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  “The lady is best not ignored.”

  One side of the Nic’s mouth hitched up. “Too true.”

  Jeremy led him out of the main terminal and into a waiting town car. They drove around to a separate terminal on the south side of the airport and directly into a hangar where a G-5 was being fueled and readied for takeoff. At the top of the jet’s stairs stood imposing, beautiful Melissa Cruz, in a dark pencil skirt and cream-colored shell. Formerly a Special Agent in Charge at the FBI, and more recently Chief of Security for Talley Enterprises and bounty hunter on the side, she was definitely not a woman you ignored if you wanted to keep all your bodily bits.

  “Price,” she greeted, when he reached the bottom of the steps.

  “You gonna give me a lift?”

  She crossed her toned brown arms, biceps flexing. “I shouldn’t after that disappearing act you pulled.”

  Recriminations it was, then.

  “But I’m the last person to judge,” she added. “You had your reasons.”

  Jeremy, who’d finished loading his luggage, closed the hold door just as the pilot called from the side window, “Ms. Cruz, we’re ready to go.”

  “Thank you,” she returned. Then to Nic, “Your reasons, as it turns out, were also well-founded.”

  Interest and apprehension warred. “You’ve learned more?”

  With a nod, she beckoned him to follow her inside, and Jeremy held out an arm toward the stairs. “Mr. Price, if you would, please.”

  He climbed the steps into the luxury private jet, and Jeremy secured the door behind them.

  “Anything else, Agent—” Jeremy paused, correcting himself with a smile that Mel shared “—Ms. Cruz.”

  “We’re good, Jeremy, thank you.”

  The steward, who must have known Mel from her Bureau days, disappeared behind the cockpit door.

  Nic sank into one of the swiveling leather chairs and strapped in. “Where’d you find Alfred?”

  “Stole him from commercial,” she answered with a smirk.

  “Well done.”

  Thanks to priority takeoff, they were airborne in less than ten minutes, and Nic was out of his coat and tie five minutes after that, tossing them into one of the other empty chairs. He stretched out his long legs, laced his hands over his middle, and leaned back in the plush seat, eyes slipping closed. There were difficult conversations to be had, Mel had intimated as much, but he couldn’t help taking a brief respite for himself.

  Definitely better than commercial.

  “How are you, Nic?”

  Respite over.

  He righted his head and swiveled to face the couch were she sat, one knee crossed over the other, red-soled designer heel bouncing. “Tired, but it was a good stint there.”

  “You considering having your own office one day?”

  “It’s tempting,” he admitted.

  Being out from under Bowers’s thumb had been re-energizing. Having his own team, choosing his and approving the team’s cases, being able to direct efforts toward causes within the DOJ’s purview that were of particular interest to him, versus merely trying to clear cases, had reminded him why he’d gotten into this in the first place. Besides his gift for arguing, as his SEAL XO had put it.

  In five weeks, he’d made a difference, a bigger one than a single prosecutor’s caseload. There was no shortage of abusers to introduce to the full weight of the law, and doing so at the opposite end of the state from his asshole boss had been all the better. But the opposite end of the state had kept him from the things he’d missed most—Gravity, friends, Cam.

  “I’m not sure where my future lies, if I’m being honest.”

  “Gravity?”

  “Some part of it, most definitely.” But all of it? What about the courtroom?

  “Kegs won’t keep your bed warm at night,” Mel said, making the next leap to the bedroom.

  He chuckled. “I was going to say something noble about the carriage of justice, but marriage seems to have turned you into the matchmaker.”

  She poked him in the knee with her heel, smiling and unrepentant. “I want to see my friends happy too.”

  If that constant ache he’d felt in the vicinity of his chest the past month was any indication, Nic knew what would make him happy. But he wouldn’t let his happiness come at the expense of those he cared for.

  “I need to know how to protect the future,” he said. “No matter what or who’s in it.”

  The seatbelt light dinged off and the pilot interrupted to report they’d reached cruising altitude. When the intercom clicked off, Mel unclasped her seatbelt and stood, gesturing to the chairs a row back, on either side of a table. “Then I need to bring you up to speed,” she said, all business.

  And the business wasn’t good.

  Thirty minutes later, the table was covered with documents, and Nic was pacing the length of the cabin, his hands in his hair, which had more gray in it every day. Warp speed, if this shit kept up. “That’s why they laid off.”

  “Mostly likely. But this—” she nudged the damning deed of trust on his childhood home “—won’t keep them at bay forever. Not when Curtis still can’t pay his bills. The debts will outweigh the equity before long.”

  “Did Vaughn take out insurance on it?”

  From the folder of horrors that had produced only bad news, she pulled out another sheet of paper—an insurance certificate on the house. His gaze shot to the declared value box, and all the moisture in his mouth vanished. Double the assessed value, last time he’d checked the county land records.

  He ran his hands down his face, groaning. “It’s as good as doused in lighter fluid.” He had to get his father and staff out of there.

  “Have you had any more calls?” Mel asked.

  Nic shook his head. No more of the distracting calls from an Unknown number, the first having rung right as Vaughn’s goons attacked him. He pointed at the deed of trust. “Now we know why.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Swear to Christ, Cruz, you pull another nightmare out of that fucking hat—” he glared at the folder “—and I might just throw it out of this plane.”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “I’ll get creative.”

  She laughed, then pulled two pieces of paper from the folder of doom. He growled. “Easy, Price.” She set the papers on the table. “Jury’s still out on these.”

  “Tell me where the calls originated from, and I’ll be the judge of that.”

  She smirked and pointed at several highlighted entries on the first sheet—his phone record. “These are the unknown calls to you, all from a single burner phone, like we suspected.”

  “Did the calls originate from the same location?”

  “Appears so. Took a bit of digging, but I traced them back to Jacksonville, North Carolina.”

  Bracing his hands on either side of the table, he stared at the second sheet. A map with a cluster of pinpoints, all in a familiar location.

  “That’s Camp Lejeune.” He’d been based at Little Creek in Virginia, then Coronado in California, but he’d done joint special operations training with the Marines at Lejeune. Numerous times. “Someone from when I was in the service?”

  “That would be the logical conclusion.”

  Was a former teammate in trouble? He knew of at least one who was there in the area, an instructor now. Or a Marine he’d crossed paths with? From his time as a SEAL, then in the JAG Corps, he had friends and colleagues across branches, and if there was one thing the military engrained in him, it was never leave a teammate behind. He had his own teammates’ names inked on his skin because they’d not left him behind when he’d been injured in the field. If one of them was in trouble now... And was that trouble the Duncan Vaughn sort? If it were, he’d either been betrayed or someone was up to their neck in shit with V
aughn. Shit they probably didn’t grasp the full danger and extent of. “You got enough fuel on this thing to take us to North Carolina?”

  “I do. But it’s one in the morning there, and I’ve got a husband at home who will not be pleased if I’m gone another day.”

  “Cruz.”

  She covered his hand, which had formed a death grip on the table’s edge. “Priorities, Price. The base would’ve called you if it was serious. Or the caller would have left a message.”

  “Maybe.” If it was something that would be escalated that high, officially, then yes. If not, then no. And if the calls were connected to Vaughn, he doubted the matter would go through the base at all.

  “Let me dig,” Mel offered. “Determine if it’s connected while you deal with the other issues first.”

  She was right. The problems—with Vaughn and his father—were known. Possibly—probably—worse, and most definitely immediate.

  As was his need to see a certain federal agent.

  He loosened his grip and straightened. “All right, let’s go home.”

  Chapter Two

  Priority departure, yes.

  Priority landing, not so much.

  They circled an hour before finally touching down at SFO, and by the time Nic hit the elevator for the hipster-infested hive complex he now called home, it was half past midnight. His disgust, amplified by the K-pop playing in the elevator, was almost enough to distract him.

  Almost.

  Key an inch from the lock to his third floor unit, he looked down and noticed the scuffs on his oxfords, visible in the light streaming out from under the door.

  The scuffs he didn’t care about; the light stopped him cold.

  Maybe the complex’s management had been in for maintenance or inspections. But they would’ve given him notice of that; they legally had to.

  Glass shattered inside the unit.

  Nic snatched back his key, dropped his bags, and reached for his sidearm.

  Maintenance wouldn’t be in his apartment at this hour.

  He visualized the one-bedroom floorplan. Small faux wood foyer, bathroom and bedroom to the left, laundry on the right, a carpeted hallway that led to the main living area and kitchen. The glass had shattered from somewhere deep inside the unit—not in the foyer or bathroom. With the rest of the area carpeted, it had to have been in the kitchen. If he entered quietly, he wouldn’t be heard or seen in the entry hallway. He could sneak up on the intruder before they knew he was there.

  He pressed the door handle down—unlocked—but when he pushed the door it didn’t give. The deadbolt was still engaged. Sliding his key in gently, he rotated it right, millimeter by millimeter, minimizing the click of the lock being thrown.

  Weapon in hand, he eased open the door and snuck inside.

  And with one deep breath, he realized his caution was unnecessary.

  The aroma of beef stew tickled his nose and a string of curses, long on the vowels and short on the Rs, reached his ears. He’d know that voice anywhere, and the ache in his chest eased a little at hearing it live and in person again. B&E culprit identified, Nic holstered his weapon and collected his bags, dropping them in the foyer next to a stack of moving boxes. He shut the door and unclipped his holster, setting the weapon atop the boxes. “Boston, you okay?”

  “Fucking finally.” Cam appeared around the corner, and Nic nearly stumbled at the handsome grin that greeted him. “Got hungry unpacking your shit, so I threw some stew on.” He lifted a dish-towel-wrapped hand. “Until this happened.”

  The shattering glass.

  “Bathroom, now,” Nic ordered. From the foyer stack of boxes, he lifted off the top one marked Bedroom and dug through the Bathroom one for a first aid kit.

  “You gonna fix me up?” Cam crowded his side, the heat of his body and the smell of his beer on Cam’s breath throwing Nic for a loop. The painted-on tee that showed off his ripped chest and arms and the ratty jeans that hung low on his hips spun him further. Cam looked good in a suit, but Nic liked him best dressed down, unusual for his tastes. But this was Cam—Boston.

  Nic tore his eyes from the outline that was making itself known under those threadbare jeans and stepped toward the bathroom. “Well, you did get injured unpacking my shit,” he said with a smile tossed over his shoulder.

  “Missed that,” Cam replied, voice gravelly.

  Dark eyes liquid warm, body heat magnified in the small space, he was too tempting for common sense. Nic had counted on a night alone to get his thoughts in order, to decide how best to warn Cam of the new dangers Mel had uncovered, and to practice his apology for running scared, just as Cam had correctly deduced.

  But with Cam right here, all Nic wanted to do was sample his beer on Cam’s lips—his favorite taste in the world.

  Fuck.

  He grabbed Cam’s hand and shoved it under the faucet instead.

  “Ouch!” Cam yelped. “That’s fucking hot. And not in the good way!”

  Chuckling, Nic adjusted the temperature and carefully brushed out the tiny shards of glass, cleaning the relatively minor cut.

  “Way to kill the mood, asshole,” Cam grumbled, then proceeded to kill it further himself. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”

  Nic dried his palm and dabbed on antiseptic. “I was in trial until yesterday.”

  “That why you didn’t call?” Hurt belied Cam’s words, even as he stepped closer.

  Nic’s hands shook as he ripped open two Band-Aids and stuck the strips together, big enough to cover the cut on Cam’s palm. “In part.”

  “In part?”

  Nic pressed the Band-Aids over the cut and smoothed down the sticky ends. He curled his hands around Cam’s, turned it over, and brushed his thumbs over the backs of his knuckles. “I was still trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry for being an ass. For running.”

  “So you admit that’s what you were doing?”

  Nic lifted his eyes to Cam’s swirling dark ones, equal parts hurt and need with a chaser of indignation. “I said it, didn’t I?”

  Taking the last step closer, his front pressed to Nic’s side, Cam curled his other arm behind him, laying a hand on his lower back. “Then that’s all you need to say.” The warmth of his words blotted out the hurt and indignation in his eyes and the warmth of his hand seared through the cotton of Nic’s dress shirt.

  Nic fumbled the antiseptic he was trying to put away. Cam grabbed the tube, dropped it in the box, and closed the lid. He moved it off to the side, and Nic let himself be shifted between the marble vanity and Cam’s hard, hot body. Everything he’d missed, everything he didn’t deserve, was pressed up against him, magnifying the torture. Nic’s heart and breath stuttered. “I’m sorry, Boston.”

  “Apology accepted,” Cam whispered, then lower, “Now, I just need my dick in you.”

  Groaning, Nic angled his face in, lips prickled by the enticing scruff, tongue tasting skin, sweat and man. “Fuck, I missed you.”

  Cam cupped the other side of his face, holding him there, cheek to cheek. “Missed you too, baby.” He lowered the hand on Nic’s back, hauling him off the vanity and grabbing his ass, bringing them dick to dick.

  Nic couldn’t have stopped himself from thrusting if his life depended on it. Same as he couldn’t stop himself from begging. “Boston, please.”

  Plea granted, Cam’s mouth came down on his, hard, and Nic claimed the taste he craved, lips devouring and tongue thrusting into the other man’s mouth. He chased after it, again and again, until he was out of breath and had to draw back.

  Smiling, Cam nipped along his jaw and trailed kisses down his neck. “I set up the bed.”

  Another thrust, chasing that idea as eagerly as he’d chased Cam’s kiss. “Sheets too?”

  He felt Cam smirk against the hollow of his throat. “Of course.”

&nb
sp; “Awfully confident.”

  “Thought you liked that about me?”

  “Oh, I do, Boston.” He ran his hands through the dark brown strands of Cam’s hair, tilting his head back and forcing his gaze. “The food?”

  “Instant Pot.”

  “I don’t own an Instant Pot.”

  “Housewarming gift.”

  Meaning Cam understood. And he’d said he’d been unpacking him. Here. He wasn’t going to pressure him to move in.

  All Nic’s lingering tension, the fears he’d been holding inside, been holding on to for the past month, fell away. He breathed deep—

  And almost choked. “Do you smell that?”

  Inhaling, Cam’s eyes widened a second later, in recognition, and they both spun, looking up to the air vent above the door. Smoke was billowing out from between the metal slats. “What the fuck?”

  The building fire alarm blared in answer.

  * * *

  Cam raced into the living room and grabbed his gun and badge off the window ledge. He was back in the foyer by the time Nic came out of the bathroom with two soaked pillowcases.

  “Makes it easier to breathe,” he said, holding one out to Cam. “We’re going up?”

  Cam nodded; no question. He was a first responder, already on scene, who could rescue trapped residents or help coordinate evac. This was his job, and judging by the determined look in Nic’s eyes, he considered it his too. Cam didn’t bother trying to convince him otherwise. He might be a lawyer now, but the soldier resided just beneath the surface. If Nic could be on the front lines, he would be, and there were only a handful of others Cam trusted as much as Nic to have his back. He took the pillowcase from Nic, folded it into a triangle, and tied it bandana-style around the lower part of his face.

  After Nic did the same, he dug two flashlights out of another box and handed one to Cam. “You’re more recently trained in evac procedures. You lead.”

  Smoke was slowly seeping into the third floor hallway, not a full-on pour like through Nic’s vents yet, so the other residents were more disoriented than panicked. Woken in the middle of the night, driven out of their units by the alarms, they struggled to find their way to the exits in the dim hallway, the emergency lighting and signs not as bright as they should be.