U.S. Marshals: Hunted (U.S. Marshals Book 1) Read online

  And she’d be glad.

  Truth be told, her conscience couldn’t take much more guilt. What she’d done with him this day, and every other time she’d even fantasized about kissing him, had been wrong.

  “Your dinner smells good,” he said, taking both their plates and setting them on the table.

  She glanced up to see the fire blazing. He was good at building fires. And not just in the hearth.

  “Thanks.” She wiped her hands on a blue-striped dishrag. “But it’s no big deal.”

  “It is to me.”

  His simple words warmed her.

  Aside from Kent, she’d never had this strange yearning to please a man. At least not a man like Joe. Her father and brothers, yes, but only because she’d been out to prove herself better than them.

  With Joe, she found herself caring what he thought, but more because she wanted to help him. In some small way, ease his suffering. She wouldn’t fool herself into believing their kisses meant anything more to him than temporarily numbing his pain.

  Seated at the table, he took a bite of her concoction. “Tasty. But you never answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “We okay? About you feeling like you haven’t done enough for me? You have to know that just because we haven’t seen any shoot ’em up action, what you’ve done for me here…” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “It’s priceless, Gil. Your friendship. It means a lot.”

  “I—is that what we are, Joe? Friends?”

  “Well, sure. What’d you think?”

  She pulled out a chair and joined him.

  Truthfully, what she thought was that if they were just friends, he wouldn’t have kissed her, held her, as he had. What she thought was that they were playing a game during which he pretended he didn’t want to go further with her, and she pretended she didn’t feel anything more than casual professional respect for him. But the truth was—

  “Nothing,” she said, glancing toward the fire to brush away tears. “That’s exactly what we are—friends.”

  “Cool.”

  “And after the trial, we can send each other Christmas cards for a couple years before forgetting each other altogether.”

  “I’ll never forget you.” He scooped up another mouthful of casserole. “You’ve helped me make a decision long past due.”

  “Meghan?”

  He nodded. “After the trial, I’m going to get her. I’ll bring her up here if she wants. Or hell, maybe I’ll just stay in L.A. Get back to work.”

  “That’s good, Joe. Real good.”

  “How about you? Got any plans for after the trial?”

  She’d been working on Joe’s case for so long, she doubted she could even remember goals she’d had before taking this man on as an assignment. So—what was he?

  Friend? Future lover? Potential husband?

  He’d become all of the above, while at the same time none of them. What she really wanted for her future was indefinable. Fleeting images of the two of them that would never exist. Must never exist. For if they did, she’d have proved her father and brothers right. Not only couldn’t she hack it in their world, but from the looks of it, she couldn’t even make it in her own.

  “No,” she said, keeping her gaze locked on the fire. “No plans at all.”

  * * *

  “You don’t have to do my laundry,” Gillian said the next afternoon.

  “It’s the least I can do.” Joe snatched the lone dirty white sock she’d just fished out from under the bed. “I’d have paid fifty bucks for this haircut back in town. I owe you.”

  “Still…” She sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing his armful of clothes. “You sure you don’t have both of those?”

  “What?”

  “Socks. I’m missing, like, three pair.”

  Grinning, he set his current load on the end of the bed, then headed across the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  “A little place I like to call the black hole for socks.” Pausing in front of Bud’s bed, he rolled up his sleeves and said, “Watch my back. I’m going in.” He tossed aside the dog’s smelly quilt, then fished between his pillow and the stone hearth, pulling out three bedraggled white socks. Each looked worse than the one before. All of them were dirt-covered, with the toe portions completely gnawed out. Nike would be embarrassed that their Swoosh logo was still on them.

  Nose wrinkled, Gillian said, “Looks like a mouse got ahold of those.”

  “Yeah. A big mouse who goes by the name of Bud. Wanna try sewing these back up?” he asked, giving them a wag.

  “Um, thanks, but he might as well keep ’em. I’ve got a few more pair.”

  “You can always borrow some of mine.”

  “Trying to offset the size of my bill?”

  “What bill?”

  She winked. “The one I’m going to send for damages done to my wardrobe.”

  “Whoa, lady. You can’t prove it was my dog that did this. The island has a long history of—”

  Gillian cleared her throat, then pointed to the open hall door. Bud stood, tail wagging, with another of her Nike socks, this one dripping-blood red, hanging from his mouth. “Care to retract that—” Taking the sock from Bud’s mouth, she bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

  9

  * * *

  “Kavorski,” Gillian hissed into the radio the second Joe stepped into the back hall and stuck his head in the laundry closet. “There’s no way in hell that dog could’ve gotten hold of a bloodied sock by coincidence—especially one of mine.”

  He laughed into his radio. “Hey, woman, why so antsy? Relax, would you? Say it is blood on that sock, and not paint or ketchup or Kool-Aid. Some fisherman probably cut his hand, used the first thing he could get his hands on to clean the mess, then tossed it in the water. End of story.”

  Gillian rolled her eyes. “Sir, the odds of that particular style, size and brand of sock randomly ending up on some local fisherman’s boat are…” She paused, emitting a frustrated sigh. “Bottom line, your lack of concern for Joe makes me uncomfortable. Might I please speak with Brimmer?”

  “No. He’s on the crapper. And for the record, might I please remind you who’s running this show? How many years seniority do I have on you, Ms. Logue?”

  A hot flush crept up her chest and neck. “Thirty, sir.”

  “That’s right. So next time you get a hankering to call me over something this lame—don’t.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And here’s another reminder. The guy you’re supposed to be protecting is named Mr. Morgan—not Joe. Unless, of course, he’s become more than just the job to you? And maybe that’s why you’re all the time calling for backup? You ever heard what happened to the little girl who cried wolf, Ms. Logue?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “See that it doesn’t. Out.”

  Trembling all over, Gillian stashed the radio, which she’d been storing in the bathroom cabinet, under a stack of towels.

  Only then did she dare open her left hand, to the sight that’d prompted her latest bout of panic. No matter what Kavorski said, she knew damn well the stiff, rust-colored substance staining her sock was blood. Now the only question was, whose? And what was she going to do about it?

  Hands covering her face, she had to search for her next breath. What was happening to her? On the surface, so many things didn’t add up, yet Kavorski, a seasoned professional who’d been competently handling field assignments since she’d been in diapers, implied the only thing wrong with this mission was her overactive imagination.

  Fighting tears of frustration she refused to spill, she had to wonder if part of the problem was her undeniable attraction to Joe. He was gorgeous, sweet, silently begging to be coaxed back into the land of the living. Yes, it was wrong, but she wanted to be the one to save him—not just physically, but mentally and spiritually and every other way in between. Which was nuts, because she h
ardly even knew the guy. She just felt like she knew him because of the hours she’d spent poring over his files.

  “Clean socks are on the way.”

  She jumped. “God, Joe, scare me to death.”

  “Sorry.”

  With the compact, stacked washer and drying going, along with the generator, she hadn’t heard him. Meaning she wouldn’t have been able to hear anyone else approach, either.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You seem tense.”

  “Fine,” she said, pasting on a bright smile. “What took you so long?”

  “Ran out of soap. Had to trek out to the shed.”

  “Without me? Dammit, Joe, I thought we had an understanding that—”

  He clamped his hands around her biceps, destroying her with his proximity. And yes, dammit, his heat. His hold was proprietary. And God help her, she liked it. “What’s wrong? Something’s changed. You see something? Hear something?”

  Yes! “No. Sorry. I didn’t get much rest last night.”

  “You should take the bed.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. We don’t have much longer till…well, you know.” Till they left this island to go to trial. Till Joe was back in a safe house, she was back behind her L.A. desk and they never saw each other again.

  * * *

  “What kind of stunt was that?” Kavorski said into the radio to Wesson.

  The kid was down below, gulping split-pea soup like it was filet mignon.

  “Which one?” Wesson asked.

  “Sock? Blood? Ring any bells?”

  Wesson chuckled. “Good, huh? Left that sucker right out in the middle of the front yard. That dumb-ass dog thought it was candy. The hour it took me to skin that raccoon, sopping up all that blood, I just imagined it was Logue. God, I hate that bitch.”

  “I know,” Kavorski said. “But for the last time, stay away. There’s too much at stake. If we pull this off, we’ll leave this island very rich men.”

  “This is bogus. I could’ve killed them fifteen times by now.”

  “Agreed. But we can’t afford any screwups. Which is why the boss wants it done at the last minute. We can’t afford for anyone at the home office to get suspicious. They’ve got to think everything’s going just as we’d planned. If we do this right, by the time feds catch on, it’ll be too late for them to do anything about their star witness being dead. On the other hand, say you shoot Logue or Morgan dead, but the other is just injured and somehow gets away, manages to get to shore, raise an alarm. The boss could find himself in even more hot water than he is now. Capiche?”

  * * *

  “Yeah, whatever,” Wesson said. “Out.”

  Tucking his radio back in his vest, Wesson reached for his binoculars, then crouched low on the outcropping of rocks overlooking the cabin.

  For the moment, both targets were tucked inside. Snug as bugs in a rug.

  Wesson spat.

  True, he’d be paid a crapload of dineros for pulling this off, but the sweetest part of the deal was that he’d have slit Logue’s throat for free.

  The bitch had jumped ahead of him for promotions, outshone him and the rest of the L.A. crew at yearly physicals. He’d never been all that fond of women. Learned at a young age when his mom would pass out drunk, letting her bastard, mean-drunk boyfriend beat out his frustrations on her kid, that women weren’t to be trusted.

  Always having loved a good rack, he’d given girls a second chance in high school. Elise had dumped him for a jock. Kelly had said he was dumb. Mary had said he had too many zits. Chrissy had said they didn’t have enough in common.

  He’d said they could all go straight to hell.

  One of them did, but he’d been too chicken-shit to off the rest. Soon, though, very soon, he’d get the chance to kill again.

  And hot damn, but it was going to be a rush.

  * * *

  “Crap.”

  Joe glanced up from the same page of Kon-Tiki he’d been reading for the past thirty minutes, to see Gillian red-eyed and teary. For the millisecond it took before he spotted the eyedrops in her hand, he’d thought she was upset—about what, he wouldn’t have a clue. No way could she be even half as confused as he was over the haircutting incident. Damn, but the woman had turned a usually simple task into a demanding lesson in self-control.

  And then there was this afternoon in the kitchen. Something had definitely been bothering her, but what? Something to do with the case? Or him? And if it had been him, what was this urge to do everything in his power to turn her frown back into her usual smile?

  “Can I help?” he asked, setting down his book.

  “Please. Something in the air’s got my allergies going. I never can get the drops in just right.” Cross-legged, she scooted deeper into the armchair, resting her head against the back, then scooping her hair out from under it. The pose unwittingly showcased the smooth elegance of her throat. The fullness of her breasts.

  An instantaneous, biting hardness seized him, and he took the drops, eager for the excuse to put his mind to the simple task. Only with his fingertips brushing her temples to hold her steady, it was hard to think of anything but her. Her smell. Her softness. “Got it,” he said, quickly finishing. “Better?”

  She was squeezing her eyes shut and laughing while medicinal-smelling tears oozed from the corners. “If stinging pain could be called better. Seriously, though, thanks. Once the initial sting wears off, this stuff usually works pretty good.”

  He hustled back to his side of the room.

  “Kind of leaves me blurry-eyed for a few minutes. Mind reading to me? Or shoot, just talking. Doing something to pass the time.”

  “Ah, yeah.” He picked up his book, grateful for the distraction. “Want me to start at the beginning? Or just pick up where I left off?”

  “Anywhere’s fine.”

  He began to read, and while turning a page, he glanced up to find her settled in the roomy chair, eyes closed. Smiling.

  Joe struggled to find the book passage where he’d left off when he only had eyes for her.

  * * *

  Joe woke to a stiff neck, aching back and a curiously renewed spirit. A quick glance over the back of the sofa showed that the reason for his bolstered mood was still sound asleep—in the bed. Her expression all innocence and peace, Gillian could have been a child, but the tugging at his groin when he focused on her lips proved she was all woman.

  A woman who by her own admission was up here solely to do her job and to prove her self-worth to a father and brothers who had apparently drilled it into her that she was just a helpless girl.

  Worse yet, Joe’s heart belonged to Willow. So where did he get off looking at any part of Gillian—let alone her lips?

  And why, in light of that fact, along with knowing that Gillian was fully capable of looking after both of them, did he want nothing more on this cold, gloomy day than to jump out of his temporary bed to stoke the fire, then make his cabin mate a nice hot breakfast? Why did he care that the room’s temperature be toasty when she woke?

  The mantel clock showed seven, but looking out the windows, Joe figured it could have been any time of day.

  A thick fog had rolled in during the night, blanketing the old cabin in a cozy gray mist. Even Bud’s internal time clock had been affected by the sky’s pallor.

  “Need to go outside?” Joe asked the golden-haired mutt.

  Without raising his head, Bud thumped his strong tail against the portion of rock hearth his pillow didn’t cover.

  Joe tossed back the covers and blanched at the frigid morning air. Having been hot from sleeping directly in front of the fire, he’d slipped his T-shirt off sometime during the night. Now, he reached to the sofa arm to pull it on.

  Bud danced to the door, so Joe hurried that way, grinning when the second after he’d opened it a mere crack, the dog nosed through, then bolted, already hot on the trail of whatever creature had dared enter his domain.

  Too bad he wasn’t more concerned about mice.


  Joe was closing the door when it occurred to him Gillian’s alarm hadn’t gone off. But then he remembered her having fallen asleep in her chair.

  He’d scooped her up and carried her to the bed, fighting a pang when she snuggled with a sexy little groan into the covers he’d drawn over her.

  Now, he looked to the bed, but then hastily turned away.

  Sleeping was a private matter. One he shouldn’t intrude upon. Right. Even as he gave himself the lecture, he couldn’t help but again drink in the view.

  She hardly took up a third of the big, log-framed bed. Her hair fanned across mounded white pillows. Dark and light. Kind of like the difference in how he’d felt ever since she’d arrived.

  With her, instead of focusing on the past, he’d at least been able to step into the present. As for his future…The jury was still out.

  Yes, he owed it to Meggie to be a good father, but how was he supposed to do that when most days he didn’t even feel like a man? More like an empty shell. She deserved so much more. She loved Willow’s parents. They were still reasonably young. Active. She was living a good life.

  Good. But were the two of them to make a go at it together, might it be even better? Maybe even great?

  What would Willow have wanted him to do?

  The answer hit him like a punch in his gut. Willow would want their little girl with him.

  But it wasn’t that easy.

  He’d changed.

  Would Meggie even want to be with him all the time instead of just having him be an occasional visitor?

  For the first time in a long time, Joe at least wanted to explore the possibility of reclaiming not only his daughter, but his life.