Page 21 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Eighteen

The hospital room is private with a view of a courtyard garden. I'm standing next to the window, wearing two gowns—one open to the front, one to the back, so it's almost like I've got on one whole dress. But not. The nurse who greeted us took the scrubs Temperance gave me last night.

I’d traded a compass holding a memory card for a shower. That the card contains evidence that will bring down Reginald Grand seems like a false hope to me. There is already ample evidence he’s corrupt, but so what? His supporters only believe him.

That is how autocrats hold power—by convincing people they are the only source of truth. No contrary information can shatter that kind of belief. If anything, it further solidifies the leader’s support. In the end such blind fealty never turns out well, but that’s only in the long term.

Temperance didn’t give me any details of what he planned to do now with the compass and its kompromat. “Another time,” he promised. But I gave him the compass with its hidden information regardless. So when Linda comes back, she won't have anything to take from me.

“Tell her you lost it with your purse in the explosion,” Temperance advised. “Don't mention the ambulance ride. Or me. She won't bring it up because she can't link herself to the incident.”

The incident.

God, what a way to put it. My hand wanders up to my throat where Martin's fingers are bruised into my skin. I'll need to wear a scarf. Fashion saves the day. A rueful laugh gets caught in my throat and forms a lump.

The police will be here in the morning to interview me. “You have nothing to worry about. You’re the victim here,” Temperance said.

“What about Elliot Kendricks?” I asked about the MI5 agent who came to see me after the queen collapsed.

Something flickered behind Temperance’s eyes—something I couldn’t quite read. “He won’t be involved in this investigation.”

I blink away the memories, staring down at the hospital’s small sculpture garden below.

Most pieces are just shadows in the slowly brightening dawn but a modern, abstract, twisting metal monolith at its center is lit from below, the stark light creating dark shadows. Strength isn't always a straight line…

Lloyd will be here before the police with new clothing, including that much-needed scarf. But right now I'm watching the darkened garden turn to gray as the sun rises.

I still haven’t slept. My eyes are sandpapery, but my brain is firing in all directions at once.

A sudden, intense urge to see Ash swells inside me. Did he know what Linda had planned? How much contact does he have with her? Does he know what the compass holds…held…whatever the tense is, I want the answer. I want to see him. Need to see him. Now.

My socked feet are quiet on the linoleum floor, the sticky underside grippy on the smooth surface. I ease open the heavy door and pad my way down the fluorescent-lit hall. Temperance told me Ash was on the same floor. A VIP wing for people like us—who need privacy and have the money to pay for it.

“Get some sleep, trust me, Ash is fine. The concussion was minor. He'll be released tomorrow.”

Omar was taken to a different private hospital, removed from the shattered restaurant before I even woke up from the blast. He's also fine. No one was killed. Omar’s female assistant—the stunning woman who greeted Ash and me when we got off the elevator—is in intensive care but expected to survive.

I didn't ask Temperance any more questions about the explosion and who might have caused it.

Didn't insist on speaking with Ash. Didn't want Temperance to know how screwed up in the head I am about the giant I can't seem to trust or not trust. The man who makes me feel like I'm caught in an electric grid with him. The one I threatened to kill.

I wanted to murder Martin. I wanted it so bad. And that’s fucking me up too. I’m just fucked up.

I check the name on each room's door, getting closer to the nurses’ station.

Voices slow me. I don't want them to see me.

A man says something and a woman laughs.

Pressing myself against the wall and out of view, I slide closer.

There are more rooms further down the hall, but I have to get past the desk first.

"No," the woman says. "Not now."

The man says something I can't understand. Clothing rustles. The woman giggles. "Just a minute then," she says.

They appear, holding hands, and she leads the way, hurrying down the hall. If they turned back, they'd see me pressed up against the wall in my gowns looking like a mental hospital escapee. But the two only have eyes for each other as she unlocks a door and they disappear inside.

I break into a jog to cross the space exposed to the desk and the elevators.

My peripheral vision snags on a tray of surgical instruments—each one sealed in its own sterile wrapping.

I slow, stop. Turn. There are scalpels sitting right there, the deadly weapons’ shine dulled by the blue film of plastic over them.

I don't think, just scoop up two of the knives, and continue down the hall past the closet with its muted moans, checking the name on each door as I go.

Ash Fraser.

I press my face against the door’s glass window like a child at the candy store. It is dark except where dawn blue inches across the floor from the exterior window. The bed is mostly out of view, hidden behind a privacy curtain, except for large, blanket-covered feet pressed against the footboard.

The feet don't stir as I ease the door open. Closing it behind me, I stand with my back pressed to the cool surface. What am I doing here? Staring at Ash’s feet. Holding two scalpels.

Even as I ask the question, I slowly pull their wrapping off, the sound loud in the quiet of the darkened room. But the feet don't twitch. Sunlight breaks across the sky, adding a hue of orange to the pale blue—warming the light of this sterile place.

I drop the discarded wrappers and close the space between us.

As I pass the curtain, Ash comes into view.

He dwarfs the bed, turning it into something delicate.

Something almost comic if it weren't for the machines over the headboard.

The buttons of light. The steady mountain range of his heartbeat.

I should just go. Why am I here?

Because I need to know.

What?

I can barely remember, my thoughts fuzzed by the sight of him. By the exhaustion. By the intensity and yet distance of the night’s events. It's like I'm floating outside my body as it drifts up next to him.

Ash's head is shaved—pale in the faded light of dawn. Thick stubble darkens his jaw. A bruise blooms on Ash's left cheekbone. Black lashes fan over gray circles under his eyes. He looks beat up. Tired.

I watch myself lean close, gripping a deadly blade—so like the one I used on Martin. Like the one I wanted to draw across his throat with enough violence to make sure he stayed down. I craved to kill him. And that's the most frightening thing about all of this mess.

Ash's eyes open and lock on mine. He doesn't look dazed or groggy. He moves quicker than I can react, and suddenly I'm back in my body. It's slammed into the bed, his weight pressing down, my weapon above my head—wrist wrapped in the shackle of Ash's fist.

This is why I brought two.

My other hand still holds its blade, cold against my bared thigh and held in place by his muscled leg. But also positioned to wound. The thin fabric of Ash's gown is the only thing keeping my clenched fist from the warmth of him.

"What are you doing?" Anger roughens his voice. The sunlight touches his eyes, bringing the blue out of the black. The gown bunches around his shoulders, dropping down to caress my neck, exposing Ash's bare skin and the black tattoos twining over it.

"Did you know?" I ask, breathless under the crush of him. But it's not scary. Fuck. It's comforting. Tears blur my vision even as I inch my hand between us.

His eyes dart around my face, get stuck on my lips, make it back to my eyes. "Angela, if I'd known I wouldn't have allowed myself to be blown unconscious for you to save." His brow is furrowed, eyes tight. He doesn't understand why I'd ask such a stupid question.

"I meant about the ambulance."

His gaze turns molten, rage swirling in the oceanic depths. "No."

"And you're not just saying that because I have a blade at your balls?"

His eyes widen, realization dawning. Satisfaction thrums through me. I caught him off guard. Victory tastes sweet. I let the smile tugging at my lips have its way with my face.

Ash shakes his head, amusement lightening his gaze.

He licks his lips and the humor in his eyes dies, reborn as something else.

Something hot and forbidden. Something that lights up the electric grid between us.

Sparks skitter over my skin making it impossible to think of anything but the way they burn so good.

His eyes stray to my mouth. He leans closer, lids lowering, black lashes fanning. I take in an unsteady breath, pulling air over my lips. Pulling him into them. Ash stops. My exhale finds his inhale. Neither of us moves.

My heart pounds against my breast, crushed by his chest. I swallow, incapable of speech. Incapable of anything but breathing. And I can barely do that. The last however many hours are gone. The disassociation that pulled me away from myself is gone. I'm here, Ash's weight holding me in place.

His jaw clenches tight, the muscles bunching under his stubble. His eyes leave my mouth and meet my gaze. He tenses, muscles tightening to move away from me. "Don't." The word leaps out of me.

Ash pauses.

"Don't go," I get out. "Please."

He stares down at me. Electricity sizzles. Then his weight comes back. And I sigh from the pleasure of it. He releases my wrist, brings both hands to my cheeks, his weight on me and his elbows. The blade is still caught between us, flat against my bare thigh, the metal no longer cold.