Page 20 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Frigid, wet air rushes around me—mostly blocked by Temperance's big body. But it plays with my hair, whipping it around my shoulders, and pulling it out behind us like a flag. And it catches my skirt, hiking it up my thighs and fluttering the pleats wildly.

My arms wrap around Temperance's warm body, fingers linked at his stomach. The man is settled into the V of my thighs.

The burn on my arm relishes the cold, damp air blowing over it. The scratches and cuts on my exposed skin go numb under the night's assault. I lay my cheek against Temperance's broad back, the leather soft over warm, hard muscle.

The smooth edge of the compass presses into my breasts. But the rectangle of my phone is gone from my low back. I have no idea when I lost it.

Scattered thoughts kaleidoscope. I can't seem to hold a thread, and soon I give up. Letting the bike's vibrations lull me into a state of calm.

I need a plan.

The thought bumps up against the sensations drugging me. Pain. Cold air. Warm body. Everything humming. Hmmm.

We break away from the buildings and are crossing over a bridge, the Thames below us, black and roiled. Westminster Abbey, glowing gold in the misty night, greets us on the other side. Big Ben stretches up into the cloud-thick sky, the clock face barely visible through the fog.

None of this was visible from the restaurant, all of it shrouded, all of it just a glow under the gloom.

We continue, weaving between traffic. The buildings slip back into the modern era. Glass and metal. Sleek rather than grand. My brain settles into the rhythm of the rumbling motor again.

What happened to Omar?

Is Ash okay?

That one pulls me up, lifts me past the haze. I yell the question to Temperance. He nods. I rest my cheek against his back again.

Where are we going? I can't muster the energy to ask. I'm trusting him out of exhaustion. This is not a good plan…

The city zips past as we weave through traffic. Temperance navigates London’s complex web of streets and squares like he was born here. We dash down narrow side streets and merge into crowded throughways, cars seeming to part for us.

My eyes slip closed, the grip I have on reality fluttering as urgently as my skirt. A warm hand covers mine. Squeezes. "Stay awake." Temperance’s voice vibrates through his back to me as much as it spills from his lips.

I blink rapidly, clawing my way back to consciousness. I'm not safe with this man. I'm in danger. But the adrenaline refuses to come. My body is all out of urgency.

"We will be there soon." Temperance’s rumble reaches me. I nod against his back, rubbing myself against the soft, hard warmth of him. My body refuses to acknowledge that this wall of muscle is not to be trusted. It wants to curl up in the heat of him and sleep for days.

Ash's soot-stained face swims into my mind's eye. The awe in his eyes when he first opened them. He looked at me like I was a goddess. Like I amazed him.

My body zings at that memory, flickering at the sensation of his big arm draped over me, leaning on me. How solid his back felt against my forearm. The sensation of his big hand on my hip, pushing me behind him. Protecting me. Still stunned from the explosion, but fearless nonetheless.

The streets turn residential, stately townhouses four and five stories tall crowd the narrow streets.

We slow to turn down a cobblestone alleyway barely wide enough for a car and much cleaner than the one I recently escaped.

The air is sweeter here—fresher, scented of wet earth as much as wet cement.

We purr to a stop in front of a three-story brick townhouse.

The black garage door slides up and we roll into darkness, our single headlight illuminating a bare cement space.

The door closes behind us and Temperance puts his foot down, tipping the bike.

I grip him harder. The engine cuts and silence cocoons us.

I unclench my hands and sit up. Every muscle in my body protests. The burn on my arm rages. The pain slowly consumes my consciousness. Temperance dismounts and pulls off his helmet.

I'm still on the back of the bike when his eyes find mine. The headlight bouncing off the wall in front of us illuminates his one side, throwing the rest of his face into shadow.

His eyes are as intense as ever. There is no humor in his gaze, no teasing, and no testing.

Without a word he grabs me around the waist, lifting me like a child, and sets me down on the floor, my aching feet taking my weight.

Temperance keeps his hands on my waist for a long moment, waiting to make sure I can stand.

I can.

"We don't have much time," he says.

The hysterical laugh that's been caught in my chest since Martin tried to tell me I had to be lying down for us to be driving when we were already driving and I was sitting tumbles out of me. The force of it doubling me over. I have to lean against the bike to keep from falling to the garage floor.

Tears blur my vision. My stomach aches from laughing. When I look up at Temperance, he's watching me with a disapproving frown. His eyes are molten gold in the strange light. Then it clicks off, sinking us into pitch black. My laugh echoes in the darkness.

Temperance's feet scrape on the floor, and I sense him moving away. I lean on the bike, catching my breath, my laugh winding itself down to hiccups of giggles. Light floods the space from a fixture in the ceiling. I close my eyes against the brightness.

Temperance returns, his warm hand landing on my back. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you inside."

"Oh yes," I say, doing a posh British accent. "Let's!"

Temperance half carries me up the steps through the garage door into a small room with a washer-dryer and empty hooks on the walls. A mud room. Empty of mud. The place smells like cleaning products.

We continue into a darkened kitchen. The cabinets are hulking shadows, the only light spilling in from the wall of glass leading to a manicured backyard—topiaries trapped in a brick square.

Temperance flicks on a light, bringing the kitchen into focus. He directs me to an attractively worn wooden farm table that fits in with the traditional cabinets. He leaves me for a moment to grab a first-aid kit and then returns.

He gently pulls my arm toward him, laying it on a clean towel. Temperance spills a solution over the burn that wipes any traces of humor away. I try to pull my arm back, but his grip is stronger than my resistance.

"Trust me," he says.

"Trust you?" The humor-turned-pain alchemizes into rage.

"Trust you!" He lifts his attention to my face, still holding my wrist tight.

"Are you fucking kidding me? I just—" I wave desperately with my free arm toward the garage in an attempt to encompass the shitshow of the last however many hours.

But really, it goes back further than that. This man. This man!

"You," I sputter. "Trust you!"

"I understand?—"

I cut him off because I cannot for one second hear him tell me anything. "You," I seethe.

His frown is condescending, as if I'm missing the point.

"Where the fuck have you been?" is what comes out. It's not what I was trying to say. I have no words for what I'm trying to say.

"I'm here now. I'm sorry. But we need to get you cleaned up and to the hospital.

" I blink at him, my brain unable to catch up with the words.

"The paparazzi know you were in the building during the explosion.

They saw the ambulance carry you off. We need you to be at a hospital so that no one questions where you've been. This can't be linked to you."

"This. Can't." My tongue isn't working.

"They were not going to kill you," he says it quietly.

"Seemed like it to me." My voice is shrill.

“Linda was trying to scare you. Show you her strength." His voice is a low murmur of disapproval.

"Oh, my new handler had me kidnapped to show me how strong she is and how weak I am?" Disbelief infuses my words, but that explanation actually makes sense when I think about that insecure woman and the way I treated her.

"Something like that."

"But did she blow up…" My mind wheels. That doesn't make sense.

"No. She took advantage of a situation. Which I would admire if it wasn't so short-sighted." A smile flickers at the edge of his lips. "She underestimated you."

"That guy was shooting at me. The other one was going to inject me with something."

"I think the driver panicked."

"You killed him."

"Something like that." Temperance's gaze drops back to my wound.

He starts to apply some kind of cooling gel to it.

I flinch but it actually helps. My arm is filthy except for the square of clean skin Temperance has created around the wound.

The awareness of the grime awakens sensations—suddenly my skin is crawling.

"I need a shower," I say.

"After I bandage this you can clean up. Then we need to talk. Then I'll get you to the hospital."

"Ash is okay?" I ask again.

"Thanks to you," Temperance says without looking up. He lays a bandage on top of the burn, sealing the edges, then meets my gaze again. "You can take that shower now." He smiles gently. You ’ ll feel better after you clean up .

Temperance stands, and I follow him through the kitchen into a living room decorated in browns and beiges. He leads me up carpeted stairs and through the first door we reach.

Temperance flicks on the overhead lights, and a bedroom comes into focus.

It's a nice size with a queen bed made up with white sheets.

Blue scrubs lie neatly folded on the bench at its foot.

"The bathroom is through there." Temperance gestures at a closed door to the left of the bed.

“I put a layer of plastic on top of the bandage but be careful with it.”

I start to walk past him, and Temperance stops me with a hand on my bicep. I look up at him. We're standing close. His eyes have a new edge to them. The gentle healer from downstairs replaced by the calculating spy I’ve known all along. There is a sense of relief in that.

"The compass, Angela. Where is it?"

My brows raise. "What makes you think I have it?" I ask, infusing my voice with disbelief. Because it is ridiculous to assume that I have it on me considering what I've been through and my complete lack of pockets.

"You're good, Angela. We both know it. You have all the right instincts. And I'm betting a lot on knowing that you wouldn't let it out of your sight once you knew Linda wanted it."

I don't answer right away, my exhausted brain trying to decide what to do. It just keeps clicking over, coming up with nothing new. "Why does the compass matter so much?" I ask, my curiosity winning the talking contest.

Temperance cocks his head. "You really want to know?"

"Why wouldn’t I?"

His eyes graze over my face, searching for…I don't know what. "It contains a memory card loaded with evidence that can bring down Reginald Grand."

"Oh."

"Oh," Temperance echoes, a smile sliding into place.