Charlotte gazed at the pickup with its dented bumper. A man sat behind the wheel, probably waiting for someone like she was.
Jeremy Owen’s words from the other night niggled at her. There was a dark green pickup in the vicinity . . .
Charlotte studied the truck, the driver. Her heart rate quickened. She pushed open her door and slid from the car. Resting her hand on her service weapon, she slowly approached the vehicle.
Suddenly, the engine roared, and the truck surged forward.
“Damn it!” Charlotte rushed back and jumped behind the wheel as the truck took off down the divided driveway. Charlotte thrust the car into drive as she reached for the radio and called for backup.
The truck was halfway to the main gate, and Charlotte punched the gas. She swerved, bouncing over the curb as she careened over the grassy median, then bouncing again as she hit the street.
A horn blared, and she swerved, narrowly missing an oncoming car. She set her gaze on the gate up ahead and stomped the gas, and her trusty V6 responded with a throaty growl. She was almost there, almost there, almost . . .
Charlotte reached the end of the median and jerked the wheel right, then hit the brakes. Tires shrieked, and she braced for impact.
He hit her like a torpedo, and the car spun out. Charlotte shoved it into park and blinked down at the steering wheel, dazed, for maybe a second. Then she drew her pistol and jumped out.
Bruno Duric was fighting the airbag and struggling to get his door open, but it was smashed to hell. He scrambled over the seat as Charlotte rushed to the other side.
“Don’t move!” She pointed her gun at his chest. “Hands up!”
She saw the fury in his eyes. Not just that he was caught but that he was caught by a woman with a badge.
“Hands up, asshole! Now!”
Slowly, his hands went up, and Charlotte stepped closer, amazed that he looked exactly like the suspect sketch, right down to the dimple on his chin. But the look in his eyes now was pure hate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
KIRA STEPPED into her house and disabled the burglar alarm as Jeremy brought her luggage inside.
“Where do you want these?” he asked.
“Um . . . that’s mostly equipment, so it goes in the office.”
He walked past her, carrying her two giant suitcases like they were lunch boxes.
What a long, strange day. Her suite at the Metropolitan had become a crime scene, so Kira had decided to check out. She would have left soon anyway, now that Logan & Locke had discontinued her security arrangement and was no longer footing the bill. And she was eager to get home.
After Diaz and Spears arrested the Durics, a horde of law-enforcement officials had descended on the Metropolitan—police detectives, FBI agents, even a few ICE guys. It turned out that Anatoly Markov’s business was already under investigation by the feds. It sounded like the shipping company was a front for a drug- and people-smuggling operation, and Craig Collins may have been involved as a low-level employee who got in over his head and owed Andre Markov money.
Kira and Jeremy had spent several hours talking to investigators at the scene before going to the police station for additional interviews that had dragged on and on. When that was finished, Jeremy had taken her to check out of the hotel and offered her a ride home. They’d even stopped by the store to buy a few groceries—which felt totally bizarre, as though they were some normal couple picking up dinner for a quiet night in together.
Kira set a bag of groceries on the counter now and returned Ollie’s goldfish to the kitchen windowsill. Then she grabbed her roll-on bag and wheeled it down the hallway.
Jeremy stepped from the office. “Want everything else back here, too?”
“It can wait by the door,” Kira said. “I have to sort through some of it and put stuff in the laundry.”
He flipped the light switch on the wall and looked down at her, his brow furrowed with worry. He reached up and lightly traced his finger over the bruise on her neck from where Sasha Duric had tried to strangle her. Jeremy had been looking at her neck all afternoon, his eyes tormented.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “But I’d like to jump in the shower before dinner. You mind?”
“Take your time. I’ll get the grill going.”
“It hasn’t been used in a while, so I’m sure it’s really dirty.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll handle it.”
He walked away, leaving her staring after him and wondering what the hell she was doing.
She hadn’t formally invited him home with her, it had just been understood that that was what was happening as they left the hotel. She was glad he’d come. Relieved. And not just because of how rattled she felt after being attacked. She didn’t want to be alone tonight, but she also didn’t want to deal with saying goodbye to him yet. Her emotions felt raw right now, too close to the surface, and she worried about what she might say if she got into a serious discussion with him.
Kira went into her bathroom and stripped off her clothes. She stood under the hot shower spray, letting it steam up the room as all the events of the day swirled through her mind. Despite the two arrests, they were still waiting for news from Charlotte Spears. Police had attempted to pick up Andre Markov for questioning, but he seemed to have disappeared, which catapulted him to the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list.
What had started as a straightforward PI job had spun out of control, and Kira felt as though her life had been hit by a tornado. It had ripped through everything with dizzying ferocity, and she didn’t know how to get her equilibrium back, or if she ever would.
She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, feeling ridiculously grateful to be back in her own house, in her own shower, with towels that smelled like her laundry detergent. She would sleep in her own bed tonight—with Jeremy—and just the thought of it put a warm tingle inside her.
She dressed in cutoff shorts and her softest sweatshirt and was combing her hair when someone knocked on the back door.
After checking the window, Kira opened the door for Gina.
“Oh, my God, wow.” Grinning, Gina stepped inside and gave Kira a hug.
“What?”
“Your smoking-hot bodyguard.”
“That’s Jeremy,” Kira said. “And he’s no longer my bodyguard.”
Gina smelled like perfume, and she was dressed to go out in a sexy black top. She craned her neck to see out the kitchen window. “What’s he doing back there?”
“Getting the grill going.” Kira sat on the sofa arm. “We’re making hamburgers tonight.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
Gina smiled. “Well, isn’t that romantic?”
“It’s just burgers. You can join us if you want.”
“Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to crash your date.” She stepped closer, and her smile vanished. “Hey, what happened to your neck there?”
“Long story.”
“Holy shit, don’t tell me he—”
“Jeremy had nothing to do with it. He helped apprehend the person who did, so—”
“What on earth happened?”
Kira cast a glance through the kitchen window, and she could see Jeremy scrubbing down her grill with a metal brush he’d found somewhere. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him on her patio. He wore jeans and an untucked flannel shirt that made him look like a lumberjack. The weather was too hot for a long-sleeved shirt, but he wore it to conceal his gun.