

  “He’s your responsibility, Jason.” She turned toward him, anger, frustration, fear shooting off her in laser beams. “You’ve just had it easy for the last three years while he was in prison.”

  He blew out a long stream of smoke, looked down at the street fourteen stories below and watched the remainder of his cigarette plummet into the darkness. Wondered what would happen to his own body if he jumped. Wondered if it would
be an easier way to go than what he suspected lay ahead.

  “I’m tired, Joce. I’ve got a one-way ticket to Costa Rica in three weeks. A bungalow on the ocean. Fishing all morning. Siesta at two. Margaritas at five. Dancing at eight. I’m not the guy to send after Creek.”

  She stiffened, tilted her head and stubbed out her barely smoked cigarette on the railing, then flicked it over the side. Both hands on slim hips, she shook her shoulder-length blond hair back. “In fact, you are. He wants Creek stopped. Schaffer’s ‘compassion’ has faded over the last five years.”

  Jason’s dream bubble burst. “Schaffer’s the same fucking cocksucker now as he was then. Creek may have been the biggest problem child of the group five years ago, but he’s an escapee now. He’s looking toward the border, not the media. Give me a break.”

  “I agree with you, Jason. Schaffer should have killed them all years ago. And I’m sure Creek is headed for the border. But you’re going to make sure he doesn’t reach it.”

  Jason’s stomach hardened. Sometimes always being right was such shit. He turned his squint on Jocelyn. She was a handsome woman. Might even be beautiful if she let go of this bloodsucking career. Needed some meat on her bones, some sun on her face, but that could happen in Costa Rica. If he could get her to buy into his pipe dream of going there with him to retire.

  “Effective now,” she broke into his thoughts, stuffing a sock in that hopeful pipe, “Creek has a priority kill order in place. Make sure you’re discreet, Jason, or you may never see that shack in Central America.”

  THREE

  Alyssa rested her head against the car window, her mind wrangling thoughts for answers. Maybe she’d had some kind of chemical reaction to the metal in Creek’s cuffs. An allergy she hadn’t known about. Only they weren’t burning her wrists now. The thought brought her back to the pain in her face.

  Even with the cool glass pressed against her cheek, her skin still felt like it was going to split. The pain had ratcheted down after Creek had touched her, which was another oddity logic couldn’t explain. Along with the way her libido skyrocketed in reverse proportion to her pain.