Driven by Fire (Fire 2)

“Better than crying. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I promise to wake you up if I decide to stop sooner.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said stiffly. “I’m fully able to take care of myself. I killed Soledad, didn’t I?”

He was silent for a moment. “She would have died anyway. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I’m not,” Jenny said fiercely. “She was an evil, horrible woman who deserved to die, and I’m not sorry. I’m not.”

He glanced at her, and before she realized what he was doing, he’d reached over and unfastened her seat belt, hauling her up against him as he drove one-handed, his arm around her.

She didn’t fight him. She started crying, silent tears streaming down her face. She had no idea who she was crying for—whether it was for the sweet young woman she’d thought she’d known, for her own blind innocence, for the man who held her so comfortably and let her weep into his T-shirt. It was for all of them, and she lay against his shoulder and cried.

She was in rough shape, Ryder thought, holding her trembling body against his as he maneuvered the jeep along the dirt track. It was a rare trick, steering with one hand and keeping the drive smooth enough that she didn’t bounce out of his arms, but he could do it, simply tightening his hold when he reached a rough section. She was holding on to him, her fingers clinging to his T-shirt, and he could feel the dampness of her tears soaking through the thin cloth. Funny, he’d never seen her cry before, not even when he was deliberately hurting her. She hadn’t even cried during sex, though he’d known she’d wanted to. Women had a habit of

crying after a really good climax, and he’d made sure she’d had several the two times he’d gotten her in bed.

And then he’d taken it all away by telling her she fucked like a virgin. What had gotten into him? He wasn’t always such a bastard, but for some reason she brought it out in him, and he kept saying such cruel things to her.

But he knew what had gotten into him. She had. She was the greatest danger to his peace of mind that he’d ever run into. She made him want things he couldn’t have, care about things that didn’t matter. She was . . . lovely, and there was no room in his life for lovely. Everything in his life was hard and gritty and lonely, and he’d made peace with that long ago. Every day he was with her he was offered a view of another kind of life, one he’d turned his back on, and no matter what he did he couldn’t put her out of his mind.

She fell asleep before she even stopped crying, and she let out a few remaining shudders as she slept against his shoulder. The ride was rough, but she’d adapted. Sooner or later she’d get back to her elegant suits and her pro bono work and her safe life, and he wouldn’t have to think about her again.

But he would. He had the gloomy suspicion he’d think about her every day for the rest of his life. The only consolation being that it was unlikely to be a long life—his profession didn’t lead to old-age pensions and retirement villages.

He moved his head down and placed a soft kiss on her tangle of hair. She didn’t have to know she had somehow become his kryptonite. He’d get her back to New Orleans, hand her over to Remy, and deal with Billy Gauthier. And then she’d never want anything to do with him again.

It was for the best. She needed to keep her distance—when she was around he made stupid mistakes like not taking Soledad’s gun away. She could have been killed because he’d been too worried about her reaction if he searched Soledad’s body. She’d resolved that, and lost part of her soul in doing so. You couldn’t kill someone and remain unchanged, and he’d done that to her. She would have to live with that for the rest of her life, and his memory would be inextricably tied up with the knowledge that she’d taken a life.

He needed to get the hell out of New Orleans. The Committee branch was up and running, Bishop would be back from his goddamn honeymoon, and Peter Madsen could damned well reassign him. Right now Eastern Europe sounded just about right, someplace dark and depressing and cold. Just like his nonexistent heart.

The wound in his arm was throbbing beneath her head and he welcomed it, proof that he was alive, proof that he could still hold her for a few hours longer. Once they left Calliveria everything would be back the way it was. For now he could hold her, let her tangled curls blow against his mouth, and drive on into the night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

By the time they reached the small private landing field, Parker had woken up, pulling away from Ryder and huddling in on herself. He was half tempted to haul her back, but his instincts had told him she’d reached her limit. All he had to do was tell her she was in shock, and there was a good chance she’d erupt from the unnatural quiet that surrounded her like armor, but there were times when shock and denial were old friends. He’d let her be for now—there would be time enough to knock her out of it once they reached New Orleans.

He didn’t think he could sleep once they got on the plane, but he did, halfway into his scotch on the rocks. He woke when they were about to land, the lights of the Crescent City like a welcoming beacon, and he glanced over at Parker, still huddled in her single seat at the back of the spacious cabin, the one reserved for the nonexistent flight attendant. She still had that glazed expression on her face, and he suspected she hadn’t slept during the six-hour flight. The moment they touched down she began to unfasten her seat belt, but he glared at her and she leaned back, dropping her hands. The last thing he wanted was for her to end up flat on her face if the plane had to come to a sudden stop.

The car was waiting for them, gassed up and with the keys over the visor. He tried to take Parker’s arm when they started down the short stairs but she pulled away, walking ahead of him, and he ground his teeth.

A moment later he caught up with her, yanking her against him. “Sulk all you want,” he said, deliberately trying to goad her into a reaction, “but I’m not risking you running off into the night.”

To his annoyance she didn’t try to break free. “Why would I do that?” she said in a listless voice. “I can’t very well walk to town, can I?”

“You’re in shock,” he said, going for the big guns. “Who knows what you’d do.” He waited for her hot denials.

“Maybe I am,” she said dully. “Can you drop me at a hotel?”

“No.”

She didn’t argue about that either, simply letting him settle her into the front seat of the car and fasten the seat belt around her. The sky was growing light in the east, and he usually loved that time of day. Right then he wanted the night to be eternal.

What the hell was he going to do with her? She couldn’t go to a hotel—she had no luggage, no ID, nothing. Taking her to her father’s house was out of the question, given that Ryder’s next visit wasn’t going to be of the social kind, and while her intel jacket had the names of close friends and favorite relatives, he knew that showing up with her in this state would be something she’d never forgive. There was no choice but to take her back to the house on Magazine Street and hope she’d come out of her fugue state on her own.

Part of him sympathized. He’d killed more people than he could remember—no, that was a lie. He remembered every one of them, up to and including the three men at Soledad’s compound. They haunted his dreams and even his waking hours, and he was trained for this kind of work. For an innocent like Parker the memory of Soledad going over that balcony would be a permanent scar.

It didn’t matter that she would have died anyway. Should have been dead, except that the truly wicked never died easily—it was as if their very evil gave them the ability to withstand things that would kill an ordinary mortal. He should have realized that Soledad wouldn’t go that easily.

Parker said nothing when he pulled into the underground garage on Magazine Street, though she made no effort to climb out of the car. He came around the side and opened the door for her, taking her arm, and she followed him docilely enough, still with that shuttered expression on her face, and he wanted to shake her. Instead, he led her into the house, nodding at the security camera as he led her up the three flights of stairs. The house was empty—Remy had his own apartment in the French Quarter and Jack had a house in the suburbs, of all things. Only Ryder lived in the house full time, Ryder and enough security and booby traps to outfit Fort Knox.