High Octane Read online

  “Why?” she asked, alarm flushing her cheeks. “Do you think it’s going to blow up or there’s a dead animal inside, or something creepy like that?”

  Ryan settled his hands on her face. “Sabrina, sweetheart. Just trust me, okay? Let me do this, and then we can make our pizza and enjoy it.” He brushed his lips over hers. “And each other.”

  She hesitated but nodded. “Okay.” He started to pull away, and she grabbed one of his hands. “Should we call the police?”

  “I have far more training than anyone who would show up, I swear.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “But still…”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised. She was worried. About a box hurting him. How would she have been if she’d known him when he was gone for months, completely out of touch? “Stay right there until I call you.”

  Ryan had already assessed the telltale signs of an amateur at work: the way the box was taped. And it was a recycled box from a local food manufacturer, which meant the person wasn’t worried about being traced. It also meant this package wasn’t from Sabrina’s parents.

  First, Ryan unlocked her door and then cautiously picked up the package. “Be careful,” Sabrina called.

  Despite the disconcerting circumstances, Ryan smiled as he entered the apartment and shut the door. He didn’t stop until he reached Sabrina’s kitchen, the opposite side of the living room, away from the windows and enclosed to absorb any blast, although he wasn’t expecting one. The kitchen also put him a good distance from the door, this allowed him to respond to whatever was inside if necessary, without endangering Sabrina.

  He set the box down, pulled out a chair and set his cell on it. Then he grabbed a knife from the kitchen block. He sliced the box open and backed up, then waited. Nothing. Next he flipped the lid open. Waited again. Nothing. Finally, he knocked it to its side. Sabrina’s purse tumbled out. What the heck?

  Using the knife, he investigated the easy-to-access items lying on the table. No note. Nothing but the purse. Nothing that he could see. For further investigation, Ryan grabbed a towel from the kitchen to avoid touching anything, dumped the contents of the purse on the table, and went through it. Lipstick, powder, keys. Wallet. He struggled with the towel, but managed to open the wallet and review the contents. Everything seemed to be inside. Driver’s license. Credit cards. Even forty dollars in cash.

  Ryan didn’t like it one bit. Someone was messing with her. A stalker maybe? They should file a police report as soon as possible.

  Hating that he had to scare Sabrina, Ryan did a quick check of the condo, and then headed to the hallway.

  “Well?” Sabrina asked anxiously.

  He grabbed their shopping bags from the ground and motioned her inside. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

  The color drained from her face. “What does that mean?”

  “Inside,” he said again.

  Ryan disposed of the bags by the door and led Sabrina to the table. “My purse!” she exclaimed excitedly and reached for it.

  “Don’t touch it,” Ryan warned, “we need to have it fingerprinted.”

  “What? Why?”

  “No note and everything is intact. Even the forty bucks in your wallet. I assume that’s what you had in it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Couldn’t this be a nice person who didn’t want a reward?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I just don’t like the way this feels, Sabrina. Better safe than sorry. Let’s call the police and let them do a report. That way if this person who dropped it off becomes a problem, you have a record.”

  “Now you’re really starting to freak me out,” she said.

  He wrapped her in his arms. “I don’t mean to. But don’t count on getting rid of me tonight. I’m not leaving you alone until we’re sure about this.”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “One perk to being a damsel in distress,” she said. “Having you around as my personal bodyguard.”

  Over an hour later, the police officer, a twentysomething kid still wet behind the ears, wrapped up his questions. “Is there anything else I should know? You’re sure there have been no other indicators of threats?”

  Ryan remembered Sabrina’s answering machine in the kitchen. “You should check your messages before he leaves.”

  “No,” Sabrina said quickly, running her hands down her hips and regrouping. “I mean, I cleared them while you guys were talking. There’s nothing of concern there.”

  Even the young buck of a cop wasn’t convinced. “You sure, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Very sure. Thank you so much for coming out. I’m hoping this is a false alarm.”

  When the cop exited, Sabrina shut the door, locked it and turned to Ryan. He stood, arms crossed, waiting for her. “What was that about?”

  “I just wanted him gone,” she said. “I wanted this over with.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Sabrina?”

  “Any messages are most likely from my parents. I’m really liking my private sanctuary called Texas. And though I cling to the hope my father won’t run for the White House, albeit I’d never tell him that, I don’t want to lose my privacy because this latest crazy installment of my life might make the news. It’s sad, but true.”

  He understood. He understood, and he hated the truth of her words. She couldn’t escape that part of her life, and he couldn’t protect her from it, no matter how much he might try. He could only help her deal with it.

  “We should listen to the messages,” he said. “Or I can give you some privacy to listen to them. Both home and cell phone.”

  A defeated sigh followed. “You might as well listen with me,” she said, motioning him toward the kitchen. “If you’re going to be in my life, you need to know what that means, good and bad. There’s no better way than a good dose of my parents to give you the full picture.”

  There were ten messages. Ryan thought for sure they couldn’t all be from her parents. They were. The final one played.

  “Sabrina, this is your mother. I know you’re alive and well because I read your feature on that car driver, which surprised me, of course, but that’s another subject. You should be doing what you do well. Politics.”

  “Now that it serves Daddy’s campaign,” Sabrina mumbled.

  The message continued, “We’re worried. Please call us. Or I’m going to get on a plane and come there.”

  “Oh, crap,” Sabrina said, leaning her elbows on the counter and dropping her head. “She means it. I have to call. I should check my cell phone and make sure her threats haven’t become more urgent. I might have to make that call to her tonight.”

  “I’ll change the locks while you check your cell,” he suggested. “That pizza would taste really good right about now, as well.”

  “I’ll pop it in,” she agreed.

  Ryan headed to the door, wondering what was really keeping Sabrina from calling her parents. Ten calls were a lot of calls. And sure, Ryan understood she was avoiding their nudge back into politics, but he had to wonder if there was more to her avoidance. Perhaps she knew that this nudge was all it would take to talk her into returning to New York.

  SABRINA SAT DOWN at the dining-room table and stared at the mess that was her purse. While preferring to believe a good Samaritan had returned it, there was no question she was shaken. The idea of a stranger digging through her personal items, knowing her address—it was hard not to be unsettled. Having Ryan change her locks and stay close was comforting. And having him close, well… She was falling for him. She had fallen for him. For the first time in her life, she was pretty sure she was feeling love for this man. It was early in the relationship, she knew, but she’d dated men casually for months and never once had she even begun to think such a thing.

  All the more reason why she didn’t want to call home. Home. Was New York home? She stared out the window, at the Austin view she’d come to love. The city life emulating a small-town feel, with its casual attire, a downtown you could
stroll without being mauled and such friendly people. And Ryan. Ryan was here.

  Tension radiated up her spine as she grabbed her cell phone. It was dead. She snatched the bag by her chair, pulled out the charger she’d bought for the new phone she no longer needed, and plugged it into the wall. The instant the phone lit up, it rang. Frank. At least it wasn’t her father.

  Sabrina hit the answer button and was immediately greeted with, “What’s going on, Cameron?”

  Last-name usage. Never a good sign. She opened her mouth to speak.

  He cut her off. “You don’t know how to answer your phone or what? You’re too good to work on the weekends? You’re no diva here in Texas. You answer your phone.”

  Sabrina smiled. She couldn’t help it. “This diva,” she replied, “had her purse, car keys and cell phone stolen. Would you like a copy of the police report? Or maybe I should write a story about it.”

  “Actually—”

  “No,” she said sharply. “It was a joke, Frank.”

  “It would sell papers,” he countered. “Don’t offer if you aren’t willing to pay up.”

  “I assume there was a reason I was scolded for not answering my phone?”

  “You saw the story about that soldier,” he demanded, rather than asked.

  “I saw it.”

  “We should have had that story.”

  Sabrina ground her teeth. “Why didn’t your political team get it?”

  “I gave you this story,” he quipped sharply. “You, Sabrina. And I sent you the names of people involved, details to follow up on, yet you let someone else get the real story. You gave me fluff.”

  “And I told you, Frank,” she ground out, “I’m following up on some leads, but this isn’t my story. I’m helping out and I intend to keep helping out. But you are the one choosing what gets printed and what doesn’t.”

  “I waited to give you the chance to make a real splash with this story, to make it known that you’ve moved from New York to Texas—to our paper.”

  “I’m making my place,” she said. “And it’s not in politics. I gave you a good story. Six weeks of a good story with this Marco piece, which you can’t deny is doing well.”

  “Six good weeks,” he threw the words back at her. “And then what? You don’t have to answer—we both know you don’t know. Until you give me a long-term plan that will sell papers, that justifies your salary to my higher-ups, I’ll ‘justify’ for you. Find out why the wife of that soldier visited the mayor,” he practically shouted. “Use your connections.”

  “Frank,” she argued. “My father and the mayor represent opposing parties. No one will want to tell me anything.” And she didn’t want another storm that put her at odds with her family and the media.

  “Somebody always wants to talk,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Sabrina accepted defeat. What else could she do? Quit? Then what? “I’ll see what I can do,” she said noncommittedly.

  “I expect to hear a plan of action by Monday.” Frank hung up.

  Sabrina set the phone down and piled everything back in her purse.

  The pizza. She’d forgotten to put it in. She rushed into the kitchen, eager for any distraction that kept her from calling her parents. Frank had been more than enough trouble on his own. Being busy in the kitchen helped her avoid the call. Ice in cups. Plates. Whoops. Better wipe off the cabinet. She finally gave in and listened to the five messages on her cell from her parents, which sounded about the same as the ones on her answering machine.

  It wasn’t long before Ryan joined her in the kitchen, allowing her yet another excuse to skip her phone call to her mother. Her career might be in shambles, but she had achieved high merits for procrastination this night, for sure.

  “Anything on the messages?” Ryan asked, carrying the pizza to the table while Sabrina grabbed the tea glasses.

  “Messages?” she asked, feigning innocence.

  He set the pizza in the center of the dark walnut table. “You were going to check your messages and then call your parents.”

  “Oh, right.” She set the glasses down. “Messages. My parents called. Surprise.”

  “Did you talk to your parents?”

  She claimed the seat at the corner. “My boss called and wouldn’t let me off the phone. And then I had to make the pizza.”

  “You had to make the pizza,” he repeated, sitting at the end of the table, his scrutiny a bit too earnest for comfort.

  “Yes,” she said. “And you should eat rather than question me. I slaved in the kitchen.”

  He studied her a minute more and chuckled. “Slaved, did you? To warm the pizza.”

  “Are you downplaying my efforts?”

  “No. I can’t wait to taste your magnificent cooking.” He reached for the pizza. “Let’s eat.” He filled his plate and she did the same.

  They’d eaten together, slept together, showered together. And they were going to do it all over again. The idea warmed her and softened the blow of Frank’s bullying. And of the phone call she couldn’t avoid forever. Oh, yeah. And the potential stalker she hoped was no stalker at all.

  After a few minutes of debate over the best way to handle her car Monday morning, Ryan reminded her about the front door. “The new key is on the table by the entrance.”

  “Thank you so much for doing that for me,” she said. “I owe you in all kinds of ways.”

  “You can pay me back by skydiving with me,” he suggested playfully.

  “Let me think about that,” she said, and then immediately followed up with “No.”

  “One day you’ll jump with me,” he promised.

  “There you go, assuming again,” she rebutted.

  “Like with the condoms,” he said keenly. “The ones we didn’t use. I’ve never been with anyone without using one. I know I said that before, but I want to reiterate that you are safe with me.”

  Safe. Ryan made her feel safe in ways no other man ever had, yet at the same time, he made her feel as if she were hanging off a ledge by her fingertips—which had nothing to do with condoms. “Me either,” she said and then added a reminder, “Though I’m on the pill.” She hesitated. “I take it because… It doesn’t matter why. You were my first without a condom.”

  Sexual tension spiked in the air. Something flickered in his face. Satisfaction. Awareness. She felt it, too. They weren’t talking about condoms. They were talking about the potential of commitment.

  “I like being the first,” he said softly and reached for another slice of pizza, breaking the crackling sexual tension down to a mere hum.

  They ate and talked, and she couldn’t help but catch tiny glimpses of him. He was far more scrumptious than any pizza would ever be. His hair was mussed up, as if he’d run his fingers through it contemplating his task. The day-old beard darkening his jaw, combined with his worn jeans and boots, gave him an appealing, rugged look so much more masculine than the clean-shaven stuffed-shirt types she was used to.

  He finished eating and leaned back in his chair, sighing with satisfaction. “Not the best pizza I ever had, but it did the job.”

  “Hey, now. That’s my cooking you’re talking about.”

  “If that’s all you can cook, we’ll be getting lots of takeout.”

  Her stomach fluttered at the implication that they’d be spending time together. “That’s generally what I do anyway,” she conceded.

  He turned serious, shifted the conversation. “So, when are you going to call your parents?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “Today’s handed me more than enough trouble as it is.”

  “Why not get it all over with,” he suggested. “Let tomorrow be a new day.”

  “Maybe. But you heard the message. I’m not sure I’m up to the pressure tonight. They have every intention of coercing me back into politics.”

  “Which you love,” he pointed out, shifting his chair away from the table toward her.

  Boots previously dis
posed of, Sabrina pulled her feet to the chair and angled her body toward him. “I hate politics,” she corrected. “I loved exposing corruption and the back-door deals. There’s a difference. I convinced myself if I got a big enough audience, I could rally people to stand up for their rights. That’s why I encourage voting. We have to speak out in volume. Too many people complain privately, but don’t do what they can to speak out.”

  “And yet you want to walk away?”

  She rested her chin on her knees. “I just can’t be that person in the middle of all of that conflict anymore,” she said. “I can’t do any good that way. And I need to feel like I make a difference. Interviewing Marco isn’t the way, obviously, but something is out there for me, and it’s a stepping stone.” She hesitated, wondering about Ryan. “You speak with such pride about the Army,” she said. “What happened to make you leave? Because something had to have happened.”

  “We almost lost one of the Aces while trying to save the young son of one of our third-world allies. We saved the kid, but he never made it to his parents. There had been dealings with an outside agency that was supposed to be on our side, but wasn’t. We don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it wasn’t right.

  “Soldiers take orders without question. Bobby, Caleb and myself all agreed we weren’t those soldiers anymore. We were all up for reenlistment within months of each other, and you know the rest. The Hotzone was born. And now, fortunately, I get to lay my head on the same pillow every night. Heck. I have a pillow. There have been plenty of times when that was a luxury.”

  He said that, and she imagined he meant it—to some degree. But she knew he had to have regrets. Like her, he’d been pushed out of his career, caught in circumstances that he didn’t create. “Did you report what happened?”

  “We did,” Ryan said. “As soon as we were out of the line of fire, wouldn’t have been able to have done it any other way. Prosecution followed, but it was all done behind closed doors. Some things are bigger than the people involved. There are unwritten codes, ways soldiers operate to protect the integrity of the organization, and those operating within it. Things best kept between soldiers.”