Nichole Severn - Rules In Deceit

“Right,” he said.

Setting the bag back in the trunk, she faced Braxton with her emotions in check and her guard in place. He might be the father of her unborn baby, but that didn’t mean she had to trust him. Elizabeth lifted her gaze to his. “You think going back to Blackhawk Security to hand over the bullets is a good idea? I seem to remember half of the penthouse floor is missing, and we almost died in the garage.”

Braxton moved in close, too close, his clean, masculine scent mixing with the aroma of rain. The combination urged her to lean into him, to forget how much she’d missed him. She’d told herself—hell, told him—she’d moved on, but her body had yet to grasp the idea. “I told you I won’t let him touch you. You have my word.”

“And I told you your word doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.” She fought back a quiver. Tightness ran down her neck and back. After countless hours—months—of trying to find him, here he stood less than a foot away. In the flesh. Tightening her grip around the duffel bag, she scrambled for purchase as the past threatened to drag her under. No. She’d been down this path once before. She’d trusted him, and it cost her everything. “We should ditch the vehicle and get inside. If the shooter is the same person who hijacked Oversight’s feeds, he’ll be able to track us to this area and try to shoot me again.”

Ten minutes later, they’d abandoned the SUV, sans bullets in the windshield, and hiked back to the apartment on foot. Braxton led her up two flights of stairs and toward an apartment in the back of the third building, his clothing barely concealing the muscle he’d put on since the last time she’d seen him. And not just in his upper body. His legs flexed beneath denim, powerful and strong. Inserting a key in the lock, he turned the doorknob and shouldered the door open. “Wait here a minute.”

He didn’t wait for her answer as he disappeared inside.

A breeze shook the trees below, and she stepped to the railing. No shooters waiting in the trees. No bomb ticking off nearby. She smoothed her hand over her lower abdomen as a rush of nausea churned in her stomach. Who would want her dead? And why now?

“Surveillance is clean.” Braxton filled the door frame just inside her peripheral vision. “The place isn’t much, but it gets the job done. We’ve got power, water, gas, and I had groceries delivered yesterday.”

She followed him inside, the skin along her collarbones prickling with the onslaught of a draft coming from the vents above. “Hiding your how-to-be-a-good-spy magazines before I came inside?”

“No, I keep those locked up all the time.” Braxton’s laugh replaced the cold-induced goose pimples along her arms with heat, but she couldn’t afford to give it much notice. Find out who was trying to kill her and why, then move on with her life. That was it.

He’d been right about the apartment. It wasn’t much, but it’d work for what they needed. Large windows took up most of the east wall, providing a jaw-dropping view of the mountains. A large sectional had been positioned in the corner of the living room, only photos of wildlife and scenic Alaska hanging on the white walls. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms from the looks of it. Simple. Bare. But the setup of surveillance equipment across the dining room table said secure. It suited him. Her, too.

“You can take the back bedroom if you want to clean up. There’s a bathroom attached to that one, so we don’t have to share.” Braxton maneuvered behind her, and she straightened a bit more. “I’ll have some food for us by the time you’re done.”

“Good idea. Give me a few minutes.” She checked her wristwatch. Nine at night. They weren’t going to get much done at this hour. The investigation would have to start in the morning. Another rush of nausea gripped her tight, and she fought to breathe through her nose to counter it. Didn’t work. The target of a shooter, reunited with the man she thought she’d never see again, and suffering from morning sickness all at the same time. Great.

“Take your time.” He headed toward the kitchen, tossing his baseball cap onto the counter. His dark hair skimmed his shoulders, and, hell, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit the look worked for him.

Elizabeth forced one foot in front of the other. Space. She needed space. Away from him. The lighttan-colored walls passed in a blur as she escaped to the nearest bedroom. She wasn’t sure if this was the room he’d meant for her to take, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Tossing her duffel onto the floor, she exhaled hard and ran a hand through her hair.

It’d been four months since she’d made the worst mistake of her life by climbing under the sheets with Braxton. That should’ve been long enough to get control of her physical reactions. Damn it. This wasn’t the plan. She’d accepted there would be a bottomless hole in her heart where she’d shove everything she felt for Braxton Levitt in order to raise their daughter on her own. But he’d come back. To protect her. Still, while she might have to stay within physical proximity of him, she wouldn’t let him hurt her again. Keeping her emotional distance would have to do. That, and a securely locked bedroom door. “Just a few days, baby girl. We’ve got this.”

The bedroom came into focus. Single queen-size bed, nightstand, dresser with some papers settled on top, same type of photography on the walls as she’d noticed in the living room. And a cardboard box full of phones stashed in the corner. She fished out a phone from the middle of pile and studied the room again. Groceries delivered, a box of phones, surveillance setup. How long had Braxton planned on staying here?

She swiped her thumb across the screen and dialed Vincent Kalani’s number from memory. She’d left her phone with the SUV about a mile west of here. Anyone who tried pinging it for a location would only find disappointment. Blackhawk Security training 101. The other line rang three times. Then four. “Come on, Vincent. Pick up the phone.” Another ring. If he hadn’t made it out of the building alive, she’d never forgive herself for leaving the forensics expert in the middle of a crime scene. “Pick up the damn—”

“Kalani.” Vincent’s usually smooth voice sounded rough, damaged.

“You’re alive.” Relief flooded through her. She exhaled hard, closing her eyes with a hand on her forehead. Turning her back to the door, she ignored the burn in her lower lash line. Hormones. Crying came too easy these days. “I was beginning to worry I’d be stuck with your vengeful ghost for the rest of my life.”

“No thanks to your new bodyguard there.” Muffled static reached through his end of the line. “What number are you calling from?”

“A burner I picked up out of a box full of phones. Consider this my new number for the time being.” She chewed on the end of her thumbnail. They shouldn’t have left him behind. She could’ve fought Braxton harder, could’ve done something . “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m good,” Vincent said. “Confirm you’re safe and give me permission to punch your ex in the face the next time I see him.”

“I’m safe. For now. And permission granted.” She dropped her hand and rolled her shoulders back. Pain shot through the right side of her rib cage, and she doubled over with a rough exhale. “But you’ll have to get in line.”

“Liz?” Vincent asked. “You okay?”

“Fine for someone who took an eight-foot oak door to the right side.” She breathed through the pain. “Listen, whoever set that bomb tried to finish the job in the garage. I pulled three slugs out of Elliot’s windshield, but I’m not sure how to hand them off to you without putting myself back in the open.”