Dangerous Passions. Brenda Harlen
for brown, but Natalie admitted she’d only met him twice. It was possible her sister was mistaken.
“I know that description’s vague enough to fit almost anyone,” she continued. “But he stands out from a crowd. Very good-looking. Very sexy.”
Sexy.
It was definitely the thought that had come to mind when she’d met the first man, but as attraction was always subjective, she didn’t consider that conclusive evidence.
“The more I think about it,” Natalie said. “The more I’m thinking that you and he trapped in close quarters together might not be such a bad idea.”
“You wouldn’t,” Shannon said dryly. Her sister had always been a romantic at heart.
“Give me a call when you get a chance,” Natalie said. “But if I don’t hear from you for a few days, I’ll assume you’re—” she paused dramatically “—otherwise occupied.”
“I’ll call you.”
Natalie laughed and said goodbye.
Shannon hung up the phone but didn’t move off of the bed.
Go with him, Natalie had said.
But despite her sister’s assurance, there was something about the man standing outside in the hall that made her uneasy.
As she heard a soft click, like that of a door latching, another chill snaked up her spine. She turned her head to see that he was now inside her room.
She jumped up from the bed, her heart hammering furiously as she took an instinctive step backward.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Drew said. “But we really need to hurry.”
“H-how did you get in here?”
He held up a keycard. “I borrowed it from the maid.”
His voice was gentle, almost soothing, as if his explanation was perfectly reasonable.
But the smile—
She watched the way his lips curved with slow satisfaction. She saw the predatory gleam in his eyes. And she instinctively knew that despite what he’d said earlier, despite what Natalie had told her, this man wasn’t here to protect her.
She rubbed sweaty palms down the front of her skirt as her brain desperately scrambled for a response to the situation. But her usually rational mind had gone blank, fear and panic escalating until there was room for nothing else, no way to compute anything beyond the obvious threat. She drew in a deep breath, battled back the fear.
But what could she do?
She eyed the phone, but Drew was moving steadily closer and she knew she wouldn’t have a chance to press a single button before he reached her.
“I, uh, just need a few minutes to pack my things.”
He frowned, evidently surprised—and maybe a little disappointed—by her compliance. “Be quick.”
She threw her suitcase onto the bed, then began opening drawers and pulling out articles of clothing.
He was standing between her and the hotel phone, but maybe she could use her cell. If she could somehow slip into the bathroom for a minute…
Her gaze slid back to the corner of the dresser, to her purse with the phone inside it.
She continued shoving clothes into the case, as if she was as anxious as he to get out of this room, away from this hotel. The knots in her stomach tightened painfully, but she couldn’t let him see her fear, couldn’t let him suspect that she knew.
“Ready?” he asked.
She realized the last drawer was empty.
“I need some things…from the bathroom.”
His gaze narrowed.
Could he hear the tremor in her voice?
“And…I should go…before we go.”
It would give her a reason to close the door, to implement her plan. She scooped up her purse, turned toward the small room that was her last hope of escape.
She hadn’t gone two steps when he caught her arm.
“We can’t afford to waste any more time.”
“But I really need—”
It was all she managed before she felt the prick of the needle in her arm.
Chapter 2
Where the hell was she?
Mike banged on the door again, more than loud enough to wake her if she was sleeping.
There was still no response.
He’d been gone twenty minutes—fifteen minutes longer than he’d intended. But his phone had been ringing when he’d stepped into the room and he’d automatically picked it up. It had been Romeo Garcia, a detective with the Miami P.D. and a friend of Dylan Creighton, calling to update him on the situation with respect to Conroy’s connections in Florida.
According to Garcia, word on the street was that certain key players in Conroy’s organization had a new quest: to avenge their leader’s death. Although Natalie was the most obvious target for retaliation, her relationship with Lieutenant Creighton made another attempt on her life risky. As a result, Garcia believed Shannon could be in danger for no reason other than that her sister had been involved in the altercation that had cost Conroy his life.
Armed with his new information, the back-up battery in his cell phone, and his Glock, Mike had returned to Shannon’s room. But in the twenty minutes he was gone, something had happened.
He turned back to the stairwell, racing away from the memories that haunted him as much as he was racing to find her.
He was on his way toward the manager on duty at the registration desk, to demand to be let into Shannon’s room, when he spotted her. She was outside the front doors of the hotel, being helped into the passenger side of a late-model silver-colored Mercedes sedan.
He started to run.
The car was pulling away from the curb before he’d even made it outside.
Damn. He’d been an idiot to expect that she’d stay put in her room until morning. Now, everything was FUBAR.
He considered getting his own vehicle, but it was parked at the back of the hotel. By the time he got to it, Shannon would be long gone. Instead, he jumped into the back of a taxi parked beside the hotel and directed the driver to follow the Mercedes.
He tried to convince himself that there was no reason for the humming of his nerves, no rational foundation for the escalating feeling of dread. But he knew better. After Brent was killed in Righaria, Mike had stopped fighting his instincts, and he was cursing himself now for ignoring the intuition that had warned him against leaving her alone—for even a few minutes.
But he’d been so caught up in wanting her, he’d been unable to separate his personal desires from his professional instincts. Mistakes were made when impulse was allowed to overrule reason, and mistakes could cost lives. Brent’s death had taught him that more effectively than any training exercise ever could.
He pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to deal with the ghosts of the past; he couldn’t let himself be paralyzed by grief and guilt—not if he was going to protect Shannon.
Protect her from what?
The question nagged at him, unanswered, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number Garcia had given him. From what he could see, Shannon had gotten into the vehicle willingly. She certainly hadn’t appeared to be in any danger.
But Mike knew that things weren’t always what they seemed, and what Garcia told him confirmed this suspicion. The registered owner of the Mercedes was Andrew