The big question was: would she do anything differently whether she’d remembered or not? If she’d remembered anything at all, wouldn’t she logically try to carry on as normal while she figured things out and made arrangements? From a distance, there was no way to tell.
Despite taking quick looks at the laptop to make certain she wasn’t on the move again, he drove hard and fast; he cut through parking lots, raced through yellow lights, and in general made it impossible for anyone to follow him without being spotted. His six stayed clear, though. In another few hours he might have eyes on him, depending on what Lizzy did, but not yet. He knew he didn’t have a tracer on the truck because he made damn sure it was clean, and it was an older model that didn’t have navigation or any of the other Big Brother shit that made it possible for anyone to know where he was, how long he’d been there, or how fast he’d been driving. His gas mileage sucked, but his doors were reinforced to stop anything short of armor-piercing rounds, he had enough power in the big eight-cylinder to outrun most street cars, a large-capacity gas tank, and with the big push bars on front he could bull his way through most attempts to block him. So far he hadn’t needed the truck’s extra capabilities, but he always planned for the possibility.
He was sweating the time factor. If she went into the store, got what she wanted, and checked out without taking the time to browse, he’d miss her. She might go straight back home, in which case this chance was blown. He wanted to see her for himself; he’d stayed away from her for years, not even driving past her house, but that was when the status quo was holding. If things were changing, he needed to know. He was taking a big risk, but because it was such a risk it wasn’t a move Forge would anticipate that he’d make.
Sometimes the smartest thing to do was the one that made the least amount of sense—especially when others expected him to hold the line.
Getting around the D.C. area was an exercise in patience at the best of times, but thank God it wasn’t rush hour; he wheeled into the Walgreens parking lot in record time. If he hadn’t had the tracer, allowing him to move at almost the same time she had, he wouldn’t have made it.
Rapidly he scanned the parked cars; he knew her make and model, the color, even the license plate number. There were several empty parking slots right against the building, close to the door, but none of the cars were hers. Then he spotted the unremarkable silver car, which she’d parked toward the back of the lot and pulled forward through a double space so she was facing out.
His heart gave one hard thump. He himself always parked that way. Everyone he knew in the trade parked that way, because a split second could save their lives. Park so you’re ready to go, without having to back out, turn, change directions—all little things that caused delays and could make the difference between getting out alive, or not.
And now Lizzy had parked like that, even though there were empty parking slots closer to the building. Maybe those slots had been full when she’d arrived, but that didn’t explain the way she’d parked now. Maybe he was reading too much into it; people did park that way, sometimes on a whim, or because they sucked at reversing. Maybe she was pulling into the parking slot and the person parked in front of her had just been leaving, so she’d simply pulled forward. He shouldn’t read too much into it. Neither should he ignore it.
He circled around, backed into an empty slot in the very last row, and got out of the truck. Before leaving the condo he’d thrown a denim work shirt on over his tee shirt, leaving it unbuttoned so he had easy access to his weapons. A discerning eye might catch that he was armed, but if anyone noticed he could always flip out his fake badge. Yeah, the badge was against the law; a lot of what he did was, so he didn’t sweat it. Even if he did get busted, he’d be released as soon as they ran his ID.
A rush of adrenaline burned in his veins, then his heart, his whole body; then he settled into the cool calm, every sense heightened, that always came over him when he closed in on his prey.
The automatic doors swooshed open and the particular scent of a pharmacy hit him, part plastic, part medicinal, barely detectable under the sweet scents of cosmetics and lotions. Cool air washed over his face as he stepped inside, already scanning left and right as he went in, something he’d have done even if he hadn’t been looking for her. She’d be in the pharmacy section, probably, so he bypassed the makeup and toys and candy, his long legs covering the territory fast.
There. There, ambling down an aisle of shampoo and other crap. Her back was to him, and she carried a wire shopping basket with plastic-covered handles. No doubt it was her, though; he knew that mane of dark hair, the erect set of her shoulders, the way she carried her head and, holy shit, the inverted-heart curve of her ass. Lizzy—in person, after years of only hearing her voice or seeing photos.
Even so, he took the time to pause and make a delibe
rate survey of the area. No one was watching her. No one was watching him. The aisle was empty except for her; the next closest person was a plump, gray-haired staffer, two aisles over and busy shelving items.
One of the wire shopping baskets sat beside a center display of leftover Fourth of July stuff. He grabbed it up, seized a spray can of deodorant and a bag of candy as camouflage, tossed them both into the basket, then closed in, his rubber-soled boots silent on the tiled floor. Deliberately he turned so his shoulder was to her and bumped into her, hard enough to almost throw her off balance.
Someone pushed her, hard, making her take a half-step back to keep from falling on her keister. Without thinking, Lizette transferred her weight to her back foot and whirled, alarm skittering through her, her grip tightening on the basket handles as she instinctively prepared to swing it at her attacker as hard as she could.
“Sorry!” a man said in a deep, slightly rough voice as he turned toward her. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”
On some level she noted that he’d been turned away from her, and the spurt of panic eased. He was carrying a shopping basket, and a quick flick of her gaze told her that the most dangerous thing in it was a can of deodorant—well, maybe the chocolate candy, depending on whether or not she was on a diet or looking for a weapon.
Then she looked up at his face, and her heartbeat stuttered. Her skin registered what felt like a physical impact, as if every nerve in her body was reacting to … something: chemistry, body heat, testosterone—whatever it was, it was too much, too strong and direct. The hair on the back of her neck lifted, chills ran up and down her arms, and her nipples shrank to tight nubs.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the pharmacy faded, sound receded, and for a few disconcerting seconds her vision narrowed to him, just him, as if they were alone in the middle of the store. The volatile mixture of reactions was so confusing she reached behind herself to grip a shelf for support as she backed up a step, needing some distance between them. He was too much.
Her eyes big, her lips going numb, she all but gawked at him as she tried to come to grips with herself. She didn’t react to men this way, not even nice, sweet, stable, gainfully employed men any normal woman would love to meet, and certainly not this—this predator. “Nice” and “sweet” were two words she was certain had never been applied to him. She should run. She should obey her gut instinct and get as far away from him as fast as she could.
She knew that. She agreed with her gut instinct. But she couldn’t get her feet to move.
She shivered, her body still battling with the overwhelming, conflicting signals her brain was sending. Maybe she was going to faint, she thought, alarmed by the possibility but unable to look away from him.
He was a head taller than she, broad-shouldered, tough and lean in boots, jeans, and a denim shirt unbuttoned over a black tee shirt. More than his size, though, was the aura of coiled power about him, even though he was just standing there. His stance, the way he was perfectly balanced so he could go in any direction without hesitation, the powerfully muscled legs so plainly revealed by his tight jeans, all spoke to a man in top physical condition.
The bone structure of his face was lean and angular, with chiseled high cheekbones and a thin, high-bridged nose that made her think he must have some Native American in his heritage, though it could be Middle Eastern. But it was his eyes that marked him for what he was. He was dark-haired, olive-skinned, and his heavy-lidded eyes such a dark shade of brown that the irises almost blended with the blackness of his pupils. His gaze was direct, coldly intense, and as it focused on her she felt as if she’d suddenly been put in the crosshairs—
She felt a sharp, warning stab of pain, and that finally broke the spell she’d been under. Swiftly she looked away, concentrating on the label of a shampoo bottle, because she’d look like an idiot if she started humming mindlessly. The pain ebbed and she said, “That’s okay,” not looking at him again because something about his eyes made her feel as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into the unknown.
His big hand appeared in her field of vision as he reached for a bottle of shampoo. “This stuff makes me feel like an idiot,” he muttered, startling her into glancing at him.
“Shampoo?” She knit her brows together in a slight frown. “What’s hard about shampoo? Wet, lather, rinse. Don’t tell me you failed Shampoo 101.” The words popped out, and it felt as if someone else was saying them. She knew better; don’t engage with strangers—especially strangers who looked as if they could snap her neck with one hand—don’t be provocative, don’t … She knew there were more “don’ts,” more directives she should be following, but they were fraying, falling apart even as she tried to bring them to mind. She wasn’t a smart-ass; she tried to be polite to everyone, tried not to be intrusive, yet here she was busting this guy’s chops and the weird thing was … it felt almost natural.
“Passed with flying colors; I was the teacher’s pet,” he returned, his mouth quirking up on one side in a lopsided half-smile that showed he wasn’t at all offended. “But look at this.” He turned the bottle so she could see it. “ ‘Volumizing and clarifying.’ What is it, and do I need it? Will it make my hair stand straight out, and I’ll understand the universe better?”
She looked up at his dark hair, thick, straight, and slightly unruly, as if he’d combed it by dragging his fingers through it. “I don’t think you need any volumizing.” Pointing down the aisle, she said, “Besides, this is a woman’s shampoo. You need that manly man stuff down there.”