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“This is a good thing, right?” she asked, and damn, he had to tread carefully, here.
“There are parts of it that are very good,” he said, and she huffed out a soft laugh.
“But?”
A feeling he couldn’t quite identify twisted in his chest, and screw it. Not being honest with her just wasn’t an option.
“But there are parts of it that scare me. Not because I think they’re too risky or poorly planned.” He’d have put up way more of a fight if either of those had been the case. “And also not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself. But the thought of anything happening to you is just…”
Roman couldn’t finish the thought, let alone his sentence.
“It scares me, too,” Camila admitted, her arms tightening around his body as she leaned her cheek on his chest, and Christ, how could she make such a shitty situation feel so perfect with one simple movement? “But Sinclair is right. We can’t stay here forever, and it does seem pretty unlikely that Archer or Portia would come after me now. They have to know that even if I come back to Remington, you’re still keeping me safe.”
Her words sparked an idea in his head that took off like wildfire. Logically, Roman knew it was impulsive—no. Check that. It was beyond impulsive, bordering on crazy. But there was no logic involved in the way he felt about Camila, nothing he wouldn’t say or give or do to keep her safe.
So he said, “Stay with me.”
A sound of pure surprise crossed her lips, and she pulled back to stare at him. “What?”
“When we get back to Remington tomorrow, stay with me,” Roman said, meeting her stare and not looking away. “Or let me stay with you—I don’t care which. I know it sounds crazy, and, okay, it mightbea little crazy. But it’s not just about keeping you safe. When I’m with you, I feel happy and good and…well, everything. I feel everything, and I used to think that was a bad thing, only it’s not, and now I don’t want to be without it. I don’t want to be withoutyou. So—”
Camila stopped his words with a press of her lips over his. “Yes.”
“Yes? You’ll stay?” He blinked, but she just started to laugh.
“Oh, Roman. You should know me well enough by now to realize you had me at crazy.” She kissed him again, and fuck, how had he ever lived without her?
“Yes,” she promised. “I’ll stay.”
22
Archer stood in the evening shadows and watched. Frustrating, yes—he’d spent the last three and a half weeks waiting to do this one last chore that would guarantee his escape. But watching was better than the waiting he’d been doing up until four days ago, and both had been necessary, albeit annoying as fuck. But as soon as Camila had disappeared, Archer had known the Intelligence Unit had taken the extra precaution of putting her into some sort of protective custody. With her brother in the unit, Archer hadn’t been surprised, although the inconvenience had made him want to kill Thorn all over again for making this so goddamned difficult. Shutting Camila up should have been a matter of minutes, a quick grab and drag to a secluded spot so he could cut her throat, toss his blood-soaked clothes in a metal barrel with a match and a bunch of lighter fluid, and get on with his day. But Archer had learned to play the hand he’d been dealt, so he’d taken Portia underground and waited. Planned. Then waited some more.
And his patience had finally paid off. Camila Garza was back in Remington. Which meant his carefully constructed plan could finally move forward. All he needed was just a little more recon, a little more security, and he’d be able to kill Camila to keep Portia safe, and both of them out of jail. He had a Plan B, of course—contingencies were a fucking way of life for a guy like him, and even though this one came with a hefty price, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it to buy his freedom.
He’d earned it. Hedeservedit. And nothing was going to stand in his way.
Not even his sister.
Archer watched from across the street as Camila made her way from the spot where she’d parked in front of Agent Roman’s townhouse up to his front door, key in hand. Kick in the pants that the guy just happened to be an FBI agent, and in the fraud division, no less. Archer would find it funny if it hadn’t proved to be such a giant pain in his ass. Roman had schooled her well, though—no cell phone in her hand, no AirPods blocking out the world around her. No, Camila walked with purpose, Point A to Point B with her head on a swivel, ready for any danger she’d encounter. Archer would bet she even had pepper spray in the pocket of that bright red peacoat of hers, her free hand wrapped around it as she walked.
She probably thought she was keeping herself safer with all those precautions, and with anyone else trying to harm her, that might be the case. But as he watched her from the narrow alleyway between the two rows of townhouses across the street—a spot just outside the reach of the street cam on the corner, not that the hat he’d pulled just low enough over his face would allow for a peek even if it caught him—he simply let her show him what not to do.
Snatching her from the street wasn’t an option. Too risky, especially in a neighborhood this nice. Same with trying to get past the security at the school where she worked. He’d need something else.
Camila paused on the sidewalk directly in front of Agent Roman’s townhouse, her smile wide as she greeted a woman walking her dog. The dog, a purebred mutt from the look of it, sniffed at Camila happily. After gaining permission from the dog’s owner, she bent down to give the animal a good scratch behind the ears, and the seed of an idea bloomed in Archer’s head, taking root.
After a few seconds, Camila waved in parting and headed to the front door of the townhouse, sweeping a glance over her surroundings one last time before sliding the key into the lock and heading inside. Archer wasn’t close enough to hear for sure, but he could imagine the click of the deadbolt moving into place a few seconds later, another tiny puzzle piece that probably made her feel safe.
Good. Let her feel safe. That would only make it easier for him to take her when the time was right, and he was nothing if not patient. He’d wait for her and Agent Roman and the whole fucking Intelligence Unit to get good and comfortable. They’d already had a few days to dig in to the tipline calls that had placed both him and Portia in Ohio. Archer had made sure the leads were just credible enough while leaving a tiny margin of error, having written the callers’ scripts himself. Disguising himself, then finding two junkies willing to make the anonymous calls in exchange for a couple hundred bucks had been all too easy. But it was all part of the plan.
It was the ultimate bait and switch. The Intelligence Unit already thought he and Portia had run. Tactically, it was the smartest move. The one they’d assume he’d make. The longer Camila went untouched, the more lax they’d get. She’d grow comfortable in a sense of security that she’d only have because Archer allowed it.
And that was going to give him just enough time to get away with the murder that would buy his ticket to the happily ever after he deserved.
* * *
Camila hummedto herself as she sketched with one hand and took a sip of coffee with the other. She’d woken ridiculously early for a Sunday morning, and although she’d been more than a little tempted to wake Roman up in a very creative fashion, she’d ultimately decided to let the poor guy sleep in after a long week back at work. She’d tiptoed to the main level of the townhouse, brewing a cup of coffee and making good use of the early morning light sparkling past the trio of large windows in the dining area off the kitchen. The townhouse was gorgeous, with high ceilings and an abundance of windows that boasted plenty of natural light, pewter oak hardwood floors, and warm, cream-colored walls. Roman had given all the credit to the decorator he’d hired when he’d moved in four years ago, but little touches, like high-end pots and pans and the huge collection of political thrillers in the bookshelves flanking the fireplace in the family room, totally gave him away. The five nights they’d spent here had been some of Camila’s happiest, the tiny worry that she’d be intruding on his personal space obliterated by the pure goodness she felt letting him share that space with her, and sharing it with him right back.
