Page 98 of Wyatt
But oh, RJ had gotten a raw and brutal reminder of the danger of being around him.
Gustov was making this cat and mouse game very, very personal.
York had a grip on RJ’s hand, glancing over his shoulder occasionally at her mother—her mother—who’d taken a shot at him with her Sig Sauer.
He’d simply glimpsed the gun, his reflexes kicking in to save him.
He hoped he hadn’t hurt the woman when he disarmed her. That too had been pure reflex, but he’d pulled back before he did anything serious, like bring her to the ground.
Poor woman had been shaking when he turned to RJ and yanked her into his arms.
Ruby Jane.
Despite himself, he nearly moaned with the sight of her. Just seeing her beautiful eyes widen as he appeared in the doorway of the hotel had heated him all the way through to his bones. Made him realize how cold he’d been.
She looked amazing—her dark hair pulled back from her face, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a red T-shirt. He’d wanted to kiss her, to stop time and just escape into the realization of the moment.
RJ. Her eyes shining. Glad to see him.
He didn’t deserve the way she looked at him, like he might be her hero.
This could not end well for either of them. Because it wasn’t only Gustov that he was running from.
If the CIA knew he was back in the United States, he could find himself in a whole new layer of trouble.
“Where are we going?” RJ asked.
“Pike Place Market.” He again shot a look at her mother.
She was keeping up, her expression set on determined. Reminded him of RJ when she fixed her mind on something. The woman noticed him looking at her and gave him a small smile. “Sorry about shooting at you.”
“You had the right instincts,” he said. “If it wasn’t me coming through that door, it could have been someone worse.”
“Like Damien Gustov?” RJ said now, her fingers laced through his. “Do you think he was the one who texted me?”
They stopped at a light. Across the street, a ferry had pulled up at one of the long piers. Down the boardwalk, the massive Seattle Great Wheel loomed, the briny smell of the harbor mixing with the scent of oil and debris from the busy port. To the east, the neon red Public Market sign rose above the farmers market.
“This way.” They crossed the street.
“York—what’s going on?” RJ said. “I don’t understand. How did you find me?”
“He sent me a text too, although I thought it was from you. Told me to meet you at the hotel.”
They crossed the street, passing the first kiosks of the market—tulip vendors, fresh donuts, a pottery shop, a busker playing a guitar.
“He— York. What. Is. Going. On?”
He pulled her down a side street and into a building.
Chaos. Exactly what he was hoping for. Fish vendors, their wares stacked three bins deep, shouted at customers, tossing fish across tables. Snow crabs, lobster tails, and shrimp were embedded in piles of ice. Freshly caught fat salmon, cod, and halibut lay in piles, their skin shiny. Overhead fans stirred their fishy odor into the air.
Across from the fish market, a specialty meats vendor was giving out samples of salami, other processed meats hanging in links from the ceiling.
Down the tiled aisle, fresh flowers—gerbera daisies, English roses, and birds-of-paradise—emitted a robust mix of fragrances.
More importantly, everywhere he looked, tourists, shoppers, and vendors provided the perfect cover.
“In here.” York pulled them into an alcove next to a vegetable vendor, hiding them behind a crate of purple cabbages.