Avenging Angel Page 2

  Johanna stilled. Austin had sent someone else. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, fear and anger at her own stupidity washing through her. She should have run.

  “Feel that?” her captor asked, his voice breathless and gravelly.

  Something pushed against her hip, and she nodded.

  “It’s a twelve-gauge shotgun, and I am definitely threatening you. We’re going out into the hall, into the elevator, and out the front door. That’s cooperation. The hard way is with you unconscious, or taped up, or both.” He lifted the gun and rested the barrel against her temple. “Do you want to do this the hard way?”

  She shook her head once, very slowly. He’d said he didn’t want to hurt her; he’d also made it clear he would hurt her if he felt the need. She was too frightened to believe the first statement, and too frightened not to believe the second.

  “Good.” He stepped back toward the door, holding her tight against him while he opened it a crack and checked the hall. “Go.”

  They moved toward the bank of elevators, his body propelling her forward, pushing her from behind, overriding her faltering gait. The gun wasn’t at her temple. She didn’t know where it was, but she didn’t doubt its presence or his willingness to use it, yet she still wanted to scream and fight him. A greater fear kept her from doing either.

  Dylan stayed behind her on the long walk down the hall, her body clasped to his. He kept behind her in the elevator, applying just enough pressure on her arm to let her know he wouldn’t tolerate a struggle, not even the hint of one. He wasn’t into terrorizing women, but he was committed to worse if she gave him any trouble. He knew Austin Bridgeman, and he knew he didn’t have time to be nice.

  The elevator doors whooshed open in the lobby. For a moment freedom was fifteen steps away. In the next instant it was gone. A group of men stepped into the pool of light illuminating the portico of the apartment building—with Austin Bridgeman leading the pack.

  Dylan lunged for the “Close Door” button on the operating panel, shoving the woman away from him and into a corner of the elevator. He single-handedly pumped a shell into the chamber of the twelve-gauge, keeping the gun leveled at her and giving her a grim look.

  Johanna pushed herself deeper into the corner of the elevator, instinctively widening the distance between herself and the man called Dylan Jones. The urge to scream receded to a dull, throbbing ache in the back of her throat. His eyes were brown, dark and bright with an overload of adrenaline. Beard stubble darkened his jaw. His light-colored hair was longer in back than in front, and in front it was standing on end, raked through and furrowed—wild, like the gleam in his eyes.

  The mercury had pushed ninety-two that day, but he was wearing an overcoat, a lined overcoat stained with dirt . . . or blood. A torn black T-shirt molded his torso, soft black jeans clung to his hips and legs.

  He was bruised on one side of his face and cut on the other. He was muscular and lean, hard, stripped down to the basics of strength. He was feral.

  Dylan waited, listening and watching her size him up and grow more afraid. There was nothing but silence outside. Nothing but the noise of their ragged breathing inside. Then the mechanical sound of the other elevator moving intruded. Dylan steadied himself with a breath and removed his finger from the “Close Door” button. The doors slid open. He stepped out, ready.

  Johanna heard a movement, a scuffle, and a muffled thud. Now was the time to scream, she told herself. Dylan Jones hadn’t been sent by Austin. Austin had come in person to talk with her.

  The thoughts had no sooner formed than she was jerked out of the elevator. The violence of the movement knocked the breath from her lungs. The speed with which he dragged her across the lobby, his hand tightly wound in a fistful of her shirt, the gun jammed against her ribs, kept her breathless. She stumbled, and he hauled her to her feet, always shoving her forward, keeping her fighting for her balance.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the crumpled figure of a man lying next to the elevators. She tried once more to scream, but as if he’d known what her reaction would be, he moved his hand from her shirt to her neck and applied a warning pressure. She sobbed instead, and his hand immediately loosened, but only the barest of degrees.

  He pushed the building doors open with his shoulder. Heat, sultry and intense, engulfed them. She stumbled again on the steps, and once again he kept her upright, on the thinnest edge of her balance.

  Johanna knew now was the time to fight and kick, to scream and cry, but Dylan Jones never gave her the chance. He was a master at keeping her half off her feet and moving too fast to think. She did manage a hoarse moan, but a renewed pressure in her ribs with the gun barrel stifled the rest of her verbal rebellion.

  They crossed the street, keeping to the shadows of the trees and the parked cars lining both sides of Briarwood Court. Johanna had chosen the neighborhood for the quiet elegance of the older homes and the architectural charm of the apartment building. For three blocks in either direction, Briarwood Court was a haven of upper-middle-class wealth. She had always felt secure and protected—until that night.

  With a harshly voiced set of commands, Dylan directed her toward the gray sedan. “Get in on the driver’s side. Don’t mess around with me—just get in and scoot to the middle of the seat. Do not touch the passenger-side door. I’ve got it rigged to explode if it opens.”

  Her heart sank lower in her chest. There was no escaping him.

  Dylan had a mental clock going in his head, and he knew Austin and his men were probably already heading back down to the street. He had not turned around to check if anyone had seen them from her balcony, but there was a chance someone had. He had checked the line of sight himself and knew the sedan, parked far up the street, was well hidden from view—if they could only get to it.

  A commotion behind them, sounding like it came from the apartment building, had him speeding up their steps. He glanced once over his shoulder and started running, dragging her along with him. At the sedan, he shoved her into the front seat and slid in after her.

  “Get down,” he ordered, pinning her with the gun, then crawling over her as she was forced to the seat.

  Johanna stiffened as they came into contact, body to body, with her on the bottom. In the dark, close interior of the car, he was overwhelmingly male and dangerous. He wasn’t a big man, but his broad shoulders blocked all but the faintest light. His weight pressed her deep into the upholstery, paralyzing her as effectively as the gun barrel under her chin.

  He looked over the back of the seat, through the rear window. He swore softly, then inched up her body, craning his neck to look out the passenger window. Johanna didn’t move so much as a muscle fiber—until he came too close to the potentially lethal door.

  Without conscious thought, her hand shot up and pressed against his chest, causing him to wince and swear again, not so softly.

  “No,” she whispered, putting force into the word instead of volume, her voice trembling.

  When he looked down at her, she tilted her head toward the door and the trip wire of tape. He followed the gesture, and a heartbeat later the barest flicker of a smile touched his mouth, the most ironic smile she had ever seen. In that instant he looked familiar—incredibly familiar.

  Two

  Dylan Jones . . . Dylan Jones. His name ran through her mind. She knew him. She was sure of it. The flash of memory set off by his smile was unmistakable, her intuition one hundred percent reliable. She was known for never forgetting a face. Still, she couldn’t place him, couldn’t put the name or the man into the right place, the right time.

  She searched the face above her in the dim light, noting the gentle arch of his eyebrows, the straight line of his nose, the wry sensuality of his mouth—and another, more startling memory clicked into place. She’d not only known him, she’d been attracted to him.

  The thought seemed unimaginable now, with his gun pressing on her body and him straddling her across the seat, trapping her. But she was
n’t a woman given to casual attractions or casual flirtations, and her emotional memory bank was telling her she’d experienced both with him.

  Where? Her gaze trailed back over his face. His smile had faded, and he was watching her with an intensity that unnerved her on very basic female levels. Her pulse picked up in speed and her awareness of him heightened. She’d seen that look before, delivered from across a room. She’d had the same reaction then, but in a place where she’d felt much safer than was possible now, with her actually lying beneath him. His look implied, though, both then and now, that she was exactly where he wanted her, where he needed her, where he’d dreamed of having her.

  A frisson of fear coursed down her body as she acknowledged the unhidden message reflected in his eyes. She panicked and started to struggle.

  “No. Don’t.” She gasped for a breath, pushing against him. “Stop.”

  With a lightninglike movement, he captured her hands in one of his and held her still. Dark lashes shadowed his eyes. His mouth tightened into a grim line, and his voice grew angry and soft. “I’m not trying to get in your pants, Miss Lane. I’m trying to save your life.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Dylan swore and released her. He was the best damn liar he knew. His whole life was a lie. But he hadn’t fooled her.

  He swore again and looked out the window, but he didn’t really see what he’d been trained to see. The woman beneath him scrambled his brain. She always had.

  Six months earlier he’d culminated four years of undercover work by slipping into Austin Bridgeman’s underground empire as a bodyguard, a “security agent” for men who needed protecting. He had been highly recommended by his former employer, a man currently doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary compliments of Dylan. Dylan had been working toward taking Austin Bridgeman down the same way, with insider information and damning evidence compiled firsthand.

  It had taken him a while to work himself up into the front office. When he’d gotten there, the first thing he’d noticed was Johanna Lane, a bombshell package of brains, legs, virtue, and sophistication. He’d spent the next eight weeks noticing everything about her and driving himself crazy by wanting something he couldn’t have. He’d been almost relieved when she’d left the organization . . . almost.

  He glanced back down at her. She was watching him with a wariness he respected. She was smart. He’d known that from the beginning. She was also clean, squeaky clean, the kind of clean a man like him craved after years of two-timing and double-dealing. In the course of his investigation, he’d found out a lot about her: She’d worked her way up from the bottom of Bridgeman, Inc.; she wasn’t intimidated by Austin; she was damn good at her job. She also liked expensive perfume, the kind that warmed on a woman’s skin and left her scent, subtle and evocative, lingering in the place where she’d been. She usually crossed her legs left over right, with a fluid, easy grace that had never failed to demand his attention.

  His gaze slipped to her mouth. He knew how she put her lipstick on, the soft “O” her lips made, and the wild ideas it had given him. He knew she looked drop-dead serious and beautiful when she wore black.

  He knew Austin had wanted her. Now Austin wanted her dead.

  Dylan had been good at his job, too, and his job had been to fade into backgrounds and to be at Austin’s beck and call. His job had been not to be noticed, but more than once he’d made sure Johanna noticed him. He’d made a point of being at meetings she had with Austin, especially toward the end of her tenure, when Austin had started coming on to her. He had always kept to his place, the farthest reaches of Austin’s palatial office, ready to serve his employer—or to hang himself and his operation by coming to her rescue if Austin ever stepped over the line.

  Dylan had never had to go that far. Johanna had handled Austin with the same blend of cool charm and studiousness she used with all of her business associates. Yet she had a vulnerability that had compelled Dylan to let her know he was on her side. He’d meet her eyes when Austin turned his back. He’d change his position, however slightly, whenever Austin got too friendly, subtly rearranging the dynamics of the room, deliberately shifting the focus of the tension. Then one night he’d found her alone in Austin’s office, working late, finishing up business Austin needed for the next day. In twelve years of working for the FBI, he’d never made a mistake. He’d made two mistakes that night with Johanna Lane, and he’d known he was in deep, deep trouble.

  Dylan checked the street again. Austin’s men were fanning out along both sides. One man had been left guarding the entrance to the apartment building.

  He took a deep breath, unintentionally increasing the contact between himself and the woman lying still beneath him. The fact did not go unnoticed, and he forced himself to concentrate on the men looking for them. He knew Austin’s operating procedures inside out and backward. Jay, the man Dylan had downed by the elevators, would stay at the apartment building all night, until someone relieved him. Austin and the others would soon leave to organize the search from more comfortable quarters.

  Dylan didn’t have any illusions about how successful Austin would be in finding them. He’d tracked for Austin before, and the only advantage he had now was time. They would be found. All Dylan could do was choose the place, and hopefully stash the woman someplace safe before Austin caught up with them. When he went down, he wanted to go down alone.

  He trained his eyes on the black limousine double-parked in front of the apartment building. Rodrigo, the newest “security agent” in Austin’s empire, opened the rear door for his employer, then got in the driver’s door and started the car.

  Dylan slid back down behind the seat and over Johanna’s body, covering her mouth with his hand.

  “They’re leaving. When they’re gone, we’ll leave. Remember”—he again smiled briefly—“don’t open your door.”

  Johanna had no intention of opening her door. The man was dangerous, criminal in his kidnapping of her. She wouldn’t put anything past him—except rape. She’d denied his statement to that effect, about getting in her pants and saving her life, but as she’d watched him her sense of familiarity had grown. When he’d smiled again, it had increased. If she could get him in some good light, clean him up, maybe she would recognize him.

  What she would do after that remained a mystery. Austin had shown up at her apartment with four or five other men. She hadn’t gotten a good count, but the group had seemed large, certainly larger than necessary or appropriate for a friendly get-together. Then Dylan Jones had said he was trying to save her life. And the first thing he’d done, she reminded herself, was give her his name. The facts might add up to Dylan Jones’s side, if she knew who he was. On the other hand, over the last year of her employment with Bridgeman, Inc., Austin had taken to always having a few men around him for protection. Protection from what, she had never inquired, but the group of men he’d brought might only be his regular retinue.

  “Okay,” the man above her whispered, seemingly to himself, his gaze tracking what she couldn’t see from her position. “We’re moving out.”

  He pushed himself up and pulled her to a sitting position. The distance between them was still small, but every extra inch helped her gain a measure of composure. Whoever Dylan Jones was, he was somehow involved in Austin’s problems. He wasn’t a psychopathic maniac. He had a reason for kidnapping her, though whether it was to save her life, as he’d said, or to use her as a bargaining chip with Austin, she didn’t know. But it was no coincidence that he’d shown up mere minutes ahead of her ex-employer.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded in a shaky voice.

  “Laramie,” he said, surprising her with his candor.

  “Wyoming?”

  “The last time I checked.” He reached under the steering wheel for the bare wires sticking out of a broken part on the steering column.

  Johanna watched with growing unease as he sparked and twisted the wires together, starting the engine. The meaning
of the unorthodox procedure wasn’t lost on her.

  “This isn’t your car,” she said.

  He made no comment.

  “Auto theft is a felony,” she warned him, and he laughed, a short, dry sound.

  The meaning of his laughter wasn’t lost on her either. Grand theft auto was the least of his problems. Committing felonies came naturally.

  How could she have met such a man? She wasn’t a trial lawyer. She’d never been in court with a criminal. The closest she’d ever come to associating with shady people had been when Austin had started traveling with his crowd of bodyguards.

  Her kidnapper steered the car onto the street, and she gave him a hesitant glance. His profile was shadowed, the bruise high on his cheekbone darker than the surrounding skin. They passed a street lamp, and its light cast a rim of luminosity on his forehead, nose, mouth, and chin. The light wove through the upended strands of his dark blond hair and caught the sheen of his eyes and the weariness therein.

  Watching him, she unconsciously shook her head. Her memory was wrong. Her intuition had gone haywire. She didn’t know Dylan Jones in any way. She took a deep, steadying breath and let it out. It was time to get some answers.

  “Who are you?” she asked, turning her head so she was looking straight at him.

  “Dylan Jones.” He flipped on the turn signal and eased the sedan around a corner.

  It was the answer she’d expected. Though she’d decided her earlier impression of familiarity had been wrong, a niggling doubt made her want to confirm her mistake.

  “I get the feeling I know you. Why?” She used her most confrontational tone of voice, letting him know there was nothing pleasant about the feeling.

  A muscle in his jaw tightened, and it took him a moment to answer, a moment in which she sensed he might not answer her at all.

  “We’ve met,” he finally said.

  The admission hit her hard, like a falling wall of bricks, though she didn’t believe him for a minute. She couldn’t possibly have ever met him.