Hot Pursuit Read online

  Also by Julie Ann Walker

  Black Knights Inc.

  Hell on Wheels

  In Rides Trouble

  Rev It Up

  Thrill Ride

  Born Wild

  Hell for Leather

  Full Throttle

  Too Hard to Handle

  Wild Ride

  Fuel for Fire

  Hot Pursuit

  The Deep Six

  Hell or High Water

  Devil and the Deep

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  Copyright © 2017 by Julie Ann Walker

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © DaniloAndjus/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Sneak Peek of Built to Last

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To those who were afraid to take the leap that is love, but did so anyway. This one’s for you.

  Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  —Japanese proverb

  Prologue

  Kirkuk, Iraq

  Eight Years Ago...

  “Who sent you? What do you want?”

  The policeman’s accent made his words guttural and hard, but they were nothing compared to the granite fist that smashed into Christian Watson’s nose. A geyser of blood gushed over his lips and seeped into the cut on his chin that had come courtesy of the first round of questioning.

  Which had been…what? Twenty minutes ago? Two hours?

  Time slowed when you were getting the sodding shit beaten out of you.

  One of Christian’s eyes was swollen shut. The other was split in the corner so when he opened it, the crust that had formed over the wound cracked and burned. The pain was worth it to see the fury and impotence on the policeman’s face.

  “My name is Christian Watson. I am a corporal in Her Majesty’s Special Air Service.” He rattled off his serial number before clamping his jaws shut. That was all the information the Geneva Conventions required of him. He would give no more.

  Another blow landed on his cheek, making his eye feel like it would explode out of its socket. Following that was a punch that drove deep into his gut, precisely over the spot where the bullet had gone through and through. The accompanying pain was a living thing that chewed at his intestines with hungry, needle-like teeth.

  Dizziness and nausea crashed over him. He might have retched had the chair he was tied to not toppled backward with the force of the blow. When it collided with the floor in the tiny interrogation room, the sound his skull made as it bounced off the tiles was sickening, even to his own ears.

  Darkness closed in on him, a malevolent specter hovering at the edge of his vision.

  For the first time since he’d opened fire at the roadblock, fear tried to take root in his heart. He could not lose consciousness. Loss of consciousness was a loss of control. Loss of control terrified him worse than any corrupt Iraqi police officer ever could.

  He struggled against his restraints as his head swam sickly. Trying not to gag at the iron-rich smell of his own blood, he narrowly opened his one good eye to glare up at the policeman. His assailant wore a nasty smile. The hateful expression reminded Christian of a man from long ago. A man who had inflicted pain for the simple pleasure of it. A man who—

  The space around Christian shimmered and changed, melting into a new, more terrifying whole. Suddenly he was six years old, inside his boyhood room. Gone were the scents of blood and sweat and dry wind heavy with dust. They were replaced by the smells coming from the hulking shadow looming over him: whiskey and smoke, with an underlying hint of rot.

  The shadow reached for him. Massive, ham-hock hands curved into brutal, inescapable claws.

  Christian whimpered, scooting backward. But there was no place to go. Nowhere to run.

  “Mum!” he yelled, his voice hoarse with terror. “Mum, please!”

  But she would not come. It was too late. She was too far gone. He knew she would not come.

  A telltale shhhhnick sounded as a lighter flamed to life. Orange light flickered in the darkness, licking fire into the brutal eyes of the shadowy man. Now he looked like what he was. Sadistic. Cruel. Evil incarnate.

  Christian braced himself for what would come next. Even so, the first sizzle of fiery pain shocked him with its intensity.

  Tossing back his head, he screamed…

  * * *

  Port Isaac, Cornwall, England

  “Wake up, damnit! Wake up!”

  Christian bolted upright in bed. For a couple of confusing seconds he’d lost the plot, not knowing where he was. When he was. There was only darkness and the lingering memory of agony. There was only…her. Emily Scott. The woman who had crawled under his skin and made a home for herself there.

  Tunneling up his nose was the exotic smell of her shampoo. It caused him to snap back to the here and now as if he’d been fired from a slingshot.

  Buggering hell, he thought at the same time Emily said, “Holy fucking shit!”

  The woman had a mouth on her that never failed to delight him. He might have smiled, had the words she’d spoken not been thick with recently disturbed sleep and something more. Something he thought might be fear.

  No doubt he’d been scre
aming his fool head off. Which would scare the socks off of a seasoned operator, much less a pretty pipsqueak of an office manager who had somehow managed to embroil herself in a mission she had no business being part of.

  Buggering hell, he thought again as remnants of the dream—correction: dreams—shuddered through him.

  Months. That’s how long it had been since he’d awoken in a pool of sweat, thrashing about as he tried to escape the ghosts of his past. He had hoped that perhaps he might have properly outdistanced them. Unfortunately, they appeared to be as keen and inescapable as ever. The rat bastards.

  Embarrassment and shame had him running a hand over his face. The growth of his day-old whiskers rasped against the calluses on his palm.

  “Hey.” She shook his shoulder as if uncertain he was truly awake. “You were having a nightmare.” Her Chi-Town accent emphasized the A in all her words, making her sound tough. Which was funny, considering she looked about as dangerous as a baby bunny.

  His words were harsher than he meant them to be when he said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

  She drew back, taking the smell of her shampoo with her. His heart immediately hurled itself against his rib cage, as if trying to lessen the distance she’d put between them.

  She huffed with exasperation, and he knew he should apologize. But the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t stomach the thought that she’d seen him like that.

  So vulnerable.

  So exposed.

  So…out of control.

  “You know”—she didn’t attempt to disguise the venom in her voice—“a normal person would say, ‘Thank you, Emily. Thank you for waking me up before I punched a hole through the bloody wall.’”

  She’d donned an English accent. It was adorable. And total rubbish. She sounded more like a New Zealander than an Englishwoman.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “You’re totally right. I’m sorry. Thank you for waking me.”

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he homed in on the fact that she was wearing a familiar, frayed pullover. Her brown hair was a rumpus of flyaway waves, and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Also—and this was a huge also—she wasn’t wearing a bra. He was quite certain he could make out the subtle jut of her nipples through the thick fabric of her shirt.

  Bloody hell. He was staring at her boobs.

  Stop staring at her boobs.

  Right-oh. Problem was, not staring was a tall order, considering that from the top of Emily’s head to the tips of her unpainted toes, she was beautiful. Not beautiful like all those Hollywood starlets with their fake hair, medically enhanced bodies, and loads of cosmetics, but beautiful in a timeless, effortless way.

  Emily’s slim figure was subtly curved. She had a pert nose, big dark eyes, and a lush mouth. If he had to put a label on it, he’d say she possessed an ingenue-esque air. It tended to cause a male stampede anytime she walked into a room.

  Unfortunately for him, right now she was in his room.

  Okay. Hold the front page. Given that Emily was gorgeous and the cause of many a male stampede, you might ask why having her in his room was unfortunate, as opposed to a dream come true.

  The answer was simple. Since the day he had met her, she’d made it clear she had no interest in him in that way. Certainly she enjoyed having him on. Taunting him. On a regular basis she took strips from his hide with the sharpness of her tongue. But when it came to nocturnal activities? Well, it was safe to say she was the equivalent of a human stop sign. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred quid.

  Masochist that he was, that made him fancy her more. As if to prove the point, his flag had already hoisted itself to half-staff. He wanted to blame his condition on those nipples. Stop staring at her boobs! But walking around with a half-chub was pretty much SOP when Emily was within ten meters of him.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. Morning’s first tender light chose that moment to filter in through the crack in the curtains. It glowed over her smooth, unblemished skin, highlighted the beauty mark high on her right cheek, and showed the sympathy in her warm eyes.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Your nightmare.”

  He snorted. “About as much as I’d fancy having my bollocks shaved with a rusty razor blade.”

  For a moment she was silent. Then her lips curved at the corners. “Whatever floats your boat.”

  A joke. She was trying to tease the tension out of him. Which might have worked, had she been anyone else. Had she not had such a hypnotic smile. He was afraid if he stared at it too long, he’d fall under its spell and be helpless to do anything but its bidding.

  Glancing through the slit in the curtains, he eyed the sliver of view beyond. The rising sun cast the beach in a pearlescent glow. Golden rays turned the tops of the waves in the harbor pink and silver. It was a scene from his childhood. Back when his childhood had been…if not brilliant, then at least bearable. Before it’d become a string of long, lonely days and terrifying nights.

  “What time is it?” he asked, trying not to notice how his thigh touched her hip through the fabric of the quilt.

  “Just past oh-six-hundred. You still have time to get more sleep.”

  “Not possible.”

  Her expression was compassionate. “Bad dreams do that to me too. I’ve found it helps if someone stays with me. You know, to sort of guard against the nightmare’s return. Do you want me to stay with you?”

  Good God, was she serious? He wanted her to stay with him more than anything. But he couldn’t have her in his room, in his bed, without touching her. And since in the world of unwritten rules, not touching a woman unless she invited him to was bold, underlined, and all in caps, she needed to leave.

  “Indeed not. I’m fine. But thank you. Thank you for checking on me. For waking me.” He risked looking into her eyes and immediately knew it for the mistake it was. He was used to seeing a mischievous glint there, used to seeing derision or vexation or, hell, occasionally even grudging respect. What he was not used to seeing was tenderness.

  Not that Emily was unkind. Quite the contrary. Beneath her tough outer shell, she had an incredibly soft underbelly. Problem was, she rarely showed him her softer side. Choosing instead to give him all the sharp edges she had honed while growing up in Chicago’s blue-collar Bridgeport neighborhood.

  She placed a hand on his thigh, and it immediately brought him out in a sweat. “If you’re sure you don’t—”

  “I’m sure.” He was quick to cut her off.

  “You’re good at playing the tough guy, aren’t you?”

  He quirked a brow, made sure his expression was all arrogance. “I haven’t a need to play at it, darling.”

  Tossing her head back, she laughed. The sight of her exposed throat, combined with the low, husky roll of her amusement, had his flag hoisting itself to full staff.

  Bloody stupid appendage!

  How unfair it was that men had to do daily battle with the sex organ attached to them. Especially since that sex organ had zero brains and beastly timing.

  Emily lowered her chin to regard him, that hypnotic smile still on her lips. “Let no one ever accuse you of a lack of confidence, Christian.”

  He considered pretending he hadn’t heard her so she’d say his name again. The way she pronounced it always hit him like a shot of aged whiskey—warm, potent, and intoxicating. But instead he went with, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not. I like a confident man.”

  “Careful,” he warned. “That sounded suspiciously like you admitted to liking me.”

  She shrugged. It was a delicate, unconsciously graceful gesture. “Well, I don’t dislike you.”

  Heat unfurled in his belly. To distract her from the heightened color in his cheeks and the predatory gleam that had entered his eyes, he donned an expression of
annoyance. “Damned with faint praise.”

  “Oh, it’s praise you want? Well, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong woman. I’m bad at compliments.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.” Although, truth be told, he’d heard her compliment their coworkers on many occasions. But for some reason, she was total rubbish at flinging admiration his way.

  Which was probably why his jaw slung open when she took a deep breath and blurted, “You have really pretty eyes.”

  Scriiiiiitch. That sound was a needle scratching across his mental record. Had Emily Watson said he had pretty eyes? Backup. Reset. Not just pretty eyes, but really pretty eyes?

  How odd she should think so. He’d always thought his eyes a bit…spooky. They were a strange color, somewhere between green and gold. Too light when paired with his tan skin and dark hair. Hadn’t he been told as much? Hadn’t his spooky eyes caused—

  He crushed the memory and glanced around the room as if furtively searching for something. “Hang on a minute,” he said.

  “What is it? What are you looking for?”

  “The white bunny. I seem to have fallen down the rabbit hole.”

  She swatted his arm, not attempting to be gentle. Pervy shit that he was, he liked it. Then again, how pervy was it to fancy the touch—even the abusive touch—of a woman like Emily Scott?

  “See? And that’s why I don’t compliment you. You don’t know how to take it.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. Let’s try this again, shall we? You think I have really pretty eyes?” He fluttered his eyelashes for effect.

  She groaned and pushed up from the bed. He felt the loss of her weight, the loss of her hip against his thigh, the loss of her exotic-smelling shampoo, in a place he dared not name. “And besides,” she added, “your ego is big enough without me giving it the occasional stroke.”

  His breath caught on the last word. It seemed to hang in the air, pounding like a heartbeat.

  If she noticed his sudden tension, she gave no indication as she sauntered toward the door. Turning at the threshold, she said, “Since you’re not going to get any more sleep, how about you cook breakfast for the ravenous horde, huh? I could use another hour of shut-eye.”