Julie James - Something about You

“Rugged hotness, sex in a shoulder harness—yep, I’m familiar.”

“Right. But I can conquer a physical attraction. I mean, he told thirty million people I had my head up my ass. What kind of self-respecting woman would I be if I fell for a guy like that?”

“It would be somewhat ironic,” Collin agreed.

“Plus, he doesn’t even like me,” Cameron added.

Collin cocked his head. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“No, I’m not worried. I just think, given our history, that it would be foolish of me to think that Saturday night was about anything other than a mere physical attraction on Jack’s part.” Cameron paused. “So it’s a good thing he and I are on the same page with that.”

Collin seemed to be amused by her assessment of the situation. “I think you need a few drinks to help you sort this out.”

Cameron waved this off. “I don’t need to do any sorting.” She gestured to her outfit. “But I do need to change out of this suit before we head to the bar.”

“I’ll head up with you,” Collin said, sliding off the stool and leaving the kitchen with her. “I want to check the guest bedroom. I’m missing my Sox sweatshirt, and I thought maybe I left it here one of the times I stayed over. Either that, or Richard snagged it when he moved out.”

Cameron followed Collin up the stairs. “Have you talked to him since then?”

“Not once. I thought I’d get a phone call, or at the very least an e-mail. But apparently he thin—”

Neither of them saw the attack coming.

A dark figure lunged at them when they reached the second floor, a mere blur that moved blindingly fast. With Collin in front of her, Cameron never saw where the man came from. He struck Collin across the head with something in his hand, and Collin moaned and sank to the floor. Cameron screamed his name.

The man, dressed all in black, whirled around. He wore a ski mask that covered all of his face except for small openings at his eyes and mouth, and she noticed that he wore black gloves.

The object in his hand was a gun.

Pointed straight at her.

Cameron felt as though her legs were stuck in quick-sand. She looked over to where Collin lay on the floor. He wasn’t moving.

The man with the gun moved toward her.

Cameron took a step back, retreating slowly down the stairs. The man followed her.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

As he took the next step, he lifted his gloved hand and pointed.

You.

JACK LEFT THE Triumph in an open spot near the end of the block and walked over to the unmarked police car parked in front of Cameron’s house. He’d taken his time on the way over, soaking in the fifteen-minute drive along the lake. In about three weeks he’d have to put the motorcycle into storage for the winter and his cold-weather mode of transport, a Ford LTD Crown Victoria, while practical, didn’t pack quite the same punch.

As Jack made his way over, Harper, the senior cop on the day shift, unrolled the driver’s side window.

“She just got here a few minutes ago. She’s with McCann.”

Jack noted this information, not happy about the fact that Cameron wasn’t alone. He’d called her office and had been surprised to learn from her secretary that she’d gone home early. At the time that had seemed fortuitous, since he preferred to talk to her in person, anyway, and her house would be more private.

He thanked the cops and headed toward the front gate.

For the past few days, he’d been avoiding this conversation. Mainly because of how surprised he was by his actions on Saturday night. He was not an impulsive man. Impulsive men in his line of work quickly found themselves dead. Or worse. He personally had survived the worst of it at the hand of Martino and knew the only way he had lived to tell was because he’d kept his wits through the pain and waited out those two excruciatingly long days for the right moment to strike.

What had happened with Cameron at Manor House had left him feeling unsettled. Off his game. He didn’t often let his guard down around people. That made a man . . . vulnerable.

Somehow, she had gotten behind his defenses. And now, every instinct told him to stay as far away from her as possible, to harden himself against her even more than he had in the past. He would ride out the remainder of the Robards investigation, and then walk away without a second glance.

Except for one thing.

You saw what you wanted to see.

That slip-up of hers had been in the back of his mind, nagging him, ever since she’d first said it. Who knew what she meant by that? But if there was some other explanation for her being in Davis’s office that morning—the day he’d been transferred by the DOJ—he wanted to know about it.

He needed to know.

So this time, he wasn’t leaving until she talked. He would get the answers he wanted. Today.

Jack strode up the steps to her front door. He rang the doorbell and waited.

No response.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

Jack looked back at the undercover car parked on the street behind him.

In the passenger seat, Officer Regan rolled down the window and shrugged. “Maybe they’re in back. McCann said something about having a drink while we were checking out the house. They’re probably sitting on the deck or something.”

Officer Harper stepped out of the car. “You want us to check it out with you?”

She probably was just sitting on the deck, having a drink.

But probably was not good enough.

Jack took the steps two at a time. “One of you guard the front and keep trying the doorbell. The other of you should go around the east side of the house.” There was a gate that blocked access to the back of the house from that side, but it was still worth checking.

Drawing his gun, Jack went the opposite direction and cut around the side of the house. All the windows appeared undisturbed, and as he carefully peeked in each one, he saw nothing. Nor did he hear anything.

He moved cautiously around the house and into the backyard. Seeing that Cameron and Collin weren’t there, he crept up the steps that led to the deck and pressed his back against the house. On his one side was the door, on the other a window. The door was nearly all glass except for a solid oak border. The window at least had curtains that would provide some cover. Being careful to remain as concealed as possible, he peeked through the window.

Nothing.

The kitchen and great room were empty.

She wouldn’t leave without the police escort.

Jack tightened his grip on his gun. His eyes searched the house as he tried to stay out of view.

Then he saw it—something that made his pulse race.

On the other side of the kitchen, a large decorative mirror hung on the wall opposite the stairwell. He could see Cameron in the mirror—she was standing on the stairs.

A man wearing a black mask stood behind her, holding a gun to her head.

The front doorbell rang and the masked man looked in that direction, clearly using the gun to keep Cameron quiet.

From the east side of the house came a sudden clanging sound, and Jack ducked out of the window. The sound had come from the gate, and he silently cursed whichever of the two cops had been careless enough to make so much noise. He peeked back into the window.

Cameron and the masked man were gone.

Knowing they had to have gone up the stairs, Jack ran for the fire escape that led to the upstairs balcony, being careful to move stealthily enough so as to not make a sound. He reached the second floor and headed to the French doors outside the master bedroom. He reached out with one hand and quietly checked the handle of the door. Locked. Staying out of sight as much as possible, he looked through the glass.

He watched as Cameron entered the bedroom, the gunman right behind her. The man gripped her neck with one hand, pushing her, and held the gun to her head with the other.

“I never saw your face,” Cameron was saying. “You don’t have to do this.”

Hearing the fear in her voice, a fury took hold of Jack. He raised his gun to take a shot through the window.

But the man must have seen the flash of movement. He looked over, saw Jack through the glass, and yanked Cameron in front of him, blowing the shot. Refusing to leave Cameron alone with the gunman one second longer, Jack reared back and fired his gun twice at the glass French doors.

He dove through.

Jack burst into the bedroom, barely aware of the glass shattering all around him. He hit the ground on one knee, slid across the floor, and hurtled himself up with his gun aimed at the masked man—

—who had his arm wrapped around Cameron’s neck. His own gun pointed at her head.

“Let her go,” Jack growled.

The masked man tightened his grip around Cameron’s neck. Using her as a shield, he backed out of the bedroom, into the hallway.

Jack followed, his gun trained on the man and ready to fire the moment he had a clean shot. “There are cops on every side of this house. You’re trapped. Put down your weapon and release her.” Without shifting his gaze, he did a quick assessment of the guy. Five feet eleven, roughly one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Cameron’s physical description had been nearly spot-on. And through the slits of the mask, Jack gained one additional piece of information: the man had brown eyes.

The masked man paused at Jack’s warning. Then he pressed the barrel of his gun harder against Cameron’s temple, digging into her skin.