Cut & Run (Cut & Run #1)(39)
Author: Abigail Roux

He growled to himself and glanced down the hall at his own room, frowning at the Do Not Disturb sign on it. What if someone had been in there earlier? What if someone knew where they were? With that thought, a sudden cold swelled in his chest. What if his erstwhile partner was hurt? What if Ty had gone to get laid and someone attacked Zane? He had very little confidence in his new partner’s ability to protect himself when he was healthy, much less injured and relatively defenseless.

Ty hurried toward the elevators and jabbed the button for the lobby, but when it took too long he headed for the stairwell and began jogging down the eight flights of stairs. He muttered to himself impatiently, dread rising as he thought about the myriad of things that could have gone wrong. He tried to tell himself he was merely being paranoid and feeling guilty. No one knew where they were, right?

Except for Sears and Ross, who had been tailing them earlier, and probably every other agent in the New York office, including whoever they 114

were after. He pushed through the stairwell doors and stalked across the lobby, trying to get a hold on his irrational panic.

Moments later, he stood at the lobby desk. He had some difficulty at the front desk in getting Zane’s spare key reprogrammed, mainly because he wasn’t exactly Zane. Finally, he had to flash his FBI identification and growl at the woman to get it done. By the time he got back to Zane’s room, he was tense and almost shaking with dread.

“You better be f**king taking a bubble bath or something,” he muttered as he swiped the card and the lights blinked green.

He was further dismayed to find the hotel room empty. He stood in the entryway, calming himself before walking around the room in search of some clue as to where Zane had gone. There were no signs of struggle or a hasty departure. Everything was ordered and in its place, insofar as order went amidst the chaos of their files.

Finally, he spotted the hotel directory, open and sitting on the dresser.

He stepped over to it and placed his hand gently on the laminated pages, peering down at the small map and the list of nightclubs and bars.

With a groan, Ty realized that Zane had merely gone out to get his drink on.

“Fucker,” he snarled to the empty room.

ZANE walked along the busy street, looking idly in shop and restaurant windows, just letting his mind wander. Thinking about anything but the case was a relief. He stopped on a corner, waiting for the light to change, and lit up. He rolled his shoulders, winced just a little, and sighed. He felt pretty decent after relieving some of the tension that sparked between him and Ty. A hot grapple in the dark bathroom of a club would do that.

He glanced at his watch. 10:10. He figured Ty would take every bit of his mentioned two hours and then some, not that Zane really cared. He’d needed this break more than he’d thought.

Ty sat on one of the beds, reading a faxed list he had received earlier while he waited for the telltale slide of a key card in the door lock. When it came he lowered the fax and looked toward the door, eyes hard and angry as Zane came strolling in. The other agent glanced up and stopped short when he spotted Ty. He was obviously surprised that Ty had come back early.

“Hey,” Zane said. “Have a good time?”

Ty didn’t answer immediately, instead trying desperately to gain control of his temper. “Did you?” he finally asked curtly.

“Yeah, I did.” Zane shrugged out of the thin shirt and looked over Ty again. “I’m guessing you didn’t?”

“I’ll give you three guesses what went through my head when I found you gone,” Ty replied calmly, simmering just beneath the surface.

Zane’s eyes narrowed. Some of the tension started rebuilding between his shoulder blades again. “You’re not my keeper. I didn’t ask where the hell you were going, did I?”

“You knew I wasn’t off getting drunk off my f**king ass,” Ty snarled as he held up the hotel directory accusingly and tossed it to the end of the bed.

It took some willpower to swallow on the flare of anger. “I told you,”

Zane said sharply. “I don’t drink anymore.”

“Sure, Garrett. And I don’t f**k strangers ’cause I’m bored,” Ty replied sarcastically.

Quite a bit more willpower was required as Zane stared at him. “I can take care of myself, Grady. I’m not fresh out of the academy, and I don’t need my hand held,” he bit off.

Ty practically trembled with anger, the kind of anger that could only stem from a bad scare and quite a bit of guilt. He glared at Zane and then looked away, taking a long, calming breath as he stared at the map of crime scenes on the wall. “Just … leave a damn note next time, okay?” he finally requested softly.

Zane studied him for a long moment. Ty was truly upset, though Zane had no clue why. It was also clear that Ty was exerting quite a lot of effort trying to remain calm. “Yeah, okay,” Zane agreed, not wanting to rock the boat any further. He took off his gun, grabbed the television remote, and sat on the end of Ty’s bed since there was paperwork all over his.

“If you’re gonna sit there, go take a f**king shower first,” Ty griped.

“You smell like smoke.”

Looking over his shoulder in annoyance, Zane wrinkled his nose.

“You smell like perfume and spunk. What’s a little smoke?”

“Smoke is unpleasant,” Ty retorted. He gave a sniff and realized that, yeah, he probably did smell like sex. He found himself wondering if Zane had 116

enjoyed the same sort of distraction that he had, then shook that thought off immediately.

Zane raised a questioning eyebrow at the look on Ty’s face, earning a defensive “What?” from the man.

Zane’s lips twitched. “Sorry to have ruined your relaxing f**k,” he drawled out.

Ty gave a derogatory snort and stretched his arms over his head.

“You should be,” he declared haughtily.

Zane shook his head, but he was smiling. “At least I’m not stressed anymore,” he said as he turned back to flip through the channels.

“Well, praise be,” Ty muttered as he stood and headed for the shower.

He was tired of smelling like a woman he’d never see again.

ISABELLE St. Claire had just gotten out of the shower. Her next flight didn’t leave for another four hours, a cross-country to Los Angeles that would no doubt be full of drunk businessmen who would enjoy grabbing her ass as she passed by them. At least she would have some good memories to get her through this particular flight.