be a year or two older than you, but no need to ma’am-slam me, big guy.”
“Gracie!” The office door popped open again, and this time a monster of a man walked out, damn near as wide as he was tall. “Where are you?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes at Ian. “And that right there,” she muttered under her breath, “is my ball and chain.” She cleared her throat. “Talkin’ to a paying customer, Ron.”
The man ambled over, the light casting a sheen on his dome, his dark eyes drilling right through Ian. “You the guy in 301?” he asked.
Ian nodded, a sixth sense for jealous dickhead husbands rising up and forcing him to brace for the trouble he’d been looking to avoid.
The man looked from Ian to his wife, distrust and disgust on plain display. “What’s going on out here?”
“I was telling him about the new diner that opened up, since we don’t have room service,” she said quickly.
Ian shot her a look. Why was she lying? Turning, Ian extended his hand to the man. “John Brown.” Maybe the gesture would allay the man’s misplaced jealousy.
“This is my husband, Ron Hartgrave,” the woman said, shamed into the introduction.
Ron nodded, offering a meaty and damp hand that probably carried a considerable punch. Not that Ian couldn’t crush him; he didn’t want to. Trouble was the last thing he wanted, especially after Singapore, where trouble had landed him in jail—and right on the radar of the man who wanted him dead.
The Protected Persons board wouldn’t be so understanding this time. Ian’s plea to at least be on the same continent as his kids would be ignored and Henry Brooker would ship his ass off to Corvo or Tasmania or some other remote section of hell. There were no third chances with Ian’s government liaison.
And no second chances with the gang members and bounty hunters scouring any lead for the identity and location of Ian Browning.
“Your mother’s looking for you, Gracie,” Ron said to his wife. “She wants you to close the store tonight.”
She blew out a breath, fluttering her bangs. “Of course she does, because my freaking cousin is still on her honeymoon.” She gave him a wide smile. “Duty calls from the Super Min,” she said, pointing to the convenience store across the street. “You let us know if you need anything, Mr. Brown.” She turned so her husband couldn’t see her face and winked at Ian. “Anything at all.”
Ian didn’t respond except for a nod to the big man behind her, then he headed toward his room, relieved to hear the sound of her heels heading in the opposite direction.
As he reached the door of his room, he glanced to see Ron Hartgrave still standing in the same place, staring at him.
Great. Like he needed this headache.
He turned the key, went inside, and fell onto the bed, not bothering to undress or turn on a light. Staring up into darkness, he tried to let his mind go blank, a trick he’d learned in the early days when the booze didn’t do the job and dark memories threatened to swamp him.
But his trick didn’t work tonight.
Instead of a blissful blanket of nothing, a pretty face teased his consciousness, eyes so big and brown that he wanted to fall into them, and a kiss that promised—no. They promised problems, that was all.
With a soft grunt, he rubbed his eyes, grit and exhaustion burning behind his lids. That face and those eyes slowly morphed into another…one much more familiar.
Don’t go there.
Rolling over, he smashed his face into the pillow, despising the punch of pain in his gut and the squeeze in his throat. No, no. Not tonight.
Think about the pretty girl and her sexy mouth and perky tits. Oh, hell, think about the jealous husband and desperate motel owner. Think about any fucking thing but—
Kate’s body on the dining room floor, a pool of blood spilling over the hardwood, the sound of two helpless infants screaming in their cribs.
Don’t go there, Ian. Don’t go…
Too late. He was there. Smelling the blood, hearing the cries, breathing in the anguish of a perfectly wonderful life snuffed out by the hand of a coked-up, crazed-out, black-hearted killer named Luther Vane.
“Oh, God.” His cry was muffled by the pillow and the fist he slammed into the mattress over and over and over until his shoulder throbbed like his poor, miserable heart.
His wife was dead and nothing would ever bring her back again. Not sex