Page 1 of Save Me

Prologue

Ash

Thunder claps and rumbles so loudly I feel it in my chest. Outside everything is gray, thick with storm clouds and a heavy rain that pelts against the windows. It’s miserable, which is fine because so am I. Not because of the weather, or even because I’m cooped up in this house, unable to leave. That’s part of the whole deal with witness protection. It’s not even because after I testify tomorrow I’ll officially cut any remaining ties to my past. I’d already done a spectacular job of that by the age of twenty-two when my parents could no longer ignore my “sexual deviance and promiscuity”, as they had so eloquently phrased it, and finally disowned me, effectively cutting me off from whatever extended familial relationships I had. I did not mind.

By then I had my undergraduate degree and was well on my way to achieving my master’s. Several prestigious biochemical companies and universities courted me, offering me scholarships and assistance. I earned my PhD, spent the next ten years researching cutting-edge drugs, and worked to better human existence. Or so I thought. Perhaps I should have looked more closely at the ethics of the behemoth I worked for. Alas, I did not. And so, tomorrow I take the witness stand for my final day in court and put several head researchers and a few high ranking corporate board members behind bars for the rest of their lives, and begin my new one.

A hand on my shoulder jolts me out of my thoughts and I blink at the steaming mug hovering in front of me. I inhale deeply, breathing in the burnt wood and fruity accents of the summer blend tea. It’s Darjeeling with a splash of milk; my favorite. The simple gesture eases the tightness in my chest, and I raise my gaze until I’m looking into the warm, amber eyes of Deputy Marshal Seumas “Jamie” MacDougall. The concern and kindness I see on his face cause a flutter in my stomach and oh how I want to lose myself in those honeyed depths. Actually, there’s quite a bit more I’d like to do to his six-plus feet of blond god-body, but that can never happen. Hence my foul mood. Over the past several months the initial attraction I felt, that I think we both felt, has grown from a low simmering background hum into friendship, and respect, and possibly feelings. Romantic feelings. Okay, more than just romantic feelings, but it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how much I want him, or how absolutely sweet and kind he’s been to me, there can’t be anything between us. Ever. After tomorrow’s day in court, I’m leaving to begin my new life, and we’ll never see each other again. “Thank you, Deputy Marshal.”

“Are you ever going to call me Jamie?”

I shiver as his warm baritone rolls over me like a sweet caress. Ignoring my racing heart, I smile placidly at him. “Probably not.” By an act of sheer determination, I manage to behave. I deserve a medal. His proximity makes me nervous, excited,giddy, really. Imagine! Me, giddy! It’s disturbing. I have no explanation for why he affects me like this, when no one else ever has, but it’s been this way since I first walked into this safehouse. From that moment on he’s made me tongue-tied and foolish, two things I am not accustomed to. In direct contrast, Jamie has been utterly professional, in control, and infuriatingly calm. I assume this is why he’s responsible for the team assigned to protect me.

In a vain attempt to maintain some distance and self-control, I haven’t allowed myself to use his first name. It’s foolish, and barely suffices as a remedy, but it’s all I have.

As I reach for the mug of tea, my hand shakes. I would like to say it’s from the strain of the impending trial, but with Jamie this near, close enough to smell his deliciously citrusy cologne, I really can’t be sure which is the cause. It could be either. Or both.

I freeze as his hands cover mine, steady and strong, and he kneels in front of me so we’re eye to eye. His warm gaze pulls me in, and I want to look away so he doesn’t see how damaged I am; how afraid I am about the trial; how much I want him. With a Herculean effort, I resist the urge to lean in and kiss his full lips. He’s so close it would be easy, and I’ve imagined doing it hundreds of times. Soft, languid kisses would turn hot and steamy; gentle nips of teeth would become hungry, needy things, until whatever is simmering between us engulfs us both in a white-hot conflagration. My eyes linger on his beautiful mouth, and I pucker my lips and gently blow on the tea.

The muscles in his neck flex as he swallows hard. “I know the situation’s difficult, Ashley—” the gravel in his voice draws my gaze away from his oh so perfect mouth to refocus on his eyes “—but what you’re doing is incredibly brave, and itwillmake a difference.” A flush of pink colors his pale cheeks, but his gaze is steady and sure. “I admire your courage, Ashley.”

Andthatis Jamie MacDougall in a nutshell. Steady. Solid. Reliable. An immovable boulder in the middle of a raging river. He may be gorgeous, but there’s a depth to him that would make him just as attractive if he weren’t. He’s an anomaly. A truly good person who wants to do the right things to help people. I’ve never met anyone like him. I doubt there are any more in existence. He’s the one bright spot in the otherwise abysmal situation that is my present life as the key witness for the prosecution. I’m really not sure I’d have kept my sanity without him. Since entering protective custody, and agreeing to take part in WITSEC, I’ve come to rely on him when I haven’t allowed myself to rely on anyone since I was very little, and without fail he’s been there for me every time. And every time I’m surprised… and grateful. And it scares the hell out of me. It only adds to my foul mood and I blame that for my response. “It’s not your admiration I’m interested in, Deputy Marshal.”

A blush creeps up Jamie’s face and he pushes to his feet, dropping my hands like he’s been burned, and I can tell I’ve gone too far. Alienating him is the very last thing I want to do. Of the agents who protect me, he’s the only one who really speaks with me now, or cares about me as a person instead of another nameless cog in the gears of justice. The rest consider me nothing more than an asset to be protected.

It’s a situation entirely of my own making. I’d verbally decimated several of the field agents before Jamie had taken me aside and politely suggested I might try being nicer to the people responsible for my well-being. He made a valid point, so I refrained from further snark; however, the damage had been done, and the agents gave me a wide berth after that. Everyone except Jamie, who somehow always seems to understand me. If for no other reason than that, I owe him an apology.

I reach out and lightly grasp his wrist. “I’m sorry, Deputy Marshal. That was uncalled for.” I look up into his now guarded eyes and am flooded with guilt. “Will you please accept my apology?” I wait, expecting him to pull his hand away, finally fed up with me. I would deserve it.

He stares at me for what seems like forever, jaw flexing and eyes looking into mine like he’s trying to decide what to do, and then nods almost imperceptibly. Several very strained seconds pass and he makes no attempt to move away. I’m still holding on to him and it’s becoming awkward, so I let his hand drop and grasp my mug, blowing gently on the tea before taking a tentative sip. “The tea is lovely. Thank you, again.” I risk another glance at him. He nods stiffly and crosses the room to one of the leather wingback chairs, sitting with more grace than a man his size usually possesses.

I carefully set the tea on the end table beside the sofa and pick up the book I’ve been attempting to read for the past two days, pretending I’m not incredibly aware of his every movement. Which I am. Excruciatingly so. I steal another glance at him and wonder if he’d like Ashley Patel, Modern Art Dealer better than Ashley Pandey, parental disappointment, and corporate whistleblower. Not that we’ll have the opportunity to find out. Just my luck, he chooses that moment to look up. I casually reach for my tea and take a sip, very purposely ignoring the way his gaze makes me breathless. I wish he didn’t have this effect on me. It’s horribly inconvenient and annoying since I can’t do anything about it. Not that anything would result if I did. Unfortunately, the deputy marshal is as impervious to my charms as he is to my snark. It’s crushing, really. If I wasn’t so confident in my own looks, I might question my self-image.

“Did you need something? I can get it for you if you’d like.” Hell. I’ve been staring, and I’ve probably made him uncomfortable again. How can someone be so incredibly sweet and genuine? It’s quite enraging, actually, and almost painful to experience. I am mortally wounded by his kindness and I bite back what I’d very much like to tell him.

Do I need something? Why yes, Deputy Marshal MacDougall. I do, in fact, need something. You, naked and in my bed, where we will ravish each other thoroughly in debauched and mutually pleasurable ways.The words try to force themselves out of my mouth, but I press my lips together and bite my tongue. Not only would that scandalize him, I’m sure fraternizing with the witness is against at least one WITSEC regulation, and Jamie does not strike me as someone who flouts rules. He’s a boy scout, a real, live Captain America, a White Knight, capital W and K applicable.

And he’s probably straight. I’ve made a few attempts to find out, but he’s avoided giving me any personal details about himself. I have been able to learn there is no spouse, and he’s currently single. Not that it matters. In no reality would he have anything to do with someone like me. I’m too tarnished. No, he’ll end up with a beauty queen wife who volunteers to help senior citizens, and a brood of tow-haired, pretty children who are intelligent and sweet, just like mummy and daddy. I, on the other hand, will be whisked off to a new city with a new identity, and Jamie MacDougall will be part of my past, regardless of how much I’d prefer it to be otherwise.

That hasn’t stopped me from fantasizing about it, or him. Frequently. Vividly. In excruciatingly erotic detail. Witness protection doesn’t allow for cell phones or socializing, so the only outlet for all my sexual frustration has been my right hand and my rich imagination. Jamie figures prominently in my “alone time”. His large hands gently pull me close, holding me as if I were something precious, touching me with incredible tenderness. His full lips trail open-mouthed kisses on my neck, across my chest, sucking and teasing my nipples; his tongue sensuously tasting every inch of my skin, and I do mean every inch. Our drenched bodies gliding sensually together, touching and tasting, surrounded by the delicious scent of sex and sweat.

I barely stifle the groan that tries to slip past my lips, and my eyes fly open. Jamie’s watching me, his pupils blown wide, and his lips slightly parted like he knows what I was imagining, and it excites him. We stare at each other in stunned silence, and then I realize I haven’t answered his question. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” He clears his throat and stands. For a moment I think he’s going to cross the room, haul me to my feet, and kiss me. That dream is dashed when he turns and walks into the kitchen. I settle for being grateful he doesn’t witness my embarrassment.

Over the din of my mental self-flagellation, I can hear the opening and closing of cupboards; the hollow ring of a metal pot against the stovetop; the gentle hum of the refrigerator as the door is opened, followed by the soft pop of rubber against plastic as it’s closed. A knife slides through something crunchy followed by a tap tap tap as the blade hits a wooden cutting board. I get up and walk to the kitchen doorway, tea cradled protectively against my chest, curiosity, and Jamie, pulling me there against my will.

He’s chopping onions, looking absolutely calm and comfortable in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled up just below his elbows, muscular forearms flexing with each downward stroke of the knife. It’s mesmerizing. Which is ridiculous because I detest cooking. D-E-T-E-S-T.With a passion. I’ve never had any desire to learn how. Thankfully, I never needed to. I’m also very much for instant gratification. When I’m hungry, I want to eatnow. I am in no mood to decide what to cook and lack the patience to cook it. Growing up, my parents had a chef, and when I moved into my own place I ate at restaurants or got takeout. My kitchen was for making coffee. Once I was disowned and had to watch my finances, I learned about boxed dinners and those pasty noodles that come with seasoning packets. And eggs. I can manage eggs. And toast. Sometimes without burning either. Jamie, on the other hand, looks utterly at home in the kitchen. “You like to cook.”

It’s more of a statement than a question, but he answers anyway. “I do. It’s relaxing. Comforting. Helps me clear my mind.” He reaches for a clove of garlic and starts chopping.

What does he need to clear from his mind? Probably the taint of my poor behavior toward him. Several minutes of pained silence drag on, so I try again. “What are you making?” I can see a few cans of something with the labels turned the other way, ground beef, and lots of spices.

Jamie splashes olive oil into the pan and adds the garlic and diced onion. It makes a satisfying sizzle, filling the room with a delicious, savory aroma, and I inhale happily. “Spaghetti with meat sauce. We had most of the ingredients here from the last few weeks, and I figured we should use up what’s left so it doesn’t go to waste.” That, to me, is witchcraft. How people can look at ingredients they have on hand and, with little effort, turn it into a meal is beyond my comprehension.

Jamie is focused on the contents of the pan, and I can’t help but feel he’s purposely not looking at me. It’s not that he’s outright ignoring me, but he’s definitely paying unnecessary attention to the food, and that’s annoying and totally unacceptable. I take a step into the kitchen and lean my hip against the counter, putting myself into his space. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My parents. Each had their special dishes they liked to make, and they enjoyed showing us how, always encouraging experimentation to see if we could improve the recipe.” Thewein question are Jamie and his four siblings. He’s mentioned two brothers and two sisters over the past few months since we’ve been holed-up in this safehouse. Not in any great detail, but it’s more than I know about any of the other agents. “There’s also a lot of downtime when I’m on assignment. I like to fill it by watching cooking shows.” A small shudder passes through me. I can’t imagine a more boring way to pass time. We lapse into another awkward silence as Jamie pushes the vegetables around the pan with a wooden spatula and I hover close like some teenager with a crush.

He adds the ground beef to the pan, and I steal glances at his ooooh so gorgeous body while he’s preoccupied. He’s definitely taller than my six feet; and bulkier than I am. I have a runner’s build. His body is more muscular and solid, and it’s obvious he works out. A lot. I approve. His dark strawberry blond hair is brushed back from his face in thick waves, perfect for burying my fingers in, and his skin… Oh lord, his peaches-and-cream skin is dusted with the most adorable freckles, and I want to count every one of them. With my tongue.

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