And then, I died Page 5

  Charles could lower her long lashes, bite her plump lip, and look guilty as hell without raising so much as a slither of interest from her in most instances.

  On the other hand, there was absolutely no point in trying to hide anything from her when she'd like to get an answer. Evasive just wouldn't work today.

  “Look, I happen to think that you should be told as you live with the guy, but it isn't my story. Let's just say there is a reason why I've rented Jack out to him.”

  Considering a man as any sort of vulnerable wasn't easy for Beth at the best of times, but William Slate?

  He was the exact opposite.

  He looked down, using his frame as well as the full force of his intense grey eyes against her each time they'd interacted. Years of training hadn't saved her from wanting to recoil when confronted to his intimidation techniques. It wasn't the sort of skill one taught; he was born a domineering ass.

  A domineering ass who left her the best out of five seats in the lounge – her armchair right in front of the TV – every night. Who never came closer than necessary, respecting her personal space. Who had once pulled the throw over her cold feet when the blasted thing had fallen down. Who looked very good naked.

  Stop right there, she admonished herself. She had no business thinking of any man naked. Been there, done that, don't need a repeat.

  “Are we visiting?”

  Charles, obviously astonished at the question, did her the grace of keeping unsolicited remarks to herself.

  “No point until morning. He had to get his shoulder operated; they aren't about to let the neighbours in if he’s still out of it.”

  Beth opened her mouth, but thought better of it, simply nodding her agreement. They weren't.

  “You're up to something.”

  “Can I borrow your bike?”

  After another short staring contest, Charles let out a loud chuckle.

  “You like him.”

  It wasn't a question.

  Two days ago she would have convincingly snorted out a denial, but she wasn't smiling at the idea of him under a wrecked car, so she didn't exactly hate the guy, did she?

  Strange. Annabel had been right on clue: she hated men.

  Most rape victims grew out of it after a while, but a decade had passed since the incident and that gut wrenching feeling as a male grew closer wasn't going anywhere.

  However, it had been dormant around Liam; she wouldn't have managed to pass right next to him in the shower if it hadn't.

  If she gave it some consideration, Annabel might have nailed it: she didn't see him as a threat because he had a back story. He wasn't a stranger she could think the worst of without shame; he was the friend of a friend.

  And sex isn't rape when it involves consenting adults.

  “I don't dislike him.”

  “Honey, from you, that's a declaration of undying love right there. I was wondering what happened: you look good today.”

  Beth couldn't tell what was more insulting: that Charles thought she might have changed her look because of a man, or that she was right.

  “I had a meeting,” she reminded her.

  “Whatever you say, sweetie.”

  She would have inquired as to the meaning of that, but thought better of it, certain she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Your bike?”

  “You know you don't have to ask.”

  •

  Despite the frequent assurances from the various members of the medical corps who tried to explain just how lucky he had been, Liam didn't feel overly so at the moment.

  Groggy, woozy, nauseous, in pain sounded about right, but lucky?

  Sure, he was alive and would recover from the dislocated shoulder, the concussion had been only minor, and Jack had walked away without much damage, save for a few cuts and bruises, but being attacked by a car piloted by a piece of your own technology sucks, whatever way you look at it.

  The AI navigator he’d toyed with over a year ago had been programmed to avoid collisions at all cost, but he could see that once someone got hold of it, reshaping that particular feature wouldn't take much work. If he ever wanted to commercialize it, it needed serious work.

  Then there was the question of the day: as that version of his AIN was a prototype, who could have procured it and made it work against him?

  The short knock against his door interrupted his internal mumbling, and as he opened his eyes, he realized they were right. He was rather lucky, actually.

  “Look who's here to see you!” the old nurse who had introduced herself as Donna unnecessarily yelled. “Now, we've made an exception and let your lady friend in as your family couldn't make it.”

  Beth was waiting at the door, hesitant, foolishly unsure of her welcome.

  His “lady friend.”

  He snickered at the utterly ridiculous idea. Had he ever been tempted to have such a thing as a relationship, he hoped he'd choose better than that unstable, moody, gorgeous bitch, who had acted like anything other than monosyllabic answers was as excruciating as getting a tooth out, until she'd decided to get into his shower. She'd give him whiplashes by the bucket.

  However, there was no denying why no one had questioned it.

  Beth had switched the dress she had on that morning for the yoga pants and long jumper she usually wore around the house, but a rubbish bag wouldn't have altered her charms.

  She'd also left her hair down. Damn. He'd liked the plait better than the ponytails, but the soft, inviting wavy locks falling around her curves were another kind of sexy.

  “I'll leave you to it, but the visiting hours end at ten thirty.”

  His watch, despite the broken screen, still displayed the time. Almost nine. If anyone had been stupid as to bet against him, he'd put his money on the fact that she'd been gone by quarter past.

  “Hey.”

  She took the invitation, immediately making her way to the medical file at the bottom of his bed.

  “It's not bad. They'll keep you in for observation tonight, because of the concussion as much as the post op checks, but you'll live. You'll have to take it easy on that poor keyboard of yours for a while, though.”

  “Who died and made you a doctor, Ms. Interpreter?” he mocked although she was right: he'd been told exactly that.

  She raised an eyebrow at the slip indicating he'd been noisy and asked about her.

  She never talked about work around the house. She never talked to him about much, really; their usual evening was silent as they watched whatever movie he put on until she decided to head to bed.

  Charles had been rather vague, giving him a “she's fluent in about six or seven languages and the government put that to good use where it's needed.”

  “I'm curious, so sue me.”

  “I may have googled you when I got bored,” she admitted, before promptly changing the subject: “You'll need something in your stomach if they are keeping those doses. Feel like eating yet?”

  “Hospital food? No thank you, dearest, I'd rather starve until they release me.”

  Beth rolled her eyes, walking up to him to take a seat on the chair beside his bed. She fished in the oversize boho bag she'd been carrying around, revealing a small Tupperware with a theatrical, “Ta-da!”

  “Whatever that is, can I have it doubled?”

  “Give me some credit, Slate. That's your starter. Keep it down a few minutes and I'll get the nurse to heat up the leftover of my risotto.”

  His stomach mumbled a whinge suspiciously close to homemade food.

  She normally ate dinner before he got back from work, submitting him to the smell of whatever she concocted each evening as he heated up his ready meals. Cruel.

  So, apparently, it took a hit and run to get her to share.

  Thinking back to the crash wasn't quite enough to rob him of the agreeable mood his painkillers and her presence had put him under, but he sobered up some. It hadn’t actually hit him until that very public and clearly expensive premeditated a
ssault: someone really wanted him dead.

  Catching his darkening expression, Beth dived right in:

  “Look, we don't know much about each other, but we're both very good friends with two extremely cautious women... that counts for something, right?”

  Neither of them was sure it did, but he nodded his agreement.

  “I have a pretty good idea of what's going on, but I'd like you to trust me with your story.”

  “I doubt you've got such a good idea of the situation. I certainly don't. I go to work, do my thing, pay my taxes. Not many companies specialize in my area. There is no reason why anyone would want to get rid of me. Yet here we are. It feels like someone just picked the wrong guy. ”

  She was quiet for a time, but he felt she had something to say – something she was trying to formulate.

  Minutes passed and the silence was getting so uncomfortable he was tempted to fill it with nonsense, when she finally replied:

  “I've been the wrong guy before. Wrong place, wrong time. Doesn't matter much who you are; some people just don't respect life. Would it be better if it happened to anyone else? Someone who couldn't afford a bodyguard and two houses?”

  There was a tale behind those words. He wanted to ask but couldn't, and if she was tempted to tell, he knew she wouldn't.

  He guessed it wasn't a pretty story. If it had been, the poised woman in front of him wouldn't have meltdowns in empty conference rooms.

  The arrival of a nurse saved him from risking their shaky and brand new camaraderie with his curiosity.

  The newcomer was in the kind of blue scrubs Donna and Jack, his previous attendants, had been wearing, but the similarity ended there. The former nurses had been well-mannered, clean and efficient, while that kid – he couldn’t be very old – had grime under his fingernails. He didn’t bother to put gloves on, therefore Liam felt distinctively uneasy as he approached his IV with a syringe.

  It was at that instant that the world span out of its axis for the second time in Elizabeth’s presence. However, tonight, it took a turn for the worse, rolling straight into the scene of a videogame.

  Beth, one moment peacefully seated next to him, was now pinning the man to the wall, one heel pushing against his neck.

  What the ever freaking fuck?

  Shock faded as adrenaline kicked in when the kid reached for a gun he aimed at Beth’s head. Liam was on his feet, ready to leap at the treat, but as it turned out, his assistance wasn’t needed.

  Without so much as batting her long lashes, the woman’s lean leg flexed to kick the weapon away, before returning to its original position. The poor guy was doing his very best – kicking, pushing, pulling – but Beth was completely in charge.

  Now she didn’t seem to be in immediate danger, Liam was at full leisure to appreciate the scene, and as he did, he grew quite angry, rather startled, extremely curious, but above all, very, very hard. The woman was dominant, confident, kick ass, and flexible.

  Shit, this display could be classified as porn.

  “Now, you want to be quiet, boy,” she told him softly, using that sweet voice he’d only heard once – when they’d first met. “We wouldn’t want the police to interrupt us yet, would we?”

  He hadn’t understood why he had found it intimidating, menacing – now he did. Beth was a threat and she was so good as to warn her preys.

  The kid didn’t listen. He reached for something else in his scrubs – another syringe filled with clear fluid – and this time, the distraction worked. Beth leaped back, falling into a crouch before he could spike any part of her body with his new weapon, and the kid – proving himself smarter than he looked – used the very small window, when she gracefully jumped back to her feet, to make a run for it.

  Beth looked at the door, considering her options, before turning back to Liam. He could almost hear the wheels turning; she could run after the guy or stay in case she was needed. Stay to protect him.

  After half a second, she sighed and returned to her seat.

  “So, to be entirely forthcoming,” she said, “I'm not exactly an interpreter.”

  This day may be remembered as the day whence William B. Slate was virtually emasculated.

  Despite the fact that he paid one person in that room, had all but screwed another, was a business partner of the third, no one gave a damn that he disapproved of the plan.

  Victoria seemed delighted, Charles, relieved, and Jack, excited by the fact that Beth was putting herself in danger for his sake.

  Never mind that the girl was apparently a CIA agent and, as she'd said twice already, had dealt with situations far more “sensitive” than his on a daily basis for the last five years.

  Five years. Did they recruit their spies straight out of junior high? How old was she, anyway?

  He'd thought her under twenty at first; after seeing her dressed in something that hadn't been designed for teenage boys, he'd guess she was a bit older. The two other women in the room were twenty-seven or thereabout, and they both seemed more mature.

  Then again, they were respectively in a white and a tweed suit; what would Beth look like with their professional attire, the sophisticated haircut, and the pearl earrings?

  Shit. He probably didn’t need to know. If she got more appealing, he was going to end up embarrassing himself.

  “Wait,” Vick cut in. “Are you going to get in trouble? I mean, it isn't exactly an agency sanctioned mission.”

  “I'm on leave, remember?”

  “Last I heard,” Jack pointed out, “the agency doesn't like its employees going on private investigations. If it blows up in your face...”

  “I'll tell the truth: I wasn't looking for trouble but my flatmate is knees deep in shit.”

  Flattering.

  “Believe me, Chris did worse last year; he didn't even get a warning over it.”

  The name came to her lips with a casual familiarity and failed to raise any questioning. Jack discretely raised an eyebrow, but the traitor kept his mouth shut and Liam wasn't about to request clarifications.

  It would have made him sound jealous. And the sudden spike of irritation colouring his mood was not jealousy.

  It wasn't.

  “So what's the actual plan? Pose as the secretary and sniff around?”

  No one would believe it; his secretary had been with him from the beginning, and, regardless, he promoted his staff from within the company. If he suddenly hired her for such a role, they'd all jump to one conclusion, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with investigating a manhunt.

  Worse yet: they'd piss off Janice, and his coffees would never be the same.

  Charles saved him from having to yet again state the obvious: “If you demote Janice in favour of an random girl with an ass like Beth's, HR will have your balls.”

  “I resent that,” Beth said, throwing a cushion in Charles' general direction. “I'd be a great secretary.”

  Visualising his stern employee constantly plugged to her company phone, typing away while organizing meetings and reminding him of his schedules, Liam doubted it, but as the woman was apparently licensed to kill, he kept his mouth shut.

  “Regardless, everyone will assume you're bumping uglies as soon as you close his office door. If I were you, I'd pose as the girlfriend.”

  The girlfriend.

  His girlfriend.

  His.

  The words were similar to those Donna had chosen at the hospital, but now that the stronger painkillers had left his system, they violently hit home, twisting his stomach in knots.

  Liam never had a long term relationship with a woman, for good reasons. Sometime he envied those who deluded themselves into thinking that affection was enough, but it really didn't seem worth the heartache in the end.

  Even if he'd been so foolish as to want to try, it wouldn't work with a girl of her sort.

  Beth would never debase herself as to indulge in William's particular paraphilia, and while he could enjoy simple, straightforward sex like anyone
else, the rest was part of him. He had no doubt he'd miss his favourite game if a woman made him give it up.

  They'd only make each other miserable in the end... but he could see it.

  Here is Elizabeth Carver, he would say, his arm around her. My girlfriend.

  Terrifying.

  “To be frank, I'm grateful to have something to do. Another six months of baking, reading, exercising, and watching TV? Never mind your incompetent killer, I would have to murder you myself just to survive the boredom.”

  The frivolousness had been there every time her lip had twitched at whatever remark she heard, but she generally had kept her humour to herself. Tonight? She'd barely closed that luscious mouth of hers, obviously in her element now they were considering homicide and conspiracies.

  Rather than hearing his protests when she outlined her offer in the hospital, she shut him up with gyosas and promised to discuss it further at home.

  It hadn't been a discussion: she'd given the plan, solely relying on her ability to butt into his personal life, and the vast majority had agreed to it.

  He had tried saying no and gone thoroughly, profoundly unnoticed.

  “Delighted that attempts on my life can provide some entertainment for you, dearest.”

  The only silver lining in this whole situation was the change in his diet. The tacos she'd thrown together for the five of them had given him an erection at the first mouthful.

  Damn if that girl wasn't trouble.

  Chapter 6:

  Buried

  Within three days, Beth had identified and neutralized the threat.

  Four of the five attempts on William's life had been so unprofessional she was almost embarrassed on behalf of their perpetrators; the pizza delivery guy had left a blood sample, the taxi driver had actually used his own car, the girl in the club had been so clumsy she'd been arrested within days, and the kid in the scrubs had used his father's gun. Seriously.

  Tracing their affiliations, she soon found the common ground they shared: the Bass, a lowly band of merry criminals who should have stuck to stealing cars. Murder was obviously beyond their skills.