Handling Neve (NCIS Series Book 6), Page 2

  He turned and made eye contact, holding her gaze for several seconds, then he left. Had that been a come-on? It hadn’t felt flirtatious.

  They made a quick trip to the drugstore to pick up a prescription for pain meds. By the time they got back to her apartment, she was tired and was happy to let Russell carry all the bags upstairs and put the food away.

  She had settled on a barstool and watched. He also remembered where everything went. As soon as he was done, he straightened, then came around to where she was sitting. “You need anything, Fins?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I can cook something for you. You look wiped.”

  “No, I’m not hungry, but I appreciate it.”

  “All right. You have my number. Just call me if you need me.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  He nodded, but still looked reluctant to leave. She slipped off the stool, getting another nose full of his enticing scent. She opened the door and he walked out.

  “Good night, Russell.”

  “Night,” he murmured.

  She closed the door on his retreating back and went to shut her sliding glass door and lock it, but before she could reach it, she heard a brush of a shoe. Her reflexes rusty, she dodged awkwardly away as a knife sliced the air where she’d just been standing.

  With automatic precision, she grabbed the attacker’s knife hand and twisted, bringing him to his knees. But before she could disarm him, he punched her in her sore shoulder and sent her to the carpet. With the butt of the knife, he dealt her a stunning blow to the head and raised the blade for a killing strike to her heart.

  Neve rolled, and his weight came down onto the carpet. She jabbed out with her foot, catching him in the ribs, and grabbed a lamp, smashing it over his head. He dropped the knife and she snatched it up, bore him to the ground, straddled him and placed the weapon against his throat.

  Blood dripped from the knife-handle gash on her forehead into her attacker’s face, the tip of his captured KA-BAR combat knife embedded in his neck, right below the wing tattoo. “Who are you? Why are you in my apartment attacking me?”

  “Vendrá la muerte para ti en rápidas alas,” he whispered in distinct Panamanian Spanish.

  She ripped off his mask, her mouth going dry and her eyes widening. Death will come for you on swift wings. It was the man from the supermarket.

  “¿De que estás hablando?” she asked, demanding to know what he wanted.

  “Si me matan, más vendrán. No puedes escapar,” he said, making it clear he was sent to kill her, indicating that if she killed him, more would take his place. She couldn’t escape. Her mouth went dry.

  “¿De qué?” she asked him. From what?

  “Nos. Muerte. El Cuervo Blanco se vengará. Tú. Toda su familia va a morir.” His response had been chilling. Us. Death. The White Falcon will be avenged. You. Your whole family will die.

  “¿Venganza? Para qué?” she asked him. Revenge for what? Was he threatening her whole family?

  There was a knock at the door, and her momentary distraction cost her. Pain exploded as he slammed the broken lamp into her temple.

  Suddenly he was on her, grappling for the knife. She yelled for help and heard the sound of splintering wood even as she fought her attacker. The knife descended, her injured shoulder and arm trembling with the effort to hold him off, her strength failing even as the blade inched closer to her heart.

  Then the weight was gone as her rescuer grasped her attacker in a powerful headlock and the two males—Russell and her attacker—wrestled for control.

  She heard bones break and the bodies whirled toward the open balcony door. Close quarters, powerhouse fists flying. Punching through the screen. She couldn’t make out who was who in the dark. They jockeyed for position, and one man’s arm sliced the air as the other jumped back. Who had the knife? Russell or her attacker? Then in one fluid motion, after another feint from the oncoming man, the retreating guy grabbed his wrist; then, more sounds of broken bones and the cornered guy clotheslined the attacking figure. He flipped off the balcony, and his scream was abruptly cut off as he inevitably hit the pavement. Please don’t let it be Russell!

  “Russell!” She struggled up off the floor, her head reeling as the man turned and for a moment was silhouetted in the dark, the knife dripping blood. Then he came into the moonlight, and she stumbled toward him with a soft cry.

  “Russell,” she whispered as they met in the middle, and she couldn’t look away. His eyes were wild, and he cupped her face, his hands hovering over the stinging cuts.

  Her gaze drifted over his face, over the fall of his silky, dark hair, the hard angle of his jaw before finally coming back to his eyes so intensely dark, so intensely focused on her. Oh, no. She could lose herself in those blue eyes, drown in the way he looked at her, and with an awful, sudden certainty, she knew it wasn’t impossible for it to happen, even against her will.

  Please, no. Get a hold of yourself, Neve. It was too crazy, simply not an option. It didn’t make any sense. She would be strong in about an hour. She would remember how to be independent and closed and immune.

  But right now, she was so damn glad he was all right.

  “You’re okay,” he rasped. His voice was warm and soothing and wonderful—but it only added to the thick lump in her throat, to the hard pressure against the backs of her eyes. His look only intensified, making the tears fill, spilling onto her cheeks. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do this. Honest to God, she couldn’t.

  “Aw, don’t, Neve. Babe.”

  It was a plea, nothing less, and hearing it from him only made her feel stripped inside.

  It would be okay, just for this brief time, to be relieved that he was alive and her attacker was dead. That they were both alive. Maybe, she thought, a lick of panic twisting through her, she could just let herself, for one moment in her life, just feel for him.

  Taking a steadying breath, she opened her eyes, an ache snaking around her heart. She had to be realistic. This was only a respite in the wake of the brutality and brush with death. It wasn’t forever. Even if she wanted it, she couldn’t risk anything happening that would jeopardize Tristan and Russell’s friendship. It would be complete, crazy madhouse madness. Besides, he wasn’t really the guy for her. He was grounded, rooted here like a rock, his business tying him down. She needed to be free to move.

  She had to consider her brother and not fall into the attraction game with Russell. She liked her autonomy too much, and she would ruin everything anyway. It was feasible it wouldn’t work out, then she’d hurt them. Break their friendship up because Tristan would most definitely side with her. That would kill the both of them and, in turn, kill her.

  It was just too complicated.

  He brushed at her tears with his thumbs. She got ambushed by his closeness, his care, the gentleness of those big, beautiful hands. His reaction did her in. She got such a rush of heat that it made her insides turn over. Clutching his shirt in her hands, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against him, her heart flip-flopping crazily in her chest, her lungs jammed up and unable to function.

  He made a soft male sound in his throat, as if she was killing him, then his strong hand cupped the back of her neck as Russell murmured something. Running his hands up and down her back, she let go of him and simply melted against him. Her heart struggling to keep on beating, Neve turned into his arms, certain she was going to fly apart, and the feel of his warm skin nearly took her down.

  “Hey,” he whispered softly. “Hey.” Holding on to her with one arm, he pulled out his cell phone, made a quick call to Austin Beck at NCIS, then wrapped her up in a tight, enveloping embrace. His fingers tangling in her hair, he clasped her head against him as he brushed her forehead with a soft kiss.

  She held on to him until she heard sirens in the distance, held on to the very last minute until she had to let him go.

  Let him go for good.

  She needed a clear head to do this.

 
; Horrified at her attacker’s declaration, Neve was determined to figure this out and stop the White Falcon at whatever the cost.

  Chapter Two

  “You and your brother are trouble magnets. First him, now you. I didn’t help to save Dex’s ass to have his brother’s end up in a sling. You okay? You look like hell,” Special Agent Austin Beck said after he had arrived at Neve’s building just before the local cops.

  Rock discovered someone had called 911. The police were there briefly and left the investigation in the hands of Austin. He and Rock had become close after Dex had disappeared. Rock had been in contact with both Austin and his father and had been instrumental in helping Dex apprehend the men responsible for attacking Dex’s soon-to-be-wife, former Senator Piper Jones.

  “I’ll make it,” Rock said with an off-kilter grin, glad to see Austin, but not thrilled by the circumstances.

  “Do you know the dead guy?”

  Shortly after Austin got there, he notified the Coast Guard Investigative Service Office—CGIS—and they were sending out an agent to coordinate investigative efforts since an active duty Coast Guard member was involved.

  “No. Like I said. I broke down the door to get to her. He was trying to kill her.”

  Austin had the knife secured in an evidence bag, which he held up. “With this military issue knife?”

  “Yes. I disarmed him, and it was accidental that he went over the balcony. Believe me, I would have liked to have gotten some answers out of this guy.”

  Rock didn’t like the way Austin looked at Neve, who was sitting on the couch still dazed. Austin’s eyes roamed over her, taking in her bruised and battered face, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the paleness of her skin—the shape of her legs, the curves of her body and the wild, out-there beauty of her face.

  “Cut it out, Beck,” Rock growled. Actually, snarled was more like it.

  Austin grinned and shook his head. “Ah, that’s the way it goes.”

  “No. She’s Tristan’s little sister. That’s all. She’s just been through a lot lately.” The impossibility of a relationship was easily reinforced. He meant it when he’d said he was done moving around. After years and years of new places and new people, he was quite happily ensconced in his life. Ready to move onto the next step. A long-term relationship, marriage, children, the whole enchilada. Neve wasn’t in the same place in her life. He’d be smart to remember that.

  Austin nodded. “Got it.”

  There was a commotion at the open door and a man with Asian-American features, close-cropped dark hair and a short, well-maintained goatee walked through, dressed in a black leather jacket and motorcycle garb. He pulled off a pair of black leather gloves and slipped them into his back pocket.

  He reached out his hand. “Special Agent Davis Nishida, CGIS,” he said, first clasping Rock’s hand and then Austin’s in a strong handshake.

  “Russell Kaczewski, Marine, retired, and I’m Special Agent Austin Beck.”

  “Okay, that explains why NCIS is here.”

  They filled him in on what had happened.

  “I was waiting for you to question, Petty Officer Michaels,” Austin said.

  “Appreciate it.”

  Agent Nishida walked over to Neve, introduced himself and crouched down. Hell. She was still trembling, and she looked up to the task, but exhausted, with circles under her eyes and her skin pale.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Agent Nishida’s tone was gentle, his voice husky and concerned. Maybe his interest was a little too piqued. Yeah, and maybe Rock was freaking jealous of every man who looked at her sideways.

  She explained everything from the beginning, and Rock got all tied up in knots at the description of how close she’d come to death. Then, proud of how she had fought him off and gotten the drop on him. She was a ballbuster.

  “Do you know the dead guy?”

  “Yes,” she said, twining her fingers together.

  “You’ve seen him before?”

  It was imperceptible, but Rock saw the look she gave him before she said, “He followed us to the grocery store today. I saw him there watching me. I thought it was just my imagination.”

  “What is your position in the Coast Guard?”

  “Rescue swimmer.”

  He blinked a couple of times, and it was clear Agent Nishida’s estimation of Neve climbed a notch. “That’s impressive. So, he wasn’t after classified or intelligence information.”

  Rock’s second call after NCIS had been to Dex, who showed up and greeted Austin at the door. Rock walked over as Dex approached.

  “Geezus! What the hell happened here?”

  Rock explained everything quickly to his brother. Neve was still sitting on her couch; the EMS had taken care of the cuts on her temple and gash on her forehead, the shallow gash across his ribs and his own facial abrasions.

  “I need you to wait for the manager and get this door fixed for her. Then call me when it’s all done.”

  “Of course. Damn, bro, I’m glad you’re okay and that you were here.”

  “She left her purse in the car or I wouldn’t have been. She came close to…dammit.” He swore viciously under his breath. A cold sensation spread through Rock’s middle, and his insides bunched into a hard knot. How could he survive if anything happened to Tristan’s little sister? How could he face his friend and look him in the eye? Losing her wasn’t an option.

  “But you were here, and she’s safe. Have you called Tristan?”

  Rock noticed Neve gave Agent Nishida a white envelope. He wondered what she was telling him. “No, not yet. She got all upset and didn’t want me to, but I will later on.”

  Agent Nishida offered her his card. “Let me look into this, and I’ll be in touch when we have more information. In the meantime, we’ll try to get an identity. Let me know if you think of anything else. I’m glad both of you are okay.”

  “Thank you, and I will.”

  Agent Nishida motioned to Austin and he nodded.

  “Call me, Rock, if you need anything,” Austin said.

  Rock shook their hands before he and Agent Nishida walked out, discussing the case. He noticed how the CGIS agent gave Neve another appreciative glance.

  Dex walked over and said a few soothing words to Neve, and she rose and hugged him hard. He held on to her for a few minutes. Rock wondered if he had the same sick feeling in his stomach.

  Well, that sucker was dead, and Rock couldn’t feel one lick of remorse. But Neve was holding something back. He was sure of it. Her vigilance in the car and her jumpiness told him she wasn’t exactly forthcoming, and he had to wonder about that. What was she hiding?

  He walked across the room and said, “Do you need help putting some stuff in a bag?”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re coming home with me.”

  “I am not.” She looked as flimsy as a wet paper bag. Her special effervescence—that rare kind of energy that could light up a whole room—was gone. It was as if her bright spirit had been extinguished, and she looked fragile. All he could do was think about keeping her safe. What the hell had happened here?

  “Yes. You. Are. Pack a bag, and if you need help, tell me. Otherwise, I will do it for you and carry you out of here.”

  “I second that,” Dex said.

  “There you go. Two six-five guys against one five-eight woman. Go.”

  “Bullies,” she grumbled. She hunched her shoulders and turned away, her body tight, as if she were trying to ward off pain or…fear.

  He watched her stomp off, and his brother gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t envy you tonight, bro.”

  “The manager’s number is on the fridge. I appreciate you coming over and taking care of this for her.”

  “No worries.” He slapped his brother’s back. “She’s okay, man. You can relax.”

  Rock got the gut feeling that he wasn’t going to relax anytime soon, his emotions all twisted up. Neve was in danger, and this attack was just the tip of the ic
eberg.

  “I’ve got to give Piper a call and fill her in. I’ll be right back.” Dex headed for the ruined door to the hall.

  “Okay.” He went over to the sliding glass door, needing space. The cool gush of air was welcome against his heated face and neck. He rubbed at his eyes, his head congested with thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking but could never seem to control.

  There was a whole lot of stuff that had gone under the bridge, and he was sure he’d put it all behind him. Slipping his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he leaned against the wall. The longing tugged at him so hard it hurt.

  He’d harbored the secret for a long time—five years, to be exact. He and Tristan had been the same age—twenty-eight—when he’d first set eyes on his best friend’s baby sister.

  Ah, damn, he still felt the impact of that first look at her. He’d been divorced for eight years; he’d gotten married too young, right out of high school, and the marriage hadn’t lasted through his deployments. He wouldn’t hold the cheating against her; once he’d gone off to war, his feelings for her had cooled quite a bit.

  Tristan introduced him to Neve when they’d been on leave, and Rock knew that his life would never be the same. He had tried to get past it, dated here and there, but his heart had never really been in it. It had nearly killed him to realize that he could never have her; Tristan was just too important to him. He would never break the moral code he lived by—never touch a friend’s sister. Ever.

  It had been one hell of a vow. Heartache? He could fill reams with what he knew about it. The constant ache had become a part of his life. And that was why, sometimes, like tonight, he hated facing reality. Usually when he got like this, he went to the gym and lifted weights or ran like hell. Yeah, his body reaped the benefits, he thought, a flicker of humor lifting one corner of his mouth. He was ripped and honed.

  Leaving the balcony when he heard Neve still protesting, he stepped on glass and looked down. It was a picture frame, and he bent and picked it up. His chest tightened as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of her and Tristan. She was laughing, and he had his arm loosely around her neck. He set the frame back on the table.