The Weekend Wife Page 19

  He was right. So she didn’t think. She just took a deep breath and let herself drop.

  He kept his word and let her fall onto him, the impact knocking him down. But despite the rough landing, she ended up in his arms, and they both scrambled to their feet, uninjured other than a few scratches and bruises picked up along the way.

  Now on the floor, she looked around. Everything was gloriously still. And not as dark as she might have hoped, but it remained much more shadowy than it would be in the morning when sunlight came blasting through the windows near the ceiling. They’d picked a good time to go.

  Her stomach churned with nervousness as they began silently making their way around heaps of glassware containers. The place was big and maze-like, making it hard to get their bearings or have much of a sense where they were going. But they kept moving, quiet and swift—and a few tenuous moments later, they rounded a row of crates and, to her amazement, she spotted the door, the very same one they’d come through yesterday afternoon.

  Her heart pounded even harder than it already was as she grabbed Max’s wrist and pointed. As his eyes lit with relief, she knew she wasn’t just imagining it; it wasn’t just some strange warehouse mirage—it was the right door, their means of escape. And the normalcy he’d promised her waited just on the other side. We’re actually getting out of here!

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  Oh shit. Kimberly and Max both turned to find Carlo standing behind them.

  “I don’t know how you two got out of that room, but you might as well have stayed put, because you sure as hell aren’t getting out of this building.”

  A ragged, disbelieving sigh slipped past her lips. And part of her wanted to break down and cry in despair. She was so damn tired—physically and emotionally. She wasn’t sure she had any more strength left inside her.

  But another part of her quickly realized that Carlo was alone.

  And what had she told Max? If they went up against only one person, they should separate.

  He’d practically forbidden it, but she didn’t care. She had to trust her instincts now—she could see no other way.

  So she strode boldly toward Carlo without giving Max even a glance—she only prayed he’d stay where he was.

  “Brandt,” he snapped, low, but at least he didn’t seem to be following her.

  Meanwhile, Carlo took a step back, obviously confused by her approach. “What the hell…?” he muttered. And she began to wonder if maybe he would make this easy—maybe she could just walk up and take his gun herself.

  But then he reached for it—pulling it from the back of his waistband, just as she’d known he would.

  Instead of letting that stop her, though, she remained unfazed and kept walking toward him—which clearly confounded him all the more. “Hold still!” he said.

  “You wouldn’t really hurt me, Carlo,” she said with a purr in her voice, “would you?” She was relying on what she knew to be his weakness: women, sex, seduction.

  He seemed unable to decide whether to hold the gun on her or Max, although he ultimately chose Max—figuring him to be more adversarial, she guessed—yet his eyes had gone soft at her provocative tone.

  “Would you?” she whispered again. And then she was at his side, so close she could have reached up and kissed him, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

  “I…don’t want to hurt you, Kimberly,” he said, sounding nervous. “You know that.”

  “Yes, I do know that,” she breathed, letting her eyes widen, meeting his gaze, and trying to figure out exactly how she could get that gun from his hand.

  But then Max said, “Damn it, Brandt, get away from him.”

  And Carlo swung his gaze back to Max. “Get your hands where I can see ’em!” After which she heard him mutter under his breath. “And who the hell’s Brandt?”

  Before Carlo could figure out what to do next, her eyes landed on one of the heavy white pitchers they’d found yesterday, jutting from the packing straw in an open bin—and she picked it up, lifted it high with both hands, and brought it crashing down on Carlo’s head.

  The smarmy crook crumpled to the ground before her, and she was on the verge of feeling victorious—when she caught sight of the alarm shining in Max’s eyes. Damn it, what now?

  That was when someone behind her said, “Hold it right there!”

  The words halted her in place, but she cautiously looked over her shoulder to find three men with guns, all of them pointed at her and Max. Her heart dropped to her stomach.

  Still, she knew instantly that they’d come too far to give in now, and that their only chance lay in blatant and very risky defiance. The only other alternative was certain death. So she looked toward Max, her back still to the gunmen. And she moved her lips to say Run.

  Yet Max just stood there, his eyes darting back and forth between her and the gunmen. And she supposed he was determined to do something to save her, to treat her as the damsel in distress she’d once been. But Max, there’s no time for that now. She had to force the issue. She mouthed the word to him again, this time with fire in her eyes. Run!

  Then she bolted madly toward the door and Max joined her. Gunfire erupted behind them, with bullets whizzing past and people yelling and danger so thick she could taste it.

  A sharp pain exploded in her hip and she looked down to see a bright red blot on her dress. She kept running in spite of it, although she felt strange and weak and heavy. And as they neared the door, she yelled at Max, “Tate, I’ve been shot!”

  Chapter Twenty

  She’d been shot? His Kimberly? No, it couldn’t be. But a glance told Max it was true. Blood stained the side of her dress. And everything turned to slow motion for him.

  “Can you keep going?” he yelled to her

  “I think so.”

  They were at the door, Max pushing her through, running behind her. I’ve got to get her safe, I’ve got to get her safe. Nothing else mattered.

  And then he looked up and saw the pre-dawn street before him illumined with eerie swirling lights—blue ones, on cop cars. They lined the front of the warehouse.

  “Max! Kim!” The voice belonged to Frank, rising from somewhere amid the blue glow.

  And then there was more gunfire behind them and Max tackled Kimberly, pushing her to the pavement, praying that it would all end soon, and that she wouldn’t die—please don’t let her die, God. Please.

  “Thanks again, Frank,” Max said, clasping his friend’s hand outside the warehouse. “If you hadn’t gotten that message and called the police in, I’m just not sure…”

  “Hey, let’s not think about that, huh?” Frank slapped him on the back and it helped him lighten up a little. Still, Frank had really come through for them—a little late, but better than never. He and Kimberly were out of danger, and Carlo and all his buddies were on their way to jail.

  And Kimberly had come through, too. She’d defied him by doing just the opposite of what he’d told her to when they’d confronted Carlo, but it had turned out to be a pretty good move. Still risky as hell, but if those other guys hadn’t come along, they’d have been home free.

  As he parted with Frank and made his way through the chaos still churning all around him at the crime scene, he couldn’t stop thinking about her bravery.

  A moment later, he kneeled next to her in an ambulance that was about to take her away to the hospital. She’d sustained only a flesh wound, thank God, but she was wearing it like her very own red badge of courage as she lay stretched out on a gurney. “Can you believe I actually got shot, Max?” she asked with a huge smile as an EMT cleaned and bandaged the scratches she’d gotten when Max tackled her.

  He wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry. He’d never seen anyone so happy about a gunshot wound. But he should have learned this weekend that if anyone could catch him off guard, it was her. He brushed back a lock of hair from her face.

  “I wonder if I’ll have a scar. I normally hate scars, but in this case,
it might be kind of cool.” She shifted her gaze to the young man currently pressing an adhesive bandage across her forehead. “Will I have one?”

  “Probably,” he said, his smile tinged with amusement.

  Her expression said she was pleased with his answer.

  When the EMT was done, Max said, “Can we have a minute?”

  The young man gave a friendly nod, then stepped out and closed the ambulance doors.

  And upon being alone with her for the first time since their escape, all Max’s emotions came rushing back. He wanted to kill her. And he wanted to kiss her.

  He chose the second, leaning over to cup her silken cheek in one palm before delivering a slow, deep kiss that he hoped she felt as much as he did.

  “I’m sorry about knocking you down,” he told her after the kiss was through. “You didn’t need that on top of being shot.”

  “It’s all right—I know you were only trying to protect me. And besides, compared to taking a bullet, they’re pretty minimal injuries.” She was smiling again.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked of the wound.

  “A little. But I feel…validated, you know?” Her eyes sparkled. “Like a real P.I.”

  Though with a tilt of his head, he assured her, “You were already a real P.I., Kimberly.”

  She gazed up at him, quiet and thoughtful-looking. “Really, Max? Do you truly feel that way?”

  He nodded. “Completely, babe. And you’re damn good at your job.”

  Another small smile graced her face. “Thank you.”

  “Well, I’d better let them get you to the hospital.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed quietly.

  “I’ll…see you soon.”

  As Max exited the ambulance, then watched it pull away up the neglected street, he thought there was probably more he should have said. But he had no idea what it was.

  Kimberly lay in the hospital bed that afternoon, wanting to admire the bandages on her wound, but they were hidden beneath the white gown she wore.

  “Hey.”

  She looked up to find Max standing in her doorway bearing a vase of bright summer flowers and looking as handsome as ever. She was both happy and sad to see him—happy because after a few hours apart, the very sight of him turned her to jelly, and sad because she knew a lot of hurt lay ahead. Things would change now; they’d go their separate ways. If she’d had any hopes otherwise, they’d pretty much died after their rescue by the police. She’d immediately been able to tell that “back to normal” meant going on with their lives as they had before this weekend.

  But, well…if lust and some partnerly affection was all there would ever be between them, at least she and Max had made peace. Amazingly hot, sensual, mind-blowing peace. She would always long for more, but she couldn’t make him feel something he didn't.

  “Hi,” she said. “Pretty flowers.”

  “For a pretty lady,” he said, setting them on the table next to the bed.

  “Even now?” she asked, thinking of the scratches and scrapes on her forehead and chin.

  “Even now,” he told her. “I’d go so far as to say always.”

  The words touched her—but for some reason, she played them off as teasing. “Always, huh? That’s a pretty big step to take, Tate. Sure you’re ready to go that far?”

  “For you, baby,” he teased her back, “I’d go anywhere.”

  Those words tugged at her heart, too, and she wished it wasn’t all just playful banter.

  “So tell me,” she said, changing the subject, “what was the deal with Carlo? Who did he work for?”

  “Turns out Dormer and Sons is a legitimate shipping business like you thought, or at least partially legitimate. Apparently, old man Dormer—the boss guy we had the displeasure of meeting—has had mob connections since he was young, but he didn’t tie that part of his life in with his business until a few years ago when he quit turning much of a profit. His mob friends suggested that a shipping business would be a convenient way to smuggle stolen jewelry. Apparently, the jewels went to to different cities all over the world, where they were sold on the black market. The bulk of glassware that leaves the warehouse, though, is just that—glassware.”

  “Wow,” she said. “So we nabbed a major crook.”

  Max smiled and gave her a short nod.

  “And what about Carlo in specific?” Kimberly asked. “Where does he fit in?”

  “He’s one of about a dozen low-level guys Dormer hired to do his dirty work. Got into the business when his father—a wealthy playboy type, also with a few mob connections—died without leaving him a penny. Carlo’s mistake, though, was his fascination with tying seduction in with thievery—it made his crimes stand out from the rest. Which was where we entered the picture.

  “But enough about cops and robbers for today,” Max concluded. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” she assured him. “A little tired, but not bad under the circumstances.”

  “I could use some rest myself,” he replied. “But I wanted to stop by and check on you first.”

  She kept smiling. “That’s sweet of you.”

  And it was. But sweet was not love. Sweet was…respect, and care, and that newfound peace between them. And she knew the longer he was there, the sadder she would be when he finally left. She might truly be tough inside, but where Max was concerned, she was as helpless as ever. Funny that their rescue—Godsend that it had been—had also been the end of things between them. “Well, I’m fine,” she said. “And it was nice of you to bring the flowers—I’ll enjoy them. But I know we’re both tired, so you’re…free to go.”

  Next to her, Max hesitated. And as she peered into those dark, beautiful eyes of his, she could have sworn she saw a tiny hint of indecision—but not much. Not enough to count.

  “One more thing, Brandt,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to tell you that I meant it earlier when I said you really are a good P.I. And I want to tell you, too, that I…forgive you. For the Carpenter case. For the whole job thing.”

  Wow. Trying to wrap her head around that—because she knew, for Max, to say something like that was huge—she took a deep breath and imparted the same teasing words as before, but this time she meant them. “That’s a pretty big step to take, Tate. Sure you’re ready to go that far?”

  He nodded, no hesitation this time. “Yeah. I am.”

  “Thank you, Max. That means a lot to me.”

  And it truly did.

  But she wanted so much more than that from him now, and with each passing second, that yearning grew. And the sad truth was—it just wasn’t going to happen.

  “You should go get some sleep,” she managed.

  Max gave a slight nod, then squeezed her hand in parting before walking out the door.

  And as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek while she gazed at the empty doorway, she realized that she’d finally learned to read Max’s eyes. And they’d just told her goodbye.

  Max walked down the crisp white hospital corridor, preparing to get in his car, go home, and climb into bed for a week. It sounded so easy, so restful. And so…oddly empty.

  Where the hell had that thought come from?

  And when he really examined it, things started looking emptier with each step he took. After all, what was waiting for him at home? An empty condo. What waited at work? A job that, at the moment, seemed almost as empty. It all suddenly seemed empty…without her.

  Are you crazy? Keep walking, dude.

  So that was what he did, pushing his way through a revolving door and out into the southern California heat. He headed toward the parking lot where he’d left his Porsche—even if a part of him wanted to go back.

  But just keep walking. Because that’s what you do, it’s how you play your life. And he had a good life, all things considered. He had the life he wanted.

  And so he still kept moving, putting one foot in front of the other.

  But she stayed on his mind
. Everything about this weekend was on his mind. Every good moment—with her. Hell, she was enough to make him forget they’d actually almost been killed.

  What are you running from?

  After all, hadn’t he forgiven her? Yes. But this was about more than that. This…was about sharing his life with somebody. Really sharing it. He’d tried that before, and it had gone bad in a big way. Forgiving and forgetting were two different things.

  But if you keep walking, you’ll never see her again. Never brush another strand of hair away from that pretty face. Never hear that sweet laughter. Never gaze on the seductive heat in her eyes.

  “I’m being too damn dramatic here,” he muttered to himself as he opened his car door. If he wanted to see her again, later, he could. He knew where she lived, after all. So he could take his time, think about this, decide if it was a good idea.

  But the truth was, he knew that if he got in the car and drove away from this hospital, it would create a certain distance, physically and emotionally. A guy didn’t have to go all the way to Vegas to leave somebody behind. If he left now, it would be for good.

  A lot of moments over the last day had seemed like pivotal ones. Pivotal in bringing down the bad guys. Then, later, pivotal in saving his and Kimberly’s lives. But he had the oddest feeling that he’d just landed right in the middle of another critical moment, where what he did would count for a long time to come.

  Get in the car, dude. Drive away. No crime in that.

  And there are a lot of women in the world. You want a woman—you can find one who hasn’t already brought down your whole damn life. So why take the risk?

  He got in the car, shut the door, started the engine. Thought again of his bed and how good it was going to feel there. Just go home and sleep this off. It’ll all look clearer, better, in the morning. A little distance was a good thing. A little planning was, too.

  Only one problem with any of that. None of the other women in the world were Kimberly Brandt.