And Waylynn Hargraves had been trouble since the day he’d moved in next door. The most recent example would be her dead assistant’s body in the tub. And the fact he’d nearly torn a man’s arm off and beat the bastard to death with it for putting his hands on her.
Not very professional. But the moment he’d seen Blake Henson’s hand on her arm, it’d taken every ounce of his control not to kill the lawyer in the middle of Anchorage PD’s station. Possessiveness unlike anything he’d experienced before had clawed up his throat and taken control. Nobody—not her lawyer, not the police, not him—touched Waylynn without her explicit permission.
“I remembered something.” Exhaustion clung to her words. The sweatpants and sweatshirt someone at the station had lent her hung off her narrow frame, but nothing could detract from her overall beauty. The light in her ordinarily bright eyes had dimmed over the past few hours. Finding a dead woman in your bathtub could have that effect on a person. “When Officer Ramsey was questioning me, she showed me a handwritten note, and I remembered writing it. Only, in the memory, there was a gun pressed to my head.” Her voice dropped as she stared out the passenger-side window. “Somebody forced me to write it.”
“You’re being framed for your assistant’s murder, but I have a sense you already knew that.” Someone had been in her home. Drugged her. Forced her to do hell knew what. And he hadn’t heard a thing aside from her scream. Right next door. Elliot strengthened his grip around the steering wheel as downtown Anchorage passed in a blur. Working for Blackhawk Security certainly had its benefits. Use of the company’s SUVs, health coverage, an armory of weapons, not spending the rest of his life behind bars in the middle of nowhere thanks to the founder of the firm. None of it did a damn bit of good if he lost the closest person he had to a friend. Snowy peaks along the Chugach Mountain Range glistened in the sun as they headed east, and he pushed one hand through his hair. Even in the middle of June, Anchorage gave him the proverbial middle finger. He missed the desert. He glanced toward Waylynn, then back to the road as the signal ahead turned red. “Anything else?”
“Nothing. Whoever drugged me knew what they were doing. I can’t remember what happened in my apartment and the drug didn’t show up on a toxicology screen. I guess I’ll take that as a win-win situation. I’m not sure I want to remember what happened.” Color drained from her face as she leaned her head into her hand and her elbow against the passenger-side door. Disheveled blond hair slid over her shoulder as she shook her head. The weight of her attention fell on him, hiking his awareness of her—of her flowery scent—to an all-time high. Geraniums. Her favorite. But not just from the bottle. Almost as though the scent had become a permanent part of her over the years. Now he couldn’t smell the damn things without thinking of her. “Why did you tell my attorney you’re my bodyguard?”
“I know you, Doc.” And not because it was his job to know. He’d spent the last year as a private investigator for Blackhawk Security, uncovering the secrets his targets hid from the world, declassifying documents for his own curiosity. Hell, he kept files on every one of his teammates. His former navy SEAL boss, Sullivan Bishop, and the fact he’d killed his own serial killer father, forensics expert Vincent Kalani and the accusations filed against him back in New York, their resident computer geek, Elizabeth Bosch—Dawson, whatever she went by now—Anthony Harris’s classified missions for the army, and the saddest of them all, their psychologist, Kate Monroe. But digging into Waylynn’s past had never crossed his mind.
The light turned green in his peripheral vision. Car horns blared for him to get moving, but he didn’t give a damn. “You’re a scientist. You’ve spent your entire life in search of the truth and there’s no way I’m going to let you get yourself killed going after this guy on your own.”
“My boss was right.” She hugged herself a bit tighter and stared out the windshield. “You and I spend way too much time together.”
“Or maybe Dr. Stover wants you all for himself.” Couldn’t blame the guy. Waylynn had a pull to her, a sort of gravity that was hard to fight. Even now, something about her urged Elliot to close the small distance between them, but he’d never cross that line. Not with Waylynn. She needed his help now and that was as far as it would go between them. Ever. He stepped on the accelerator, barely making it through the light. Her mouth parted as though she intended to deny it. “Trust me, Doc. Bosses don’t usually call lawyers when their employees are being charged with murder.”
Helping them escape out of an Iraqi prison was another thing.
“I think Matt is more interested in my research than what’s under my lab coat.” Fingers spread wide, a combination of passion and excitement controlled her hands as she spoke. She did that a lot—spoke with her hands and he couldn’t do anything but pay attention. “The research we’re doing is important. Have you heard of the warrior gene before?”
“Is that the movie about the boxer?” he asked.
“The warrior gene,” she said. “Nearly every human being alive has a monoamine oxidase A gene, but, in several cases, individuals with low activity in that specific gene were found to have higher aggression in certain high-stress situations. It’s a variant and has come to be known as the warrior gene. Identifying the subjects who possess the warrior gene has the potential to save thousands of lives a year. Active shooters could be stopped before they picked up a gun because they wouldn’t be able to get one in the first place. Homicide rates would plummet. Army, navy, air force, the entire military would benefit from our research.”
“What? No psychic telling you who to arrest before the vision comes true?” Elliot made a sharp right turn and floored the accelerator as they climbed Seward Highway’s on-ramp. Couldn’t take her to Blackhawk Security. Despite the fact its founder and CEO, Sullivan Bishop, had turned it into a fortress, Elliot wasn’t willing to take the risk while the building was still under construction. It’d been five months since a bomb had ripped apart the conference room, but the best place for Waylynn right now was with him. “What you’re talking about sounds like science fiction.”
“It’s not like that.” Her hands fell into her lap as they left the city limits.
Greenery bled together in his peripheral vision, the sunlight glimmering off the Turnagain Arm waterway almost blinding. He hadn’t chosen Alaska. If it were up to him, he’d have left a long time ago, but he’d keep his promise to his employer. He’d work off his debt.
“And, no, we don’t have a psychic predicting violent events and the justice system would never convict a person of a crime before the actual crime was committed,” she said. “But knowing who carries the gene will be a huge step forward in genetic engineering and protecting lives.”
“What you’re saying is everyone with the warrior gene will eventually snap when put in a high-stress situation.” Elliot turned off the highway, throwing them deep into the middle of the Alaskan wilderness just before the Potter Creek trailhead that led into Chugach State Park. The property wasn’t much and he’d bought it for close to nothing, but he could keep Waylynn safe out here. And that was all that mattered. “Good thing I’m prepared for the zombie apocalypse.”
“Not…everyone. But, according to the studies I’ve done, it’s a possibility.” Her voice wavered on that last part and he narrowed in on the slight twitch on the left side of her mouth. A tell. Waylynn cleared her throat as a rush of pink climbed up her neck and into her cheeks. She tipped her chin up, studying the surrounding trees as the SUV climbed up the dirt trail. Waylynn Hargraves was hiding something. “Why are you helping me?”
She could keep her secrets. For now. As long as they didn’t get him killed. Because he sure as hell wasn’t the sharing type. Besides, he had ways of uncovering the truth. No matter how deep it was buried. Elliot pulled off the main road, driving
