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“Exhausted,” she shot back. “You know what? That’s a case of sound tactics and poor judgment. Because I’m not only tired, I’m sore in every muscle, and I’m pissed.”
His mouth quirked as he considered the ramifications. “Tired is good, pissed isn’t unusual. I’ll try to do something about the soreness.”
“Such as?”
“How does a hotel room with a whirlpool tub sound?”
The bicycle she’d bought just that morning—and spent a wad of dough on—had served her well, but she’d never before in her life been so glad to see the last of anything. She pushed it to the side of the road and left it there, figuring someone would pick it up within half an hour at the most. Then, backpack strapped in place and helmet on, she waited until Xavier had straddled the Harley before she stepped on the bar and swung her leg over the seat, settling into place behind him. This wasn’t one of the big touring bikes, with the raised passenger seat and back rest; this was a machine built for muscle and speed, which meant he had to scoot forward as far as he could and she still barely had enough room to sit down. Another half inch, and she’d be on the back fender. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and laid her head against his back, because she would have to hold on for dear life.
He started the engine, and a heavy throbbing sprang to life between her legs.
“Good Lord,” she muttered. “If a woman had one of these babies, she wouldn’t need a man.”
He laughed and squeezed her hands where they laced together on his stomach, then put the transmission in gear and eased onto the asphalt.
Because her position was so precarious, she deeply appreciated the way he handled the machine, as smoothly as if he were carrying fine china. The motorcycle seat was more comfortable than the bicycle had been, or she never would have made it. What would have taken her hours more—because she probably would have ended up walking the rest of the way—was reduced to about half an hour.
The hotel he chose was one of the big, historic five-star inns. He didn’t have reservations, of course, but what he did have was a platinum card, with a name on it that bore no relation to “Xavier” in any way, not as an initi
al, a first name, a last name—nothing. Somehow she wasn’t surprised that he had fake ID; they were obviously involved in something that made having false identities a very good idea.
In nothing flat the Harley was in a secure parking area and they were in a luxurious suite with a balcony, a fireplace, a king-size bed, and marvelous antique pieces. The bathroom was easily twice the size of her bathroom at home—or what used to be her home. The odds were she wouldn’t be going back there, and even though she knew the life she’d been living was a false one, she still felt a pang at the idea of not seeing her home again. She didn’t want to think about that, so she examined the tub. It wasn’t a whirlpool, but she figured a long soak in hot water, plus a couple of aspirin, would be almost as good.
“I’m getting in that tub,” she announced, bending down to turn on the water.
“Be my guest,” he said from behind her, patting her butt.
“Jerk,” she muttered.
He chuckled as he moved away. “I’m going to check my messages. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood after you’ve soaked for a while.”
There was a lot they needed to talk about, but neither of them seemed in any hurry to get into the heavy stuff, such as why people were trying to kill her, and what his involvement was—heck, what her involvement was. He seemed content to wait, and she was so tired, that suited her too.
Lizzy ran the water as hot as she could stand it, then stripped down and stepped in. Gingerly she lowered her aching body into the tub, groaning as the heat seeped into her abused muscles. Closing her eyes, she lay all the way back, sinking down until her hair floated around her and her knees were sticking out of the water. She hurt from her toes to her neck. It was possible that the only part of her body that didn’t hurt was her right earlobe, because she’d caught the helmet strap on her left ear and pulled at the stud earring she wore.
She wanted to just relax and soak, to let her mind float the way her hair was doing, but it wasn’t possible. No matter what, her thoughts keep worrying at her situation like a cat with a ball of yarn. She wasn’t safe; she might never be safe again. But at this moment she felt safer, better, than she had since she’d looked in the mirror and seen a stranger’s face staring back at her. Her heart beat at a steady rhythm; she wasn’t poised to leap from the tub and flee. Maybe tomorrow she’d be on the run again, but for tonight she could enjoy a simple hot bath, real food, and sleeping in a decent bed.
When she sat back up—because her knees really needed the heat more than her ears did—she opened her eyes and looked around the bathroom, all white marble and polished chrome. There was this big bathtub and a shower, double sinks, and a separate room for the toilet, as well as more thick, fluffy towels than two people could use in a single day. She’d say this for Xavier: when he found a place to hide out for a night, he had much better luck than she did.
Luck, hell! He was prepared for anything and everything. Having a fake ID and credit cards under a false name was much more effective than lying her way into an unrentable hotel room where she had to sit with the lights out, no sheets, and one crappy towel.
Xavier. X. The man of her dreams, literally. She was still highly pissed at him for letting her pedal that damn bike for so long before stopping her, furious with him for terrifying her, and yet—he was here.
Without him, she’d been bereft, and hadn’t known it. Only now that he was back in her life could she look at the interval between then and now and see how drab and joyless it had been. Xavier was the color in the colorless world they’d stuck her in. In spite of everything, she was relieved that she could now remember … some of what had happened. She remembered him most clearly.
She still didn’t know how things stood. Were they the good guys, or the bad guys? Xavier certainly could break either way. Maybe both; maybe neither. She thought about that, and realized it didn’t matter that he wasn’t a certified White Knight. Her life wasn’t a black-and-white movie from the fifties where good and bad were easily defined and identified. White hats for the heroes, black ones for the villains. The real world was much more complicated than that. Her world was complicated.
No, complicated didn’t begin to cover it. Her world was a cluster-fuck.
The door opened and Xavier came in—without knocking, of course, but even though she was a little uneasy at being naked in front of him, she didn’t grab a towel, or otherwise show the modesty that felt out of place between them. He’d seen her like this before. She might not remember exactly when, but she knew it had happened.
“I ordered food. It’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”
She looked up at him. The man towered over her, fully dressed, armed—she didn’t know where he’d had the weapon hidden, unless it was in the small leather kit he’d carried in, but she was glad he had the big handgun. Even though logic said they were safe, he’d found her, so it followed that someone else could.
“What did you order for me?” She was grumpy enough that she wanted him to have ordered something she didn’t like, so she could snap at him.
“Crab cakes. And cheesecake for dessert.”
