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some stupid story about a washed up NFL career? Where’s your trust?” Abigail brought her fist down against the truck’s dashboard.
    St. John smiled. “There’s a big difference between telling you I’m a former NFL linebacker versus a federal undercover agent. I do trust you, but there are other lives I have to consider before compromising my own cover. Besides, you said you had a death wish—I don’t.”
    “Why are you smiling? I’m pissed.” She crossed her thin arms tight across her chest.
    “Because I don’t have to hide it from you anymore. I’ve wanted to tell you but it’s not like sharing a family recipe. Once I realized you were the woman on the highway in Vegas, I had to tell you the truth—I’m so sorry.”
    “I figured you were more than a has-been jock. You’re too special. I sensed it, even after I first got here and was so fucking confused, I’d almost started to enjoy the way they treated me. That ain’t the case no more—my mind’s mostly clear and ready to make them pay for what they did to my baby boy.” Anger fading, she slid across the bench-style seat to cozy up to him.
    “Now that you know I’m on the case, I think it’d be best for you to escape the club and let my investigation put them away. I can have the US Marshals place you in a safe location until this is over.”
    Abigail slumped and slid back across the seat to lean against the passenger’s side window. “How typical of you, my All-American. You have no faith in me at all do you?”
    “I do, but how am I supposed to stay sane and watch someone I care about get fucked at any moment by any one of two hundred motherfucking scumbags?” St. John’s window rattling bellow created such force Abigail shuddered and hid her face behind her hands.
    “You sound just like them.”
    He punched the steering wheel. “I’m nothing like them,” he sneered.
    “Please don’t take this wrong, but I watch you. You’re a lot like them. I see the look in your face and I know you want the freedom.” Abigail leaned in. “Besides, you’re not that good of an undercover actor.”
    “Maybe not, but it kills a little part of me each time they abuse you.” He reached out to put his arm around her.
    When they arrived near Hope Falls, St. John pulled into the express motel wordlessly.
    “It’s what I’ve got to do to reclaim a reason to live,” Abigail said. “They’ll take my body but they won’t take my soul. Tonight, I want you to take both.” The iridescent glow of the motel sign flickered off and on, coloring her view of him. She’d not been this at peace in a very long time.
    She wanted to make love—love, not just have sex.

Chapter 8

    T he room was small, but they were there to be close. It wasn’t the Ritz, as the saying went, but to be honest she’d never seen the Ritz. As far as she was concerned, it was clean and it was big enough. For all she cared, it could’ve been the alley behind her favorite Las Vegas strip casino. Finally, after all the hell she’d subjected herself to for a dose of revenge, she felt safe.
    St. John peeked outside one last time before he shoved the thick curtains together. The vintage paisley designs looked like hell, but did their job of keeping the parking lot’s lighting out. Except for a thin stream that pierced the slight gap along the curtain rod, it was dark.
    The crunch of his boots across the stiff industrial carpet caused her anticipation to explode—her body tingled at the sound of him coming closer. Abigail sought his shadowy figure, and wrapped her arms around him. They both stumbled against the door. Gently, he ran his hand down her left arm, over her wrist, and took her hand. He eased her against his muscled chest. Nerve endings in Abigail’s body sizzled as the sensation of his fingers easing along her shoulder and over her tousled mane shot bolts of lightning through her.
    “Mmm… Umm, St. John…or Lou…I’m not sure what to call you.”
    “Let’s stick